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Six Hours Before the Competition
Wreck wakes to a terribly annoying alarm. He hits his phone dumbly, hands feeling clumsily along the tech until the shrill noise is rendered mute. He tosses over in his bed, turning away from the phone and the very memory of its rudeness.
And comes face to face with Nice.
Nice with cracks of fear running along his face. Nice with his blank as a corpse expression. Nice with his wide open eyes that could stare a hole through titanium.
Wreck does not scream. He's gotten better at waking up to reality and not being upset it isn't a dream.
Instead, Wreck takes a sharp breath and does his best to smile. Nice was always obsessed with smiling. The little Hero Smile fanboy of a kid used to regularly practice making those bright, glowing grins like his life depended on it.
Nice hasn't smiled once since their reunion. So Wreck tries to smile enough for both of them.
“Morning,” Wreck says, as casually as he can. “You been up for long?”
Nice also hasn't said a word since his resurrection, but Wreck has gotten pretty good at reading Nice’s body language. He was decent before, but now he could perhaps make a living off being a mind reader — or at least a very good fake.
For example, Nice blinks — just once, quickly. That's his way of asking, “Is the sky blue?” like a sarcastic jerk.
“Guess that means I don't have to apologize for the alarm then,” Wreck shoots back.
And, oh, if Nice could talk, he’d be bitching about that alarm. Nice had bitched about it before — it was one of the few constants of their sleepovers back when they were both idols trying to get scouted. Late night practice sessions turning into crashing at Nice’s dorm. Nice, for all his attention to detail and buckets of worries, absolutely despised mornings — and Wreck’s piercing alarm had earned the raven haired boy more than just a glare on several occasions.
“Three seconds,” Nice had once mumbled, “Or I'm throwing you out the window with that damn phone.”
Now, Nice just blinks twice. Fast, not slow.
“Okay, okay,” Wreck replies. “I'm getting up. I'm moving.”
And he does. Wreck kicks off the covers and heads to the bathroom. He turns on the shower and lets the water warm up as he makes a token effort with his hair. No matter what he does, he can't quite tame it — can't quite keep it fully out of his face.
“Leave it,” Nice used to tell him in their shared dressing room. “It's pretty like this.”
Normally, Wreck would just laugh. But, once, on a particularly bad hair day, Wreck had grumbled back, “You just want the mirror.” The performance was going to be their biggest yet, and he couldn't focus on it all. Not when his hair felt like it was physically fighting him.
But Nice had deftly grabbed the brush from Wreck’s hands with a smirk. He had pushed Wreck’s chair away from the shared vanity as he held the brush like a sword.
“Maybe,” Nice had said. “But it doesn't mean I'm not right. You stand out more when you're natural, like a model on the runway.”
That was the start of a new ritual. Sometimes, Nice would swipe Wreck’s hairbrush and go back to his own things. Nice would search through his bags and take out one of his five different brushes — the one that was largely useless, in Wreck’s opinion, since its bristles were just soft little hairs themselves — and run it through Wreck’s dark locks. Once, twice, three times. And even though Wreck was certain it didn't do anything, Nice would smile, small but pleased.
“There’s the hottest new model, straight off the magazines,” Nice would say. He’d set down his brush with a satisfied tap. Then he would do a double-take and really look, close enough that Wreck could see the light sparkle in his eyes. Nice’s voice would get softer than a whisper as he said, “Now you’re perfect.” So hushed, so awed. A moment that lasted only seconds before they’d need to take their places, rush to a performance, or get kicked out of the studio.
A moment Wreck can't stop thinking about, even as he fails to tame his dark curls.
The water’s warm now. He returns to the bedroom.
Nice hasn’t moved.
“Come on, lazybones,” Wreck calls, even though he's not supposed to. He's supposed to only be using Nice’s name, allegedly to help deal with whatever brain trauma he suffered from the fall. The people who brought him back were insistent on many things, but Wreck knew a corporate mandate when he saw one, hidden as it was between actual care instructions.
“He might get confused more easily,” the doctors had warned. “Talk to him as much as you can, but keep figures of speech and expressions to a minimum. Your language needs to be direct. And only call him by his hero name. Only refer to him as Nice.”
Wreck hadn’t questioned the instructions. After all, he hadn’t questioned the doctors’ shoddy uniforms, the lack of medical equipment in the room, or that this “hospital” was just a one floor operation.
Wreck wasn't going to question miracles. Not then, not now. Wreck goes over to Nice’s side and tries again.
“Nice,” he calls, keeping one hand outstretched. “Let’s get ready for the day, okay?”
Nice stares at Wreck’s hand for several seconds too long. Then he gingerly places his own hand in Wreck’s. Nice lets himself be guided to the bathroom, lets Wreck undress him, lets Wreck run his hands all over him and make him clean… Nice is pliant under Wreck’s careful hands.
And why shouldn't he be? Nice is only like this because he must recognize what’s going on. That's the only logical explanation. It’s been a month since they've been reunited. That’s too long for Nice to still not understand what’s happening or who Wreck is or all of the important details. Sure, Nice isn’t fully healed to how he was, but he's not unresponsive or catatonic or anything. He can move his limbs on his own! He might not be talking but that doesn't mean he can't communicate! Wreck knows that.
So even though Nice’s gaze only feels cold and dead as they stand in the shower, he’s okay. He’s okay because he recognizes that Wreck is safe — that Wreck would never let him be harmed, that Wreck would only ever do what's best for Nice.
Wreck repeats that thought a thousand times until he’s done cleaning up Nice. He runs a soft, dry towel over Nice’s skin, trying to get some warmth back into it. Nice barely has any bodyheat of his own these days.
Wreck is suddenly struck by a mid-January memory of a younger Nice wearing three sets of gloves, just one over the other.
“It’s cuz my blood circulation sucks,” Nice had explained. “Not that this even really helps. I bet my fingers will still be just as cold as ice cubes to your freakishly warm neck.”
Wreck runs the towel over Nice’s fingers an extra time.
It snags and catches on Nice’s hand — or does Nice grab it? The break in routine makes Wreck uncertain. He practically freezes in place.
Nice’s fingers twitch, clutching the yellow towel. His unblinking eyes have shifted downwards to his hand and what he holds in it.
“Do you remember when we got that?” Wreck asks, suddenly hopeful. “You got a duplicate set of towels from one of Hero Smile’s merch lotteries — that's why it's got his little emoticon face in the center. You gave me that spare set. You complained that my apartment lacked a lot of essentials.”
Is Nice staying more still to better pay attention? Is he listening? Is he trying to recall this memory — piece it all together? Wreck would give anything to know what he’s thinking.
“I think you just hated using my towels,” Wreck confesses with a smile. “You said my black ones were too coarse on your skin or something like that. I—”
The towel drops from Nice’s hand. It falls to the floor with barely a thump.
It signals an end to the moment all the same.
“Right,” Wreck says quietly. “Let’s get dressed.”
The boxes of Nice’s things had remained untouched before his resurrection. Wreck had originally been annoyed that he spent a full Saturday packing everything up when Nice made Top 100 and got to move into Hero Tower. But in those dreadful days post his fight with Lin Ling, Wreck could only think of the awkward smile Nice had given him as he looked at the stacked boxes.
“That’s sweet of you, but I don't think I'm really taking anything from here. Mr. Shang De says it's more like an extra work space than anything else.”
Wreck had been too frustrated by his pointless effort to say anything more than a teasing — if somewhat embarrassed — statement that Nice could handle putting everything back himself. And Nice had huffed but smiled at him, so Wreck didn't question how odd it was that Nice’s new home was just supposed to be for work. That Nice wasn't even bringing any trinkets from their idol days, any Hero Smile posters or books, or even any normal street clothes.
If Wreck had noticed, if he had said anything, done anything, maybe then Nice wouldn't have felt so alone. Maybe then Nice wouldn’t have jumped—
Wreck shakes his head. The offending boxes are almost all unpacked. He grabs a pair of white socks, boxers, white jeans, and a yellow T-shirt for Nice. It'll go decently with the black hat and gray hoodie he’ll need to wear later. Again, Wreck maneuvers Nice like a doll until he’s dressed, and then Wreck tries to forget about that comparison.
It's unfair. He's helped Nice get dressed before. Plenty of times backstage, they would help each other into and out of different performance outfits. Wreck was surprisingly good at tying knots into bows, and Nice could button or unbutton any vest or shirt within seconds. Quick changes were easier when they worked together.
The memory has Wreck messing up Nice’s hair before he can stop himself. It’s just supposed to be a harmless teasing gesture, a way to break the tension…
But it's not like Nice will fight back. And when he doesn’t, Wreck regrets the action all the more. He turns around and hurriedly starts to get dressed.
A deep, guttural sound stops Wreck before he gets very far. He turns back slowly to face the source of it.
“Nice?”
Nice’s eyes aren’t perfectly wide — he’s squinting. His mouth isn’t in a perfect line — the corners tug down for a slight frown.
And then, most incredibly of all, Nice opens his mouth and attempts to speak.
The noise might sound more like “aahm” or maybe “eeln.” It doesn't really matter — neither one holds any meaning. It's all the same to Wreck.
But it proves Nice is still there. Nice still wants to talk to him, even if he can't right now. And that makes Wreck want to leap with joy, cry, or break something.
Wreck cups Nice’s cheek in one hand. Cradles it. Does his best to hold back tears.
“Hi, Nice,” he says, softer than he means to. His voice feels like it might shatter any second. “It’s good to hear your voice again. Even if I have no idea what you’re saying.”
Nice’s eyes squint a little more. But he doesn't try to speak again. Instead, he looks upward. Bits of his messed up hair are still sticking out.
“Oh, you jerk,” Wreck complains with no real malice. “Of course fucking up your hair would make you speak for the first time in months.”
Wreck smooths Nice’s hair for him. He places a chaste kiss on the freshly exposed forehead — careful to avoid the green crack. Not because Wreck has any self-preservation against whatever dark energy is lurking underneath, but because Nice tends to flinch whenever the strange fissures are touched.
“There you go,” Wreck says. “Now, give me a minute to get ready and I can heat us up some breakfast.”
While Wreck’s brain recognizes Nice’s vocalization attempts might just be accidental gibberish, his heart refuses to believe that. He defaults to talking back like he did when Nice first returned to him. Everything, even the tiniest little detail, is explained.
“Leftover curry seems appropriate. Let me heat that up.”
“Do you want the chair by the window? Let’s go over there.”
“Here’s a spoon. Don’t worry, I double washed it, just like you like. Give me your hand and— there, perfect.”
It's like talking to a toddler.
God, Wreck misses his best friend.
Breakfasts weren't ever this big of an ordeal, especially as they got older. They’d discuss their dance routines, maybe point out moves they wanted to try out in different sections, as they hurried about. Once they debuted as hero and nemesis, they talked over scripts and how to tweak them without getting management down their necks. Or, if nothing was scheduled, Wreck would pitch ridiculous hypotheticals until Nice was laughing, almost choking on his half forgotten breakfast.
The last few mornings before Nice’s death had been more quiet than Wreck would've liked. Another sign that Wreck had missed that something was wrong. Nice had gotten slower, more lethargic in his movements. He'd let Wreck carry the conversations, but he still stayed engaged. Wreck had thought — maybe just hoped — that Nice was trying to prolong his stay at Wreck’s side. And maybe he was, but that didn't change the fact Nice still left, donning that fake stupid smile and saying that they needed to hang out again soon.
“Are you okay, Nice?” Wreck asks suddenly.
Nice looks up at him. His eyes are steady and unmoving, and Wreck can’t be sure if he’s looking right past him.
“Today’s the Rankings,” Wreck explains. “You’re going to fight the other top heroes. Do… do you actually want to do that? Do you still want to be a hero?”
Nice sits there, still as a statue. Still as a puppet left unattended.
“You don’t have to be one,” Wreck continues breathlessly. “You can just stay with me. I mean, we’ll have to ditch the apartment, but I can find us a new place. There's got to be a little corner of the world we can run to, a place none of the hero corporations can find us.”
Nice squints, and Wreck can practically hear his uncertainty. It's like when they practiced a choreography routine for the first time, and Nice was already certain they’d need to change the steps — that a lift wouldn’t read well for the cameras, that there was too little space for the jumps Wreck had scripted, that there wasn't enough time to master such complicated footwork in between finals.
Nice had always been too aware of when dreams outpaced reality.
“I'm sorry,” Wreck whispers. “I didn't— I don’t mean to tease you. Not right now. I know it wouldn't be easy, but… but we could try. I’d do anything, if you only asked.”
Nice’s eyes shut tight. He tries to make a sound again, but it's still nothing recognizably.
But Wreck knows what Nice is saying all the same. “I didn't ask you to do anything, so please stop being foolish. Please, please, don’t make this worse.”
Wreck has never been able to deny Nice anything he wants, so he puts up his hands, palms outward and open. “Okay, okay,” Wreck says hurriedly. “Forget I said anything.”
The mood is ruined, and Wreck only has himself to blame. If TREEMAN can’t let Nice escape them even in death, what chance does Wreck have against them? Nice, even now, is just trying to prevent someone precious from heartbreak and danger.
“We should get ready to leave soon if we don't want to be late,” Wreck observes. “Let me the rest of your stuff. So long as you’re covered up, we can take a taxi and expense it.”
Nice's expression is back to mostly vacant, so Wreck takes that as permission to continue with their plan. Within minutes, they're leaving the safety of Wreck’s apartment and entering the world.
Heroes need to get to the tournament grounds early, and Nice, as someone who can't show up in costume, needs to beat them all. Wreck is reluctant to hand Nice back to a corporate goon, the same cogs that let Nice die in the first place, but he doesn't have much say in the matter.
He takes comfort in the way Nice’s fingers brush against his own before Nice leaves, ever the good dog, the loyal soldier, the perfect puppet who only moves when ordered to.
Then Nice is going into a room no one, not even Wreck, is allowed inside of. Though Wreck would bet good money that Shang De is already inside, giving Nice precise instructions on what should happen during today’s matches. Nice is always better with a plan, now especially.
Wreck wasn’t told any plan. And he knew better than to ask. All that mattered was that he was allowed to keep Nice at his side. TREEMAN Corporation no doubt just needed a place to hide Nice away from the public. That's one of the many reasons today is terrifying – there's no guarantee they’ll give Nice back. There's nothing preventing them from going radio silent on Wreck again, making Nice work himself to death, repeating this damn cycle over and over—
One of the corporate drones offers to take Wreck to the company's viewing box. Wreck accepts.
It's much less fancy than he imagined. Several men and women in suits are already there, and they pay Wreck no mind. He takes out his phone and scrolls his socials as he waits for the competition to start.
So many things could go wrong today. Wreck just hopes Nice makes it through it all alive. He can handle whatever comes after, so long as that one thing happens.
Wreck waits for hours until the competitors enter the stadium, one by one on their platforms. His eyes never leave Nice, even as pandemonium breaks lose in the general audience.
Nice is alive, and that's all that matters.
