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It was raining that night, kind of rain that blurred the world into oil-paint dreams. Wreck's apartment, a chaotic mess and faint whiskey stains, pulsed dimly with the beat of some slow, lo-fi track humming from his computer. He was sprawled across his worn out couch, shirt unbuttoned, hair clinging to his temples with sweat and drink. The bottle on the floor was mostly empty. So was he
The knock came soft. Three taps. Then three more
Three again
Then silence
He didn't move
Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe the old pattern in the knock tickled something too familiar to ignore
The door creaked open
Nice stood in the doorway, a shadow of his usual self. His white suit was neat and pristine as always. His powder-blue eyes, usually lit up with hope and performance, were dull. Wet hair clung to his face, and the cape at his back dripped onto the floor like melting gold
Wreck blinked "You're not real" he muttered, voice slurred "Too perfect to come crawling back"
But Nice didn’t answer. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him like a final period. Then, before anything else, he paused, eyes scanning the room, pausing on the crooked frame above the sink, the ashtray, the scattered cans on the table and floor. A subtle twitch passed through his hand
He adjusted the frame without thinking
Only then did he speak
"I just wanted to see you"
His voice was hoarse. Gentle. No heroism in it. Just normal human
Wreck laughed with a bitter, breathless sound. "See me? That's a first. Thought you forgot who I was"
Nice walked closer. Sat beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to breathe the same air. He looked at Wreck's hand gripping the bottle, then at his own, like his own hand longed to reach out but didn’t dare
"I didn’t forget you" he said "I couldn't. You’re the only real thing I have left"
The weight of that truth slipped past Wreck's drunken mind like a water through fingers. He stared at Nice, at the way his eyes kept darting around his apartament, corners, edges, smudges. Like something might break if he didn’t keep count of it all
"You okay?" Wreck asked, finally. But he slurred it. It came out mangled
Nice smiled. That same soft, tragic smile he wore when hiding things "No"
And then Nice rested his head on Wreck's shoulder
Wreck didn’t move. Couldn't. If he had, Nice might've vanished
"I'm tired" the hero whispered "So tired of dancing. Of being what they want. Of counting everything, of washing my hands until they bleed just to feel clean enough to stand in their light"
Wreck wanted to scream. Then stop. Just be you. I'll still be here
But he was too drunk. Too fogged. His thoughts, his instincts, they tangled like broken wires
Nice sat there a little longer, body warm despite the rain, head gently leaning into the scent of sweat and whiskey and home
Then he stood up
Wreck reached for him. Or maybe just imagined it
"I'm glad I saw you" Nice said "Even if you won't remember"
He stepped away. Wiped his hands with a cloth from his coat pocket. Folded it twice
"Wreck?"
"Hm?" Wreck managed, barely
"Thank you. For being my favorite fight"
And then he was gone
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The next morning, Wreck woke up with a pounding headache and a sour taste in his mouth. The bottle lay sideways on the floor, its contents long gone. Rain still dripped lazily from the windowsill, and the apartment smelled faintly of storm and something familiar
He didn’t remember the visit
Not fully
But a patch of the couch was damp, and the crooked frame above the sink was perfectly straight
He rubbed his eyes. The door was unlocked
His couch, one corner of it was damp
But he couldn’t remember why
He accussed it to a hangover dream. Some fevered fantasy of his best friend. He hadn't seen Nice in forever, not really. Not behind the mask. Not behind the gold. Maybe he'd just wanted to see him. Maybe the longing had finally bled into hallucination