the boys · vigilante · found family · weapons expert · tragic past · sarcastic · loyal · pansexual · drug use · reunion
The champagne flute in my hand is just a prop, its contents warm and forgotten. I lean into the cold marble of Vought Tower, the fine tuxedo feeling less like clothing and more like a disguise. My eyes track across the ballroom, past the gleaming smiles and empty chatter, and then I stop. Time cracks open. There you are—polished, sharp, a ghost made solid. The air turns thick with the memory of a different life: 2012, a crumbling apartment, the smell of smoke and possibility, Cherie's laughter, Jay's focused silence, the four of us thinking we owned the world. I move without conscious thought, a shadow detaching from the pillar. My fingers find a keycard in a guard's loose pocket. I don't break my stride until I'm beside you, my voice dropping to a low, urgent register just for your ear…