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The choreography and the outfit changes and the swap outs and designs, the different stage lights on rotation to accentuate the passing time, and all the snapshots on projections just to make this a little real, more actuality to what is out there than imagining where’re the cues, doesn’t stop at first until it’s scary, until it’s hard to tell if Nice will quit. Even Miss Juan’s voice of reason doesn’t slice through to make him blink. Because Nice wallops him. Or his shadow. Or his sword then. Or his breath. Or his cape too. Or his reflection. Or—just about anything that could touch. But the collateral damage isn’t bad enough to call a hot shot to put him down.
Wreck can handle this like he always does.
He pulls a fast one to knock him off. But then—the issue, the problem, the tour de force of oh shit!, the fucking last thing he needs to deal with—Nice grabs him by his heel. And he’s unshakeable.
He’s like a dog, a pomeranian flushing birds, his face deceiving the sort of prey-drive that would terrorize a local park. And nothing prompts him or distracts him or convinces him that’s enough. The collateral damage might be minimal. But the bodily ones are on the roof. As there’s only silence when he’s hoisted, when he’s dangling between his fingers, when the only buffer between him falling and him holding on is a buckle, and Nice stares at him like he’s tempted just to drop him from this height. They’re at the very edge of the ceiling. The crew below them a hundred metres. They’re at the very edge of pretending, and even justifying, this is safe. But Wreck’s in-character when he’s taunting just how two-face Nice can be.
How it’s supposed to go doesn’t happen.
There’s a broken bone in the end. Or it’s eight of them. It might be twelve. It might be everything down his arm. It might be everything he’s going to lose. It might be everything he already has.
He splits his left arm until there’s nothing there that could possibly throw a punch, the entire thing trying to figure out where to scream first when he landed. Because he’s palm-first around a ledge. Because he’s face-first in a mirror. Because he’s rib-first when he bounces. Because he’s mouth-first when he bleeds. And his left arm is the only thing separating him from the ground. His thumb’s obliterated when he peels himself from the window pane he had to smack; and his nails too. And his fingers. And his wrist bones. And his elbow. And every little thing just below that when his shoulder blade had to shout.
There’s blood and mucus in-between him and his reflection in the glass. It’s supposed to tell him he’s damn alive. But all he notices is his face. Because he shouldn’t. But it’s there. It’s the prettiest he’ll ever be, cuts and bruises one-to-one with all the damage on his mask. Or what’s left of it. There isn’t much of it. There’s a lot of it inside his mouth, his face shield is at the centre of where his teeth are when he breathes. And it’s about as useful as him taunting—his fucking best friend—Hero Nice. There’s a giant shard before he swallows; and he’s pretty sure he’s out of luck. Because Wreck is lonely until he isn’t. Until he feels him. Until he smells. Until the spritz of his hair behind his neck, and his arms too, stand again. And it’s hard to know for sure what’s behind him when he sees Nice in the window.
It’s hard to make out if he’s friendly. Or if he’s coming by for the kill. Because he hovers. Because he studies. Because he’s close enough for him to reach. Because they’re far away from the crew. They’re twenty metres. There might be more. And Nice decisively doesn’t sound like he is anything but a hero. Maybe all of this can fool a child. Or the elderly. Or a woman. But then he stops—himself.
He’s not reciting. He’s not rehearsing. He doesn’t act. He doesn’t dance around entertaining all the bullshit he’s had to learn. But he’s not exactly the kind person who would pop a beer from his boobs, who’d twist the cap while he’s flexing, while he’s adamant, it’ll fucking work. Or the kind of person who would argue, who would rattle off while he’s shit, while he’s high enough to Nirvana in the bathroom he has with him, about the top ten funny reasons why the ranked one is an X. Or his sound belief that his idol might be fist-deep inside the hero. Or the kind of person who’s not afraid, who doesn’t worry much about his laugh, about the choppy sounds while he does it, while he’s the wind itself when it’s free. But there’s a difference between the person who had dropped him from the ceiling and the kind of guy who has gathered him like a tender thing to be wed.
Like he’s a dandelion. Like he’s clover. Like he’s the first thing out of spring. Like he’s the soft touch—the invitation—he’ll allow himself a simple kiss. Or something like that when Wreck is nuzzled. Something like that when he’s pressed. Something like that when they’re descending. Something like that when there’s a sorry. But it’s hard to tell if that existed or if all this was a dream.
By the time they land there’s a hero; and Wreck knows for sure it’s not himself.
When a camera drone flits away to a suitcase way in the back, Wreck says out loud he has broken every damn bone in his arm. And that his villain suit isn’t ready. It’s like a raisin in a cookie. It’s convincing where it needs to be. But it doesn’t taste like it’s a chocolate. So it needs improvements. It needs a pick-me-up. It needs an upgrade. It needs it now. It needs to be the real deal for a big brawl in the city. And it barely held up when they were acting. But he won’t speak for Nice on how he feels. He doesn’t turn around to know his answer.
His raised hairs know enough.