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He was perfect. He was always perfect. No one saw him as anything but perfect. It was who he was, all he was known for. The Perfect Hero.
He was tired of it.
Nice didn’t know it would come to this. That trust value can change so much of a person. That people could think anything about a hero and change their whole chemistry because of it, and to the point that that's all they're known for. That even the strongest heroes can be torn apart by the flaws created for them. But, he shouldn’t complain. There were worse hero quirks out there that others had.
It was exhausting being perfect though, even if he couldn’t change that. The living room always had to be cleaned correctly, the floors polished, the paintings straightened. Nothing out of place in a world that couldn’t be put together like puzzle pieces. That was the harsh reality. Even if he tried his hardest to have everything in a symmetrical balance, he himself couldn’t be like that.
Nice always felt wrong standing by other heroes. Ones who seemed to shimmer in the spotlight that blinded him. The ones who could hide any sense of disorder in their lives with a smile to the crowd. He always felt out of place and maybe it's because he was. His smiles always felt like they cracked too much, his teeth gleaming a bit too eagerly. He wasn’t a hero like them.
He realized that fact years ago.
He had blood on his hands. Blood that wasn’t truly there, but should be there. It felt like he could never wash it off. He was always rinsing and rinsing and rinsing, scratching his hands until they were raw.
His routines were erratic and unforgiving. Unforgiving to the point that when he did actual hero work, those thoughts would blur his mind. When no one was watching he’d pick at his nails or pluck at his hair, an anxiety that never settled. It was awful.
He used to have moments where it was quiet. It was a fading quiet, one that he can’t ever get back.
—-
“So, this is the new abode…it looks,” Wreck smirks, “nice.”
An expression of discontent was pointed at him, a raised brow as Nice took his shoes off, saying the word ‘really’ very clearly.
Wreck grins as he does the same, his crows feet showing. “What,” he laughs, “I thought it was a great opportunity for a pun. Now, where would you like me to place this,” he says, raising the box in his hands slightly.
Nice looks at him quietly. A look he’s been having to get used to. A little grimace upon his face, an anxious bubble encasing him as he steps over and raises his hands to the object in his hands. “I can take care of it.”
There’s a pause as Wreck slowly turns away from him. This unsettled feeling knapped at Wreck, ensnaring him like a fly trap would. “I can take care of it,” he whispers, holding it tighter to his chest. “Just tell me where it needs to go. I want to help. Please.”
Nice fiddles with his hands for a second, picking at his thumb until the nail begins peeling off.
After a moment he responds, “Ok… You can just put it in the corner of the dining room.” He points to the area in question.
Bubble wrap and blankets are still placed on top of the table and chairs from the move, but they’re all placed in an organized manner already. With the apartment being new, he knew Nice was concerned about the dust. Something that they would have to fix together later, hopefully so Nice can be at ease to allow items to escape their wrappings.
Wreck hums as he steps over, placing the box on the floor and opening it silently.
Inside were groups of porcelain dishes, all wrapped up neatly. They were all white in color, bland and clean to the point it looked like they would shatter in seconds.
This whole place seemed as fragile as Nice now. One small poke and it would all crumble to dust.
It seemed right when Nice got into hero work everything had to be done carefully. Like Wreck was tip toeing across a vine. Always looking for balance as he teeters over a large lake with seemingly no end. They hung out less, talked to each other less, did everything less because of hero work.
He knew it was their dream. A dream to be hero partners together. But after Treeman took Nice, who he is still so proud of, he’s not so sure anymore.
“Hey. Where would you like me to pu-”
There’s a gasp as something shatters. Wreck turns toward Nice, who’s hunched over a broken picture frame, glass scattered along the floor. His hands are close to his face as stares wide eyed at the massacre. Beneath the frame and glass was a turned over picture, still in good condition. He walks over to delicately collect the picture, turning it over in his hands.
It was them.
They were both in the park, shoulders touching as they smiled toward the camera. The trees were cascading brilliant colors onto them, something this room missed.
“S-sorry. This is my fault.” Wreck turns to look at Nice, who’s already on his knees grabbing the shards with his porcelain hands.
He jolts, “hey, let me get a broom before you cut yourself on accident.”
“No. It’s fine.” Nice is already at the sink, scrubbing his hands meticulously.
There’s blood smeared on the floor. A sharp contrast to the pearly white under it. Before Wreck could even form another sentence he’s already wrapping a towel around Nices hands, turning them over to inspect the damage. There weren't any shards anymore, they probably got washed into the sink, but it felt like they were still engraved into his skin.
“These look like they could scar,” he murmurs.
“They won’t. I don’t have any scars.”
That was a lie, but with Nice's sunken crystal blue eyes, he’s not sure anymore. He’s not sure of anything anymore.
He stares at his face. He has a downturned expression as he anxiously looks at his hands, like he can’t look Wreck in the eyes. He has one on his elbow. He got it when he was a child, when he clumsily tripped into a table while dancing.
Wreck slowly moves up his sleeve, bunching it at the end of his elbow and turning it to look.
There was nothing.
Wrecks lips quiver as he turns to look up at him.
“I’m sorry.” He pulls his sleeve down and begins looking at his hands again. He wasn’t sure why he was sorry, but guilt pinched his heart.
“It’s fine…it’s,” Nice laughs quietly, rubbing his shoulder along his cheek. “It’s what I get for wanting to be a hero.”
Wreck shudders at this acceptance. “You didn’t know this is what would happen, we didn’t know. We wanted to be heroes together, remember?”
He allows Nice to hold the cloth along his hands and gently grabs his shoulders.
“We can figure this out. Ok?”
He knows they will. Once he figures out a way for both of them to be out there together, he knows he can fix this.
That seemed like all it took for Nice to break. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears began cascading down his face as he finally let go. A sob that came from his heart and was ripped from his lungs. A held silence finally wasn't silent anymore as he rested his head against Wrecks shoulder, allowing the comfort of warm hands to hold him.
Wreck knew it’s been difficult recently since Nice began working for Treeman and he felt the guilt of not being able to do anything. They wanted to be heroes together, but maybe that dream was falling apart, ripped by the seams.
—-
There's a loud silence as he sits stiffly in the alleyway. The bustling city has now gone quiet, lights turned off, a silence even crickets couldn’t fix.
His skin is crackled, shattered beyond repair. His porcelain skin finally breaks off, like a doll that was thrown in a bin forgotten.
After years, he finally has scars. Proof he wasn’t a perfect hero. The hero the world wanted him to be.
And oh how he was happy.
Passersby would think he was mad with how he was laughing in the alleyway, a hysterical laughter that echoed along the graffitied walls.
He scraped his dulled out nails on the ground, marking it where he sat. He finally had something to show for his hardships. Something that wouldn’t be missed.
The cracks along his face, the lines that went along his brow, and on the edge of his eye leaked out a black plague that marked the concrete. The wisps of fear circling around him latched onto the edges of his vision, showing what he could never forget.
He was never a hero and he was selfish for even thinking he could be.
Shang De proved that to him. The whole system he wanted to be a part of did. And he would show them all how imperfect he was. How much they’ve all been failed by the ones they trusted most.