turn back; turn back.

He’s still worn out from yesterday’s mission with Thaumaturge and Vaimiti. Silver-age legends are only so impressive before their cracks show up close. Nothing like listening to two retirees bicker like high schoolers to drain a man. So he’s only half-focused on his blitz match against nogmhere, visor angled low enough that no one can tell whether he’s actually thinking or just pretending to.

The receptionists keep whispering to each other and giving him worried looks. Perhaps A‑ranks don’t usually lounge in the lobby? Every few minutes one of them approaches, wringing their hands a little and trying to project customer service confidence. Each time, they ask:

“Mr. Gravitas, are you sure you’re comfortable?”

And he nods in response; wishes he could give them a reassuring smile. “Perfectly fine, thanks.”

And he is because this is exactly where he wants to be. Going directly to the B- and C- rank rec rooms feel a bit too invasive, but stewards have to pass through the lobby constantly to check-in and to go to training. Being here allows him to offer the subtlest, most unobtrusive invitation possible:

If anyone wants to talk to him, he’s right here.

No entourage.

No handlers.

No spectacle.

He decides to swing by the main lobby to check in on his friends. The lobby staff have been kind to him since day one, and Keegan makes it his personal mission to remind them they matter. In the elevator, he brushes shoulders with another steward he doesn’t recognize. Unsurprising, considering Valerian employs hundreds of thousands. On the third ding, the steward glances at him and says, “ Cool look. You get that from Gravitas? ”

Keegan blinks behind his visor. The steward steps out, tossing back, “ Don’t copy someone’s homework too much, dude. It shows. ” The doors close, leaving Keegan alone with the remark.

Gravitas? The new A‑rank steward from the Valerian June 2026 Newsletter? Keegan’s copying That guy? Atlas has been with Valerian for five years, and he’s pretty sure he’s been the only “Valerian helmet guy” in NKC for the longest time. No one ever said anything about him looking like someone else…

Sighing, Keegan heads to his usual hangout spot: the left corner of the reception booth. Close enough to chat with Josephine from the Counter — JoCon — but not close enough to be in the way.

“ Oh, Atlas! You look much better, ” JoCon says.

“ Yeah, thanks for telling me not to feel guilty about using the company washing machines, ” Keegan replies, grabbing water from the cooler. As he sips, he spots another shiny dome in the lobby.

“ Wait, is that— ”

JoCon chuckles. “ Yep. Gravitas, the new A‑rank steward. No idea why he’s here alone, but… the staff aren’t complaining. ” She blushes and tucks her russet curls back.

Keegan rolls his eyes so hard he rolls his neck. Pain shoots down his shoulder. Great — he’s pulled something.

“He sweet‑talk you guys already?” he jokes, though it sounds way too jealous.

“ Gravitas has been nothing but professional and kind, Atlas, ” JoCon says. “ Here I thought you’d like him. He acts like a real ‵hero’, and he doesn’t pretend we don’t exist until he needs something. ”

Keegan hides behind his cup, lightly grazing the paper rim with his teeth. Maybe he wasn’t thrilled about another A‑rank hire — one who immediately landed RealHero TV ads and talk show spots. Ajay and Zaya worked so hard for their recognition, and now Callipygian Helmet Guy shows up and skips the line? It’s unfair.

“ Is he just standing there? ” Keegan whispers. JoCon nods, now scrolling through her phone.

He inhales. It would be the proper thing to do to introduce himself. One step. He can do this. … After several minutes of psyching himself up, JoCon leaves her post, goes behind Keegan, and gives him a stealthy push that sends him stumbling forward.

He flails, catches himself, coughs, and pretends nothing happened. Then he approaches Gravitas and extends a hand. Deepening his voice, he flashes a toothy grin — visible under the helmet, which cuts off just above his top lip.

even though it'd been their decision to leave, riel finds it slightly difficult to completely speak ill of valerian, and they're unsure if it's because of their natural propensity to always seem professional and put-together, or if it's because they still remember parts of it so fondly. the rest of the showcase goes smoothly, which means that riel doesn't retain much of it other than sonny's beaming face and a vague feeling of hopefulness. they exchange a few more niceties with other representatives, say their piece, and before they can really register, they're sitting across from sonny in an incredibly nice restaurant.

riel's eyes scan the menu, and it still doesn't quite feel real that this is the reality they're living in now, with sixty-dollar mains and wine bottles worth hundreds of dollars. valerian had paid them well, of course, but they'd been younger then, without much guidance on how to manage their newfound wealth or status or anything of the sort.

the lunch is — surprisingly pleasant.

sonny asks riel some questions that riel is fairly sure they've already answered during their preliminary interview with SOMA, but they also find that they don't mind answering much. for most of their conversation, riel finds sonny's very un-subtle enthusiasm a little infectious, even. and when there's a slight mishap with the mushrooms in their order, riel offers to swap plates with sonny — feels like they've developed a bit more of a rapport with their now-boss. of course, the waiter figures it out.

( in the meantime, riel does wonder how much of this version of sonny is really him. )

and they're not one to hold back much, either, so riel asks sonny about their life, too. family, friends, partners — and they can see they try to skirt around it with humor, and appreciates that sonny tries to answer, anyway. it's ... a good time, overall; and whatever doubt they had about leaving valerian comes to a halt.

Shaking the irksome thoughts from her head, she glances at the chat again and sees an influx of insults and literal tomatoes being virtually pelted at Atlas. Disappointing, but not at all unexpected – especially from the ‘Roses and Thorns.’ Part of her knows it’s just low hanging fruit, but another part of her wonders exactly what it is that makes him such a troll magnet. Hoping that her comforting hug might provide him with a little confidence and reassurance that he wasn’t a complete failure in this moment, she has to physically keep herself from snorting at his bafflingly authentic enthusiasm for her shitty candle. Feeling like Sisyphus, doomed to keep lifting this boulder of a man up when he fumbles over and over on this stream, she holds in a sigh. Seriously, what possessed them to put this guy through a virtual humiliation ritual? How exactly is this supposed to make people want to buy Under Armour anyways? 

Beatrix cannot believe her eyes as he shoots her two thumbs up when he smells the revoltingly potent, waxy piece of garbage. She does her best to not be offended when he innocently compares the awful scent to Sangrienta’s signature fragrance, reminding herself that he means well. Also, they’re still streaming to thousands of parasocial morons who would have a field day with him if she reacted the way she normally would to something as cringeworthy as a double thumbs up. Instead of asking him “what the actual fuck are you thinking with that?” she responds with an incredibly forced, toothy smile that she can’t bring to reach her eyes. 

Throughout this absurd ordeal, Trixie finds herself contemplating whether Atlas might just be meant for more meaningful things than what flashy, performative Valerian has to offer. She makes a mental note to talk with him at some point about what could possibly be a big enough motivator to stick around as a public C-Rank that people seem so eager to throw eggs at. Why would he put up with this shit? Trix doesn’t entirely know enough about Atlas or his powers to determine what might’ve driven him and Valerian together. However, she is unusually curious to find out how exactly this doe-eyed, clueless young man ended up in such a ruthless place. 

This time, Trixie can’t keep herself from rolling her eyes when he rejects her invitation to drink with her in favor of going to the training room and signing up for a patrol and… did he just say vouchers for the vending machine? She softens and involuntarily smiles at his shameless honesty, which is admittedly refreshing and almost admirable to her – almost. If nothing else, he was undoubtedly true himself. That is something she could certainly relate to, and even respect. Beatrix’s thoughts and feelings throughout this interaction with Atlas ebbed and flowed much more than she anticipated when she sat down for what she thought would be a simple unboxing, leading her to the conclusion that he might in fact be worth getting to know outside of work – perhaps in more relaxed circumstances where he seemed a little less like he was going to implode from embarrassment and anxiety. 

Her smile grows compassionately when he bashfully claims that he’s not nearly as exciting as her – obviously. Somehow, it doesn’t take away from her inclination to spend more time with him one on one. Deciding it’s time to finally save him from the personal hell he seems to be drowning in, she turns to the camera. “You’re right, I have some very exciting plans for after this, and maybe you’ll be a part of them. Guess it’s a gamble on whether or not I win out over the vending machine, though!” she says playfully, winking at the camera and turning her face away from the stream entirely. She smirks and silently mouths, “you’re welcome.” Trixie gives him a peck on the cheek, leaving a deep red lipstick stain and squeezes his shoulder encouragingly before sauntering away. 

She hopes that he might be able to gather himself a bit more freely once she’s out of the picture, but can’t help but wonder whether she’s thrown a sheep to the wolves with her departure and thinks of the response it might elicit from the unrelenting live chat. It’s not her problem anymore – it really never was in the first place – so why is there an uncharacteristic sliver of guilt itching the back of her mind? Why does she give a shit about some puppydog faced, oblivious C-Rank after a single conversation? Most of her colleagues are dim-witted and dreary, regardless of ranking, so what could be the explanation for this odd rumination? I really must need a fucking drink, she rationalizes to herself, refusing to acknowledge her entirely inexplicable intrigue and plans to inevitably revisit a conversation with him in the near future as Trixie, not the veiled Sangrienta. She shakes her head. Must need a cigarette, too.

Scotty’s pen clicks open. A thin gold band circles its muzzle, an ornamental and useless luxury. A bead of blue ink gathers at the point, swelling like poison at the edge of a stinger.

“ You’d be doing everyone a favor, Atlas. Flare, Reverie… Phoenix — Ajay — they’re all going to be grateful for what you and Slapstick did. A unified front. So let’s sign here. And initial here. ”

The pages swish, the sound striking his cheek like a reprimand. His head feels stuffed with cotton. His hand moves anyway, looping signatures that betray his instincts with every stroke. When he leaves, he doesn’t go to Ajay’s apartment. He goes to his mother’s restaurant. She asks what’s wrong when he walks in, the chimes ringing. He only says he wants her ox tendon soup.

She complains about having to dig through the walk‑in freezer, but she goes. Even with spoonfuls of broth warming his throat, even with her questions drifting across the table, he feels too cold and can’t speak.

엄마한테 말 못 해?

엄마 미안해. 그냥 도가니탕 먹으면 안 돼?

June Jeong’s forehead tightens, loosens, the worry lines stretch and contract. She sighs, sits across from him, and opens the newspaper with a rustle.

엄마, 여기 근처에 꽃집 있어—

야! 엄마한테 존댓말 안 해?

아, 네, 네...

He asks again about florists. She sighs, knowing it’s late and most shops are closed. Still, she says she’ll call Mrs. Kitamura. Keegan reaches across the table in quiet gratitude. She clicks her tongue and bats his hand away while dialing.

His mother only hugs when she’s sad. Never when she’s happy. But beneath her grumbling is an unspoken love that Keegan has always known. And here he was, lying to her by omission.

Later, back at the hospital, with a bouquet arranged under Mrs. Kitamura’s exacting rules — no potted plants, no white, no red, no unlucky numbers ( 4 and 9 were death wishes! ), and absolutely no chrysanthemums — Keegan gathers his breath and walks into Reverie’s room after a soft knock. He hasn’t been briefed on her condition; to the staff, he’s practically a stranger. And he feels like one, seeing her face without the mask, while he hides behind his own half‑helmet. Guilt spirals through him, coiling, coiling at the sight of an A‑rank hero stripped of her heroic dignity.

It feels so wrong to see, this naked closeness of her civilian side. Keegan wouldn’t call them friends, and her wondering how he is only speaks to her professionalism befitting her rank. Her prestige, when measured, is miles compared to his. Despite this noticeable gap, she asked him at times to oversee her workouts or training sessions. He didn’t mind to join her, too. Reverie worked hard. She always worked hard.

So where did it go wrong, then?

“ Um, hi, Reverie. I hope you are feeling better... I brought flowers. ” His voice wavers. She starts babbling, words tumbling out in a frantic stream. He’s never seen her flustered. He catches fragments — she wanted to see him, and something about having to make up with a Tyler. His mind leaps to: the creator? Before realizing it’s an absurd place and settling on the idea that it must be a civilian name for another A‑rank hero that Reverie accidentally let slip. Maybe the medication loosened her tongue. Poor Reverie. Keegan should make this visit short and to the point.

“ You, uh, look well without makeup, don’t worry. ” Keegan winces. He shouldn’t comment on her appearance when she’s bedridden, but she brought it up first, so should he respond? His head throbs. Keegan’s breathing echoes inside the suffocating helmet. Looking at her without her still feels wrong, so he keeps his gaze fixed on his sneakers. The dark visor of his helmet hides his eyes and his shame.

“ A-anyway, Reverie, I’m fine. Just sore, but I’ll bounce back. I’m not the one who had real injuries. ”

Just my body seizing in shock. A minor cardiac arrest. The truth flickers through his mind, but he swallows it down. She already looks guilty. He won’t add more weight to her chest.

He lifts the bouquet again, offering it properly. A small handwritten card is taped to the creamy wrapping. He sets it gently on the nearest table, noticing other things — from other visitors. Maybe this Tyler?

As an ex-nurse practitioner, Keegan isn’t in the mood to hear apologies from someone attached to an IV pump. He raises his hands, palms down, trying to calm the rising panic in her voice. His eyes stay glued to the floor.

“ Really, Reverie, please don’t worry about me. I talked with Valerian too, so I got you… ” Covered feels wrong, even if it’s true. “ …gotted… ha-ha. I’ll head out now to give you time to rest. Talking like this probably isn’t great for your recovery. ”

There is a thing that happens when Yiming is startled that he’s not proud of but has possibly saved his life from time to time. When startled, Yiming often subconsciously -- and he cannot stress enough that this is not something he does on a conscious level -- pulls the startling sound out of the air and constructs it around himself as a barrier.

And in this case, he is, maybe perhaps more in his head than he should have been, so his power reaches out on instinct, snatches the sound from the air, and pulls it tight around him in a reflexive shield.

For a split second, he is wrapped in Jaylen’s voice -- Ian?

The construct forms across his skin in a thin, shimmering lattice of gold light flickering over the delicate underside of his wrist, across the rise of his shoulders, tracing the line of his jaw, and down the sweep of his back. It feels warm, like the slow, lingering brush of fingers or a soft exhale tracing over him -- like being touched by someone who shouldn’t be close enough to touch him at all.

His breath stutters and he forces the construct to break apart, shoving the sound away until the gold fractures and dissolves into nothing. The warmth disappears. His skin is bare again. His face is hot.

He clears his throat. “Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Even though he absolutely didn’t startle Jaylen. He startled himself, and he’d like to press his face into Echo’s soft belly and disassociate about it.

Thankfully, Yiming has never been much of a talker. He can play it up on stage or for a camera, but he prefers to save his words for things that matter like music and his loved ones. He doesn’t enjoy small talk or filling awkward silences, so he is able to stand there, nodding at appropriate intervals and making small noises of acknowledgement.

He doesn’t so much hand Jaylen the bag as he lets it go and Jaylen’s hands happens to be there to catch it.

Jaylen doesn’t seem to notice any of that. He’s already digging through the bag right there in the doorway, half in the hall, half in the room, narrating as he goes.

Yiming tries to answer, clears his throat, trying to gently redirect: “Maybe you should, uh, sit down? You don’t have to-- you can look at it inside –”

But Jaylen is still talking, still going through the bag like it’s the best thing he’s received all week. Yiming feels acutely aware of how exposed he is -- standing in the hallway, in full view of passing nurses, visitors, and staff. He’s not even inside the room. He’s just hovering and being steamrolled by Jaylen’s enthusiasm and gratitude.

He needs to leave.

He needs to leave right now.

But Jaylen’s attention is a force. It always has been, and Yiming hasn’t been the direct focus of it in twenty years. And now it’s pointed at him again while Jaylen digs through the bag like it’s a treasure chest. He’s holding the card -- the little square of paper Yiming should have taken out and burned.

Jaylen turns away and for one moment, Yiming can see the correct timeline:

Jaylen’s back turned.

The doorway is clear.

Yiming gently closes the door.

He fades backward into the wall behind him, ceasing to exist.

But Jaylen props the card up beside his headphones and flowers -- Yiming knew there would already be flowers -- snaps a photo, and the fantasy dissolves like smoke.

His throat tightens as Jaylen asks if he can tag Yiming on AlterEgo. Like Yiming would be doing him a favor of allowing international superstar Jaylen Whittaker to tag him on AlterEgo. His brain is flatling, torn between easy agreement and --

His EP announcement is coming soon. He doesn’t know the exact day, but if Jaylen tags him now -- right before that announcement -- it'll look like he’s trying to ride Jaylen’s attention. Like he’s came here trying to build hype off of someone else’s injury.

He can already imagine the comments:

“How do they even know each other? “Sonic is really trying to get noticed.” “This must have been planned.” “Is this promo?”

He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want anyone to think he’s using Jaylen. He doesn’t want Jaylen thinking he’s using Jaylen. He opens his mouth to decline:

now, grown, the sensation’s still there, thumping a slow beat against jaylen’s ribs. it’s softer, unfamiliar, and a bit distant. like someone laid a decade of dust between then and now. still cool as hell. he thinks the same thing he thought back then: yeah, ian’s definitely getting picked.

he always figured ian was a shoo‑in for astronomical. bunmi too, with those literal beams of light shooting off him like he was made from a star. but ian’s permutation worked with his voice. that had to be bonus points from the judges. meanwhile, kid‑jaylen could only set one hand on fire and freeze the other solid, then pull them out unharmed like he was doing a party trick for bored adults.

but back then, he never got the fine details of ian’s permutation. not like this where he hears his own voice — his actual voice — echoing around ian in this flowing shape of gold light. a glittery beam curls around ian’s wrist, brushes his cheek, trails down his back like it’s painting him.

jaylen stares, entranced. “woah. is that my voice? it’s so… pretty? haha, sorry, is that weird to say to another guy?”

he laughs, easy and unbothered, gives a little shoulder shrug on the one not occupied by his crutch, and tilts his head toward his room like, yeah, dude, come in, don’t just stand out there in the hallway chill.

when ian apologizes for something jaylen didn’t even catch, jaylen scratches the back of his neck. if anything, he’s the one who startled ian. “sorry, man. i was gonna go for a walk in the gardens. you been? s’nice. quiet at this time.”

the gift basket has him grinning like an idiot, too distracted to notice how nervous ian is. he barely registers ian’s suggestion to check it out later. it lands a few seconds late, when jaylen’s fussing with his phone. he glances up with a small grin. “ah, too much, yeah? i appreciate it tho... comin’ pretty late now and all...?” was it late?

his phone lights up when jaylen checks the time and damn, there are way too many notifications, but none from the guys. or eeshi. he pouts, pockets it after confirming that it’s around 7-something.

He grows shy under her gaze, especially after hearing her introduction. There is something gentle and warm about her that feels so true. And the revelation that she’d once been a professional skater — how graceful, disciplined, dazzling it sounded! — intrigues him more than he wants to admit. But Keegan isn’t alone; one of the other contestants practically snapped upright when she mentioned it.

But when Keegan performed his impressions, it has been Viola who reacted the most. Her laughter unrestrained, inviting in the ear to listen rather than pushing away. The sound isn’t cruel, not to him. He hopes she found him genuinely funny, not funny in a way that made him the joke.

“ Thank you, ” he manages, throat suddenly dry at her unexpected compliment. He wishes he’d said something equally courteous when she’d stepped up earlier, wishes he hadn’t stumbled over his words. Wishes he could rewind the moment entirely. But all he can do now was answer her question.

“ For the question, ” he clarifies, looking straight at her. “ Um… I’d say knowing where I’m at when I need help is the biggest thing. Trusting me to ask for it when I need it, and letting me try on my own to reach my goals. I’m pretty communicative in general. You just… want someone to believe in you, you know. That is what I would do for someone else too, make sure they know I believe in them to pull through. ”

"Oh, no, ma'am, that’s too generous," Anna says, hands raised politely. Instead of what she actually wants to say, which is, yes please. "Really, you don't have to."

If Anna is reading this wrong and this woman doesn't insist on letting her have a sachet, she might weep in this restaurant. She will cry into her banchan and be the subject of another meme.

Then June mentions the chair, and Anna feels a stab of guilt. She feels like she’s committed a crime.

"Oh! No, no, the chair is perfect," she says quickly, sitting up even straighter. "Very sturdy. Very comfortable. I love this chair."

Her keeps her posture immaculate -- the kind that would make a ballet instructor proud -- because she will not let this woman fetch her a cushion for a problem she invented to hide her stomach growling. She would rather perish in this chair than inconvenience this woman. Except that would also cause an inconvenience, so she would have to find another way to pass politely and with dignity.

"Oh, that won't be necessary, I'm not waiting for anyone. I'm single, it's just me today," Anna answers, helpfully. She smiles -- warm, earnest, and happy in the knowledge that her order is already in.

She gestures at the menu photo, desperate to redirect. "Your son takes great pictures, by the way. Very professional. The lighting is really nice."

She nods too many times, folding her hands neatly as she beams up at June, and trying to radiate the exact energy of please like me. Please feed me. I will be the best customer you’ve ever had. And underneath all of that, her internal monologue is a smug, delighted refrain:

Once Anna is settled, June turns toward the kitchen again until the word “single” drifts over. 싱글. Her ears perk. Her son is single too. Nearly forty, eight years from forty‑five… and that meant June herself would be...l? Maybe thirties. She won’t say~

“He would look very good in date photos,” she tosses out lightly. Then she catches Anna’s bright, eager smile — one that June reads as Please like me. Please tell me more about Keegan. I will be the best daughter-in-law you’ve ever had — and June can’t help herself. “You two should date. Ah, I talk too much. Let me get your food…”

Back in the kitchen, she’s a whirlwind: chopping, ladling sauce over meat, heating the 돌솥 until the rice crackles into perfect 누룽지. The beef patties shine under a soy glaze, ginger slices perched on top. Maria hands her 찌개, and June adds her potato salad and a trio of soy pickles —오이, 마늘, 할라피뇨 장아찌.

She returns with the tray, warning Anna about the hot bowl before setting everything down. “Enjoy~ And look there, you see? That’s my boy on TV. Very handsome, right?”

“ Like I said, it’s fine, Keegs. It’ll blow over once people realize there’s no truth to the gossip. ” They muttered, eyes wide, their hand gripped so hard around their phone the metal shell creaks. “ Just wish the rumors weren’t about me and fucking Flare, y’know? ” They let out a chipped forced laugh followed by a grimace. Get it together.

Clearing their throat once more, they slipped their phone into their back pocket and rolled their shoulders. Turning on their heel they stomped towards the kitchen sink, Ajay turned the handle up for cold water, cupped their hands under the stream, and splashed a handful of water on their still burning face. Sighing they grabbed a clean glass from the drying rack that sat beside the sink, filled it with water, and drank the contents in a couple of large gulps.

Placing the empty cup upside down in the sink, they placed their hands on the either side of the basin and hung their head. Why did it have to be Flare of all people?

Sure, Ajay knew there were people who “shipped” them and Flare together for years now—but those people were crazy! People “shipped” him with almost every single person he’d so much as stood next to: Adhara, Trixie, Keegan, fucking Silver Meridian, and even Hieronymus! Huge age gap be damned ( what the hell was ‘toxic age gap yaoi’ ??? ). And it had only gotten worse after Riel had—nope. That was a can of worms they were absolutely not going to open tonight.

Groaning, the threw themselves dramatically onto the kitchen island, pressing their hot cheeks on the cool granite. The scenes that were being passed around AlterEgo playing in their brain; years of ogling and smiles Ajay hadn’t even been fully aware that they were doing. Like god forbid they glanced at a beautiful woman once or twice or occasionally found her bluntness kinda funny when it wasn’t directed at them? Cringing at that last thought, they turned their head to bang it on the countertop.

But that was ultimately the problem, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like any of the other rumors because—though it pained them to admit it, even just internally—Zaya was kind of their type…

“ Keegan… ” They bemoaned despondently. “ What am I going to do? ”

They regretted the words as soon as they uttered them. Yeah, great thinking, genius. Ask your crush to help you disprove dating rumors about you and someone else, great idea. Keegan was so kind he’d probably agree to he; he had already agreed to help the moment he’d stepped through the door and saw what kind of state Ajay was in; switching into that hot first responder mode like he already knew exactly what had happened and how to deal with it—Ajay raised themselves off the counter in one smooth motion, summer breaks practicing The Undertaker’s technique with Ashish finally paying off.

They turned to Keegan and took in his expression. Had he seen the videos? Did he know? Ajay should just ask. Make it casual. It wasn’t a big deal.

“ It’s not a big deal, right? ” Their voice cracked on the final syllable. Cool. Cool. Cool. Totally nailed it.

This day couldn’t get any worse.

Keegan’s own pulse kicked hard. But he shoved it down, along with his nerves that were threatening to boil over. Put a lid on it. Ajay needed support. Ajay needed him. Keegan could always work out the unsettling feeling through twenty sets of ten push-ups with the backdrop courtesy of The Killers later.

He listened while Ajay spilled out half-formed and jagged sentences about rumors, about Flare ( about Zaya ). Keegan kept his expression neutral, even as he noticed the tremor in Ajay’s hands when they said her name. Even though something sharp twisted in his chest.

If he were younger, he would’ve hated the fake-dating gossip for different reasons than today — Zaya had always been the unreachable senior, the one he crushed on as a freshman loser. The one who saved him from bullies and wanted nothing from him except distance. And for him to be better. ( Easier said than done. )

And Ajay… Ajay would’ve still been the kind of person he admired too much.

But now Ajay was here, scrubbing their face raw at the kitchen sink like they could wash the whole situation off.

Keegan left to the hallway bathroom and grabbed a towel without thinking, returning just as Ajay finished a glass of water and braced themselves against the counter. They turned too fast, clipped the island, and the dull crack of their skull on laminate made Keegan flinch like he’d been hit.

He stepped in immediately. His fingers found Ajay’s temple, letting his permutation cool the flare of pain. It crawled into him — warm, prickling — but he held steady, swallowing the instinct to pull away. Sometimes the pain was good, the sensation made it feel like what Keegan was doing was working. No pain, no gain, right?

“ You can brush it off, ” he said softly, forcing a small smile. “ Don’t give the mob anything real to chew on. You told me it’s fake—so let it stay fake. ”

He set down his backpack, shrugged off his jacket, washed his hands at the sink. He didn’t want to leave Ajay alone long enough to walk to the washroom. His own nerves were a tight, burning knot, but he kept them fastened behind his ribs.

He turned back to Ajay, voice smoldering to quiet ash while the oily crackle and pop of unease was eating away inside him. “What do you want for dinner. I’ll make something while we put on the TV?”

He didn’t add the part he was thinking. Just stay here with me, Ajay. Don’t disappear into your head. I’ve got you.