Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Sometimes, the city's number one hero can't speak. 

It's not a new thing, and until fairly recently it wasn't a problem. Scar only ever really loses the ability to speak in stressful situations, and while being a hero is all about getting into stressful situations on a daily basis, he's good enough with his bow at this point that most of what an average person would consider stressful is, to him, just another Tuesday. 

It helps that he has a partner who is not only ridiculously good at understanding all his weird gestures and unorthodox body language, but also far better at talking to people than he ever will be, even on days when he can speak just fine. Scar has never explicitly told Cuteguy about his issue, but the way that sometimes after difficult missions his partner will take it upon himself to field questions and make excuses for him so he can leave early makes him think that maybe he already knows. 

Point is, him losing speech sometimes is not a problem. Or, it didn't use to be one. 

The thing about being the number one hero is, you get popular. In Scar's case, you get insanely popular, until eventually you start seeing your face on billboards and your insignia on everything from shirts to calendars to packets of quick-cook noodles and dried fruit. And the thing about popularity is, it comes with responsibility. And the more popular you are, the more people want to talk to you. 

Which brings him to where he is right now—trying his best to keep a smile on his face while a particularly relentless fan persists in refusing to let go of his goddamn arm. 

It's not as if Scar didn't know what he was signing up for. And it's not that he can't handle himself. He's an adult and a hero with a decade of experience. He deals with these kinds of situations on a daily basis, this shouldn't be any different. It shouldn't. 

But he's had a long day. And there's a crowd of people, all clamouring to get his attention, their voices a cacophony in his ears. And the lights are bright, way too bright. And the fan is still touching him, their grip sweaty and painful on his upper arm, and they just won't stop touching him—

"Please don't touch me," Scar tries to say. What comes out instead is a gasp that quickly fades into the rest of the overwhelming noise around him.

Frantic, he tries to speak again. Nothing. Breathing is rapidly becoming difficult, and Scar wants to get away—now is really not the time for this. Not when he's surrounded by people, not when Cuteguy's already left for home. 

The fan lets go of his arm, thankfully, Scar almost feels relieved—and then something tugs on his hair. 

Immediately, he's pushing everyone away from him and escaping into a nearby alley, and then another, and before he knows it he's leaning over, panting and running his hands through his hair, trying to get rid of the sensation of someone else's fingers in the soft brown strands.

It takes him until the sun sets to catch his breath, and until well into the next morning to ask Cuteguy to pass him one of his arrows with an uncharacteristically raspy voice. 

His hair has been getting too long to be safe, anyway, Scar reasons at the end of the day. This is a great wakeup call to finally start wearing it in a braid.

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2

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One of the perks of having as much experience as Scar has is that nothing really fazes him anymore. 

Oh, missions still go bad from time to time, and occasionally he will be met with something that throws him off track—a problem he can't solve, or an especially vicious or unnerving opponent. But generally, he knows how to keep calm and keep his wits about him. 

This mission is quickly shaping up to be one of the more difficult ones, though. 

Fortunately, there are next to no casualties. The building Scar is currently searching for any remaining civilians started emitting strange sounds long before it appeared as if it was actually about to collapse, the result being that by the time they arrived most of the people inside had already left. But if the walls looked like they were about to cave in before, well—

He really ought to get out of there, and fast.

With that in mind, Scar speeds up his pace. Luckily, it doesn't seem as if there is anyone else trapped in, and he's checked all the other floors. By all rights, he should be able to make haste from the rapidly deteriorating building with a clear conscience. 

Somewhere just above him, something clangs. To his left, he glimpses falling dust. Beneath him, the floor cracks and trembles like an angry sea. Cuteguy's voice sounds from his comm, urging him to meet him back outside. 

Scar breaks into a sprint. 

He flies down the stairs and almost feels them give way under his feet as bits of drywall and concrete begin to fall at an alarming rate around him. The very threads of the groaning carcass over his head squeal, and he begs himself to go faster, faster—

He runs out into the square, stumbling to a stop and hungrily sucking in air like his life depends on it. 

The building crumbles. Cuteguy yells at him to get away. People scream and scatter at a safe distance some thirty feet ahead of him, and he turns around and watches, transfixed, captivated, as gigantic walls and ceilings all meet their fate in a fatal collision with the ground. 

When the smoke and sand settle and the rubble forms a spectacular pile, Scar finally looks back at the mass of civilians behind him—

And, well, as a hero, he should be right there with Cuteguy, consoling everyone and handing out shock blankets and promises of total reimbursement. 

He still needs to catch his breath. 

Just a minute ago, that was him, he was there, he was inside and he barely got out in time. Just a minute too late, and he'd have been dead. 

This is far from Scar's first brush with death. Nevertheless, they're never any less frightening.

He breathes in again, and again. Surely, it must be the debris-ridden air that is making it so hard for his lungs to do their job. A hand snakes its way to press over his chest, he fiddles with the comm at his hip and inhales again. Glances once more at Cuteguy and at the warm, comforting smile on his face.

He really should help. 

Still not quite rid of the quivering deep within his bones, Scar forces a more relaxed disposition and approaches the nearest unattended civilian. Casts about in his head for one of many standard reassuring phrases. Opens his mouth—

He can't say it. 

Doing his best to hide his frustration and yet unabated unease, Scar hurriedly procures a stack of shock blankets and hands them one, then moves on to the next civilian, and the next, and prays that his silence is not overly discomforting at a time when everyone is already upset enough as it is.

Cuteguy meets his eye and nods, and Scar smiles slightly and raises a shaky thumbs up. 

Civilians first, himself later. Soon enough, he'll be all right, and hopefully his voice will come back then, too.

(It doesn't return until a few days later, and even then Scar keeps thinking about something that, as of late, has been occurring to him with increasing frequency—what if this happens in the middle of a mission? 

What kind of hero would he be then?)

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3

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Following that mission and another one that, too, ends with considerable damage of property, Scar and Cuteguy are called in for a series of interviews. Privately, they are told to do their best to uplift the general public, remind them that there is nothing to worry about, that as long as they have their heroes, everyone is safe. 

Still shaken from nearly getting crushed by a falling building, Scar wonders if they wouldn't do better at assuaging, quite frankly, legitimate concerns by simply properly doing their job. 

Is that not the whole point of being a hero—to make people feel safe?

Nevertheless, Cuteguy is good at the song and dance of public opinion, and so Scar yields to his expertise, allowing him to take the lead in answering all the questions and nodding along or adding a thought of his own when appropriate. They make quick work of every meeting on their schedule that way, and before long it's been a week and there is but one last interview left.

They are warned prior to going in that this particular person is more of a necessary evil, and at first Scar thinks nothing of it.

He understands why when, after half an hour of pleasant conversation, the interviewer turns their inquisitive gaze upon him and, following a considerable pause, begins, "So, Hotguy, what can you say about your two most recent failed missions?"

Scar does a double-take. 

"I beg your pardon?"

Beside him, he feels Cuteguy tense. Somewhat distantly, he takes note of the language they used—"two most recent", as if his work is comprised of nothing but failed missions and embarrassment. 

The interviewer gestures with their hands. 

"A fallen building potentially costing millions in repair, reported to have collapsed not long after the two best heroes arrived on scene, more destruction of property following that—"

They lean forward, fix him with an intense look and then, as though uttering a secret of the utmost confidentiality, "The people are starting to wonder if those two occurrences are as coincidental as you claim them to be."

"Well, the, uh—the missions," Scar manages to say past his growing incredulity, stumbling over his words, "the missions, they were—"

Somewhat desperate, he glances over at Cuteguy, who, bless his soul, takes over. 

"In no mission within the past few weeks was any civilian physically harmed. The building was going to fall whether we came or not; our purpose for being there was never to save the building, it was to save the people. Property destruction is unfortunately something we must often contend with, but the important thing is that everyone got out safe and will be fully reimbursed for their losses," he says evenly and fixes the interviewer with a saccharine smile that belies the rising tension in the room.

"Be that as it may," they reply with an equally sweet smile, "there's something else our viewers have been wondering about."

Cuteguy inclines his head. 

"We all know that it's a hero's primary responsibility to save people from being physically hurt, but would you say that that responsibility extends to the emotional side of things, as well?"

Scar blinks. That's more tame than anything he was expecting and appears to be completely unrelated to the conversation they were just having. 

He decides to sit back and let Cuteguy take charge; his partner's response to the previous question has seemingly been accepted, but he has the strangest feeling that they're not out of the woods just yet. 

"Oh, well, yes, of course," Cuteguy states, the smile on his face relaxing somewhat once again. "Getting a person out of immediate danger is only part of the job done if we cannot make sure that they're also okay emotionally. The things we usually deal with can leave someone with less experience quite shaken up; we don't want anyone to have any trauma that could have been averted with timely interference."

"Then how would you explain Hotguy's peculiar behaviour in the aftermath of the mission we were just discussing?"

A pause. 

"What are you talking about?" 

Scar can spot a question asked in bad faith when he hears one, but it's the obvious bafflement in Cuteguy's tone that makes him look away. He thinks he knows exactly what they're talking about.

He is proven right when a video appears on the big screen backing the three of them—him handing out a few shock blankets before ultimately slipping away without having said a single word. The mission that hasn't really left his mind, and only in part due to the near-death experience he underwent.

More clips play—including that day almost two months ago now, when a fan, perhaps accidentally, pulled at his hair. He had not given it much thought, then, but up on the screen he can see himself twisting, pushing people out of his way, elbows flying—

Somehow, without trying, he knows that if asked to explain himself, he would be capable of naught but empty air. All his worlds have curdled in his chest, where a feeling of shame is quickly expanding in tune with the silence that settles after the interviewer clicks a button on their remote and pauses the clips.

"Is this what you call caring about people's emotional wellbeing? Additionally," and here they flip through some papers in their lap, "it has been noted that Hotguy seems to possess a habit of refusing to stick around after missions and leaving his partner to handle all the hard work. Now, would you describe that as—"

"Hotguy is right here," Cuteguy interrupts in a steely voice. "Anything you have to say can be said directly to him without treating him like some unruly pet incapable of speaking for himself."

"He seems to be rather silent right now, though," the interviewer says, motioning lazily in Scar's direction with a mocking grin on their face. "How about it, Hotguy? Anything to say in your defence?"

"In your def—is this an interrogation? Are you aware whom you're talking to right now?"

Cuteguy carries on arguing, loud and firm and heated, but Scar stares straight ahead and does not move an inch and only interlocks his fingers, squeezing them tight enough to hurt. 

He really shouldn't have gone through the trouble. They have a point. 

And his partner had a point, too, when talking about responsibility. They are heroes. What good does his ability to shoot a few arrows every once in a while do if he trails a series of messes behind him the rest of the way? What's the point of a quicker rescue if it comes with being forced to endure his presence?

Social interactions don't come naturally to him, but that never used to matter all that much, and especially not after he started getting big. He always thought that at the end of the day, as long as he did his job—what difference did the rest of it make?

Maybe Scar should have cared more then. So maybe people like this interviewer have a point when they accuse him of not caring enough now.

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4

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Cuteguy's passionate defence of him makes it fairly easy to minimise the backlash from that disastrous interview—but not quite. Scar goes on the Internet and is accosted by tens, hundreds of posts relaying the accusations laid against him, offering their own commentary and cross-referencing more of the same. It's almost as if once the dam has been burst, suddenly everyone and their mother has something to say about how he talks or dresses or holds his bow. 

It's far from his first time experiencing a rough patch with people's opinion of him—but this time, it feels like it doesn't stop. After picking apart all the clips shown in the interview, some people go digging and find even older ones and go on to pick those apart, too.

Scar stays up late every night and reads through every single post. Some make quite a lot of sense, and some are clearly just jumping on a new excuse to hate him. Some point out the way he fiddles with his hands, or how he tends to stay silent for long periods of time and always looks out of place around other people—he reads those especially carefully and does not go to bed until the growing hollowness within his chest feels like it's ascended all the way right up to his throat.

At some point it does occur to him that perhaps the scope of all the negativity is not nearly so big as he makes it out to be. It's not healthy to lose sleep reading through only all the worst opinions, he knows—but, as he bitterly reminds himself, he's a hero and he has responsibilities. And one of those is to take all feedback into account, no matter how hurtful some of it may be. 

So Scar stays up again, and again, and again. Some mornings he wakes up unable to speak, and sometimes his silence lasts into the afternoon. Sometimes he finds himself not having moved for the majority of the day and has to blink himself back into awareness as he shakes the stiffness out of his limbs.

Every evening without fail, he scrolls through his phone and convinces himself that his perception is not skewed and it's perfectly rational to read through walls of hate and conclude that everyone else must think that way, too. To stumble across something positive and decide that whoever said it clearly just hasn't done their research about the kind of person Hotguy really is. 

Somewhere deep within, it satisfies him—that no matter what else they may be calling him, at least no one can say he's not self-aware. Somewhere even deeper, he knows that none of it makes as much sense as he would like to believe. 

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It takes Cuteguy all of a few weeks to notice that something's up with him.

Of course, it would be difficult not to, with the amount of time they spend around each other. Still, Scar can feel the eyes on him when he takes a moment to respond to his name being called or stuffs his hands in his pockets to stop the endless fidgeting.

After spending what feels like forever dreading the inevitable confrontation, he decides to get it over with on his own terms.

"What's the matter with you?" he asks harshly one day as they're hanging up their weapons, then blinks and takes a step back. "Sorry. That came out weird. You've been worried about me, I can feel it. What's going on?"

The words, all words feel strange and unfamiliar on his tongue nowadays. Nevertheless, Scar stares intently as Cuteguy places his bow to the side and sighs.

"You're right, Hotguy, I have been worried about you."

"Why?"

It's a dumb question, if only because he knows exactly why Cuteguy has been worrying about him, what about his behaviour has changed over the past few months.

"You've been quiet lately," his partner explains, in line with his thoughts. "You seem unhappy."

Scar looks away.

"And—and you won't stand up for yourself."

He blinks. "What?"

Of all the things he expected Cuteguy to say, this wasn't it, and it seems Cuteguy is surprised by his own honesty, too. 

"In interviews, with fans—you just let them say whatever they want about you," he carries on nevertheless, waving his hands, against Scar's increasing apprehension. "Even if what they're saying is utter nonsense, you don't speak up for yourself—at all."

He trails off with a frustrated gesture, a raised voice that betrays the amount of time he has clearly spent thinking about this—about Scar, and Scar wants to thank him and apologise at the same time, for worrying him, for spending so much time figuring out how to be good, how to be better and doing it wrong, after all.

"I hadn't realised I was meant to start fights with civilians at every opportunity," he says coolly instead. "Sorry, I know how much you love to argue with people—"

Cuteguy splutters. He almost feels guilty then, for pushing his partner's buttons, but he needs this conversation to be over.

"How much I—this isn't about me, Hotguy! Why won't you stand up for yourself? Don't you know that—"

"Have you considered that maybe some of them have a point?" Scar interjects, raising his voice as well. "Not everyone who criticises us is doing it to be spiteful."

He advances on Cuteguy, his tone gaining a hint of something resembling desperation as he confesses, "I've been reading what people say about me. I know what they think—that I'm irresponsible, standoffish, self-obsessed. And, I mean, if everyone thinks that—surely there must be a grain of truth in it, don't you agree?"

"Oh, is that what this is about?" Cuteguy exclaims, laughing incredulously. "You suddenly decided to start giving a shit about people's opinions?"

"Well, if everyone hates me," Scar says after a moment in a small voice, "that sounds like something I should give a shit about, doesn't it?"

He gestures helplessly, feeling foolish all of a sudden. Before him, Cuteguy's vehemence simmers down, his face takes on a pitying expression.

"Nobody hates you, Hotguy," he enunciates slow and clear. "The most self-obsessed thing you've ever done is read a couple of badly-intended Internet posts and decide that they were an accurate gauging of who you really are."

He steps closer to him, reaching out, hand barely brushing his shoulder. 

"You're a good hero and a good person," he says softly, earnestly, "and, frankly, I don't understand why you're suddenly letting a few people's opinions define you."

Scar can't remember the last time anyone was this gentle with him, and he can't take it.

"Why do you care so much?"

It's immature and he knows it. 

Cuteguy goes still, his demeanour shutters.

"Why do I care—I am your partner," he states icily. "Am I not?"

They both pause. An awkward silence settles around them, weighed with the tension of everything they just said to each other.

Scar holds his stare for a long, long time and tries to suppress the growing lump in his throat. He wants to beg Cuteguy to keep repeating these sweet things until he can believe that he's what his partner says he is. He wants to apologise again and again until he knows what he's apologising for, until he can understand this awful feeling blocking his windpipe, this strangeness coating his lungs. 

He does neither. Cuteguy's whole issue is with his inability to speak for himself, and what is he if he continues to embarrass himself, even now? Even in front of the only remaining person who sees something he wishes he was, yet knows he could never be.

So Scar does not bother with worthless attempts destined to come to nothing and slams his bow down on the table and storms out. Cuteguy calls after him, but he does not glance back—not until he is alone, and only the memory of Cuteguy's disappointed frown lingers in his mind. 

Maybe they are wrong, after all. Maybe only he knows the extent of his own inadequacy—a burden that everyone else is forced to bear, and he to helplessly lament.

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5

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Scar doesn't talk to Cuteguy the next day, or the one after that. 

In fact, he makes a concentrated effort to avoid so much as being in the same room as him whenever it's not required of them to get things done. Outside of social interactions, he refuses to speak to him, even when he gets his voice back. Cuteguy tries a few times, but eventually gives up and just stares at him forlornly, not bothering to look away when they catch each other's eyes.

It's not that Scar is afraid of Cuteguy being angry with him after their last argument. Rather, the opposite—Cuteguy's always been good to him, and maybe they'd both be better off if Scar stopped taking advantage of his partner's eternal kindness.

At least, that's what he tries to tell himself. Deep inside, he knows not what he's truly afraid of, but knows that it has nothing to do with Cuteguy or anyone else but himself and his own idiosyncrasies. Increasingly, Scar finds himself going still for hours at a time, a skein of thoughts in his head that he couldn't possibly begin to unravel. 

He still reads hateful comments, but finds that it all no longer matters to him as much as it used to. He knows what every single one of them is going to say; they're things he says to himself every night, so why bother being miserable over nothing more and nothing less than the simple truth? Thus, he stares at his screen, watches the words blur together and goes to sleep unchanged, as horrible and wretched as he ever was and ever will be.

Their next mission arrives, and it's a big one, and Scar still doesn't speak to Cuteguy. He is startled to find that he doesn't care—let Cuteguy parse through all his weird cues on his own, and let them say what they want to say, what they always say. 

It takes them two hours to find and disable the explosive and another hour to detain the person behind it and start to work on getting the hostages out. Through all this, Scar doesn't say a word to Cuteguy and soon slips away to scan the remainder of the building. It means more time spent evacuating civilians, but it also allows him to make sure that there are no accomplices and everyone is truly safe. 

More than anything, it means that he is alone as he walks through the empty halls with nothing but the sound of his footsteps echoing off the reflective flooring.  

Scar feels almost a bit peaceful as he looks around the vacant rooms. He's tired, he has to admit. From it all, from having to ignore Cuteguy through all three hours of a very stressful mission, from pretending that he has a place in this world when everything under the sun seems determined to prove otherwise.

Walking, as always, requires considerable effort just to propel his limbs into awareness. He tries to remember the last time he didn't feel like he was staying still while the universe moved on around him. 

His partner's voice floats up from his comm then. Scar listens, but doesn't reply. He knows that Cuteguy knows that he heard him. Whatever his own personal problems are, he wouldn't jeopardise a mission for their sake. At least he has this much to say for himself still, after everything. 

Clipping his comm back to his belt, he resumes his unhurried stroll. Everything seems to be clear, but even so he's in no rush to return. Going back to the floor above would just mean going back to more of the same, hellish interviews and Cuteguy's doleful looks—

The alerting of his senses brings him up short before he can figure out the cause for his sudden stop. Swivelling around, immediately wary, Scar searches for whatever it is that tipped him off—and feels his stomach drop when he sees it. A ticking timer. Another bomb.

In an instant, everything seems to freeze. Even the air halts in its unceasing flow as Scar approaches just close enough to glimpse the timer—less than a minute left—and quickly takes a few steps back as he debates on what to do next. 

Less than a minute left. There's no way he can disable it on his own, and especially not with that little time. 

Is there anything to be done?

Scar's chest jumps with every heaved inhale, his legs feel weak from holding up his weight. He casts a glance about, and his fingers quiver as he stands there, locked in his inaction, begging himself to figure something out before it's too late, it's already too late. 

Eyes never leaving the bomb, he feels around frantically for his comm and presses the button. 

"Hotguy?" Cuteguy's voice comes, choppy and uneven, through the static. "Where are you?"

Desperately, Scar tries to scrounge up enough air in his lungs to say something, damn it, damn his resolution to ignore Cuteguy, damn it all—but it slips away from him, it's all slipping away and the bomb is right there and he can't breathe, he can't breathe—

"Hotguy?"

Left with nothing to do but run, he stumbles back down the hall and makes a sharp turn, sequestering himself just beyond the corner. Hands shaking out of their skin, he reaches for one of his arrows—

The timer beeps, and everything goes black.

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+1

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When Scar next wakes, nothing hurts, but only because of the IV drip feeding painkillers into his forearm.

He falls asleep several times after that. Sometimes, when in a half-conscious state, he can hear people talking over him, discussing things he probably ought to be present for—but he's so tired, has been for so very long, and his pillow is right there—and so Scar goes back to sleep each time, forgetting everything the instant he closes his eyes.

When he wakes up proper, everything hurts, and not just physically.

As it turns out, he got pretty lucky in the explosion—some internal bleeding and abrasions all over his body, but nothing too serious and nothing permanent. The doctor advises him to hold off on speaking until his airways fully heal, and, despite his general melancholy, he has to fight off a smile—finally, an excuse to keep his mouth shut.

It takes three days for Cuteguy to visit him—three days spent staring at the tiled hospital wall, numbly following directions and ignoring every nurse's attempt to cheer him up. Cuteguy arrives with the same worried look that Scar remembers seeing before the explosion—like he's regarding an injured animal, something entirely pitiable and pathetic. 

For a while, they simply sit in silence. This is the first time Cuteguy has seen his face uncovered, Scar realises. It doesn't bother him, not really. He'd been thinking of doing a face reveal, anyway, before...everything. 

"So," his partner eventually begins, fidgeting, uncharacteristically nervous for some unknown reason. "They, uh, they told me you got dust in your lungs and won't be talking for a while—so I brought you this."

He hands Scar a tablet and a stylus. Scar takes them, spins the stylus around and looks up at Cuteguy again, who starts to explain, through more nervous stuttering, "I know that you have your own, but I don't exactly know where you live, and this is just a temporary thing, anyway, until you get your voice back. There's an art program and a text-to-speech app, depending on what you prefer—or we could install something else, of course—"

Scar interrupts Cuteguy by lifting the tablet, opening the notes app and typing out a single word.

Relax.

Cuteguy deflates. 

"Yeah. You're right. I'm—I'm sorry."

He looks up. Scar gets the feeling that he's not just apologising for his previous rambling. 

Picking up the tablet again, he deliberates for a moment and then writes, What happened? No one's told me anything except that I survived (obviously).

Cuteguy snorts half-heartedly when he reads his statement, then sobers. His gaze travels across the room, his fingers go back to fiddling with his sleeves, and Scar resists the urge to roll his eyes in frustration. 

Can you at least give me a general rundown?

His partner shifts in his seat. 

"I, uh, I don't think that would be a good idea right now."

Scar sighs and goes back to staring at the wall. Cuteguy leaves soon after, and he doesn't try to stop him. 

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The day that he manages to stand up on his own, they bring a TV into his room. 

It takes him no time at all to flick through channels until he finds a more-or-less reliable news one, and then Scar watches, unable to tear his eyes away, as a clip of the explosion is played in front of him. Somewhere far away, it registers in his mind that this is him, up there, beneath the fire and the flying rocks—

Hearing his heart monitor's beeping increase in frequency, he breathes in carefully through his teeth and wrings his fingers, and listens to the reporter's voice overlaying the different clips.

"...the explosion that took down a building and nearly every person inside of it currently under investigation, Hotguy and Cuteguy both still recovering, but we anxiously await their commentary on the events of—"

With a click, the screen goes black. 

Scar glares at Cuteguy, who is holding the remote in his hand, then lifts the tablet from his bedside table, furiously scribbles a question and shoves it in his direction.

How many?

"Oh, Hotguy—"

He snatches the tablet out of Cuteguy's hands and underlines his previous words three times, then repeats them and underlines those, as well. 

How many?

Cuteguy sighs. 

"63 casualties and 25 deaths."

Scar looks away. 

"Hotguy—"

He waves his hand and knows that Cuteguy will comprehend the meaning of this particular gesture very well—leave me alone.

He does, and Scar scrunches up his face and bites his lip and waits until the pressure behind his eyes dissipates. It doesn't, so he sits there and watches the wall blur before him. Wetness slips down his cheeks and he scrubs it away quickly—denying himself even this small comfort, even now. 

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Two weeks later, and Scar still does not speak to anyone. 

Cuteguy keeps coming over, even after everything, sitting down in the chair beside his bed, quietly reading a book and bringing food and water without being asked. Scar ignores him, mostly, and wishes he would go away sooner rather than later so he can stop waiting for it happen. 

The entire time, he keeps the TV on and obsessively switches channels, searching out every last mention of the explosion for no reason he could adequately explain to himself without getting lost in spirals of guilt. Cuteguy does not try to stop him; instead, he stares at the screen along with him, and Scar can see his lips moving as he mutters something under his breath, too quiet to discern.

At night, when left alone, he curls up on his side and watches the darkness coagulate into different shapes, ebbing in and out of itself atop the darkened wall. The words of the reporters flow through his ears, dancing around within his skull, mixing eventually into a single sequence—your fault, your fault, your fault.

Cuteguy doesn't mention it, but Scar can tell that he knows exactly what he's thinking. He can sense his disapproval, too, and it's almost enough to make him feel sick with his unprincipled, boundless anger—wanting Cuteguy to stop dancing around him like he's some fragile thing, knowing that that is exactly what he is, nothing more and nothing less.

On yet another day spent doing nothing but staring at the wall with the TV blaring in the background, his partner finally speaks up.

"I talked to the doctors. Your throat's all healed by now. Will you talk to me?"

Scar turns away, making a show of intently studying the pattern of the well-worn tiles.

Cuteguy sighs. 

"It wasn't your fault."

In spite of himself, he meets his gaze then—only to glare at him as he picks up his stylus and begins to write frenetically, not stopping at a single sentence this time, writing until he must have poured every last shred of being out onto the screen, and then writing some more. He writes like he hasn't spoken a word in months, because he hasn't, so maybe this is it, maybe this is all he has to give now, meaningless apologies and stupid, meaningless words—

Disgustingly gentle, Cuteguy plucks the tablet from his hands, takes a moment to read through his half-jointed ramblings and looks up. 

"It wasn't your fault," he repeats evenly. "So the person had a vendetta against Hotguy—who doesn't? And I know what you're going to say—" he interjects, seeing Scar reach for the tablet, "—you're not hatable, Hotguy. You're not. And even if you were, no amount of hate is worth blowing up a building for. It wasn't your fault."

If he has to sit here and listen to Cuteguy know him better than he knows himself for one more second, Scar thinks he might just blow up another building. 

Once again, his eyes find their favourite spot on the wall. Neither of them brings up his continual refusal to speak, now reasonless, incomprehensible just like everything else. Cuteguy doesn't leave, of course he doesn't—but somehow it doesn't seem to weigh on him quite as much. 

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"If we're going to play the blame game, then you might as well blame me for not getting everyone out in time."

Scar jerks into awareness. In an instant, he's rapidly shaking his head, and it's almost enough to rip the words "It's not your fault" from his throat, because it's not, Cuteguy doesn't deserve this, he doesn't—

"I don't actually blame myself," Cuteguy placates him, as always understanding him even when Scar doesn't want to be understood. "But you see my point now, right? We could talk about what-ifs forever, but at the end of the day, it wasn't anyone's fault. Not yours and not mine."

He scoots forward in his seat, laying a hand on Scar's, touching him for the first time in—Scar's forgotten how long. 

"You didn't know the bomb was there. No one could have possibly known that it was there." His skin is warm and Cuteguy meets Scar's eyes, achingly sincere, and repeats, "It wasn't your fault. No one could have seen that. No one could have prevented it. No one—"

Scar tears his hand away as though burnt. All of a sudden, he's curling in on himself and hiding his face from Cuteguy so he doesn't have to see the tears now cascading down his cheeks, struggling to breathe again, gripping at his chest as if that would make it better, as if anything would make it all better after all this time and everything he's done, everything he's been. 

You don't understand, he wants to say. You understand so much, and yet you don't understand this, and I hate you for it. I hate you because I love you, because you understand everything except how to hate me. Leave me, he wants to say. Never let me go, he wants to say.

But words continue to evade his grasp, and so he shakes, in motion after what must have been decades of rigid stillness, and makes no sound even now and only closes his eyes, hoping to pretend that it's someone else beyond the darkness of his eyelids, knowing how futile this last iteration of everything he's ever let himself hope for truly is. 

Next to him, Cuteguy makes a small noise of realisation. 

"You were there, weren't you," he says, and it's not a question. "You saw the bomb."

And it's not a surprise, that Cuteguy sees right through him once again. And it's not a curse, when he sits next to him, sides barely brushing, and waits for his uncontrollable tremors to cease. And Scar thinks, maybe Cuteguy understands exactly how to hate him, and maybe that's precisely why he's the only person left on this planet who doesn't. 

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"How long was left on that timer?" 

From his position next to Cuteguy on the bed, Scar shrugs, too exhausted to protest, too exhausted to keep making himself want him to leave.

Cuteguy nudges his shoulder, "I know you remember. Maybe not the exact time down to the second, but I know you, Hotguy. How long?"

He sighs. Taking a moment to blow his nose, he picks up his tablet and hesitates before writing, 30? 40? Not sure.

"Seconds, right?"

Scar nods.

"Well, there you have it."

Frowning, he faces Cuteguy, who has that annoying expression on his face again—the one that he wears when he's right and they both know it, and Scar tries not to think of what that implies. 

He pays attention, nevertheless, as Cuteguy continues, "I'm not saying that there is nothing you could have possibly done better to prevent what happened."

He pauses to look directly in his eyes, to make sure he looks at him in turn—inexplicably, Scar thinks he couldn't look away if he tried.

"I'm saying that it's not your fault."

His lips part in a soundless gasp. The words Cuteguy is saying to him are nothing new, but somehow less meaningless, this time; maybe they were never meaningless, he discovers in a moment of startling clarity. Maybe this means something, maybe this all does, and he just has yet to figure out what. 

He's been silent for a while, he realises. His partner hasn't looked away, but he can see him begin to fidget—suddenly, he remembers their last argument, before the explosion, before everything.

It seems so far away. It all seems so far away.

"Hotguy—"

Fighting past the anxiety making his exhales jump and his fingers quiver anew, Scar covers Cuteguy's hand with his own, then motions at his face. "Scar."

Cuteguy frowns. 

"Which one?"

He can't remember when he last smiled, but right then and there, Scar bursts out laughing.

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They talk for hours on end after that. Sometimes they discuss the explosion, and sometimes Cuteguy rests his chin on Scar's shoulder and watches him draw. Sometimes Scar is too tired to write, but even on those days a gesture, a glance seems to be enough. 

The matter of public opinion is tacitly never mentioned, but every night Cuteguy sends him screenshots of people wishing him well, defending him and expressing their gratitude for everything he's done. Scar stays up late reading through the comments and does not dare think of what it feels like to be loved, to be wanted once again; his mind lingers on it all, nevertheless, changing little, yet still meaning—something. 

It means something that he listens to everything his partner has to say—does not always agree with him, but continues to listen nevertheless. It means something that he starts to turn off the TV and sit in a silence that does not enable his thoughts to run.

The day that he gets discharged arrives, and it turns out that even the idea of leaving gleaming white walls behind means something, as well.

"So, I was going to bring this up," Cuteguy says casually as he's helping him pack his things. "I know you're not planning on Hotguying again any time soon, but if, when you do return—since you go quiet, I was thinking we could install some signals in our tech. One beep for all clear, two beeps for danger, that sort of thing. What do you think?"

Scar puts down the stack of shirts in his hands and sighs heavily, rolling on the balls of his feet and biting his lip uncertainly before looking up at Cuteguy, picking up his stylus.

Do you think anyone wants Hotguy to return?

"Hotguy—Scar—like I said—"

Interrupting Cuteguy, Scar waves his hand at him. 

Disregard. I'm being silly.

Cuteguy opens his mouth, and Scar interrupts him again, I know where you stand. I need to figure this out for myself now.

They stare at each other for a while. Cuteguy frowns, concerned—then, surprisingly, his features relax. He gives a small smile.

"Yeah, okay. Okay."

Scar smiles in return, nods. 

"Take your time."

I will. 

There is still so much he doesn't understand. But maybe—maybe he doesn't have to. Not yet.