Chapter Text
Grian was laying on his back, staring up at the man above him. Scar. Disheveled and breathing hard. His shirt was off, Grian couldn't remember when that had happened. They made eye contact, Scars green eyes shining with mischief. He smirks, his lips quirking to the side. Grian loved that smile.
He’d dreamed of it nightly.
Scar leaned down, Grian felt his face flush. He could feel the man's hot breath against his ear, he shifted slightly to expose his neck. He desperately wanted the man to kiss him there.
Scar huffed out a laugh, "You're such a cute guy, you know that?” he asked.
Grian could feel himself still, something so off about the way he said such seemingly innocent words. The way he put emphasis on cute guy, it could just be his brain playing tricks on him.
How did he know?
He opened his eyes again—when had he closed them? Hotguy was leaning over him, the smile on his lips was no longer sweet, no longer gentle and mischievous. His eyes obscured by an orange and cyan visor.
Grian felt himself panic.
His chest rising and falling so fast from his rushed hurried breathing. His heart fluttered in his chest like a bird desperately trying to escape its cage after a nightmare. His wrists were pinned above his head, he couldn't reach for his guns. He couldn't defend himself. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything.
Hotguy leaned down, pressing their chests together, Grian desperately tried to scooch himself further into the hard cement, no longer was it a soft bed. His wings crushed beneath his and the hero’s weight.
Hotguy grinned at him. “Cant escape now can you, little birdie?”
His wings twitched.
Grian tried to say something, some comeback, a joke. Some clever lines to deflect his fear and to heal his ego.
Nothing happened, only a croaking noise escaped from his throat.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked. Clearly taking too much pleasure in taking down his nemesis, the vigilante he’d hunted for weeks.
Hotguy gathered both of Grian’s wrists in one hand, using the other to gently brush his cheek. He felt his pinna twitch. Hotguy huffed a laugh, not unlike the one Scar had moments before.
His hand trailed down Grian's face, trailing feather-light touches down his neck and settling just above his heart.
“I wonder…” Hotguy trailed off, “are you as beautiful as I imagine you, under that mask?”
His hand reached up.
Grian felt his breath quicken.
No no no.
He’d be arrested for this.
He’d lose his job and his friends and spend the rest of his life rotting in the special cells beneath the hero headquarters
Vigilantes are illegal
Just as illegal as villains are.
Helping people lends you no favor when done outside the confines of the law, when done out from under the thumb of the elite.
“You know birdie,” he says, "I could pull a few strings for you…”
He’d offered this before.
A job.
Working for the hero corp.
Grian had always said no.
He’d spent the majority of his life under that woman's thumb. He wasn't going back now.
Hotguy must've seen it in his eyes. “The answer never changes, huh?”
Grian didn't say anything. He couldn't.
“It really is a shame, Grian,” he says as he pulls off the mask and Grian wakes up.
It was dark in his room when he woke up drenched in sweat.
He was still breathing heavily from the nightmare.
He sat up, looking out his large window at the city outside. The lights of the streetlamps below, and the skyscrapers in the distance were more than enough to see by. More than enough to clog the sky and obscure the stars.
He didn’t mind living in the capital city the majority of the time, his job was good and it paid for a large enough apartment. His friends were close. He had people he could save, things to do to keep him from insanity. The pollution was one thing though. The over indulgent culture, the litter in the streets and the lights in the night.
Nothing about this place was natural.
He pulled off the oversized shirt he slept in—at one point it had been Scar’s. He’d spilled a drink on himself at a group hangout and Scar hadn’t hesitated to pull off his own faded graphic tee for Grian to pull on. He’d attempted to give it back the next week, but Scar had waved him off and continued laughing with Cleo.
He pulled on the black spandex body suit of Cuteguy’s. It was a habit of his, hiding pieces of his costume underneath his everyday clothes. Easier to change into his suit when he didn’t have to get half-naked to do so. He pulled a grey hoodie and plaid pajama pants over the suit, nights at this time of year were a little chilly.
He tied his sneakers and headed out the door, needing some fresh air. He wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Normally at this time of night he’d pull on his frilly shorts and grab his guns, but he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable after such a dream, the thought of his wings exposed for all to see, for someone to find. He couldn't handle it.
He walked without a destination, wandering the streets, unknowingly heading deeper into the downtown. Away from the apartments and towards the skyscrapers.
He knew the city was dangerous at night. Knew it better than most civilians. Being one of the “dangerous villains” that wandered the streets himself. He looked up, half expecting to see himself leaping from rooftop to rooftop, diving and flying through the buildings.
Dangerous his ass.
It was hard to associate himself, the tired architecture professor, with the energetic and confident Cuteguy. Couldn't imagine how his friends would react, the thought would be so absurd they’d laugh. Mumbo knew, of course, being the one to create his guns. The twin pistols, pink and covered in bows.
He scoffed to himself, remembering the way they’d both been covered in redstone, testing out the guns with giggles.
He kept walking.
He stopped at a convenience store a few blocks later for an ice cream bar and can of coffee, only realizing he’d forgotten both his phone and his wallet at home once he’d put his spoils on the counter and rang them up. The young cashier stared at him dead-eyed, he chuckled nervously. “I'll go, uh, put these-” their eyes drifted over his shoulder and widened.
He could feel something cold pressed against the back of his neck. Something metal. The gun cocked with a loud click. “Give me everything in that register,” a low, even voice came from behind him. Grian’s heart was pounding. “Or,” the man continued, jabbing him in the back with the gun, “you’ll have to scrape his brains off the walls.”
The cashier said nothing. He could see the way their eyes darted nervously and how their hands shook, they were terrified too. Grian had been in this situation plenty, guns were pointed at him regularly.
Never like this.
Never as a civilian, never without a way to defend himself. He swallowed around a lump in his throat. The cashier opened the register, movements slow, worried. They started gathering the bills out, ones, fives, tens, twenties. They set them on the counter, making a second of eye contact with Grian, then with the man behind him.
“Bag it,” the man ordered, “and get me a pack of reds while you’re at it.”
They did. Compliant, but clearly nervous to turn their back on the intruder. Grian wondered if they’d be able to afford therapy for the incident. He wondered if something like this had happened often. The doorbell sounded. A too cheery ding for the situation they’d all found themselves in, the cashier turned around, relief clear in their eyes.
“I’d recommend you drop that gun,” a smooth, husky voice sounded.
Grian felt the gun raise to the back of his head, “you take another step and he gets it,” the man said.
“It would be the last thing you did,” Hotguy responded.
“I’ve got nothing to live for,” he said, “but I'm sure he does.” Grian felt a hand on his waist as the man grabbed him, turning him around to face the hero. Putting him in between the robber and the hero. A human meat shield. The embrace was casual, arm around his waist. Loose. Grian could escape it easily had it not been for the gun now held beneath his chin. “Look him in the eyes as he dies.”
It was the first time Grian had been so close to the hero, Cuteguy suit or no. A yard or two maximum. Separated by bargain bin boxes advertising deals on pringles and m&m’s. There was a bow held loosely in the man's grasp, half raised, arrow pressed but not drawn.
“Bullets are a lot faster than drawing a bow,” he claimed smugly, his voice so close to Grian’s ear.
Hotguy looked to be at a loss, he had no idea what to do.
How helpful. The pride and joy of the emerald soldiers, can't stop a simple robbery.
Grian was going to die here. Hostage situation gone wrong. His death would be reported on, criticizing the hero’s. His friends and coworkers would miss him, Scar would never find out Grian had loved him.
Not that he would have, had Grian lived.
“Feed my cats for me,” he said, to Hotguy. “I don’t have a roommate, so I’m sure they’ll go hungry in the morning.”
“I-” Hotguy started. Grian cut him off.
“I’m not getting out of this,” he said. “I mean, our favorite robber here seems pretty determined, and he’s got nothing to live for, right? There's nothing you could do.”
It was stupid, idiotic. He was going to die like this. Adrenaline running through his veins. The man behind him was uncertain, he’d never taken a life before. He may be desperate, but he was still human.
Hadn’t stooped to these lows before.
Suddenly every nerve in Grian's body was on fire. He was being electrocuted. The man behind him dropped the gun, Grian stumbled forward, on his hands and knees. His vision was swimming, he was gasping for air like a drowned man. He didn't cry out, at least. Still had his dignity in front of the hero.
His arms were weak, he was so tired. It was easier to let them relax, to fall forward. He rolled onto his side, watching as the hero rushed forward and handcuffed the robber. The gun kicked away.
The cashier was in tears, clearly having a panic attack. Their hair standing upright and their eyes glowing electric blue. An elemental mutant then. That's what had happened.
Grian chuckled to himself. The hero had done nothing.
He felt like he’d won.
Hotguy was leaning over him now, the orange and cyan visor obscuring his eyes. He was clearly saying something, but Grian’s vision was swimming. He couldn't care less what the man had to say to him.
He preemptively mourned the hospital bills.
Grian came to a few seconds later, he was being propped up by Hotguy and the man was looking down at him with what seemed like concern. He scoffed inwardly.
“You should drink something,” he said, holding an uncapped bottle of water. Grian raised his hand and took it. His throat was dry, was all. He didn’t feel good about taking the hero’s advice, letting him be helped to feed the man's ego.
He sat up further, pulling out of Hotguy’s arms, strong and warm and covered in muscles. It made him uncomfortable to be trapped in such an embrace, thinking of his dream. He looked around him, the cashier sitting on the ground hugging their knees, the robbed handcuffed and unconscious. Hotguy kneeling next to him.
Grian did his best to stand up, using one of the bargain boxes to balance himself.
“Hey!-” Hotguy said, surprised. He rose as well. “You shouldn’t be standing, you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Grian replied.
“No you’re-” Hotguy tried, Grian cut him off.
“I’m fine. I’ve gotta get home,” he said.
“You’re hurt!” Hotguy exclaimed, “You passed out! You need medical attention for godsakes.”
“I’m fine,” Grian reiterated. He knew he’d long since healed from whatever damage the shock had done. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“We need your witness report…” Hotguy tried.
“Am I being arrested?” he asked.
“No? What-”
“Then I'll take my leave,” Grian headed to the door. “Thank you for your service,” he said, sarcastically. Dropping into a slight bow.
The door dinged as he opened it, and it swung shut behind him. The hero unable to chase, unable to leave behind the captured criminal. Grian could see him staring at him, from the corner of his eye, through the large windows. He turns the corner around the building and passes out of sight. Walking a few blocks out of the way, to an alley he’s sure doesn't have cameras, trading his pajama pants and sweatshirt for laced up pink shorts and long fingerless gloves.
His wings unfold from his back and he takes off to the top of the buildings, deciding to fly his way home, rather than risk another Hotguy encounter on the way back.
At least, in this form he could run.
As a civilian, the hero would insist on taking him to the hospital, at best he’d walk him home.
Cuteguy soared through the air, diving and rolling. Pausing his flight to run and jump across rooftops. Trustfalls and near misses.
It was euphoric.
He reached his apartment building in no time, mourning the loss of his flight, he considered going on, patrolling for the rest of the night. Then he caught a glimpse of the sky, lighting up. Dawn had arrived. It’d almost be time for him to be waking for work.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
He spared a glance behind him, sure that Hotguy would be right on his trail.
There was no one.
Grian ducked down into the alleyway next to his building. Hiding behind a dumpster as he reversed the transformation, mourning the loss of his wings.
He wasn't tired, he’d gone for longer with less. He felt good as—not, new, just good as average. He entered the passcode into his door and stepped in.
As dark as he’d left it, though the sky outside was slowly lightening. It wasn't long before the sun would pass over the horizon and start shining off the windows across from him. He started the coffee machine and fed his cats.
Pearl and Maui crawling out of the dark from wherever they’d been hiding to rub up against his legs meowing at him to put their bowls down. He chuckled, Maui had started attempting to climb up his pant legs, claws digging through the fabric into his skin.
He set their bowls on the ground, Pearl sniffed at both but didn't bother fighting her brother over the bowl he’d chosen. Grian sighed, running a hand through his hair and opening the fridge. Looking for his own breakfast.
His university job paid well, and he enjoyed it. But between that and his vigilante work he didn’t have much time to himself, not enough to cook three meals for himself daily. He settled on the three-day-old mushroom pizza he’d had in his fridge. Reheating the last two slices, he’d have to throw it out soon if not.
He watched it spin around through the small glowing window in his microwave, the grease popping and crackling. He knew from experience that if he were to open it now and pull it out, it’d still be freezing cold. He waited the full minute and a half before pulling it out. It was soggy and the cheese was a bit rubbery, but it was edible. He ate it as fast as he could, and could feel it settling wrong in his stomach.
He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushed the taste off his teeth, tired eyes, messy shaggy hair. He looked every bit he expected himself to, the complete opposite of his alter ego.
In his room he buttoned up a white collared shirt and threw his regular red sweater over it, pulling on a pair of glasses that did nothing but worsen his vision—something so sharp it gave him a headache sometimes.
He pulled on his messenger bag and headed out the door, saying goodbye to both his cats before shutting and locking it. He slumped against it for just a minute.
A tap on the shoulder jolted him from his thoughts, looking over to see his cousin, Jimmy. Grian smiled at the man. “Mornin’ Tim,” he said.
“Rough night?” he asked in return.
Grian made a noncommittal noise and pushed off the door. They walked to Jimmy's car—Grian didn’t have one of his own, and he’d never gotten the chance to learn how to drive. He preferred to walk if he needed to get somewhere, to fly if he needed to hurry.
He pulled his seatbelt over himself and slumped back, Jimmy started the car.
It was a short walk to the university, 25 minutes if you hurried. It was only 7 by car. Grian felt it pass by in seconds, the turns and stops taking up the majority of the time. It took Jimmy a second to find a parking space.
“Thanks Tim,” he said, stepping out of the car.
He could feel the man’s eyes on him as he started walking, could feel his mind probing his own, searching for something. Grian passed along a thought of him complaining about the essays he’d graded last night—something that hadn’t happened at all—to get his cousin off his back.
Jimmy accepted it as an answer, of course.
Not because he was an idiot, but because he had no reason not to believe Grian. It was his own thoughts after all, what reason would he have to lie? He wasn’t even sure if Jimmy was aware Grian could feel the nudges.
He didn't feel bad for lying to the man.
They stopped by the break room, the unofficial meeting place for their circle of friends. Where they’d all stop before moving onto their respective classes. Grian glanced around the room, a bit of hope in his chest before he sighed and went to get the coffee.
Jimmy snickered next to him, all too aware of his crush on one of his coworkers, before leaving to head to his office. He never usually stuck around, claiming to have more work than Grian did, “just teaching classes like you do.”
Scar rolled into the room a few minutes later, looking as great as he always did. Grian downed the rest of his coffee and smiled at the man, Scar looked at him for a second, something unreadable in his eyes. Then it dropped and he beamed at him, raising a hand to wave. Grian blamed the warmth on his face on the cup of coffee he’d just finished.
Cleo walked over to talk to the man about something, stealing his attention from Grian.
He tried not to mind too much, Cleo was much closer to Scar than he was. She was his friend, Grian was an acquaintance. His coworker. He sighed, deeply, before gathering his things and heading to his lecture hall. His class didn’t start for another hour, but he didn’t get a chance to use the excuse sitting on his tongue.
Nobody noticed him go.
He wished he could take a page out of Cuteguy’s book, his ability to light up a room. The flirting that most anyone would fall for. Instead he was stuck, depressed and pining. He didn’t have any chance in hell to get with Scar, and yet, he couldn't give up.
He dreamt of the man almost nightly, some less wholesome than others. He felt a bit guilty for the way he thought of his fellow architecture professor. His feelings clearly weren’t reciprocated, and it would probably make the man uncomfortable to know the dreams Grian thought up.
He ran a hand through his hair, messing up whatever style he’d cobbled together that morning.