Work Text:
Beloved Hero Captured!
Headlines all over the city read variants of that for days after the clash and last stand of Hotguy. He’d foiled the nefarious plot threatening the city, but in doing so had sacrificed his ability to escape. Possibly even to survive, many people speculated.
Those people were not Cub, who has an invitation to a very special auction burning a hole in his pocket.
There are admittedly some perks, to being the CEO of his own company, built from the ground up by himself. ConCorp is a household name, and between the brand recognition and the money, that opens a lot of doors for Cub.
Like the door to a secret auction where the city's precious headliner hero is being sold off to the highest bidder.
Now, they don't outright say as much, but even Cub can read between those lines. The implications are clear, but fully non-prosecutable.
All trying to turn them in to authorities would do is get Cub blacklisted from any future 'special' auctions. And Cub really does rather like the odd bits and bobs he can pick up there. Usually not people. That part's new.
Hotguy. Cub has every piece of merch he's ever released, and a few that haven't been released yet. The hero- Cub can't keep his mind off of Hotguy. The good looks, the wit, the combat skills. Everything about him is captivating.
Cub doesn't even try to pretend it's a debate. Of course he's going to the auction. He taps his phone, freeing up a couple of extra assets into liquid funds. Money only, no barter. Cub's not going to lose on account of cheaping out.
Honestly, Cub figures he's probably one of the better options for the hero. No grudge or vendetta, no unreasonable demands. Cub thinks it's perfectly reasonable to get a few signatures on bits of his collection, and a couple of photos together.
All in all, just hold Hotguy for a week and then get a little bit 'complacent' with his lock and key situation, leaving Hotguy to make his daring escape. Leaving Cub as a brief memory in the hero's mind, and nothing more.
A perfect plan, extremely normal and fine.
Cub picks up his masquerade mask. Really, the pale blue fabric and lace hardly do anything to hide his identity, but masking is more for the ambiance of the venue. For the plausible deniability. They can all truthfully claim not to have seen one another's faces.
A car. A walk. A flick of his membership card.
The halls are lit moodily, with all kinds of prizes on display. Cub doesn't bother going near the largest crowd. He knows what must be on display there, and he will have plenty of time of his own with Hotguy later.
He picks a few familiar bodies out of the crowd without trying. He'd known his most respected rival businessman would be here, their eyes locking across the room, before sliding off one another.
Outside of here, they're something like friendly. In here, they're the only real competition the other has for the night's big prize.
Cub is unwilling to lose. So he won't.
The amount of money Cub drops when bidding opens makes several active royalty blanch where they sit. His rival's counteroffer sends half the crowd out of the room. The remainder stay only to see the two of them face off.
When his rival stutters, a single moment of weakness, Cub doubles his bid without batting an eye.
Cub wins the auction.
Simple as that.
Cub's never bought a whole person like this before. He wonders, a little, if bribes and paid workers count as buying people, but it's just not the same, really.
The logistics of getting Hotguy home are simpler than he'd expected. The dark hooded cloak is probably a bit much, but it's not like this city hasn't seen stranger.
The oddest thing is the way Hotguy goes along with having his lead handed over to Cub.
Cub is handed a remote and told how to use it to deliver shocks to Hotguy if he needs to. He tucks it into a pocket within easy reach, enough to act as a threat without him having to use it. And Hotguy just... follows along with him. Down the street, into the car. Back to Cub's home.
A whole-floor apartment suite at the top of one of the buildings Cub owns. Plenty of space, even though it's just Cub usually. A gorgeous view from the floor to ceiling windows in the living room.
He'd already prepared Hotguy's room ahead of time. Plenty of security, though most of it more intimidating than functional. Which he assumes Hotguy will notice soon enough.
Really it's more of a guest bedroom than anything. Comfortable bed, a wardrobe full of Hotguy merch in the right sizes.
Even a small window, though that’s also locked down. But it has a nice view, Cub'd made sure. He wants Hotguy to be comfortable.
Selfishly, Cub wants to be a nice memory, after everything.
Cub brings Hotguy into the room. Shows him the cabinet of snacks, the attached bathroom, the clothing.
When Cub reaches to pull the hood down, Hotguy doesn't flinch. Cub can see him, conspicuously Not Flinching, with Cub's hands right next to his masked face.
"Let's just get this off, yeah?" Cub says, and he doesn't get why Hotguy tenses up in a flash.
The hero still isn't fighting, though. Isn't speaking. Unsettling. Unlike him. Unlike everything Cub has seen about him, even in the times when Hotguy didn't know there were cameras on him.
Cub's hands glide down to the exposed shock collar, which Cub makes swift work of undoing with his pocket multitool.
Cub pulls the collar off, backs away with it, and the tension drops out of Hotguy. That's. Probably good.
"Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning, man." Cub wants some time to study the guts of the device, and he figures Hotguy could probably use a nap after whatever was going on there. Being on display for a bunch of people sounds exhausting to Cub, even if that is sort of Hotguy's job.
"Thanks." The word is quiet, but clear. The first thing Hotguy has said to him this whole time.
"No problem." Cub answers, hand resting on the handle of the door for a few extra seconds, before leaving the room entirely without looking back.
Cub locks the door behind him.
Cub makes a note to double his morning danish order until he figures out what Hotguy likes to eat for breakfast. Other meals will happen as they happen, he can just get takeout for flexibility.
Cub dreams in smeared images. A mask under his hand. An arrow protruding garishly from his chest as he goes about his work. A glimmering light, the wind of a rooftop, a weight in his arms. A freefall, jolting him to wakefulness among his sheets, moments before his alarm goes off.
Well, at least the timing of it was good.
Cub expected to feel more different, holding a hero captive in his apartment. He doesn't. Everything is almost the same. Get up, stretch, get dressed, greet the sun. Not until he gets to his food is anything is different, the extra oversized danish sitting on his tray a reminder, fresh and still faintly warm.
After checking and rechecking everything known about Hotguy's potential food allergies, everything in the danish cross-references cleanly to things Hotguy has eaten publicly before. Things Cub has seen him eat at city banquets where they’d brushed shoulders. As does the glass of juice Cub pours. Cub's got spreadsheets tracking that information, to make it easier to plan out what food to order. Preparation, to ensure he could handle Hotguy’s needs.
All that's left now is to bring the food to Hotguy.
Cub knocks on the door.
Nothing.
After a minute, Cub knocks on the door again.
Still nothing. Which is beginning to be concerning.
Maybe Hotguy needs to sleep more?
But what if he's already escaped-
Cub dithers outside the door, undecided.
"I'm coming in, alright?" Cub calls through the door, unable to leave well enough alone.
Despite the continued silence, Cub opens the door this time. His gaze sweeps over the room, finding Hotguy already sitting up in bed, eyes trained on the window.
"Hey, man." Cub's relief leaks into his tone, as he approaches. "I brought your breakfast. I didn't hear you answer my knocking, you might wanna be a bit louder next time." Cub hands over the tray, which Hotguy turns his gaze to without looking at Cub.
Hotguy doesn't hesitate, tucking into the pastry with gusto. Cub is a bit fascinated by his enthusiasm.
A pause. "I didn't." Hotguy's voice still startles Cub, so much softer than its usual booming projection.
"Well, could you next time, then? So I know if it's a good time to come in." Asking is so much better than trying to guess, when it comes to other people, Cub has found. Trying to build universal rules and signs just doesn't come together.
"And if it isn't?" Hotguy glances sidelong at Cub.
"Then say that." Simple answer, obvious.
Hotguy resumes eating without comment, and Cub slips back out of the room. He'll ask about some signatures later.
Cub clicks the lock behind himself.
Lunch and dinner both, Cub's knocks are met with a loudly projected "No.", leaving him confused as he takes the food back and puts it away into the fridge.
Breakfast, the next day. Another rejection.
"I-" The word hangs in the air, before Cub shakes his head. "Okay." He leaves again. Picks at the second danish. Sets it aside.
He can't focus on any of his work. Seconds drag past in an intolerably long flow. Cub puts in the lunch order an hour early. Waits out on the balcony feeling the coiling winds until he sees the delivery enter the building.
He plates Hotguy's food, and knocks once more on Hotguy's door.
"No." Again.
Cub cracks. "Please eat." Plaintive imploring.
"It's not a good time." Hotguy shrugs him off.
"I'll wait, then. Tell me when."
"Could be a while."
"That's fine." Cub turns, presses his back to the wall beside Hotguy's door, slides down the smooth surface to balance the meal on his tucked-up knees. He's good at waiting. This is fine.
Cub lets his head rest back against the wall behind him, zoning out.
A faint rattle pulls Cub's focus back, hours later, after the sun has dipped down to its last smeared dregs of color. Nothing further after that leaves Cub dozy and blinking through it becoming dark around him.
A louder rattle, from right beside him, tugs Cub's focus back once again.
"Hotguy?" Cub asks, voice still bleary from the not-exactly-sleep he'd been doing.
The rattling instantly stops.
"Are you ready for your meal?" Cub looks down at the food on his lap, realizing the food's long since gone cold. Congealed. Possibly bad. "Wait, wait, let me get you something new, this isn't good anymore." Cub scrambles to stand, thumping shoulders and arms to the wall in his haste.
"...sure." The voice sounds so close.
"I'll be just a couple minutes! Don’t go anywhere!" Cub darts off, tossing the plate of food he'd been holding, and beelining for the fridge. Yesterday's properly preserved dinner, that should do. He can microwave that.
Impatience stuffs Cub's brain full of circles on circles as he waits for the food to heat up. Snatching it right when it finishes, not waiting for the cooldown buffer, stings his fingers, but it's worth it.
He doesn't want to keep Hotguy waiting.
Cub knocks at the door again when he returns.
Briefly, the cold-snap certainty that Hotguy will ignore him-
"Come in." Hotguy invites, as if he owns the place.
Cub slips into the room, bringing the plate over and offering it up. Thankfully, it's cool enough to hold without any pain now.
Hotguy nods to him, taking it.
Cub taps his thumb to each of his own sore finger pads, back and forth. Just for something to do, he locates the prior breakfast's tray, taking it up.
"You may go." Hotguy dismisses.
Cub bites his own lip, then nods. The important part is that Hotguy is accepting food again. Cub can figure out the rest later.
Cub leaves, locking the door behind him.
Thankfully, Hotguy takes his breakfast the next morning, seeming to have come around to being in better spirits. Cub is quiet, bringing the food and leaving.
Things feel to be settling into routine when Hotguy again accepts being brought lunch.
"Are you holding me to sell to someone else?" Hotguy asks, startling Cub. Cub's going to have to get used to Hotguy talking to him, but the occasion is so infrequent that the surprise still catches him every time.
"No. What? No, You're mine." Cub's words stumble over one another as he processes Hotguy's question.
"If it's not an investment, then what are you getting out of this?" Hotguy asks, his expression sharp and calculating as he looks Cub over.
"...you?" Cub says, since that feels kind of obvious, but he doesn't know how else to explain it.
"You haven't even done anything with me."
"Do you want me to?" Cub asks, trying to figure out where the conversation is going.
Hotguy shrugs, picking at his curry.
"I figured you'd want some time to settle in." Cub explains.
"Time to stew." Hotguy says.
"If you wanted something to do for me, I could bring you a few things I was hoping to have you sign." Cub offers, figuring that doing something tangible might ease Hotguy's mind a little.
"There are easier ways to get signatures. I do- Did, meet and greets." Hotguy says, eyes drifting back to the window.
"I know." Cub's been to some of them. He's a little too high profile to go to most of them nowadays, though. And it was just never the right moment, when they were both in attendance at a city banquet.
“Then why go to all the trouble?” Hotguy asks, tone unreadable.
“Dunno. It’s just different in private, I guess? And I’ve got all this money, what’s the point of having it if I don’t spend it doing things that make me happy?” Cub would rather blow the cash and enjoy it than sit there watching number go up. At this point the number will keep going up anyway, he hardly has to do anything, after years of putting all of his time and effort into building his company up. Now is the time to reap his rewards.
“Are you? Happy?” Hotguy asks.
Cub genuinely thinks it over. “I’m intrigued. So, yeah, I guess so.”
The silence after that lingers. Cub's thoughts move slowly, without need to rush.
"Are you happy?" Cub asks, somewhere between polite reciprocation and genuine curiosity. Hotguy can't really be happy here, can he? Captive.
"Of course I am." Hotguy flashes Cub his bright and perfect smile.
"Are you happy?" Cub asks again, identically.
"I just said-" Hotguy starts, confusion twisting his expression.
"If you're going to lie, I'd prefer you decline to answer." Cub says, simply.
Hotguy just blinks at him.
Cub leaves, clicking the lock shut behind him.
At dinner, Cub brings a few items of his collection. A poster, a shirt, and Hotguy's first official bow. The weapon long since retired, Cub highly suspects it was sold to fund the making of the next, better bow. Which is also in Cub's collection. The next in his rival's- And so on it goes, with most of them evenly split between them.
Cub wonders what happened to Hotguy's final bow, the one used and broken at his last stand.
Hotguy's breath catches in his throat, looking at the tray. Instead of reaching for the food, he snatches up the bow, fingers feeling along every contour.
The curve of it looks right in Hotguy's hands. Natural.
Cub lays out the food and items on the desk, letting Hotguy have his moment with the bow. Maybe he has some nostalgia for it.
When Cub looks back over, he’s greeted by the bow strung, a makeshift bolt already set and drawn back, aimed at him.
Huh.
“Brought pizza this time, so if you wouldn’t mind signing stuff first, I’d appreciate that.” Cub says, turning back to lay the poster out flat.
“That’s it?”
“What’s it?”
“I could drop you where you stand, and you’re worried about getting grease on- This thing has seen so much worse than pizza grease, by the way.”
“I know. I cleaned that out of it. Does it pull smoother now?” Cub asks, curious.
"Yes?" Hotguy sounds disproportionately baffled for such a small thing. Oh well.
"Good." Cub hums a pleased note. He hadn't ever taken care of a bow before that one. He's got a few in his collection now, but he’s pleased to know he did it right even then.
"Don't you care about your life?" Hotguy asks.
"Of course I do. Still got a lot to enjoy, man. A lot to enjoy."
"Then why-" Hotguy gestures with the bow, before training it back on Cub.
"You'll shoot or you won't." Cub shrugs. "Let me know if you figure it out." It's not like he could do anything to stop Hotguy, if Hotguy chose to seriously attack him. He doesn't think Hotguy would, but Cub can't say that with complete certainty. And that's leaving aside the potential for nonfatal wounds in the escape.
Cub kind of hopes Hotguy does wound him a smidge when escaping, maybe he should see about standing in the way or something. A scar would be a nice memento of this time, something small to keep for himself personally from Hotguy.
"I might eat your pizza if you take too long, though." Cub adds, casual.
"No!" Hotguy lunges forward, bow already- Well, Hotguy tries to put it away, but it just clatters to the ground, given that he's wearing comfy Hotguy swag instead of something like a proper costume with places to stow equipment.
Cub wonders if they'll sell off the costume later. He frowns, making a mental note to keep an eye out for that. Something doesn't sit right, and- Well, he just wants it for his collection, that's all.
Meanwhile Hotguy snatches up a slice of pizza and stuffs as much of it in his mouth at he can. "Youch!" Hotguy's cry rings out, him dancing around the room in upset little hops.
"Pizza's hot. By the way." Cub deadpans, watching the show.
Hotguy just whines. Which is slightly cute. Not that Hotguy needs to know that.
"Come here, have this." Cub holds up a chilled can of soda.
Hotguy darts in, popping open the can and drinking directly from it while Cub holds it, tipping it as needed.
The whole production is overwrought, and kind of adorable. Cub's fingers are inches from Hotguy's mouth.
"Better?" Cub asks, voice softened.
Hotguy nods, finally taking the soda for himself.
"Since you started, you might as well eat first, now." Cub concedes.
"Oh, uh. Sorry." Hotguy shuffles sheepishly, but Cub just directs him to sit at the desk, with Cub taking a seat on the edge of Hotguy's bed instead.
"No worries, man. You eating is important." The merch can wait, Cub doesn't have anything pressing to attend to.
Hotguy pauses, a long time, before he digs in on the other slice of pizza.
Cub reads on his phone while Hotguy eats. The city is still taking their missing hero pretty hard. No doubt the relief when he returns will be just as massive.
“It’s kinda weird to be the only one eating.” Hotguy glances at Cub.
“I can go, if you’d prefer.” Cub makes to stand.
“No!” Hotguy shouts, immediately looking a bit sheepish and lowering his voice. “I just meant, like. Do you want some? We could share it, or something. You always bring so much.”
“As much as a serving size for you.” Cub frowns. He’d done the calculations for how much nutrition Hotguy would need. And this amount is for when Hotguy’s mostly resting. Hotguy should be used to eating well more than this while doing highly active hero work.
“Serving sizes always go silly.” Hotguy dismisses with a wave of his hand.
“I’ll think about it.” Cub says, because he will be thinking about it. He thought he used to think about Hotguy a lot, but these days his Hotguy thoughts take on a slightly different tone. Odd.
"If you're sure." Hotguy shrugs, then plows through the rest of the pizza. The blank plate, amusingly, seems to surprise Hotguy at the end.
"Go ahead and wash up, I'll get that out of the way." Cub moves in and takes up the plate, as well as the empty soda can. "If you ever want more, feel free to ask."
Hotguy chews on his own lip, then nods. He's gone to the adjoining washroom before Cub can pry any further comment out of him.
Cub slips out the door, recycling the can and putting the plate in the dishwasher. Barely a minute before he's on his way back. Hotguy’s already back at the desk as Cub pushes the still-cracked door open.
"Being a movie star for a minute was fun." Hotguy muses, fingers tracing over the poster, over his own face and costume.
Hotguy gets much higher billing on the poster than his role in the movie really warranted, but Cub is perfectly fine with that. Makes for a more pleasant display.
"Don't you get offers?" Cub can't imagine more people wouldn't want the Hotguy in their film, both as a marketing tactic and as a general rule of thumb.
He has no comment about whether he tried to float any sort of a script in the past, after seeing that movie.
"No time for it, these days. Well, those days. These days... I guess no time for it too, but differently." Hotguy shrugs.
"Maybe you could make some time for it, at some point." Cub shrugs.
Hotguy just looks at him flatly. "I don't exactly think there's a market for movies of me streamed from someone's random spare bedroom."
"No, no, there's actually a pretty strong market for exactly that thing. You know, if that's what you're into doing." Cub is well aware of the market for Hotguy bedroom activities home movies.
Granted, Cub’s interest in them does flag when they get to the Hotguy part and it's never the real deal. Regardless, he has to check every time one releases. The professional productions, at least, not the ones listed as leaked sextapes. There's obsession, and then there's just being rude for no reason.
“Huh. Who knew.” Hotguy tips his head like he’s mulling that over.
“Yeah.” Cub lays out a selection of pens and markers for Hotguy to choose from.
Might as well tidy up the bow as well, so Cub bends down and nabs it, laying it with the other items on the desk.
Hotguy’s gaze lingers on it again, before picking up a marker. “Who am I making out to?”
Cub considers. He hasn’t hidden his face or voice, that sounded like too much stress to keep up for a week in his own home. Hotguy could easily name him after he leaves, given how notable a figure Cub is. The CEO and public face of ConCorp, as well as a locally known philanthropist for the city. Cub had run the calculations on the hits his reputation would take, and decided they were acceptable losses. For this indulgence.
“Cub. If you don’t mind.” Cub still chews the loose skin of his lip. He'd never asked for his name before, on a signing.
"Cub." Hotguy hums, tracing his hand in loops over the air. "I haven't signed to a Cub before."
“Neat.” It does something to Cub’s stomach, to be the first of anything for Hotguy, no matter how silly and meaningless the distinction is. If he’d asked for his name sooner, would Hotguy have remembered him? Meeting thousands and more fans over his career?
Hotguy rolls the marker options in his hand, checking the tips, before settling on one. Cub watches in fascination as Hotguy’s breathing slows and evens out, much like when he’s taking a shot.
'For an unforgettable Cub. -Hotguy'
Cub's breath punches out of him, reading the inscription on the poster, the feeling that his thoughts had been plucked clean out of his head and put down in ink irrationally strong for several moments.
"Hope you don't mind, since I won't be forgetting you any time soon and all." Hotguy does not sound like he's actually in any manner hesitant or remorseful about his signature. Something in his eyes makes it feel more significant than the light tone he's using.
And. Hm. Hotguy remembering him is. It's something. It's something, isn't it? Hotguy, somewhere else in the city, thinking of Cub? That's. Mm. Cub isn't quite sure what he feels about that.
He'll have to dissect it later.
"Looks good, man. Thanks." Cub offers a smile. For all the oddness going on in his chest this is- Cub's here, talking with Hotguy, getting his things signed. It's good. It's a grinning emotion, but he has to keep himself toned down to a smile, to be polite.
Hotguy is giving him that look again, studying him again. Cub openly watches him right back.
Hotguy turns away first, taking up his marker again. Cub watches him dapple away at the shirt until a Hotguy logo appears out of the noise of the dots he’s leaving.
“That’s neat, your old logo.”
“Never quite liked the new one as much, but it was better for the merch.” Hotguy shrugs.
"Guess that just makes getting the old one here more special." Cub speaks without thinking, only after the words come out being taken aback by how easily they flow when talking to Hotguy.
How quickly Hotguy has gone from a distant hero to someone Cub looks forward to talking with. Cub has to remind himself not to get too attached. This isn't a sustainable situation. Hotguy will leave, 'escape', and Cub won't get to talk to him like this again.
"It's not really a signature."
"You leaving your mark on it is more than enough. Whatever feels right to you." How could Cub not think it more than a treat to get something from Hotguy’s own mind, rather than a rote signature?
Hotguy turns back, picks up the bow again. He’s not holding the marker anymore. “Not this one.”
“Mm?”
“I’m...” A pause, Hotguy visibly sterling his nerves. “Not signing this.”
“Oh.” Cub sits with that thought for a moment. Disappointment leaden-obvious in his chest.
Hotguy’s back tightens.
Irrationally, the urge to touch, to pat, to comfort Hotguy surfaces. Cub pushes it down. “Alright, then.” He knows his words are a little off, marked with a glum air, but Cub at least does his best to remain at a normal baseline.
Twisting around, Hotguy darts a look at him.
Cub only shrugs, and ambles over to collect the poster and shirt. “I’ve taken up enough of your time this evening. Goodnight.”
Hotguy doesn’t answer him, silent as the lock clicks shut behind Cub’s exit.
Come morning, Cub stares down at two danishes. His own, that he would usually have eaten by now, and Hotguy's.
Finally, the hope that he correctly understood Hotguy's earlier words wins out, and Cub brings both with him, to knock on Hotguy's door.
A few knocks pass before Cub receives a bleary "Come in." Hopefully Hotguy isn't coming down with anything...
"I figured we could have breakfast tog-" Shouldering open the door, Cub's words halt abruptly at the sight inside.
Every inch of the walls is covered in- Drawings. Mountains. Trees. Flowers. Messy scribbles and detailed landscapes, all flowing into one another, on every reachable bit of wall.
Hotguy jolts upright in bed, suddenly looking much more awake. Watching Cub again.
"I. Huh. Here's your breakfast." Cub hands over the plate and then makes his way to the desk, sitting hard in the chair. Something about being surrounded by the bold slashes of Hotguy's drawings all around him is. Overwhelming.
Hotguy descends on the danish feverishly.
“I didn’t know you did art.” Cub can’t get over discovering such a large new facet to Hotguy, that he’d never seen before.
“I don’t. Well, not really. Haven’t in a long time. No need for it, you know?”
Briefly, Cub has the urge to cross the room and wipe the jam off of Hotguy’s lip. Odd. He doesn’t, of course, and soon enough, Hotguy licks it off himself anyway.
“I dunno man, maybe you do need- Did you get any sleep last night?”
A yawn cracks open Hotguy’s face before he can answer. He’s got nice molars. “Wasn’t really tired.”
“I’ll. I can bring lunch late. You should rest, my guy.”
"I'll be fine, I can push through." Hotguy waves off.
"Why?" Cub tips his head.
"What why." Hotguy blinking right back at Cub.
"Why push through? Why not just. Rest?"
"Because-" Hotguy seems to come up short, mouth opening and closing a few times before settling closed. "...I guess, I don't really have to anymore, huh?"
Cub's mouth twists into a frown at the thought that Hotguy ever had to. Of course the heroing life is. Well, you can't schedule crime, can you? But there really is only so much a person can do before it starts impacting their performance, and then their health.
Cub's fingers itch to do a health workup on Hotguy. No. That would be too far. He knows that. He knows that. Cub forces his fingers to still. "You don't. So take all the time you need, man."
Hotguy is quiet about that for a long time.
Which makes for a good opportunity for Cub to eat, now that his brain has stopped spinning.
By the time he finishes, Hotguy is already melting back into the bed.
Cub quietly moves close to collect Hotguy’s plate-
Cub’s wrist, caught tight in Hotguy’s grip.
The contact is searing. Full, warm skin, wrapped all the way around his wrist. Cub’s brain blanks out for an indeterminate amount of time.
“Leave it.” Hotguy asserts.
“Alright.” No real reason to object, so Cub agrees. Even if he hopes Hotguy will move the plate off his bed before falling asleep.
The brief thought of Hotguy pulling-
Hotguy lets go of Cub’s wrist.
So Cub leaves, clicking the lock shut behind him.
The extra time before the next meal means shuffling some errands earlier than he had previously planned, but Cub is adapting, he’s handling it.
Cub brings the next meal in the afternoon. He almost thinks he’ll have to come back, when his quiet knock goes unanswered for so long. But Hotguy finally speaks up, bids him enter.
Hotguy is standing in the middle of the room. Holding the plate. He locks eyes with Cub.
Hotguy drops the plate.
The clattering shatter makes Cub flinch. But that barely lasts, before Cub drops down into the calm of handling a Situation. Enough emergencies at his job, for that transition to be smooth.
“Stay still, let me clean it.” Commanding, calm words. Cub sets down the pot and tray in his hands on the desk, moves to get a broom.
Hotguy’s foot lifts, a curious sound deep in his throat.
“Stay.” Cub commands more firmly, but not harshly.
Hotguy sets his foot back down.
Cub moves efficiently from there, clearing up the shards.
“Okay, good. Good.” Cub dusts Hotguy’s legs, clearing away any stray fragments. “Are you okay? Any cuts? Is your hand alright?”
Looking up from where he’s kneeling, Cub finds Hotguy staring at him again.
“They didn’t hurt your wrist, did they?” Cub reaches out, but stops just short of touching.
“No!” Hotguy snaps. “I’m not hurt. I did that on purpose!”
“Oh.” Cub thinks a moment. “Why?”
"Wh-" Hotguy reels back. "I broke your thing! Be mad at me!"
"...it's just a plate. I'm more concerned about you."
Hotguy sharply turns away, as if looking at Cub were painful. Cub kinda gets that feeling, even if he mostly ignores it himself.
"You shouldn't just- Forgive me, because I'm- I was, a Hero, you know." Hotguy insists.
"What's there to forgive?"
"Stop that! Can't you just stick to the script for once?"
"Sorry, never got that. Was absent the day they were handed out, I think. At least, it feels like that. But I make do. I make do."
Hotguy fists his hands in his own hair, tugging harshly.
Drawing himself to his feet, Cub reaches out. This time, he doesn’t stop himself, actually laying his hands over Hotguy’s. “Please stop.”
“Why don’t you just order me to again.”
“Would you prefer that?”
“It’d be easier.”
“Then, stop.” Cub lets firmness take his tone.
Once Hotguy relaxes, Cub leads him over to the desk chair. Encourages him to sit with careful pressure on his shoulders.
Checks him over for injury one more time.
“Yeah, yeah, your action figure isn’t damaged.”
"What?"
"Nothin'. What's this?" Hotguy pokes the pot.
"You drew so many plants, I thought you might like-" Cub pulls the cover off, revealing a cluster of three small plants in the pot. "The clerk said these were the simplest ones to care for, that they had. Peperomia fraseri, Chamaedorea seifrizii, and Scindapsus pictus."
Hotguy looks stricken.
Hm. Not exactly the kind of expression Cub was hoping for. Oh well.
"These-" A hitch to Hotguy's voice, before he gets it back on track. "They're planted too close together."
Ah. No wonder he's not happy, Cub had rushed the process and not done enough research. How unlike him. That's Cub's own fault, then. "I'm sorry. Will they survive a day, or should I go now?"
"Yes they'll survive a day. Do- Do you know anything about plants?"
"Not much. Do you?"
"Just common sense stuff- I mean, you know, stuff everyone knows."
"I didn't know." Cub tips his head.
"Well. You know now."
"I do." A nod.
"You. Are you going to take them away?" For a moment, sadness flits across what Cub can see of Hotguy's expression.
"Why would I?" Cub wonders if he missed a chunk of the conversation. Talking with Hotguy often feels like that.
"Because I caused you trouble. Wouldn't want to reward bad behavior."
Fully Cub gives him a blank stare for long moments.
"The plate, I broke your-"
"Oh, is that still upsetting you? It's really just a plate, I'll replace it and everything's good."
A strained noise from Hotguy.
"Anyway, this isn't really a reward, I don't think. At least, I didn't mean it as one." Cub carries on. "I just thought it might, I don't know, be nice for you to have? Sorry I didn't do it right, man. I'll fix it."
Thunk. Hotguy's head dully impacts the desk surface.
No immediate reaction, when Cub laces his fingers into Hotguy’s hair. So he just pets the soft floof for a minute. “It’ll feel a bit better after a meal.”
“Not hungry.”
“Not for anything?”
“Not for that.” Hotguy gestures vaguely to the tray across the desk from him.
“Alright, then what do you want?”
"I dunno. Cake. I'm going back to bed." Moving his head out from under Cub's hand, Hotguy gets up.
"Alright. Goodnight."
Well. That hadn't gone as well as Cub had hoped.
Not that Cub has time to dwell on that. He closes the door behind himself, with the softly familiar click of the lock, already planning his new shopping trip. A walk will do him good.
Not until morning, does Hotguy deign to answer Cub’s knocking at his door. So it’s with the sun fresh up in the sky that Cub pushes a cart into Hotguy’s room. The top shelf is laden with an array of personally sized cakes in a rainbow of flavors, the bottom filled with gardening supplies, new pots, and pouches of dirts.
“Good morning.” Cub greets, parking the cart by Hotguy’s desk.
“Whazzat?” Hotguy bounds forward before pulling himself up short.
“Breakfast. I didn’t know what kind you wanted.”
“So you got all of them?”
“Yes.” Cub nods. “Or a reasonable non-repeating selection thereof.”
“Is this some kind of test?” Hotguy pokes one of the dishes from as far away as he can manage.
“Yes.” Cub deadpans, purely for his own amusement. Especially at getting to watch Hotguy leap back from the cart. Cub chuckles.
Hotguy squints. “Was. That a joke?” Like he’s not sure Cub is capable of that. Which Cub is pretty well used to people thinking of him.
So Cub just shrugs, stealing the chair of the desk for himself.
Hotguy snatches up a black forest cake, simply using his hand to shovel a scoop of it into his face. A fascinating technique.
Hm. Perhaps less of a technique and more of a performance, if the way Hotguy darts a glance at him is anything to go by. Cub wonders what Hotguy wants to see from him. All Cub has to offer up is mild interest.
Cub picks up a small spice cake, and licks up a dollop of frosting.
Hotguy is busy licking his hand clean. A task which would be more efficiently handled by washing it, but Cub’s not going to complain about the show. Some things are worth the time to do suboptimally.
And take his time Hotguy does, licking his hand clean between every scoop of cake. He stops darting glances at Cub one he’s enough layers in, captivated by his sweet treat. Partway through, Hotguy switches over to a berry cheesecake that Cub can only be relieved to have not declared a pie, and thus ineligible for the spread.
Splotches of red, staining across Hotguy’s lips. Not Cub’s business, no matter how it captivates him.
“You pay for quality.”
“I try, I try. I can mark that place as a favorite, if you like.” Cub offers.
“Yeah, might as well order from the Cyberbarkery regularly.” Hotguy agrees.
Flummoxed, Cub checks for labeling. None. He’s served all the cakes on his own dishes, and not mentioned a thing about where-
Hotguy just chuckles, setting the remaining half of the cheesecake down. “So what’s the rest of this, then?” A gesture to the bottom half of the cart.
“For fixing the plants. I looked into it, but I thought you might want to supervise, to be sure it’s done right.” Cub had only managed to watch and scrub through a few hours of gardening footage, but he didn’t want to delay any longer.
“You’re. Really bad at this kidnapped captive thing, huh?” Hotguy shakes his head.
“I do things my own way.” That’s the only answer Cub has for Hotguy. It’s true, how many times has he been told that just doing things the way that makes sense for him makes him different? Not that he cares all that much at this point, but it had been quite the source of perplexity for him, for a while, before he’d learned to accept it and move on.
There probably are all sorts of rules he doesn’t know about holding heroes captive. If this were meant to be more than the thinnest of pretenses, he might have cared.
“Living dangerously.” Hotguy laughs, the sound striking Cub with how different it sounds from news soundclips.
“Living.” Cub echoes, with a nod. He unpacks the gardening supplies onto Hotguy’s desk. Pots and dirts and trowels all in a row.
Hotguy digs just as eagerly into those supplies as he did the cake.
Cub finds himself holding pots and handing over tools, at Hotguy’s direction. Cub barely feels like he’s even blinked before the trio of plants are out of the original pot and each settled in their own. Roots fanned out, leaves arranged. Hotguy ghosts dirtied fingertips along stems with an expression Cub is struck with longing for more of, regardless of his own lack of understanding of its meaning.
"They look good." Cub says, softly.
Hotguy hugs one of the pots to his chest, the Chamaedorea seifrizii. Long shoots just barely tickle his face with leaves. "Thank you."
"I'm happy to help, it was my fuckup anyway." Cub shrugs. "And you ended up doing most all of the work."
"No, I mean. Thank you. You didn't- You didn't have to." Hotguy repeats, bumping his cheek into a leaf.
"I wanted to."
"...you're something."
Cub waits for further clarification, but none is forthcoming. "Alright." Cub begins gathering up the cart again.
A pause.
"Do you want to keep one of the cakes in here?" Cub offers, watching Hotguy wrap up placing the plants near the window in a pleasant little cluster.
"I- Yes." Hotguy returns with quick strides, as if Cub might yank this away if he didn't move quickly enough. "Which one?"
"Any one you like." Cub gestures, making sure he's not blocking any.
Hotguy only stares at Cub for long moments, before pointing blind to a cake. "That one." Lemon drizzle with candied flower garnish.
"An excellent choice." Cub transfers the chosen cake to Hotguy's desk. "See you around."
There's the sound of some sort of vocalization behind Cub, as he exits, but then he's gone behind the click of a lock with only silence chasing him.
Someone's been in Cub's apartment.
Nothing's missing, but things have been. Touched. Put back imperfectly.
Cub’s feet carry him before his brain can catch up, to Hotguy’s door.
Unlocked.
Cub feels fumbling even though he isn’t.
“Hotguy!” Cub bursts into the room, expecting to find it empty, or worse-
Hotguy’s sleepy snuffling greets him, messy hair rolling over to take in Cub, top to bottom. A sharp grin grows to take the place of that sleepy stupor.
Cub can’t care about that, though. Like a magnet drawing him forward, hands seeking- He collapses to his knees at Hotguy’s bedside, crumpling forward to drape on the bed. Relief undoes him, unreasonably.
The silence goes on and on.
This time Cub does fumble when putting his words together, awkward blocks never quite right, but as best as he can do. "I thought- That someone bad had found you. Had hurt you."
The noise Hotguy makes is soft, not quite a gasp. Almost enough to get Cub to look up at him-
Hotguy's hand settles in Cub's hair, petting.
That's... nice. Huh.
Cub allows himself to relax, cheek pressed to blanket warm from Hotguy's body heat. Slow breaths to calm his racing heart. His upended mind.
Hotguy is safe, that's the important part. This- Cub can deal with the rest of it. He will.
"I forgot to grab your meal." Cub tries to stand-
Hotguy's firm touch, pressing his head into the bed. "Stay, for a bit. Like this."
"Alright." Cub doesn't have anywhere else to be. His work will wait, hours flexible as he's set it up currently.
Being here is... weirdly nice. This moment. The quiet between them. Cub lets himself zone out and appreciate it fully.
"You really do trust me, don't you? You trust Hotguy." Hotguy muses above him.
Cub turns the question over in his brain, considering. "I do not believe you harbor me any malice."
"I should."
"I do not believe you are a man of shoulds, either."
Hotguy laughs, twirling one of Cub's curls on his finger. "You haven't cooked a single one of my meals."
"Do you want your food now?" Cub rolls his head, glancing at Hotguy.
"I want you to make me something."
Cub barely parts his lips, to offer something better, ordered in, when some kind of senseless sense stops him. He wants Hotguy comfortable enough to ask for things. He should be encouraging this.
And when will he ever get to make food for Hotguy again?
"I'll see what I can do." Cub nods.
The loss of Hotguy's hand in his hair does something inside him that Cub won't be examining. He's got a task to do. Standing. Steady strides out the door.
What does he even have? What can he make without having Hotguy wait forever?
In the end, Cub keeps it simple. Sandwich and chips. Some fresh juice on the side.
Showing off would be impractical when this simply isn't a skill he's mastered, or even much thought about before, so he's playing to his own familiarity. What he makes for himself, the exact same steps every time with the exact same ingredients.
Cub even remembers to make his own sandwich to bring, as well.
This time, Cub knocks, and is invited in warmly. Hotguy is already sitting at the desk, only wearing a pair of sleep pants. The view grinds Cub’s thought processes to a halt. Defined bunches of muscles over shoulders, pocks and divots of scars, rippling with Hotguy’s turn. Hotguy’s smile, loose and warm. Hotguy’s chest-
The weight of a plate, lifted from Cub’s hand.
Right.
Cub’s legs walk him over to the bed, taking a seat himself.
“Not a cook then, I take it?” Hotguy asks.
“I mostly order in.”
“Surprised I didn’t set you back to ramen and pb and j.”
“I know my way around a bidding floor.”
“I should have told them to raise my price.”
Cub lists off the exact amount he paid for Hotguy.
Hotguy flinches and swears.
Cub doesn’t ever remember hearing Hotguy swear before. Neat.
In lieu of answering, Hotguy demolishes half of his sandwich. Sloppy, enthusiastic munching.
Cub works through his own sandwich.
"Very standard, by the book- Mm?" Hotguy picks a wide, translucent ribbon of orange out of his sandwich. "Or so it seems on the surface." Hotguy dangles the strip over his own head and snaps it up. Cub watches Hotguy’s throat work to swallow it down, and thinks of absolutely nothing.
Somehow, Cub's sandwich is gone, and he has no memory of the physical actions of eating it. He must have, he tastes it lingering in his mouth.
"I wouldn't mind if you made me things more often." Hotguy smiles at Cub and- And that's something. That's something.
"I'll see. If there are things." Cub unsticks his mouth to answer.
"Good. I look forward to it." Hotguy winks.
"Do you-"
"I wouldn't want to keep you from your business. You may go." Hotguy dismisses.
So Cub leaves. Closing the door proper, clicking the lock into place. Double checking the lock. Triple checking his front door lock.
He'd never considered before, about how those locks were protecting Hotguy, from any malicious sorts that might trace him here.
No one should be able to trace him here. Cub finds no signs of tampering on his front door.
There's something Cub's missing, a connection he can't make, a conclusion he can't come to. Not with his head like this. Distracted. That's the word for it.
He has to put it aside, come back around to it with a clearer head.
Some work ought do it. Something normal and enjoyable to settle his skin.
Later, a work and delivered meals amount of time later, Cub tucking himself into bed later, Cub wonders what Hotguy does all day in there.
The point of Cub not stocking the room with any entertainment was to encourage Hotguy in his escape attempts, but that doesn’t seem to be having the desired effect. Hotguy has shown no real signs of attempts to leave.
What does it mean?
Cub doesn't find an answer before sleep finds him.
Days follow pleasant patterns. Cub gets comfortable, structuring his days around bringing Hotguy meals, spending a bit of time talking, and then going about doing whatever work needs doing remotely. The time passes smoothly.
Feels like it'd be gauche for him to ask when his open-ended invited guest plans to leave, especially when the exit is supposed to be a breakout. So Cub figures he'll enjoy the time he has, and when it happens, it happens.
Cub gets his picture with Hotguy, several pictures with Hotguy doing all sorts of different silly poses.
One picture of Hotguy looking at Cub with an expression similar to the way Cub feels when looking at a particularly cryptic sudoku, tucked in among those, the camera going off sooner than either of them expected that time.
Cub saves and backs up all of the pictures, cherished memories made digitally manifest.
Cub's alarm goes off.
Cub opens his eyes, to a mask inches from his face.
"You sleep like the dead."
Cub passes out.
So maybe his dreams have been a little weird lately.
Cub doesn't think much of it. None of it changes anything.
Hotguy has been here for- Going on two weeks soon. A week longer than Cub expected.
He's everything Cub expected. He's so much more than Cub expected.
He's bravado and wit, but he's also soft words, gentle touches to the leaves of his plants. He's off-key singing, and eyes that lock onto Cub relentlessly. He's sleepless nights and winding rants under the tracing rays of moonlight.
He's a part of Cub's routine.
It's going to hurt.
It's going to hurt when he's gone and Cub is too selfish to care, too greedy to back off. Too covetous to spare himself that pain by detaching early.
Why lose even a single moment before he must?
So Cub orders in new meals for Hotguy to try, builds tables and charts of which things Hotguy likes of those, and makes webs of other things he might enjoy from that.
So Cub doesn't know what to do when he gets up, makes his way to the kitchen, and his mug of water is already standing there, warm, at the table.
More importantly, so is-
"I finished off your milk. You need to get more interesting cereals." Hotguy waves his spoon around, flicking off droplets of milk.
"I'll. Put it on the list." Cub shuffles over and does just that, typing it into the panel hanging on his fridge.
Hotguy is sitting at his breakfast table. What.
Cub looks back over to him happily munching away at his sludgy bowl of what looks to be as much sugar as it is cereal. That's Hotguy alright, and he's in fine spirits.
Okay. This is Cub's morning.
Cub blindly walks through his pastry arrival, until he's back sitting at the kitchen table. With Hotguy. Huh.
The thing is, this... isn't actually all that different. A different room, but they're still sharing a meal. Familiar enough.
Routine enough.
Hotguy finishes up his bowl, and wanders- Somewhere? Away.
Maybe this was a last hurrah. A final treat. A sweet gesture.
Cub- He'll deal with cleaning down Hotguy's room later. He has work to do first. Proposals to go over, meetings to plan, and check-ins with his teams.
Awareness of his surroundings returns abruptly, a creaky joints amount of sitting later, with a heavy hand on Cub's shoulder.
"I made grilled cheese. And soup." Hotguy informs Cub.
Blink. Hotguy's still here. "Okay." Cub allows Hotguy to lead him to the kitchen, suddenly aware of the pungent scents of toasted cheese and burnt tomato.
"I added a few things to the list, so I can do a better one next time." Hotguy adds, seating Cub in front of what- Well, it looks like a real meal. Grilled cheese, the bread crusty and cheeses oozing, and tomato soup, red and a little lumpy with dark bits.
“Thank you.” Cub can’t keep the wobbly hint of awe from his voice. Hotguy has made him a thoroughly mediocre grilled cheese meal, and his chest is doing the kind of thing that makes him want to do a health workup on himself.
“Someone had to show you what a homecooked meal is like.” Hotguy brags, in between bites of his own food.
It’s not as good as his ordered meals. It’s the best thing Cub’s ever eaten. The two truths struggle to reconcile inside Cub’s brain.
"You didn't. You could have just. Left." Cub discovers the words as he's saying them.
Hotguy fixes him with a look, then shrugs. "Can't. Being held captive by a dastardly and dashing villain, you know. Nothing to do for it."
"I see." And maybe the shape of something is starting to form in Cub's mind's eye. No rushing it, though. He'll just have to see what it settles into.
In the meantime, he's got some chewy soup to finish.
Hotguy doesn't cook every meal for them after that, but he does make frequent visits to claim the kitchen. Locking himself back into his room each time after.
It's honestly a little bit impressive, Hotguy's commitment to the seeming of being captured, while flouting the actuality of it.
And Hotguy always has a quip ready for why he can't leave.
"My plants would miss me."
"I've forgotten what a door is."
"Evil trapped mind control collar."
That one Hotguy had accompanied with a spin to show off the silly ribbon he'd tied in a bow around his own neck.
Hotguy is just so lively. Alive. Bright. He's noisy, clattering around Cub's spaces, a presence Cub can't help but be aware of.
Which is surprisingly nice.
Cub always has his own room to retreat to if it becomes too much, but otherwise they both orbit around the shared spaces throughout the day, doing their own things.
So Hotguy just sort of. Lives here now, with Cub. That's fine.
With Hotguy more... settled in, as it were, Cub takes a day to actually stop in to his main office proper, catch up on things he has to be physically present for.
Overall, a productive day. Cub even finds himself looking forward to finding out what Hotguy has been up to while he was gone.
Even if it's just a nap, the surprise and discovery and anticipation is still nice.
The surprise that greets Cub when he gets back is- Less nice.
A crunching shatter greets him as he shuts his front door. "Hotguy!?" Cub calls, feet already moving.
Cub's laptop, guts spilled out harsh-dark over bright kitchen tiles. A halo of screen-shards. Hotguy, standing over it, with Cub's favorite sweater and a knife. One of the good cooking knives Cub had gotten for Hotguy. Sharp, wickedly sharp.
Hotguy holds Cub's gaze with intensity, stabbing and tearing through the sweater until colorful confetti rains down in mourning over the corpse of Cub's laptop.
"There! You can't- You care about those, you can't just excuse Ho-"
Cub crosses the space, ignoring the knife as he pulls Hotguy close.
Hotguy flinches. Drops the knife. Pulls away.
"You-"
"I'm sorry." Cub says, staying where he was left, hands flexing uselessly.
"Stop it! Stop! You can't just- You're not this much of a pushover!" Hotguy rants, gestures sharp.
"I'm not." Cub agrees. "But I am sorry that I couldn't see you were hurting. Was I hurting you?" He doesn’t understand. He wants to understand. He wants to do better. He’d thought they were both happy, not just himself.
"You can't- Don't just brush off Hotguy hurting you!" Hotguy's voice tints up into hysteria.
"I'm not. Like, man. This sucks. A lot? A lot, geez. I might not be able to get that stuff back. And I'll deal with that. But right now, man? This isn't about me. This isn't about Hotguy. This is about you. You're hurting. You did that for a reason. Help me understand." Cub lays out his thoughts, cleanly, calmly.
Hotguy gives a banshee shriek of a wail, crashing himself into Cub.
Cub holds tight to the inconsolable man Cub's come to care quite deeply for, regardless of how confusing his actions can be. No more words pass between them that evening.
Time and trembling lead Cub to guide Hotguy around the hazardous technological grave, over to the couch. A comfortable place for them to sit, tucked close together. To fall exhaustedly asleep, on one another.
After that, Cub rarely finds Hotguy anywhere other than the kitchen.
For the first couple days, that doesn't ring as odd. Hotguy had already been voraciously consuming everything about cooking he could get his hands on, mostly videos and picture-heavy recipes. Been practicing whenever the fancy took him.
Cub doesn't really get what all the fuss with food is about, but diving into the hobby quite evidently makes Hotguy happy, so Cub encourages him with new pans and tools and whatever ingredients he asks for.
This, however, doesn't look like it's making Hotguy happy. The dark rings under his eyes that Cub hasn't seen since the early days after Hotguy's arrival come back with a vengeance. Day after day, darker.
Hotguy doesn't seem to stop moving, doesn't stop talking. He demands Cub taste things, but never quite gets full meals up. Says he's eating enough, but Cub's not entirely sure Hotguy actually knows what that would be.
"Hey, come take a break with me?" Cub asks, inserting himself in between Hotguy and the counter. Cub had learned any less will get him ignored.
"Sure, sure. Just give me a moment to wrap this up." Hotguy assures, trying to get around him.
This too, is a trap, Cub had discovered. There's always something that needs just one more finishing touch, lately. Last time, after accepting that answer, Cub had eventually fallen asleep on the couch to the constant refrain of 'just a minute'. Alone.
This time, Cub remains steadfast, unbudging from Hotguy's way.
“I’d rather now.” Cub asserts.
“Well, I’m busy now.”
“You’ve been busy for days. You haven’t slept.”
“How-” Hotguy pauses, really looking at Cub for the first time all conversation.
“I don’t want to ignore you hurting.”
“I’ve pushed myself harder than this before. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to.” Not anymore.
“I do!” Hotguy’s words burst out. “I have to do this!”
Cub pushes down his stubborn reflex to insist that’s not the case. What could possibly be that vital? Nothing he can think of.
But this isn’t about him, his ideas, is it?
“Why?” Cub asks, openly, attentively.
"It has to be perfect, I have to make it perfect." Hotguy looms, moving into Cub's space.
"What?" Cub just blinks up at him.
"This. Something. Anything. Just one dish. One perfect dish for you. I'll make this perfect cake and you'll eat it and you'll understand everything I can't say-"
Cub carefully lifts his arms, tugging lightly at Hotguy. This time, Hotguy slumps into Cub. Heavy head resting on Cub's shoulder. Cub moves his arms, placing them around Hotguy. "If there's stuff you can't say yet, that's fine. I'll wait. Do it in your own time, when it feels right. We don't have to rush, and it doesn't have to be perfect."
Hotguy holds him for a very long time.
They end up in the living room, watching movies, still tucked in one another's arms on the couch. Cub finds the closeness oddly comfortable.
After that, a new routine gradually settles into place. Not all that different than the previous, with quietly shared meals as cooked by Hotguy and as ordered in by Cub both. But now with the addition of movie nights, Hotguy flinging himself gleefully at the couch, bouncing and babbling away.
Cub takes his own chair off to the side for the first portion of the evening, until Hotguy has used enough energy to settle some. However long that takes. Afterward, Cub transfers over to the couch, settling in so they can lean together, watching whatever catches their interest.
A good way to unwind and cap off a day.
After a solid week to get used to it, Cub decides that he likes the new routine. Comfortable.
Another day, like any other. Cub's alarm. Get up, stretch, get dressed, greet the sun.
Into the kitchen for breakfast, and catching up on his news feeds.
Hotguy, already at his table. A nod. Hotguy knows by now not to expect words out of Cub this early. Takes nods and waves and little hums as happily as any other greeting.
So they settle in, Cub with his danish and water, and Hotguy with his horrifying cereal abomination.
Comfortable quiet.
"Call me Scar." Words, unexpected and tumbling.
Cub glances up from his e-reader to see that Hotguy has unmasked at the breakfast table. Respectfully, habitually, Cub averts his eyes.
"No, look at me, please. I'm- I'm Scar." Something raw and vulnerable crawls in those words.
Cub doesn't want to look, the momentary certainty that it'll hurt, but. This is important. He can look when it's important. A connection Cub chooses to make.
Cub meets- He meets Scar's eyes, straightforward and steady. "Alright, nice to meet you, Scar. Nice to meet you." Cub gives a nod.
The bright bloom of Scar's delighted smile lingers with Cub, as Cub takes a sip of his water and goes back to reading his business reports.