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Wreck grew up avoiding the colour white.
Too pure, he reasoned. Too easy to ruin. A colour blinding to the eye, twisting and stinging and too much all at once. Too much like finality. Wreck grew accustomed to more darker shades, enveloping himself in a safer, more hidden colour - black shirts, grey socks, monochrome world.
It was too dangerous to go near the colour white, to reach out and smear the delicate opaque with his dirty hands. So Wreck stayed in the dark, and he preferred it that way - until, well.
A pale boy, white hair, white skin, white teeth and white clothes, so scintillant it almost hurt to look at him, but Wreck could never look away from Nice. Not really. By all means, he should hate him, to sneer and jab at the perfect, snowy figure, to slip away from the sun. But Wreck couldn't.
All things needed to be shone on, after all.
So black collided with white. The two boys grew up together, trained together, signed contracts together to the Treeman Company. And Wreck could never hate Nice, even when they were split into the roles of villain and hero. Each fight was a spectacle, and Wreck revelled in it. He liked being seen, for Nice to be seen. They could build a comfortable life together, supporting each other all the way.
And even when Moon entered the picture, an unexpected bright pink filling through the crevices of their overlapped grey, Wreck could never really hate her either, not even with a pang of jealousy in his chest when he saw Moon and Nice together on the big screen, not when Wreck knew she was just as lost and hardworking as he was. They were all players of the greater façade of heroes, and he couldn't blame her at all for standing by Nice's side - the top hero of the agency.
In recent years, Wreck realises — he doesn’t see Nice in the colour white. Too boring, too one sided, everything that Nice is not. No, Wreck thinks, Nice is not white, doesn’t remind him of the colour white. He’s a refraction; cerulean in his eyes, rose on his cheeks and nose in the early winter mornings, peach-orange when his hair reflects the sunset, overlooking the city with a quiet, gentle gaze. Colours, everywhere, rebounding all around Wreck’s vision, Nice in the centre of it all, glowing, the one true clarity in this harsh, blurry world.
Wreck’s favourite colour is Nice, and he really wouldn’t have it any other way.
-
It is cruel, Wreck thinks drunkenly, that everything good has to end somehow. He just hopes it doesn’t end in his living room, right here, not when Nice is next to him laughing at some stupid joke he made himself. Neon from the outside city invade through the windows, mixing with moonlight, and Nice is lit up with blues and purples on his couch, like some kind of contemporary, beautiful painting. Wreck can’t tear his eyes off him, his gaze traveling up and down slim legs and arms where Nice has donned a simple t-shirt and shorts, in place of his hero costume.
There’s a feeling in Wreck’s chest, something terrible he can’t name, something he won’t dare to name. If he opens his chest up, the feeling will burst forward and onto the ground, right in front of Nice’s feet. He’s afraid that the feeling is too big for the both of them, that it will scare the both of them. Cowardice, but Wreck has always been more accustomed to the safety of the dark.
And so he swallows it down with alcohol, keeps his heart silent the whole night. Quiet when they watch the overview of hero highlights from this week on the television, or when they chat about moments they have lost to each other from work. Quiet when the two men finally settle down on the couch, drunk to hell and back with cans on the floor, comfortable silence stretching between them, Nice still being lit up with the city crowd outside. But then again, peacefulness never goes on forever. Nothing good ever does.
“They’re talking about marriage,” Nice starts, and Wreck looks around from where he had been staring at the wall. He gives a non-committal hum, to show that he’s listening.
“Do you want to get married?”
“I have to if it’s for work,” Nice shrugs, “It’s been three years. They say fans are getting impatient — Boss says it’ll boost my popularity.”
Something like a weight settles in Wreck’s stomach, something like dread. “What does Moon think about this?”
“She doesn’t know. I accidentally walked into a board meeting. Seems like they’re trying the plan out the outfits. Something like a wedding dress is pretty easy to recognise.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” Nice echos back, more air than sound. The room is silent again for a few moments.
“You could be my best man,” he jokes, “I’ll let you be next to me for my happiest day.”
“The people wouldn’t like that,” Wreck murmurs softly, jesting as well, “Too out of character for your greatest nemesis.”
“I’m sure the company will allow it if I threaten them enough. I’ll have my best friend next to me. I’ll make sure of it.”
And the two laugh at that, both of them gravitating closer to each other as they do so. White and black start to intermingle. Wreck doesn’t want this snapshot in time, this little place in the world in his living room to ever end. He wants Nice to stay by his side — doesn’t want him to be stolen away by someone else.
And when they both stop giggling like children, Wreck whispers a question again to Nice, just to make sure.
“Do you want to get married?”
The moment almost sobers them both up, the room tensing like gears grinding.
“Ah,” Nice huffs out, “I’ll try to keep up the act. You know, the audience will want more someday. They can’t be satisfied. Maybe they’ll start clamouring for a child, for the perfect superhero family. Maybe we’ll give it to them.”
Something like a voice in Wreck’s head begs him to stop whatever Nice says next, but his throat won’t allow words to come through.
“I…I could do that if I tried, you know. Moon is pretty, she’s kind. We make a good pair. Maybe if I fake it for myself, I’ll fall for her. It’ll…make it easy for the both of us.”
Something like hopelessness cracks into Nice’s tone towards the end of his sentence, and cracks right into Wreck’s chest. The feelings begin to leak out.
“No,” Wreck scrambles, moving himself closer to Nice’s side. Their arms are flush together, and Nice is warm to the touch, “No, no, you shouldn’t have to force yourself into something that you’re not. You don’t, you don’t have to follow what Treeman molds you into. You shouldn’t have to be what other people want.”
Don’t fall in love with Moon, Wreck wants to say, wants to beg, don’t abandon this happy life, our life, for a fake one.
More feelings begin to burst through. Nice looks ethereal in the pink and blue hues of the outside, faraway world. Years of affection leak out as Wreck moves in even closer.
Nice’s eyes flicker up and down Wreck’s face. He looks almost nervous. Roses bloom across his cheeks as his hands tremble, hovering just an inch away from the other’s face.
“What do you want?” Wreck whispers brokenly. Closer, closer, even closer. He can feel Nice’s breath on him, “What do you want, Nice?”
“Wreck,” Nice whispers back. A plea.
It’s too dangerous to act on their desires. If they move forward now, their entire facade of hero and villain will shatter instantly. This could become a scandal. This could ruin them both.
Maybe Wreck could move back now. Laugh, pull out and blame it all on the drinks. Return to normalcy, discarding tonight as an afterthought.
But if Wreck is cowardly in these things, Nice is not. A question lingers between them, and Nice answers when he surges forward, and Wreck’s world erupts in every colour imaginable.
Nice kisses him, and Wreck kisses him back almost immediately. Gentle, desperate, hands sliding up to cheeks and hair and arms. They both taste like bitter alcohol, but Wreck couldn’t care less as he grabs onto this moment, knowing that they will hate each other when they pull away. He never wants that to happen. He can’t let that happen.
Green, red, blue, purple, yellow. Hues pour out from their connection, and the monochrome boy doesn’t think he’s ever seen something more beautiful in his life.
Nice makes terrible, soft sounds against him, tongue sliding against Wreck’s teeth like he’s wanted this too. Like he’s wanted Wreck’s mouth on him the whole time.
And god, the feelings pour out, endlessly flowing through Wreck’s movements, onto the couch, onto the ground, threatening to drown them both. Nice keeps them afloat, dragging his slender hands down to Wreck’s waist, and he feels drunk, not from the cans, but from how Nice’s touches burn him.
He wants to go up in flames. He’ll scatter into ash, if it means he can have Nice.
But as quickly as the kiss started, mouth on mouth and hands on neck and hair — it stops. Nice pulls back, and Wreck feels like he’s been flayed open. Hands flinch back, pause, and then rest by Nice’s side.
”Wreck,” Nice begins. He looks regretful, sad, like he wasn’t tasting Wreck’s mouth a moment ago. Like he didn’t want to kiss him, “You’re drunk.”
Wreck swallows, “You are too.”
Something cold, like sobriety, spreads in his chest. He wants Nice’s warmth back.
”I—” Nice huffs, bringing a hand up to his face, “This isn’t fair for us. For you. For Moon.”
”Don’t bring her into this,” Wreck snaps, “Don’t bring her in like she’ll care about this. Like she’s your wife.”
Wreck almost chokes on the last word. Black seeps into his veins.
A pause. Nice is too silent, and Wreck is afraid.
“I’m tired, Wreck,” Nice rubs his eyelids. He’s never looked more older, more defeated in his life, “I should go. Boss might get worried.”
Just as Nice starts to stand up from the couch, Wreck’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Nice looks back at him, and Wreck has to try and not linger on his mouth, how his reddened lips are the most colourful part of him, almost glowing in the dimmed room.
Wreck loves Nice so much. He loves all of his colours, all the hues around the boy’s edges that leave imprints on Wreck’s static world and god — he really is drunk out of his mind.
He just wishes he could say it, spill out his deepest wants to him, but somehow he feels like it’s too late.
”Tomorrow,” Wreck says, voice raspy, “We can talk about this tomorrow, right? When we’re both sober.”
Nice’s piercing eyes never leaves Wreck’s gaze. He looks almost sad.
”Tomorrow,” Nice agrees, and Wreck finally lets go of his wrist. The perfect, untouched man walks to the door, leaving as if their little world didn’t just fall apart with Wreck’s selfish actions.
And he’s half out the door when Wreck speaks again.
”Hey, we’re fine, right? Nice, we’re still friends, right?”
Nice pauses, looks back and watches Wreck with a careful gaze, as if searching for the right words.
”Yeah,” Nice clears his throat, “Yeah, of course. Of course we’re still friends. Nothing, nothing changes that, ok?”
Wreck nods. The coldness in his veins dissipates, but the feeling in his stomach doesn’t go away.
”Goodnight, Wreck,” Nice says, and he’s gone.
When he’s sure his best friend has left the building, Wreck lets out a groan and collapses onto the couch with his full weight. It feels as though he’s gone stone sober, the kiss feeling like a dream.
What the hell had he done? Gone and ruined one of his closest friendships out of what — convenience? He had come onto Nice like some kind of starving, desperate man, and the worst part being that he actually was. God, he was so, so selfish, and he had liked it.
But Nice had kissed him first. That had to count for something.
He thinks about colours. All of the colours that radiate from Nice. God, he wants them all. He wants to so study each hue of Nice. He wants, he wants, he wants.
Tomorrow, Nice had agreed.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Everything will be ok tomorrow. It has to be. Wreck believes in it, holds on to it like a lifeline.
They have a whole future together. It can’t possibly end on something like this.
Tomorrow.
Wreck drifts off, neon lights shining from that damned city, dreaming of refractions.