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"They want me to…date her."
You don't have to ask who 'they' are, nor who 'her' is. It's a shitty situation, and no matter what he does-neither of you have the power to change it. The world wants what the world wants, and you are not his world.
(He would always be yours.)
As his best friend, you say the words he can't,"-But," You lean against the couch, and pop open the soda tab,"- that's not what you want."
He doesn't speak, but he resides in the silence, looking anywhere but you. He shifts, leaning into your shoulder and lifts the can of soda from your hand, takes a swig, and his face scrunches in distaste. This used to be his favorite brand.
"Artificial sweeteners."He says coolly, lips quirked in too-dark of a smile.
To anyone else, this expression doesn't mean anything. People don't see the bitterness underneath, left dazzled by the pretty,perfect, marionette. They see what they want to see, and he becomes who they want him to be.
All you see is your friend,(Maybe more if you asked.)-who believed you could be heroes together. And even if that dream grows farther away with every battle, you must have gotten close enough. (It has to be enough.)
"It's not going to last," you say taking the soda back and gulping down your own sorrow with sugary comfort. They aren't meant to be, not like you and him.
"They'll get bored eventually."
(Eventually)
(He hasn't been answering your calls. You leave texts-emails-frantic voice messages- whatsgoingon-areyoualright-pleasepleaseplease-)
His manager isn't any help. She cuts him off with-we'll call you when we need you-or-Nice is unavailable at the moment.
And then-
Then-
Nice shows up on the TV screen. Articles and new photo clippings pop up on your browser. He's been gone for weeks radio silent. The first question is what did they do to him-the second is a quieter, meeker, was he trying to avoid me?. You can't let that thought linger. He wouldn't-
you are not his world.
He wouldn't do that. Not for no reason. There has to be a reason.
You'll ask him.
(You never do.)
"Ow."
"OK, I know that didn't hurt."
He places a bandage on your cheek, the soft white gauze covering the cut, so you don't pick at it. A nervous habit.
"How do you know Mr.Perfect? Us fragile mortals are feeble."
You say it as a joke, but he stills, Lip caught under his teeth,"Sorry."
His fingers pat the bandage, and again,"Sorry."
You sigh,"I've told you before right?, nothing to be sorry for. I knew what this job entailed when I agreed to it."
"Still-"
You gently hold his wrist in your own hands, Warm against cold,"You're never going to hurt me. For real anyway."
He gives you a complicated expression. You've had this conversation before, and you will have it again and forever. He knows better then to think he could win against you-outside of the public eye.
So, he smiles one of those subtle smiles, that tug at his cheeks and makes his eyes crinkle. The type of smile that translates fondly as: Whatever you say.
"Alright," He closes his hand around yours, fingers sliding together like puzzle pieces,"Alright."
Getting the Enlightner on the show is remarkably easy. You watch the screen with rapt attention, deciphering every micro expression-every jilted waver in his voice. This could ruin his career, the naive part of you says. The more vindictive,desperate part sobs: I need to know.
Nice says No, Moon is not his girlfriend: Truth
Relief. Satisfaction. A little bit of a smug, You don't matter as much as-
Nice calls Moon his Goddess: Truth.
The world tilts on its axis.
You fight and train together, until you breath the very same air, move with the same grace, until were you end and he begins becomes indistinguishable. You've been together for so long, you don't think you could ever not predict him. He could never hide anything from you, never you.
He comes home-
(He calls it home, because the hero tower is too cold, impersonal, a gilded cage instead of a resting place. And most importantly, He says, you aren't there-So how could it ever be home?)
-In the rain. Shaking. He won't let you touch him.
There was an incident, the manager tells you over the phone. Send him over once he's done, we can only push the photo-shoot so many days ahead. She hangs up before you can curse her out-
"Wreck-" He calls out, because neither of you have used your own names, in a long, long time. Yet, he still manages to say it in way that captures the tenderness lost between hits on the battlefield
"-I can't-I don't think I can do this anymore."
He's curled up on the couch, you expect to see him crying-frowning-something broken on his face, anything to clue you in. Instead there's blank nothingness. His face stone-cold and flaccid.
His eyes have never looked so empty.
(You try vehemently not to think of a corpse.)
A wedding. What joke. He doesn't get to leave like that. Not after everything.
"They want me to…date her."
"Alright," He closes his hand around your, fingers sliding next to each other like puzzle pieces,"Alright."
You fight and train together, until you breath the very same air, move with the same grace, until were you end and he begins becomes indistinguishable.
(He calls it home, because the hero tower is too cold, impersonal, a gilded cage instead of a resting place. And most importantly, He says, you aren't there-So how could it ever be home?)
You manifest rage, heartbreak, denial, grief-whatever whirlwind of emotion curdles in your chest-and brandish it plainly with every frantic swing of your sword.
Cameras flash. Recording. Are they enjoying this? Will they continue enjoying this even if Moons head is mounted on a pike? (You would be a real villain then, something real, someone unable to be ignored-)
But you would never hurt him, never like that. All you want is a reason-why-how, when did everything go so wrong? You just want answers, you just want the truth. (Even if it hurts.)
Nice dodges,prances around the field-
And this-
This isn't him. He doesn't show up to his own goddamn wedding and he won't show up to fight you.
Did you mean so little to him?
"Tell me! Where is the real Nice!"
Nice-the faker-whoever wears the face you have branded in your mind, mapped in your heart, every micro-expression, every blemish and smoothed over surface, the person that gazes at you now- is a complete, and utter, stranger.
(His eyes are kind you notice, innocent and forlorn, but there is nothing left for you to care about.)
"Nice is dead-"
You open your mouth to retort-but nothing comes out. He can't be dead.
"-he took his own life."
"-I can't-I don't think I can do this anymore."
Lies,lies,lies-it has to be a lie. A ruse. Was this a joke? A sick prank, a nightmare.
Your heart breaks with every hit you take. Or maybe that's your armor, your bones, does it really matter now? Nice doesn't pull his punches. And there will be no laughter and apologies later. (Never a later)
If he is dead-
(Then you are no use alive. )