#secondly: I promise I’m still writing lol I’ve just gotta transfer everything from phone notes to tumblr and then clean it

[pyroclaststan]

“Am I ever gonna get your name?” Ricardo asks, sunset lit like amber against his bronzed brown skin, reminiscent of a painting you’ve seen somewhere by someone who will never catch the colours vividly enough by comparison to what’s before you.

A hard swallow follows that thought—the movement most likely caught with your mask raised as it is. The perspiring rim of your beer sends beads of water that cut paths against the grime that has settled onto your lips and chin.

You are, as always, thinking too much.

Hearing and feeling and seeing too much. Like the burgundy blush across the cheeks of a man who’s only heat and fevers have come from a hard day’s heroics, port infections, and the lipsticks of tabloid flings.

You’re still doing it.

“I know: I ask too much, too often,” he continues in a softer tone, “but I’d really, really like to know. You’ve gotta be someone other than ‘Sidestep.’ Who’s under the mask?”

It’s almost an aside with the way his voice goes far too soft, as if the question were more of a prayer to some distant deity listening far too closely to the business of mortal men. He stumbles on, uncharacteristically hesitant enough for you to know he’s sincere: he’s trying his best to patient when he’s only ever been about being on the move. Charge changing pace?

He’s speaking like you do. Less stutter though.

You tilt the bottle upwards and let the bitter hops wash down panic that threatens to lodge itself in your throat and choke you. It seems that beneath the bile and nerves, it’s actually words holding themselves hostage in your mouth. A taste far more bitter than anything Ortega has ever brought you to drink.

But isn’t he right? You have to be someone at the end of it all. You have to be someone right now: no more mimicking and miming and piecemealing from the minds you pick like carrion to get through the day. You have to be you, whoever that’s going to be.

You swish once, then twice, letting the mouthful swirl around your brain as you fish for answers with your tongue. A swallow of decision.

It’s an unintentionally hard sigh that slips through your lips. You will regret this: not because of him, but because you will not live up to the humanity a name will give you. Or so you think.

You do think too much.

“Kingsley.” The word—the name—comes too easily and unbidden to your mouth and sits too heavily in the air.

That’s probably a foolish name, a suspicious name... definitely a name meaning little-to-nothing for someone self-made. Now that you’re actually thinking, it probably sounds as fake as your presence in his life, and your dread is palpable as he mouths it, tasting the authenticity of it. Perhaps setting it against the memories he has of you that he has yet to admit to having, or against some cover name he’d heard you called back when you were another rough soul on the streets.

“Kingsley,” he repeats with an air of breathlessness, of reverence, of relevance you’ve never thought yourself owed nor deserving of.

It’s a single word, your word—your name—yet it knocks the breath from you. Feels right, despite it all. And more so, it feels safe on his tongue, locked away behind his lips or the brilliant grin he shines your way, somehow eclipsing the blinding glow of the Los Diablos sun.

You stop thinking so much, probably still too much, but the thoughts aren’t threatening in the way they were earlier. The hum from Ortega’s mind, mods, and mouth is grounding in a way you hadn’t expected of the electric hero. Everything is duller yet more crisp in the same moment, buzzing almost. Not as tense as before.

Now is your focus on the cool glass in your hands, moistening your glove’s fabric and resting in your palm like relief.

Now is the almost musical tune to the way he whispers your name over and over under his breath as if trying to find the perfect tone to it, accompanied by the rhythm your dangling leg taps away at against the side of the roof.

You’ve never sat this still since your life started.

But now is filled with the static that builds in the air, his feelings reflecting in his mods that make his hands almost crackle with electricity—he didn’t protect his exposed palm ports from his wet bottle.

You’re not sure if the charge in the air is that alone, but you’ve no intention to even mention that.

A soft chuckle reverberates in his throat and despite any kind of telepathic connection due to the storm cloud of his mind, you could swear you almost feel it in your own, too. A curious thing from a mind you’ll never know; thoughts and jokes and ideas that pass by you whether you know it or not. Privacy, secrecy. Exciting, terrifying.

He glances your way as you take another sip, then turns a little more, striking a sort of pose as he bends his knee and leans his arm against it, resting his head against his hand. Nothing good will come from his buzz. The grin on his face has replaced his previous expression from wonder to down-right mischief.

“So,” he drawls along, sing-songy, “Will I ever get a last name too?”

“Good night, Ricardo Ortega,” you say with finality, but not without a tone of amusement. Also rubbing it in a little, you can’t resist being an ass in the face of his charms sometimes.

Charms? No no no, his attempts to be charming.

On that note, you finish the rest of your drink quicker than necessary, setting the bottle between the two of you just a little too hard. You stand, keeping a careful balance on at the roof’s ledge, unfurling your limbs to your full height with a stretch and shaking out the numbness and tingles from the way you ball yourself up.

“See you, uh… see you in the next fight.”

Ricardo looks up at you, almost gilded—certainly golden; you’ll never visit another museum again. After his presence, you know they’ll never do beauty any justice. None of those paintings or artefacts would alight the same flame in you as they used to: they don’t carry the same impact as an evening on a Los Diablo rooftop. You suppose that means something, but you’ve yet to figure it out. Or maybe you’re just ignoring it, equally likely.

Something’s changed you think.

Ortega is still there, still watching you with some expression you’ve avoided too much to know.

“Looking forward to it… Kingsley,” he tries out, smiling, satisfied. You could swear his face grew a little brighter.

And with that, you’re off, running and vaulting across the gaps of the buildings, moving freely up and down the heights of roofs and fire escapes and whatever else you can find purchase on. Free running in an attempt to outpace whatever it is that nips on your heels and churns in your stomach.

Kingsley. You let out a breathless chuckle, not entirely devoid of mirth but a little exasperated with how you gave in to him. Again. You’re stuck with that one now.

Ricardo sits there, staying behind, watching you go, wondering what kind of place you rest in when he’s not attached to your hip or settled against your back. He wonders what kind of people take care of you or watch your back in his absence. He hopes you don’t have to do it all alone.

He also knows you’d prefer it if you did, but it just sounds lonely. You feel lonely. Like you could use someone who won’t just let you push them away.

He won’t let go that easily, not when he sees how soft and how warm you can be underneath it all.

He thinks he’d like to meet the real you, underneath it all.

“Kingsley.”

The taste of your name sits so sweet against his lips that it clashes against the beer on his tongue: he couldn’t remember having purchased something so bitter. Something with so much bite.

Right. It had reminded him of you. He’d pick a different one next time.

With your absence the night feels like it’s getting colder, faster—like the drinks are going flat and the air tasting stale. Probably just the tiredness catching up to him: he sees a lot more action-packed days when his partner is cracking skulls alongside him. Partner. He’s got to admit, it’s nice to have someone outside the team watching his back—even a vigilante—when you’re Marshal. It’s not a paycheck, or a duty, it’s choice you made.

Just like you giving him your name. You could’ve said no: you’re never shy about doing so. It wasn’t a nickname, a shortened version, a riddle. Just you.

His cheeks and stomach are both a little warmer at that, and he stands up to shake it all off and get moving. The last hour had been more eventful than any fight they’d picked today. Sure, it wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, with Sidestep—Kingsley—it never was, but it had felt like more was said than ever before.

It feels like something has shifted.

Probably just the balance between the two of you, now that he’s finally receiving knowledge about you in return. Not that he’s minded giving more than you have: the best things take the most work, offer the most challenge. Except you’re not work.

He’s thinking too much—he does that, he’s told.

So he lets his mind wander. Tracing back to past moments, little confessions, brief gestures, and all the small things that mean more with Kingsley than anyone else on Earth.

“Too much,” he chuckles internally, but unwilling to stop.

Something’s shifting.