#mod.colby

There are rules, even for the mask.

Brian made them— quietly, carefully, like carving scripture into his own ribs.

Rule one: Don’t go near Tim.

Not when the mask is on. Not when the Hoodie persona takes over and the world blurs into red directives and static-soaked purpose.

Because Hoodie is ruthless. Calculating. Efficient.

And Tim—Tim is none of those things.

Tim is sharp, yes, but in a different way.

Not a weapon, but a mirror—reflecting all the things Brian never meant to become.

So Hoodie stays away. Brian makes sure of it.

He can follow the Operator’s trail through fire and forest and rot, can break bones without blinking and gut men like they’re made of paper—but when he catches a glimpse of Tim?

When he sees that tired, steady kind of bravery in his eyes?

Something in Brian stops.

Something remembers.

He used to think distance was the safest option.

That keeping the mask on meant Tim would never have to see what Brian had become.

That he could protect him best by vanishing—by being the ghost in the trees, the flicker in the static.

But then there are nights where Tim gets hurt.

Not bad enough to die, just bad enough to make Brian’s hands shake.

A twisted ankle. A broken rib. Blood where there shouldn’t be.

That’s when Hoodie slips in—silent as a knife, all shadow and tension—and crouches beside him. No words. Just presence. Just that raw, furious need to protect.

Tim doesn’t flinch anymore.

He just looks up at the mask, breathing heavy, and whispers, “Brian?”

And Brian—god, Brian—his whole chest folds in on itself because yes. Yes, it’s still him under there.

Even now. Even after everything.

He doesn’t say much. Hoodie doesn’t talk.

But he wraps an arm around Tim, careful of the bruises. Presses gauze to the wound. Leaves painkillers and water before disappearing again like smoke curling from the edges of a burnt page.

And Tim lets him. Always has. Because somewhere in the split between who Brian used to be and who Hoodie had to become, there’s still love.

Something ancient and aching and true.

A kind of vow whispered behind the mask:

It happens in the soft drag of a Monday afternoon, the kind where everything’s grey and too loud. They’re in the quad, all cracked concrete and half-dead grass, the cold biting in that way that reminds you your skin is real. Tim’s standing with his arms crossed, weight on one hip, jaw set like a clenched fist. His shadow is long and still behind him, stretching like it wants to disappear.

Someone says something stupid. They always do.

It starts as a joke. Doesn’t stay that way.

Something about how Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. About how he looks at people like he’s already measured out the worst parts of them. About how he’s cold. Sharp. Mean.

Then:

“What kind of monster raised you?”

Tim’s mouth doesn’t move.

But it lands. Heavy. Like a stone dropped in still water, sinking so fast it doesn’t even leave ripples.

He doesn’t answer. Just blinks once, slow and unreadable. Like he’s flipping through pages of memory he’d rather leave stuck together. Like he’s remembering the Christmas photo. The bruises. The static silence of being eight years old and too much for a woman who didn’t know how to hold anything with sharp edges.

He’s halfway to turning away when Brian gets there.

And Brian—Brian’s never been good at quiet. He crashes into moments like sun through stained glass: loud, fractured, beautiful.

He steps up, planting himself in front of Tim like a wall built out of pure intention.

“Say that again,” Brian says, too softly. His hands are curled into fists, but it’s his voice that shakes. “Go on.”

The guy backs up. Smirks like it’ll save him. “Jeez. What, are you gonna cry about it?”

Brian doesn’t blink.

He just says:

“Nah. But you might.”

The kid walks off. Always do.

Tim exhales like he forgot he was holding his breath. Doesn’t say thanks. Just lights a cigarette with fingers that don’t quite tremble, and looks at Brian with that unreadable calm he wears like chainmail.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Brian shrugs, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline. “Yeah, well. You do it for me.”

Tim looks away, up at the sky like he’s waiting for it to crack open. His voice comes low. Flat. Burnt at the edges.

“She tried. My mom, I mean. She just… didn’t try hard enough.”

Brian nods. He doesn’t say I know. Doesn’t say I’m sorry.

Just:

“You didn’t turn out like her.”

Tim huffs a breath, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “No,” he says. “Guess I got worse.”

Brian leans on the rail beside him. Lets their arms brush. Doesn’t move away.

“You didn’t,” he says. Quiet. Steady. “You turned into someone I’d bet the whole world on.”

Tim doesn’t answer. But his hand flicks ash off the edge of the railing, and for just a second, the set of his mouth softens. Barely. Like it’s trying to remember what gentleness feels like without breaking.

And Brian?

Brian stays quiet. Lets him be.

It’s late.

That kind of late where time doesn’t tick—it breathes. The room is dim, washed in amber from a lamp that should’ve been turned off hours ago. There’s static somewhere—maybe the television, maybe the air between them.

Brian’s sitting cross-legged on the rug, fingers idly twisting the edge of his sleeve. His laugh’s long since died in his throat. The bottle between them is sweating, half-forgotten, like the game they never really started.

Tim’s on the couch. One arm over his eyes like he’s hiding from something. Not light. Not Brian. Just the weight of being seen.

Brian doesn’t move. Not yet.

“Hey,” he says. Quiet. Gentle.

Like maybe he’s asking permission to ruin something.

“What do you think happens if I kiss you right now?”

Tim doesn’t answer for a while.

The silence is heavy—but not empty. It thrums.

When he finally does speak, it’s low. Careful. Like he’s walking barefoot over glass.

“…I think you’d break somethin’ we don’t know how to fix.”

Brian breathes in. Not out. Holds it like a secret.

And then he shifts forward.

Just a little.

Just enough.

“You think it’s not already cracked?”

Tim lowers his arm. Meets Brian’s eyes like he’s doing something dangerous. Like it costs him something.

“Might be,” he mutters. “But we’ve been steppin’ around it so long, I can’t tell what’s floor and what’s fault line anymore.”

And Brian, sweet, reckless thing that he is—he doesn’t wait.

He leans in and kisses him. Soft. Not hesitant, but slow. Like he’s not asking for anything but this one breath in time.

Tim doesn’t kiss back right away.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

He’s still as stone. Then—just barely—he leans into it. Enough to answer. Enough to be complicit.

When Brian pulls away, lips parted, heart in his throat, he’s already regretting it.

He whispers, “Did I ruin it?”

Tim’s lashes lower. Not shy—just heavy.

He looks away, then down. Then, finally, back at Brian.