#hunk garrett x reader

    The crowd screams, the echo so loud and boisterous that the ground beneath you shakes and you force yourself to hold onto Veronica’s arm to keep yourself steady. She’s laughing, giddy with the excitement of it all, clutching onto your hand not for stability but to keep herself from throwing her body into the playing field altogether, indulging in the attention that she once used to bare just as much as Lance - the two of them were the Pro-bending champions of the family, coming from a long-line of similar sportsmen. 

    You, on the other hand, had never once stepped foot onto a Pro-bending playing field with the intention of actually playing a game of Pro-bending; you much preferred your little sanctuary to the side, where you could watch and write from a nice, safe distance.

    The whistle howls above the crowd, barely audible over the screams of the onlookers. Lance looks around, still grinning from ear to ear, before his opponent is being announced.

     “Hunk Garrett, Earth bender!”

     You once thought it impossible that the crowd could get any louder, but were immediately proven wrong by the sudden belt of desire that shot from the stands. Your eyes widen, darting to the playing field just as the doors to the other side slide open, revealing Hunk Garrett in all of his glory.

    You had heard of him - almost everybody with a connection to Pro-bending had heard of him. The infamous Earth bender, famous for his confident aura and the skill he portrayed on the field. He had only been defeated a handful of times in the public eye, despite the fact that he had been playing this game almost his entire life. There was no records of anybody else in his family succeeding in Pro-bending, meaning Hunk had taught himself everything he knew.

     He steps out into the playing field, bows to the crowd only once before he is turning an eye on Lance and grinning from ear to ear, a grin that is unlike any you have ever seen before. It makes your knees weak, and you find yourself clutching to your older sister a little tighter just to keep yourself upright.

    The game begins. The screams never once cease, but there is a shift to them that shows just how invested the crowd is with this game.

   Hunk moves like a predator, feet easily gliding beneath him, dodging almost every blow that Lance shoots in his direction. He steps out of the main ring only once, but the game continues and his little mishap only seems to make him more determined to win - and win he shall.

     You feel guilty for thinking such a thing, but you can see from the way Lance’s smile fades and the way his movements get sloppier and sloppier throughout the game that the exhaustion will wear him out eventually, whether he gets tossed off the playing field or not. He balances precariously on the edge of the safe zone, shoots a water ball in Hunk’s direction, before he gasps and stumbles back. The buzzer goes off, and the commentator announces that the last round was won by no other than Hunk Garrett.

    “Oh god,” Veronica groans. “He’s going to be-”

   “What kind of rigged game was that?” Lance suddenly bursts, waving his arms around his head in agitation. You can see the sweat glistening from his collarbones, peaking up beneath the light blue collar of his gear. “I want a rematch!”

   “He’s making a scene,” Veronica hisses, shoving you forward. “Go and get him!”

    “Me?” you exclaim, before she shoves you once again and leaves you no choice but to wade over to your twin brother.

    He doesn’t even look at you as you approach, too busy screaming obscenities up at the announcer box. You cast a risky glance in Hunk’s direction; he’s bent over, retying his shoe laces but with a clear grimace of distress on his face, conjured up no doubt by the accusations Lance is currently throwing in his direction.

    You latch onto your brothers arm, startling him out of his rage. He whirls on you, eyes still narrowed and lip protruding in protest; you give him a flat glare that seems to bring him back to planet earth.

    “Did you see that?” he exclaims. “There was clearly something going on there - there was no way in hell-”

   “Let’s go, Lance,” you grumble, tugging his arm. “You lost this one, buddy. Just deal with it.”

    “Deal with it?”

    “Thank you to Y/N McClain, who seems to be dealing with the sore loser,” the commentator teases. You squeeze your eyes closed, feeling Lance tug on your arm in any attempt to run back to the centre of the playing field to continue his rant; you clutch his arm a little tighter, hiss “Don’t,” in his ear before you drag him back to Veronica, who takes matters into her own hands as soon as she can.

    You follow your siblings into the back room, but not before you risk a glance over your shoulder. Hunk is no longer standing there, having disappeared with his own team. A strange sense of disappointment washes over you, though you aren’t entirely sure why; you had never spoken to the man before, had only ever seen him play a handful of times. There was very little base for your disappointment to be built from.

    Besides, it wasn’t as if you could speak to him anyway. Not now. Not whenever it had been made deathly clear that Lance did not have the best opinion of his opponent.

    With a sigh and a final wave towards the still-buzzing crowd, you turn on your heel and follow your siblings to the wash room.

    +++

    “It’s ridiculous. You’d think the referee would show some loyalty after I’ve been training in his gym for my entire life!”

    You close your eyes, tilting your head back in agitation; this was all you had heard for the last hour, and it was beginning to drive you up a wall.

    Veronica stood in the doorway, watching Lance towel dry his hair with lazy swipes. You had seated yourself on the chair just outside the locker room, and could hear every single objection Lance was making.

     “Where do you actually think Hunk started cheating?” Veronica asks, clearly trying to tread carefully; she doesn’t want to make it seem like she thinks Lance is wrong, though she also doesn’t want to make it seem like she agrees with his claims.

    “The entire thing!” Lance exclaims. “Nobody can Pro-bend like that. It’s not possible. It’s not how the game works.”

    “So you admit that he might just be really good,” you point out, eyes still closed. “Even better than you?”

    A damp towel hits you in the face.

    “And where the hell is your loyalty?” he hisses.

    You roll your eyes, balling the towel up and tossing it onto the sofa beside you. “I just think you’re being a little over-dramatic, that’s all. Hunk might just be really good at what he does - it’s not too difficult to believe.”

    Lance scoffs, a sure sign that you have drawn him at a loss for words. He shoots you a glare before snatching the towel from the sofa, going back to drying his hair despite it already being fairly dry.

    You sigh and stand up; you don’t want to deal with this right now. You are tired, bones aching from standing around the arena all day. You had been there since the early morning, waiting for Lance to get prepared, waiting for him to greet his fans, waiting for the chance when you could finally sit down and write up your report on Pro-bending - a report which is still unwritten, the words still lingering in your mind with no means of escape.

    “I’m gonna go and get some food,” you announce. Veronica raises a brow at you, clearly concerned. It was rare that you and Lance fought, but there was no point in denying your sudden need to get away from him. 

    You give her a wary - hopefully comforting - smile in return and walk out the door, not waiting for Lance to pull his head from his ass and come to his senses.

    +++

    The wind is scarce today, barely a whisper despite the cold months that have impended upon you before you could prepare yourself; it brushes against your collar bones, which are on show through the low cut neck of your shirt. Your scarf lays in a bundle by your side, coiled in on itself like a terrified snake.

    Your notebook balances on your lap, but it is empty. No words are coming to your brain, the scenery before you doing little to trigger that usual spark of both motivation and inspiration when it comes to your writing. You are blessed in the fact that you don’t need to wait for inspiration to write - you just sit down and get it done when it needs to get done. You don’t technically need anything to write about - words are words at the end of the day.

    But today is different. Perhaps its the hectic activity of what happened, the argument you had just had with Lance, the exhaustion riddling itself within your bones.

    Or perhaps it is just Hunk Garrett, niggling away at your brain.

    It frustrates you to no ends. You had never spoken to the man in your life, and yet you sit on this bench outside of the arena with him playing on constant replay in your mind, refusing to leave you be for the few minutes it would take to get some decent content down on your reports of the day. Writing about him should be easy, considering you remember almost every single part of his match - the way he had moved so gracefully, the formations of his hand, the way the earth seemed to bend and shake purely to his will, as if he was some kind of master over it.

   In a way, you suppose he was.

    You sigh and snap your notebook closed, giving up at long last. The sun will be setting soon enough, and already Republic City was beginning to settle. The markets are closing up, people yelling their final farewells to friends.

     Republic City is always like this at night; peaceful, but with that slight hint of hostility that always keeps you on your toes. 

     “Excuse me.”

   Your head snaps up, a startled gasp escaping you. The gasp only seems more appropriate when you lay eyes upon the owner of the voice, your heart thundering in your chest at a million miles per hour as soon as you meet those big brown eyes that you had been looking at only an hour previous.

     Hunk smiles warmly, tilting his head to the side.

    You don’t smile back, feeling physically unable to do such a thing with him standing right there. You can smell the shower gel radiating off of him, a clear sign that he had at least washed up after his hectic match with your brother.

    “Hey!” you exclaim suddenly, the word ripping from your throat due to your inability to think of anything else to say.

    Hunk chuckles. “I was just - uh - getting some fresh air and there doesn’t seem to be any other benches around here. Care for some company?”

   You blink, staring up at him with your mouth slightly slack. He raises a brow, bringing you back to the surface of the earth.

    You hastily slide over, giving him room to take a seat of his own.

    He does so with a nod of thanks, folding his arms in his lap and gazing out at the same sight as you; the markets are disappearing, and you find yourself growing more and more worried that the lack of business is going to make the streets silence, is going to force you to make conversation with the complete stranger sat to your left. It is much easier said than done, considering you could scarcely believe he was sitting next to you in the first place.

    Lucky for you, he seems to be the talkative type, despite the exhausted drawl to his voice.

    “I saw you at the match today,” he says. “Standing on Lance’s side, mind you, but I saw you.” He chuckles.

    You wince. “Yeah... Lance is my twin brother.”

    “I thought you two looked alike. I didn’t want to make assumptions, though.”

    You wave the comment off with a shake of your head. “No, it’s alright. Not many people do.” You bite down on your lower lip, pondering on whether or not to dig up the elephant in the room. “I’m - uh - sorry about how he acted after the match ended. He gets like that sometimes - especially when he’s been working really hard for the victory.”

    Hunk shrugs as if Lance’s childish behaviour is no big deal, but you can see the strain in his shoulders when he does it. You can see the way he averts his gaze, the memory of your brothers idiotic actions clearly swaying him more than he cared to let on; you can’t blame him, considering how detrimental it would have been for his career if the commentators had genuinely believed Lance’s accusations.

     “We all get frustrated,” Hunk says. “We deal with it in different ways.”

     “What do you do when you lose a game?” you find yourself asking, genuinely curious.

    A ghost of a smile appears on Hunk’s lips. He lowers his head, looking down at the concrete beneath him; you watch as he idly kicks a stone back and forth, wringing his large and calloused hands in front of him.

    “I just try not to lose.”

    It’s silent after that, his words hanging loose between you. You want to ask so many more questions, all of which are balancing on the edge of your tongue, but you refrain from doing do, enjoying the peacefulness that comes with the closing of Republic City. 

     “Do you Pro-bend like your brother?”

    Your head snaps around. “Hm?”

    Hunk glances at you, a small smile still playing on his face. “Pro-bending. Do you play it? I know it runs in the family - Veronica McClain is your big sister, isn’t she?”

    You flush, looking away. Of course he would know that - everybody does. 

    “Yeah, she is,” you reply. “I don’t play, though. I’ve never been very good at it.”

    Hunk raises a brow. “I think it’s impossible for a McClain to not be good at Pro-bending.”

    “I guess I was just a glitch in the system,” you say with as much nonchalance and as much humour as you can muster, despite the slight jab it conjures up in your heart. 

    “Do you like writing, then?”

    You raise a brow. “How did you know that?”

   He nods towards the notebook laying closed in your lap. “I saw that and just kind of assumed...”

    “Oh!” You hastily pick the notebook up and stuff it into the pocket of your coat, smiling in embarrassment. “Uh - yeah. Writing is more my forte. The arts. Stuff like that.”

    “Do you draw?”

   “I doodle.” 

    “Doodle? Can you elaborate?”

    You shrug, picking idly at a loose thread on your jacket. “I just . . . Doodle. For fun. Little figures and creatures and stuff like that - things you’d find in the corner of a school kids text book or something.”

    Hunk nods thoughtfully, surprising you with how interested he seems in hearing about your hobbies. Nobody had ever taken such an interest before. Once they learn that you’re the sibling of Lance and Veronica McClain, the conversation instantly diverts. That’s what you have gotten used to, and so finding the words to describe your own hobbies is a little more difficult than you liked to admit.

      “That sounds like an awful lot of fun,” Hunk says. “Maybe you could teach me how to draw some day? And then I can teach you a bit about bending!”

    You raise a brow, trying desperately to cover the thumping of your heartbeat, the panic that arises in your throat at the mere suggestion. “I’m a water bender, you know. Not an earth bender.”

   He frowns, shoulders slumping. “Well, I could still teach you a thing or two. But only if you teach me how to draw.”

    “Why are you so interested in drawing?”

   Hunk shrugs. “I think art is a really cool skill to have - I was always more of a sports person.”

    “I gathered that.”

    “But I always admired the people who could draw, or write, or make music - they just seemed so cool and peaceful and mysterious.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Kind of like you.” His eyes widen then, his back straightening as if somebody had just electrocuted him. “God, where are my manners? I’m Hunk, by the way.”

    You fluster, quickly trying to shake the hand he has protruded for you. “Y/N. Y/N McClain.”

    He grins. “I know. I heard the commentator saying your name over the loud speaker earlier on.”

    “For dragging Lance away,” you scoff, shaking your head in disbelief that such an action genuinely had to be taken today. “Again, sorry about that.”

    He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand in your direction. “Don’t worry about it. I had a good time nonetheless. And besides, I never would have been able to sit down and have a good chat with you if he hadn’t been here today.”

    Despite yourself, you flush. Hunk thankfully turns away before the expression can be seen, but you feel your cheeks heating up nonetheless. You wring your hands between your knees, fighting off the urge to burst into a fit of uncontrollable, giddy giggles. 

    +++

    Lance looks most unhappy from the very moment he steps foot into the gym, and Hunk Garrett follows shortly after.

    You stand by the window, Veronica at your side, your arms folded over your chest as you examine the damage that will surely take place if Hunk so much as takes another glance in Lance’s direction; the two of them are clearly trying to stay as far from one another as possible, a deed which is done with difficulty due to the size of the gym.

    “Why did he think this gym would be the best one to go to?” Veronica hisses, sensing her little brothers agitation as he punches the bag hanging from the roof.

    You shake your head, at a loss for words. Lance had been training at this gym for years, and not once had you ever seen Hunk step foot within it. Why he decides that now is a good time to switch up his own training location is completely beyond you.

    But you aren’t entirely angry about it.

    You watch Hunk train, hoping and praying he doesn’t turn around and see you. That would only make Lance even more angry, and that is the last thing you need whenever he’s wearing boxing gloves, already pumped high on adrenaline. Nonetheless, you continue to stare at Hunk as he jabs at the boxing gloves on his trainers hands, bouncing back and forth with sweat glistening from beneath the bandanna he has wrapped around his forehead.

    It’s almost unconscious when you pull your sketchbook out from the pocket of your coat. It feels heavy in your hands, very rarely making an appearance when others are around; you will gladly write in public, but drawing and sketching is another matter entirely. Your lack of confidence in your own abilities for the art often keeps you from drawing in front of people, which is the only reason why Veronica shoots you a confused glare when she sees you tugging the matted, thick book from your pocket.

    You smile shyly at her and make your way towards the benches at the side, leaving her to her own devices. She won’t care, you tell yourself. Though she insisted on trying to include you in things like this, it’s no secret that she’s much better off concentrating on Lance - she knows more about Lance’s hobbies than she ever will your own.

    You fold your legs over one another, take a pencil out of your jean pocket and open the sketch book - and there, you start to draw.

    For the first time in your entire life, the sketching comes easier than writing. You remember the conversation you and Hunk had shared the previous day, how interested he had seemed in the fact that you could draw, as mediocre as your sketches often were. He had looked at you in the way that Lance’s fans always looked at him - in awe, as if you were doing something he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around.

    Perhaps that is the reason you have this sudden burst of confidence, why your hand is suddenly sprawling across the page, blotting tiny little, pointless doodles all over the page - a smiley face here, a pair of hanging boxing gloves there, a tiny little fox face in the corner that makes you smile when you look at the finished product.

    “So that’s what you meant by doodling.”

   You look up slowly, hand instinctively creeping up the page in your attempts to cover as much of the sketches as you possibly can. Hunk is standing over you, sipping nonchalantly at a bottle of water with a smile on his face - that stupid smile that he had showed so much last night, the smile that was gradually making your insides turn to water.

    Without invitation this time, he sits down beside you and glanced over your shoulder. He has a manly smell to him, like sweat and adrenaline.

    “Now I definitely want you to teach me how to do that,” he says.

    “It’s not that good. I just got bored of watching you all train,” you reply, trying to subtly close the sketchbook.

   Hunk notices your hand pushing at the cover and frowns, shocking you when he reaches out and nudges your fingers away. He leans impossibly closer - if he were just a little bit shorter, his chin would have been resting in the crook of your neck. Instead, you have to suffer through the overwhelming emotions that come with having his arm brush against yours, have his lips inches away from your ears, his breath tickling the back of your neck like the wind that had swayed the trees yesterday night when you and him had-

    “Ooh!” he exclaims, startling you out of your stupor as he jabs a finger towards the fox face imprinted in the corner of the page. “I like that one! You have to teach me how to draw that one!”

   You frown. “It’s - uh - It’s not difficult.” And before you can shy away and back out, you hand Hunk your pencil and slap the sketchbook against his knee. The action clearly startles him as he looks at you for reassurance that it’s okay, that he can indeed touch the precious little book in his lap - you smile and nod, watch as his shoulders seem to diffuse before he grips the pencil tight in his large hands and starts drawing.

    You watch him with a smile on your face, trying to resist the urge to giggle at how concentrated he is - halfway through his tiny sketch, his tongue peeks out from between his lips. Absently, he starts scratching at the back of his head, tilting the book back and forth to get a better view of what he is drawing.

   “You know, if you think too much about it, it’s not really a doodle,” you say.

   He looks up, eyes blown out with concentration. “What?”

   You point to your loose sketches as an example. “A doodle. The whole point of it is that you don’t concentrate too much - if you make a mistake, you just work with it.”

    “But I want to draw a fox.”

    “Do you also want to doodle?”

   He frowns, narrowing his eyes in a way that makes you chuckle. “Yes, but I thought doodling was just-”

    “Doodling is the art of letting your mind wander,” you say, grabbing the sketchbook from his grip and perching it on your own knee. You grab the pencil and start drawing. Line after line, thinking only of Hunk’s close proximity. It takes your mind off of the act at hand, allowing you to draw the most bizarre of things. Hunk awes over your shoulder; you can hear the quiet murmurings of “woah...” as he watches your hand drift idly across the page.

    Finally, you finish and show him the book. He takes it from you, stares at the little doodles with wide eyes and an open mouth; you nearly laugh, unsure as to why he finds such simple things so astonishing.

    “Wow,” he repeats, shaking his head dumbly. “I wanna be able to do that.”

   You giggle, patting his arm in faux sympathy. “You’ll learn eventually. But I think your coach is looking for you.” You nod towards the small woman standing on the sidelines, impatiently glancing down at the electronic watch on her wrist. She looks up, meets Hunks eye and gestures towards the mat in which she was standing on.

   Hunk sighs, handing you back the sketchbook. “I guess I need to get going. I’ll see you at the match today, won’t I?”

   You falter. Lance wasn’t playing today, meaning you have no intentions of showing up - but now that you know Hunk will be the one in the ring, a part of you is tempted.

   “I’ll see if I can make time,” you say, settling for the easiest thing. “Good luck.”

    He smiles. “Thanks. Hopefully I won’t need it.” With one final grin, he stands up and heads towards his coach, leaving you to stare after him in both confusion and awe.

    He is completely different to how you had originally expected - there is something shy about him, as if he isn’t quite yet adept to talking to strangers. It is a direct clash to the confident aura he always portrays when he steps out onto the playing field, whenever he is playing the game that he loves. 

    You hum to yourself, looking back down at the sketchbook in your lap. It only occurs to you then that you had just handed Hunk this very book multiple times, with little to no hesitation in your movements.

   The realisation leaves you stunned for a moment too long; in your time of reflection, you neglect the fact that Lance and Veronica are standing only a few feet in front of you, staring at you with wide eyes. It is only when Lance marches over to you, snatches the sketchbook out of your arms and starts yelling in his usual over-dramatic way do you realise what had really just happened.

    You reach up and snatch the sketchbook back, pressing it tight to your chest. Veronica rushes over, grabs Lance’s arms and tries to calm him down, but the man is furious - you hadn’t even realised that you had been speaking to Hunk directly in front of him. Honestly, you truly hadn’t cared all that much at the time.

    “Would you shut up?” you finally hiss, the sound of Lance’s voice giving you a headache.

   “Loyalty, Y/N! Loyalty! That’s all I freaking ask for these days, and I can’t even trust my twin to give me that!”

    “You’re so over dramatic!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. It is one of the few similarities you and Lance actually have - you can never yell at someone with a static posture. “We were just talking about my drawings, okay? It’s nothing for you to get in your feelings about!”

   “Look, I’m sure Lance understands that, Y/N-” Veronica begins, trying to wedge herself between you and Lance but to no avail, as Lance bumps her away and continues to yell in your face.

    “He’s the opposition, you idiot! He doesn’t want to talk to you because of your damn personality - he wants information! He wants to know what my next move is!”

    Anger courses through you. “Oh, really? Because I’m just so boring and uninteresting that people only ever want to talk to me when it’s about you, huh? Is that it?”

    “Y/N-”

   “Veronica, stay out of this!” You spin on Lance again, eyes burning with a fury you hadn’t even realised you could possess, let alone genuinely use. “You are a selfish, annoying, spoilt little bastard, and if you think you can stand there and choose who I can be friends with, then you are very, very much mistaken!”

    Lance scoffs. “I can’t believe you’re that easy. Somebody shows you the briefest bit of attention and suddenly you’re ready to throw your entire family under the bus. It’s embarrassing.”

    You slap him before you can think better of it. 

    There are no words for your horror, for the anger still coursing through you as your hand burns with the impact. Lance jerks back, stumbling into Veronica who promptly lets him fall to the floor, her arms gone limp with the shock clearly sparking through her body at what just happened. You look down at your palm, bright red and throbbing, and only then does the realisation dawn on you.

    Your jaw drops open, eyes darting to Lance who lays curled up on the floor, cupping his cheek, trying to calm his breathing. When you were children, you used to always fight - Lance would pull your hair and shove you into walls, and you would throw toys at him and knot your hairbrush in his thick brown locks - but he’s older now, knows he can’t just swivel up and start shoving you into walls to get his own way.

    You’re thankful whenever Hunk’s fingers wrap around your upper arm and start tugging you towards the door. You don’t fight in his grip, but you don’t take your eyes off Lance, either. You catch the briefest glimpse of him uncurling, shooting you a glare over his shoulder before he slams his hand into the floor, causing rockets of water to shoot out from the pipes beneath the ground.

    Almost like a warning.

    +++

      The frustration does not clear when Hunk finally manages to tug you into the fresh air and far away from the gym.

    It still brews in the pit of your stomach, causing you to throw your sketchbook to the ground, following shortly after it. Your knees are weak, giving in beneath you.

    Hunk sighs, running a hand through his brown hair. In the aftermath of the ordeal, you had barely even noticed his presence, but can feel yourself growing more and more comforted as the time passes and your breathing calms down.

    “I hate it all,” you say, unsure why you were speaking but needing to vent nonetheless. If Hunk is bothered by your sudden confession, he does little to show for it. In fact, he stands over you, crosses his arms over his chest and listens intently.

    Just like he always had done.

    “I can’t help it that I’m not as invested in this damn sport as he is,” you continue, clenching your fists in your jeans. “I’m not gonna stop being friends with somebody just because he thinks it’ll damage his damn chances of winning - god, that’s all he cares about nowadays. Getting the highest score, winning his next match - and he thinks that’s all I should care about, as well.”

    Hunk slowly kneels down beside you. His fingertips brush over your shoulder blade when he pushes your hair back away from the nape of your neck, allowing the wind to whisper against your flesh and force goosebumps upon your skin.

    You shudder, tugging your arms tighter around yourself. You hear Hunk sigh again, before he lowers himself fully to the ground beside you and wraps his oversized coat over your shoulder.

    You don’t protest, though it is in your nature to do so. Anybody showing you the briefest glimpse of kindness often made you flustered, and you would insist on doing things by yourself - but now, you simply nuzzle deeper into the warmth his coat provides, not caring about humility.

    “He’ll come around,” Hunk finally says. “I just - I really hope you don’t stop talking to me just because of what he said back there. I didn’t become your friend just because I want answers.”

    “I know,” you say, because you do. As reasonable as Lance’s worries were, you somehow feel like Hunk would never do such a thing. “I know that.”

    He nods slowly, following your gaze out into the darkening scene of Republic City. It’s a beautiful sight, even now. With the winter months slowly impending, the sun had not been present for very long, meaning it was growing dimmer and dimmer even earlier than usual; there was even a slight sheen of fog drifting carelessly over the horizon, making it even darker.

    “I don’t want to be the reason you and Lance fall out,” Hunk says suddenly, startling you.

    You turn to him. “If me and Lance fall out over this, it’s because of him. You have no part in it.”

    “But I’m the reason behind your argument.”

   “So? You can’t help that. It was Lance’s choice to start an entire riot over something so simple.” You shrug, the words tasting acidic - it had been an awfully long time since you had spoken about Lance in such a way, always too afraid of setting him off to really risk it. For years, you had kept your mouth shut when he would take one of his tantrums, when the training would get into his head and push him further down the gutter. In fact, you had done that with all of your siblings, because Pro-bending was a sport that messed with peoples brains both negatively and positively - it made them angry, and for years, you had just dealt with it as if it was nothing more than second nature.

    You glance over at Hunk with a heavy heart - he can’t be the same. He just can’t be. He sat beside you, listened to you, spoke to you, took a genuine interest in the things you told him about. Not once had he become hostile, or showed any signs of short tolerance. 

    Without really meaning to, you find yourself shuffling closer to him. It’s not a subtle movement, the coat getting bundled up beneath you so that you’re forced to tug it loose before continuing on - but eventually, Hunk gets the idea and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side where he rests his head against the top of yours - a friendly gesture, one to preserve heat, but one that makes your heart speed up nonetheless.

    Together, the both of you calm down. With the help of each others presence and the calming sway of the horizon, you are able to come back to earth and gain a much needed peace of mind.

    +++

    “It’s not much, but I don’t really need anything fancy.” Hunk sounds nervous when he speaks, awkwardly wringing his hands in front of him as he lets you through the door of his gym, standing to the side to let you get a full view of the room you had just walked in to.

     It is nothing staggering, but you hadn’t been expecting anything like that. There is the usual equipment set up around the place, punching bags hung up on the walls, ladders trailing up to the roof that look most dangerous. The roof is high, the double doors opened to reveal a kitchen on the other side.

    Hunk steps up beside you, places a warm hand on your arm. You turn to look at him, and he smiles faintly. “I can take your coat if you want.”

    You smile gratefully, shucking your coat off of your shoulders and watching as he does a funny little jog towards the other side of the room. He makes his way back to you, and it is then that you realise you have no idea why you’re here.

    He had invited you only out of courtesy, purely so you didn’t have to go back and face Lance in your time of hostility; you had agreed for the same reason. You didn’t want to go back to Lance and try and patch things up - not right now, not whenever your anger is still burning hot in your stomach and was yet to be extinguished.

   “So, are you gonna show me a thing or two now that we’re here?” you ask, taking even yourself by surprise with the boldness of your words.

    Hunk glances at you, that smile forming on his face. He chuckles and shrugs casually, before turning on his heel and walking towards the equipment rack on the far side of the room.

    “You know, I really shouldn’t be giving away my tricks,” he says, tugging a pair of Pro-bending gloves from the rack. “Especially to a water bender.”

    “I’m also your opponents sibling,” you point out, taking the gloves from his hands and tugging them on your own. “That’s probably going to get you in even more trouble.”

   Hunk grins. “Well, you taught me how to doodle. This is the least I can do.”

    “I showed you some of my own. Doodling isn’t something you can teach.”

    Hunk raises a brow. “And neither is Pro-bending.” And before you can react, before you can even grasp a hold of what his intentions are, the earth judders beneath your feet. He slams his foot into the ground, causing a large chunk of concrete to suddenly burst beneath you, sending you sprawling across the plush mat you had been standing on only seconds before.

    You are dazed. One moment you were staring into the beautiful brown eyes of Hunk Garrett, and the next you’re staring up at the ceiling, barely registering how you had gotten there in the first place.

    It’s Hunk’s laughter that brings you back to the present. You scramble back onto your feet, clenching your fists in the way you had seen Lance and Veronica do so often - you conjure up your water bending, but even simple bending comes as a difficult task for somebody who practised it so little. 

    Nonetheless, you were still a McClain. Using your bending to it’s abilities was simply in your blood, and you use it to your advantage now.

    The walls burst around you, the pipes within them exploding. Hunk gasps at the suddenness of it, tries to block off some of the flow with the concrete he has control over, but it does very little. Water droplets shift around the fresh concrete slabs, soaking Hunk to the point where his brown hair is hanging in tatters around his head, his bandanna doing little to keep the strands out of his eyes.

    You grin when he turns to look at you, a grimace on his face. 

    “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that.”

    You shrug nonchalantly, despite the pounding of your heart. “I guess I’m just full of surprises.”

   “Mm.” Hunk stomps his foot again, sending another tide of cobbles in your direction. You yelp, trying to dodge as many as you can, but they chase after you like a hornet. A rock slams into your calve, and you groan as you fall to one knee on the mat.

    Immediately, the spray of cobbles stop. You look up hesitantly, not entirely sure whether it is safe to do so, but too curious to keep your head down for any longer. Hunk is standing over you, fists clenched. It is clear that he is still controlling the cobbles, as they hover in mid air around you, waiting for Hunk to release the pressure so they can continue their pummelling of your body.

    You take a shaky breath in. “Thank you.”

   He nods, whisking his hand through the air. The cobbles drop and sink back into the floor, and the room goes silent, the only noise being the heavy breathing of you and Hunk.

    You close your eyes and slump back against the mat; Pro-bending still was most definitely not your game of choice, but the freedom that came with it was one that could potentially become addicting - though you had never been restricted with your bending whilst growing up, the fact that you could bend was never something that interested you all that much - you ignored that side of you, using it only when necessary.

    Hunk slumps down beside you. “You’re better than I thought you would be.”

   “Did you think I’d be bad?”

    “I think it’s impossible for a McClain to be bad,” he assures. “But I definitely wasn’t expecting that. You owe me some new piping.”

   You flush, glancing at the walls. You had yet to gain the skill to conjure water from nowhere, meaning you had been forced to extract the water from the pipes for any punch - but it was worth it, in your opinion.

   “I’ll get you some more,” you promise. “Once I can - uh - afford it.”

   Hunk chuckles, nudging your arm. “I’m only joking. Seeing you bend like that was worth the plumbing damage anyway.”

    He stands up, stretching out his back muscles with a dramatic twist of his torso. You watch him closely, unable to take your eyes from the back of his shirt; the material is only thin, allowing you to see the ripple of muscles through it. The muscles are only more pronounced as he twists his torso to and fro. You can scarcely keep your eyes to yourself, and the sight of it alone is enough to make you flush.

    Hunk turns, catches your eye and immediately goes bright red. You jerk back when your eyes meet, quickly averting your gaze to the floor in which you sit on in any attempt to feign nonchalance. The heat rising to your cheeks is enough to give you away, though, and you silently curse yourself for being so careless.

    Hunk grunts when he sits back down, surprising you by taking your hand in his own. He grabs you by the wrist, drags your arm forward until your hand is resting comfortably in his lap. From there, he starts to trace tiny little patterns on your palm. It tickles, and yet you don’t move nor pull away, too absorbed in watching this odd little show of affection to do anything of the sort.

    He’s concentrating again. You can see it in the strain of his shoulders, the way his tongue slowly makes its way from between his lips, the way his eyes narrow. He pulls back, examines your palm as if he can see exactly what it was he had been tracing, before he grimaces and dives back in, continuing to trace the strange and random shapes onto your flesh.

    “What are you doing?” You aren’t sure why the word comes out as a whisper, but it does, and for a second, you’re not even sure Hunk hears you. He continues his movements, pulls away and examines his invisible lines before he looks up at you and smiles.

   “I’m doodling.” He then pretends to shush you, before going back to his illustrations.

    You close your eyes, losing yourself in the feel of his fingers tracing idle patterns into your flesh; it’s oddly relaxing, but perhaps that is only because it is Hunk who is doing it. His hands are calloused, rough against your smooth palm, but you don’t mind. In fact, it only makes sense. 

     “What are you drawing?” you ask after a moment of peaceful silence.

    Hunk hums, narrowing his eyes and blowing upon your skin as if getting rid of eraser shavings; you roll your eyes, shaking your hand in his grip to get his attention.

   “What are you drawing?” you repeat.

    “You and me,” he replies, taking you by surprise. “In chibi form, I believe. I don’t think I can do a full portrait just yet - especially not on hands as small as yours.”

   “My hands aren’t small. Yours are just big.”

   “So I’ve been told,” he says, looking down at his massive palms and frowning. He shrugs, going back to his doodling. “Keep still, though. Your skin is prickling.”

   “I can’t help that,” you chuckle. “You’re tickling me.”

   “No, I am not.”

   “Yes you are! Your finger tickles every time it passes over that fleshy part,” you say, pointing to the fleshy part of your palm. “I’m ticklish, as well, so that doesn’t help.”

    Almost as soon as you say it, you realise your mistake. His fingers pause, his breathing suddenly stopping short as he intakes exactly what you had just told him; terror floods your body, and before you can think better of it, you are trying desperately to wriggle out of his grip and get as far away from him as possible.

    “Ah, ah, ah!” he exclaims, grabbing your ankle before you can even reach the end of the mat. You squeal, falling flat on your stomach, allowing him the perfect chance to drag you back towards him by the foot he has firm in his grip. 

    “Hunk Garrett, let go of me right now!” you cry out, thrashing around on the mat in any attempt to get away from him. 

    He simply laughs, tugging you backwards until your feet are wrapped around his middle and his hands have perfect access to your rib cage - which he takes immediate advantage of. You yell and thrash, rolling to and fro, kicking out wildly in any attempt to get away, but his grip is too strong. He digs his fingers into your sides, pokes and prods until there are tears streaming down your face and your throat is hoarse from screaming. 

     You finally manage to roll over onto your back. Hunk stumbles, falling forward and only catching himself when he presses his hand to the mat by your head; the world goes still.

    Your screaming has stopped. Hunk’s attack has stopped, and now it is just the two of you, staring at one another as if afraid to even breathe, to move, to say anything in fear of ruining the moment.

    Whatever moment this is.

   He inhales deeply, staring down at you in a way that you have never seen before. 

    “You - You said you were ticklish,” he whispers.

    You nod slowly, not once taking your eyes from his. “I am.”

    He nods just as slow. You watch the way his eyes travel from your own to your lips, resting there. He swallows thickly, Adams apple bobbing in a show of nerves and lust and need - the same emotions you feel in this very moment.

    You want him to hurry up. You want to wound your hands in his oh-so-thin shirt and pull him down until his lips are smashed against your own and you can officially say you don’t care about anything, but you don’t. Your hands stay pinned to your side, nerves paralysing you for the time being.

    Hunk speaks, but his voice is barely heard over the thumping of your heart. The fact that he is whispering does very little to help the situation. “Can I - Could we - Do you want to kiss right now?”

     He doesn’t give you a chance to reply. His eyes widen at his own words, and he jerks away from you before you can give him a proper affirmative. He moves so fast that he ends up falling, feet tangling in the plastic of the mat until he falls flat on his back and grunts.

   “Oh god,” he mumbles. “That was so stupid. I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant to say that. It just kind of - god, please don’t think I’m weird. I’m not usually so forward, but you’re just - like - really, really different, and I don’t know why I get this way when I’m around you, but-”

    You sit up straight and lunge forward, grabbing his collar and pulling him towards you. His words are swallowed by the kiss you plant firmly on his lips, savouring the feeling that comes along with it. He gasps against your mouth, but you feel him physically relax just as fast - the muscles of his back ease beneath your fingertips, and eventually his hands are winding themselves around your waist, tugging you closer to him.

    And just for this moment, you forget about Lance, and you forget about all the worries and the struggles that come along with being in the spotlight - you just let yourself melt against Hunk, feeling safe and warm in the tight embrace he holds you in, as if afraid of letting you go.

   Lucky for him, you don’t want him to let go.

    +++

    “And where the hell were you last night?”

    Lance’s voice is the first thing you hear when you step into your house the next day. Headache already bad enough from sleeping on the floor - though it was still pleasant, considering Hunk had been cuddled up next to you - hearing Lance scream and argue was not something you were up to dealing with today.

    You slip your coat from your shoulders, tugging your shoes off at the same time. Veronica is the first down the stairs, clearly trying to put a little space between you and your twin brother, but there truly is no point. You can hear Lance yelling from the top of the staircase, making his concerns very well known.

    “Not even a phone call, Y/N? You couldn’t even spare us a damn phone call?”

   “Can you shut up?” you grunt. “I’m hungry. What food have we got left in the house?”

   “Food is the last thing you should be worrying about,” Veronica growls, taking you by surprise when she grabs your arm before you can step foot into the kitchen. You raise a brow, looking at her in concern - it was rare that Veronica ever spoke like this, as if she were truly angry at something. You aren’t entirely sure if she is particularly angry, but there is still a certain lilt to her voice that stops you dead in your tracks.

    “What is it?” you ask, looking up when Lance finally rounds the corner. He doesn’t have the expected angered expression on his face, but instead walks in with a skip in his step and smirk on his face. Veronica takes one glimpse at him, shakes her head and turns back to you.

   “This idiot decided to organise a Pro-bending match with Hunk - a physical one.”

    Your eyes widen, snapping over to Lance who has now proudly waded towards the fridge, still smirking with his head held high.

   “You what?”

   He shrugs. “Hunk messed with my family. That’s just how us Pro-benders settle things these days.”

   “Lance, you can’t be serious,” you nearly wail, breaking out of Veronica’s grip and stumbling towards him, grabbing the back of his arm in any attempt to get his attention. “You’re gonna get seriously hurt if you go through with this.”

   “And there it is again!” he exclaims. “Forever the tone of surprise with you, isn’t it? What makes you think I can’t win?”

   “The fact that you lost last time, you idiot,” Veronica hisses. You are startled by the fact that she has suddenly decided to take your side, but don’t play too much on it in fear of her turning the tables out of nowhere.

    Lance shrugs. “That was in a controlled, professional environment - just wait until we actually fight and are allowed to do stuff - he’ll be on the floor in seconds.”

   You grip your stomach, suddenly feeling ill. “Lance, please don’t do this. It’s pointless. Hunk did nothing wrong.”

   “He cheated.”

   “Oh for - You lost a match! Why is that so difficult for you to understand?”

    “You’re only sticking up for him because he took an interest in your stupid sketchbook!” Lance whirls around, face inches from your own. “Am I the only one here who actually realises the severity of cheating in a Pro-bending match? It’s my career on the line, and it’s my career that I’m protecting! I’m sorry that this family is falling apart so much that you can’t support me with that.”

    You grit your teeth, trying to ignore the sting that comes with his words. He pushes past you, glares at Veronica before he makes his way upstairs, glass of milk trembling in his hands. You desperately want to call after him, try your hardest to persuade him to change his mind one last time - but you don’t move. You simply glare at the still open refrigerator, trying desperately to catch your breath and stop yourself from screaming at the top of your lungs.

    How you had gone from a perfect night in Hunk’s arms, to now wanting nothing more than to rip your hair out strand by strand, was completely beyond you - but the shift was giving you a headache. You needed to sleep.

    +++

    Hunk looks ethereal when he trains, when he doesn’t know that somebody is standing back, watching him closely.

    There’s that familiar look of concentration playing on his features, the one you had seen only a handful of times. Every time he held your pencil in his hand, the look would appear, causing you to giggle with just how adorable he looked.

    Now, he has that same expression on his face. Tongue peaking out from between his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration. He kicks at the punching bag, grunts, stumbles back and readies himself for another swing.

    You stand by the door, arms folded over your chest and heart racing behind your rib cage. You had arrived with the intention of talking to him, try to desperately get him to back out of this fight with Lance, but you allow yourself a moment to simply stare at him now, basking in the way he seems to calm when nobody is yelling orders at him, telling him to push himself impossibly harder.

    You don’t realise how long you’ve been standing there until Hunk is turning over his shoulder and catching your eye. You spring up when you make the eye contact, smile shyly and give him a small wave, trying desperately to pretend like you had only just arrived.

    Hunk smiles back, reaching out to steady the swaying punching bag. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

   You step forward, are taken by surprise when Hunk reaches out, wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you in for a kiss. It’s small and quick, and you can smell the sweat rolling from his skin, but it soothes you nonetheless.

    “I came to talk to you,” you reply once he pulls away. 

    He frowns. “That’s never a good sign.”

   “It’s . . . Not that,” you promise, though your tone of voice still indicates that something is plaguing your mind. Hunk keeps his frown on his face, one hand still spread out on the punching bag, the other resting idly on your waist.

    “Y/N...,” he starts, tilting his head forward to meet your eyes. “This is about the Lance fight, isn’t it?”

    Your breath hitches, eyes snapping up. “So you know about it.”

   “Of course I do. His coach gave me the offer yesterday morning.”

   “And you took it?”

    Hunk shrugs, turning away and busying himself with his sweat towel. “I had to. Imagine what the press would say if I backed out of an offer like that.”

    “Hunk!” you exclaim, jumping forward and grabbing his arm. “Screw what the press are going to say! You could get hurt - so could Lance!”

    “That’s what Pro-bending is.” He smiles. You want to punch him. “Look, it’s not going to be anything major. Neither of us are going to die, and I honestly think your brother is just dragging out this fight for the attention. I can play into his game for as long as he wants.”

    You grit your teeth. “No, he’s serious. He genuinely wants to hurt you.”

    He shrugs. “Not the first time somebody’s wanted to punch my face in.”

    You groan, winding your hands in your hair; why were these Pro-benders so difficult to get through to? Why were they so oblivious to their own safety?

    “So you’re really willing to break bones just so the press won’t see you as a coward?”

    “I’m doing this for Lance,” he corrects. “He wants to have some public drama to get his name out there, then who am I to take that from him?”

    “And what if I ask you not to do it?”

    Hunk halts, the towel draped loosely round his shoulders; you watch him closely, the tension that suddenly makes its way up through his spine, the way he stiffens at the words. He’s contemplating it, you can see, but even from where you’re standing, and even though you can’t see his face, you know that your opinion will have no affect on the final outcome.

    “You’re still gonna fight, aren’t you?” you choke out, unable to bare just weak your voice sounds, but unable to cover it with any other emotion.

    Hunk turns towards you, reaches out hesitantly. “Y/N, you’ve gotta understand. You’ve never been in this situation before-”

   You pull away before he can touch you. “No, of course not. Don’t listen to silly old Y/N when it comes to Pro-bending.” You grit your teeth, glare at him. “Nobody ever does.” With that, you spin on your heel and leave the gym, not once looking back to see how your words had affected them, whether he has the expression of somebody who cares or whether he just turned back to his training, brushing off your statement like it was nothing.

   +++

    The day of the fight comes much too fast for your liking.

    You stand on the sidelines, Veronica by your side, as per usual. Your older brother Luis stands on your other side, wearing a shirt with Lance’s face printed on the front. 

    “The McClains have got to support each other,” he had said, grinning from ear to ear.

    You hold your notebook tight to your chest, staring at the other side of the playing field - the opponents side of the field, where Hunk will soon be standing, giving out his usual fan service as he waits for the match to begin. The crowd, surprisingly, is fairly quiet this time, tension surrounding the stands that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end; nobody in the room is on friendly terms, by the feel of things.

    “Why do you look so tense?” Luis asks, suddenly.

    Your eyes snap over to him, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

    “You look tense,” he repeats, shifting behind you so he can dig his thumbs between your shoulder blades in that way he always used to do when you were little. This time, you grumble and squirm from his grip, stumbling into Veronica in your high-stake attempts to get away.

    Luis raises a brow. “You’re not worried for Lance, are you?”

   “Leave them alone,” Veronica grunts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s that Hunk kid they’re worried about. Them two have been getting close recently.”

    You flush when Luis’s eyes widen. “Are you serious? Are you the first of the McClain twins to actually get in a relationship?”

   “Shut up,” you growl. “I’m worried for Lance, by the way. He’s my brother.”

   You aren’t particularly lying, because you certainly are worried for Lance. Your twin brother, your promised lifelong friend - he meant everything to you. But on the same wave length, you and Hunk have grown exceptionally close over the past few weeks, and you would be lying to claim that you did not feel a tiny glimmer of anxiety on his part.

    More than a tiny glimmer, but that was something you refused to admit to your two older siblings, who had now taken to teasing you about your little crush on the man who would soon be facing your brother in an intense game of Pro-bending that could potentially land the both of them in hospital.

    You had tried, in vain, the previous night to make Lance see sense, refusing to leave his room until Veronica had to come in and physically drag you from his bed. The two of you had yelled at each other, you even throwing a shoe into his wall that had startled the house awake - nobody but Veronica had come to check on you though, used to the blow outs by now.

    But he had kept his stubborn head and refused to pay attention to any of your warnings. It had been expected, but you were disappointed nonetheless.

    The match starts at 9:00pm on the dot. The sun having long since gone down, the windows blocked with majestic drapes to give the arena a spooky vibe to it, and the crowd is feeling the aura. The whispers begin when the lights dim and the referee steps out onto the playing field, a microphone already in his long and bony fingers, his moustache twitching with the excitement.

    “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the night you have all been waiting for! Please prepare yourselves for the fight of Lance McClain and Hunk Garrett!” 

   The crowd don’t scream. They stay utterly still, whispers flying through the air like a fresh breeze.

    The referee continues his usual speech, but you block it out. You find yourself gripping tightly to Veronica’s sleeve with one hand, Luis’s sleeve with the other, trying to stabilise yourself between your two older siblings.

    And then Lance steps out, and that’s when the cries start.

    People spring up from their seats, cheering both for and against him. Through the deafening sound of acceptance, you make out the “Boo’s” and the heckles for him to get off the playing field and accept his previous defeat. Lance pays no attention to them people, though, and instead keeps his eyes trained firm on the centre of the field, walking directly into the starting circle.

    Hunk follows after. The screams get louder, the hecklers get more enthusiastic, but again, Hunk pays them no attention. His brown eyes are firm on Lance when he steps into the field, and it takes every fibre of your strength to not call out for him.

    “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Veronica whispers. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

    You bite down on your bottom lip and swat her words away - you have faith. Faith in Lance’s ability, faith in his common sense that he might just back out before the final bell rings.

    But you know you’re reaching for straws at this point; Lance is determined, stands in front of Hunk with a snarl on his face, a direct contrast to the cocky smirk you usually see plastered on his features during a match.

    And then the bell sounds, and the world erupts.

   You can’t keep track of what is happening. There’s too much going on, with Hunk diving left and right with a gracefulness that somebody of his size should not possess. Lance is the same, skittering around the playing field like a cat chasing a mouse.

    Water erupts from nowhere. Pieces of the earth are flying through the air. Buzzers are going off as the two of them step out of bounds, but neither of them care to stop once the referee shouts for time - they’re too invested in trying to hurt one another, a fact which becomes clear when Lance is knocked clean off the playing field, only for him to crawl back on, snarl, “You’re gonna pay,” before he pushes his hands forward, sending a wave of water in Hunk’s direction.

    “What is he doing?” Luis exclaims. “What are either of them doing? The referee’s called time about six times!”

   “They’re not Pro-bending any more,” Veronica replies, mortified at the violent sight before her. “They’re just fighting each other.”

   “Oh god,” you exclaim. “Somebody has to - ugh!”

    You don’t finish your sentence, because the realisation dawns on you almost immediately. You toss yourself forward before either Veronica or Luis can get a hold of you, throwing yourself onto the ramp that leads directly onto the playing field. People gasp at the sight of you - the infamous Y/N McClain, the twin that Lance always talks about, the twin that rarely shows their face. Yet here you were, climbing up onto the playing field with little to no care about the crowd or the danger you’re about to walk into.

    Hunk sees you first. His eyes meet yours, widen, and he starts to yell, but his words are cut off by a wave slamming into him. He flies backwards, directly off the end of the dais, making your heart lurch in your throat.

    Lance spins around to face you, having notices Hunk’s attention slip at the last minute, but you run right past him and slide on your knees, gripping the edge of the playing field to look down at Hunk - his form is crumpled, and it does not take a medical degree to see that he just broken his leg.

    “Hunk!” you cry, before spinning around to face Lance. “Get a medic!” 

    Despite the competition, his anger towards Hunk, Lance’s eyes widen in panic at the request. He hastily nods, spins on his heel and sprints back into the back rooms, crying out for a medic.

    You slip down off of the playing field and grab Hunk by the shoulders. He hisses, eyes sliding open to look at you.

    “What do you think you’re doing?” he grunts. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

    You shake your head, brushing soaked strands of hair out of his face. “What did you think I was trying to tell you yesterday, you idiot?”

    He stares at you for a moment longer, shakes his head and slumps his head against your lap, letting his eyes slip closed as the pain from his broken bone finally ushers him into silence.

    +++

     “Is he okay?”

    You turn, giving Lance a mere glance just so he knows you heard him. He stands in the doorway of the hospital room, chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he stares at the sleeping form of Hunk, laying still in the bed.

    “He’s fine. Just resting,” you assure. “You finally feel bad now?”

    He sighs and steps into the room, kneeling down beside your chair. “I didn’t think it would get like that.”

    “You could have stopped it, you know. It wouldn’t have taken much to just say ‘I’m out.’”

    Lance sighs. “You don’t get it, Y/N. You aren’t a Pro-bender. You don’t know what it feels like to face the scrutiny of the public when you back out of a game like that.”

    “I know. I know I don’t understand.” And maybe that is something you need to start remembering - at the end of the day, it wasn’t you who had spent your entire life in the public eye. Not as pronounced as Lance. Though your name had been thrown around here and there, it was nothing in comparison to the level of pressure that had always been upon your twin brothers shoulders, the need to impress everybody, the need to seem as strong as possible at all times.

    You sigh and lean your head against his shoulder. “I hate it when we fight.”

   He leans his head on your own. “I hate it, too. We’re not built to be enemies.”

    “I’m sorry for everything I said. For . . . For not really understanding.”

    “And I’m sorry for being a childish idiot.” He shakes his head. “He didn’t cheat.”

    You giggle. “Yeah, I know.”

    The two of you sit like that for a little while longer, until Lance’s knees finally grow tired of keeping him upright and he insists on taking a walk down to the shop for some sandwiches. You bid him farewell and watch him leave - almost as soon as the door closes, Hunk’s fingers close over your own.

    You start, a gasp escaping you. “Hunk?”

    He smiles. “I’m awake.”

    “Oh good. You didn’t slip into a coma because of a broken leg.”

   He chuckles hoarsely, sitting upright and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. You see him wince with the movement, but he still manages to reach over and grab for his cup of water, taking a sip before passing it to you, offering you some.

   You decline, setting the cup down on the counter and instead leaning forward to hold his hand again. His skin is startlingly warm; the nurse had told you that he would be suffering fever for a little while whilst the pain in his leg went away.

    “How are you feeling?” you ask quietly.

    “Better. Especially now that I know you didn’t leave.”

   “Why would I leave?”

    Hunk looks away sheepishly. “I thought that maybe Lance had...”

    “You don’t have to worry about Lance,” you assure, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “I think he feels a little guilty for what he did and how he reacted. I can honestly see you two being friends in the long run.”

    Hunk smiles. “I’d like that. I’d much prefer to get on with everyone in your family, to be honest. Not just you.”

    You flush, looking down at your joined hands. Hunk notices, and immediately starts to trail his thumb over your knuckles. The action is small, but you find it easing the anxiety that had been knotted in your stomach almost all day.

     “I’m sorry.”

    Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

    “I’m sorry. For not listening to you when you came to the gym a few days back. You were telling the truth and I just kind of brushed you off because of your inexperience with the game...”

    You bite your lip. “Hunk, there’s no need to apologise. I know where you were coming from, as well.”

    “Yeah, but-”

   “Look, we can leave this behind us.” You lean forward then, placing a hand on his warm cheek. “The only way now is forward, okay?”

     Hunk is silent for a moment, staring into your eyes before he slowly nods. You grin, lean forward and press a feather light kiss to his lips. You push past the taste of medication, the weak grip of his hand as he tries desperately to pull you that little bit closer - instead, you concentrate on yourself, the feeling his lips put upon you even though the kiss is so simple and so quick.

     You pull away, smile again, and-