Archive of Our Own

If he had to describe himself, Flambae would need three words, and three words alone: 

Hot, strong, heroic. Two of these were objective. 

If he had to tell the truth?

Chad exists in pieces. Most of them not good. But trying their best not to be worse. 

They certainly wouldn’t be good enough for Mecha Man.

Which makes every news outlet in Torrance deciding he and Robert  must be fucking all that more confusing.

‘Mecha Man and Hot Fire Guy, – SDN’s hidden couple?! Real, Not Clickbait’

“They didn’t even give you a name?!” 

Sonar laughs, which Flambae would love to hear, normally, but not now. “Dude. If I were you, I’d eat this guy. Do you want me to eat this guy? I can totally eat this guy.”

The video in question, plastered on Sonar’s phone and every other screen available, was entirely innocent. Captured by some teenager’s shaky fingers, nervous giggles, and posted for their 12 followers to laugh at. 

Robert, suit back on with fresh steel, engines roaring across LA’s skyline, like a Greek myth revived. 

You don’t have to peek inside that armor to tell he’s smiling. 

It’s been dripping off him for weeks. This smirking smugness. Knowing death reached for him, and death missed. 

And the 12 million views shot: 

Flambae. More specifically, in his arms, clinging to his neck, eyes big, sharp with focus, and gleaming worship. Or some angry, raised in hell version of it. 

Prism howled, sending him 10 copies of it.

 “Foul. At least they got your good side! Which is all sides, “ She was trying to console him, and half of it worked. The other half was a laughing stock, for the time being. 

The others, — safe for Phenomaman, Waterboy, and Golem, weren’t much better.

The conference room was soon jeering. Coop, barely restraining a gremlin smile from her lips, pointed a blade at him. 

“Good shift, Princess Peach. “

“Shut up and be ominous," He sneered, heat soaring from every pore. “I held your hand when you got alcohol poisoning from reading The Lovers Gambit. You have no right to judge me.”

“ Is a butter knife still not a knife?”

“You,” he pointed, “are a FAKE tall, dark, mysterious assassin, and I’ll prove it one day. “

Punch Up, traitor number one, chuckled, heavy hand slapping his back. “ My Coop’s right, lad! You looked mighty intimidating, snuggled up to Mecha Man. What’s the fuss?”

Prism, traitor number two, snorted. “Which is where you wanna be anyway. This is a non-issue.”

“I, for one, think you made a powerful princess.” Phenomaman assured him, solemn and serious. “Also, I believe one of your nipples was photographed.”

“Okay, you’re the only one I don’t hate right now,” Flambae grittter. ”But you’re on thin fucking ice.”

“No, I am not. I’m sitting in a chair. Which is too small for my backside.”

The meeting room was soon filled with relentless jeering, and Flambae, – or a part of him that never left that bank, — wished Robert would’ve brought that blade a little higher. 

Flambae scoffs, tuning away the team’s ribbing.

 It’s hazing. It’s normal. It’s them, and he grew the skin for it. He knows when they hurt someone on purpose. It’s not that.  

Something unsure and scarred and pained flared inside regardless. It clawed from gut to chest, from lung to ribs. Paper sharp, and stupid, and  alive anyway. 

Every movement said everything he already thought, repeated, and believed to the bone. 

‘Maybe they tolerate you. Maybe they even like you. But they don't respect you. Real heroes don't get saved. ‘

Mecha Man walks into the room like destiny sent him to confirm that personally. 

Everything Robert Robertson, — monotone, dull, mortal, —  fades when the blue drops.

He’s got that battlefield shine to him, in and out of the armor.

His step takes up more room, his spine stands straighter, eyes sharper, keener, brighter. From rum dark, to glossy cognac. 

The change in pressure is noticeable. 

Everyone knows it. From that tiny gleam in their eye to their awestruck grins. That childish fire you get when a real hero enters your field of existence. 

The mask hides his freckles. 

Flambae hates it. 

“Hello, team, —“

“Shut your bitch mouth.”

Robert passes him a glare, — barely. “And hello to you too, hot fire guy. What’s the matter? Tooth fairy didn’t leave a tip?”

 The bastard knew. Of course he did.

So why is he so unbothered? 

The team, perhaps predictably, continued their crooning session. Flambae’s lungs blushed.

Eventually, it becomes too unbearable, “Can you all shut up and let Mecha Bastard wrap up this meeting?! I have a life and a dick to get to!”

At this point, Robert’s grin dropped. Partial amusement turned into permanent stoicness, and a feeling Flambae wasn’t able to name. 

His tone didn’t change by much, — which, as always, showed little interest in Flambae’s existence, and finally sat himself at the head of the table. 

“I assume you mean a date?”

“ I ‘assume’ you want my fist in your mouth, because yo’re not talking. You brought us here to bitch and moan about field conduct, right? Do that.”

“Date with who?! You didn’t tell me anything!” Prism accused, — but in all fairness, she had reason to. They shared everything . “Is it that Dylan guy? The one with the British accent?”

“Dylan.” Robert repeated, like tasting something nasty. His gaze turned to Coop, voice unreadable. “Do we know a Dylan?”

“Nope,” the woman confirmed, not leaving Flambae out of her vision. “I don’t know any Dylan. Knuckles?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Waterboy, do you,—“

“Do not,” Flambae pointed at the man in question, “finish that sentence, Waterslide.”

Waterboy yelped, “I didn’t even say anything, you— you  jerk!”

“Tell him to put that stutter back,” Flambae told Prism, thumb pointing to her boy.

“Nah, you deserve that, baby. But like…” Even through monochromic, shiny glass, he can just tell her eyes turned worried. “You sure? It’s movie night.”

“You guys are gonna survive fine without me. That whole idea was stupid, anyway.”

Robert raised a brow. “It was your idea.”

That, Flambae had no choice but to grumble at. 

As most events gone wrong in his life, it was self-made. He just offered it because Prism didn't want to take the drive on her day off. 

What started off as Robert gathering them at Flambae’s penthouse once a month for training drills, blurred into bad movies, cheating at Monopoly, and him cooking for 8 hungry assholes once a week.

It didn’t matter, he assured himself. 

The date being marked bold red in his calendar meant nothing. 

“Yeah, well. I have a life outside of you,” Flambae retorted, perhaps too quick, perhaps too hot. “Just ‘cause you saved my ass doesn't make you entitled to it, boss.”

An unnatural hush fogged the room over. 

Robert, almost like he timed this reaction, studies him close, gaze fixed and pointed. As if, in this moment, his eyes weren't made for looking anywhere else. 

Flambae wonders if he stares like this at Blazer, too. 

Stalling  for a couple more seconds, their steel-clad leader commands, “ Team? Coffee break. Coop’s in charge.”

“You think we need a babysitter for a coffee break?” Visi teased. “I think we can handle an espresso, dude.”

“You almost threw Herm out the window for taking the last donut. Twice.” 

“I was feeling silly that day.”

Prism lingered for a beat longer, hand patting Flambae’s shoulder twice. His index tapped against the table in return, three beats. A question and an answer. 

Waterboy held the door open for her. Cute dork. 

The door clicked shut. 

Seemingly unfazed by sharing a space with the same person who tried to kill him, — twice, — Robert leaned back, arms folded loosely, barren of tension or concern. 

Like the bank. Like the bar. Like every wrinkle in the pattern of his life.

 An icy composure he couldn't break back then, either. 

 Flambae hissed, lungs thick with smoke, “What, you think getting that cool suit back means your normie ass gets to boss me around, —”

Robert cut him off, raspy voice lax and mocking. “I was bossing you around behind the desk, too. You didn't seem to mind it much.”

His pores flushed to his ears. “We were on the clock. I listened because I’m a certified fucking professional.”

“Uh-huh. Are you gonna tell me what's bothering you,  like a big boy? Or do we need to count to 10?”

“You know exactly what’s fucking bothering me,” Flambae’s hand slapped the table, knocking off some pens. Robert leaned down, picked them up, and sat them neatly in a cup.  “The video, Bob-Bob.”

Robert took a few seconds. Stared. Then, he laughed in that rough, deep way of his. Like his body just remembered it could. 

The nerve. 

“It’s not FUNNY!” Flambae cried out in sheer outrage.

“Actually, it's very funny. Chase made it his profile picture on Twitter. Look, — unless you didn’t read the job description: Saving people is pretty much the whole point.”

“Okay, — you? Didn't save me. You assisted me. Big difference. Big. Huge. Also?!  I didn't need your help!  I was fine.”

“You tried punching a fuel truck. While it was flying towards you. While it was on fire.”

“And?!”

“And then you tripped, hit your head, and sang ‘Rocketman’ the whole way back.” Robert bored. “That’s my new ringtone, by the way. Thanks for that.”

“Of course YOU think so. I’m the loser bitch who got saved.” He spat, lips tucked in an involuntary pout. “Like those assholes needed another excuse not to call me a hero.”

While clearly taking some obnoxious enjoyment out of his misery, Robert’s  brown eyes, —- gentle, beautiful, dangerous, —- made themselves soft.

 “Are you uncomfortable, or just embarrassed?”

“Robert,” Flambae stressed the name, like it’d invoke some much needed clarity. “They’re saying we fucked. You should be both.”

A small grin peeked  under the mask. Beautiful. In the way annoying, damaged, stubborn  things are. 

“My father died pissing himself, I slept in a plastic chair for 3 months, and didn’t know what PTO stood for until I was 26,” He listed, unashamed. “Dating you would be the last thing I’d be ashamed about.”

Flambae wanted to counter that.

To say if his existence was the best part of someone’s life, it was already long past salvaging. But it wouldn’t feel right. 

Not when Robert out-lived everything. 

Sighing, hand dragging over his face, Flambae continued. “You have to tell them we’re not a thing.”

“What, your masculinity can take spandex and Whitney Houston, but not this?” Chuckling, Robert’s eyes crinkled. 

“I literally made up a song about your dick on the spot.  While looking directly at you. That’s not the issue here.” 

Robert shrugged.  “I fail to see the issue at all.”

“The issue is it’s not true!” 

“Look at you,  growing a moral backbone.” The other mused. Flambae itched to burn those Bambi eyelashes. “I didn’t know you were so passionate about ethical journalism. Or that you could read.”

“Fuck off,” Flambae groaned. “I haven’t had a date — or at least a guy who calls my hair hot and buys me snacks, —  in a week. A fucking week, Robert!”

Robert subtly paused, head tilted. “So… No Dylan, then?”

“No Dylan. Because bitch ass Dylan stood me up! You wanna know what he texted me?!” He did not wait for Robert’s reply, phone whipped like a pistol, hovering it in plain view.  “LOOK.”

Robert leaned closer, smile freer now, low voice pulsing laughter. “You have your niece and the team as your wallpaper?”

He panicked. “The phone came like that. Just— read it!”

Artificial light gleams on Robert’s eyes. He winces a little, which is to be expected,  with how much he stares at screens all day. 

Flambae turns the brightness down, and shoves the device back in his face.

——

Dylan <3: Hey so

Dylan <3 : im gonna have to cancel that dinner, actually. for good. 

12:39 

oh. Okay. 

12:40

  No problem. 

12:41

was it the memes? I don’t have to send them.

they just make my friends laugh sometimes. 

they’re kinda dumb actually. Lol.

2: 52

wasting my time: that too tbh

10:35

wasting my time:  no like, ur super hot.  

10:40

but I am NOT fighting Mecha Man. 

 ✌️ 

10:47

Blocked. 

—–

Robert sat back, features blank.

Fist curling over his lips, staring up with shiny eyes, his shoulders  trembling softly, then violently. 

Laughter bubbles from his chest as his body gives up and doubles forward. 

Flambae pocketed his phone faster than Track Star.

 “Fuck you,”  he sneered, blistering heat following the line of his spine. “Fuck you, Robert —-!”

Finishing his little laughing fit, Robert raised a hand, still choking back giggles. “At least, —  at least he’s smart. I’m very serious about you, so—,”

Flambae’s sunburnt humiliation, as powerful and as choking, wasn’t as warm as his chest when Robert laughs. 

“Where’s Golem. Golem! Come here, or I’m setting this little bitch on fire! For REAL this time!”

Chuckles subside gradually, until Robert Robertson is back to his usual form. Hot, stoic, and deceptively soft eyed. 

It always puts a weird, hot knot in Flambae’s throat. 

Like the Sardines. Like Robert ripping and clawing and biting his way to victory, managing to look more human than human.  

He’s got that docile violence to him, like an old dog. 

“He couldn’t handle you, anyway.”

Flambae doesn’t know how to hold that.

Not without gripping it too hard. Not  without hoping something other than teasing was there, when it wasn’t. 

 “Just— throw a goddam press conference. A podcast. Make a fucking tik tok, I don’t know. Just say you’re not into me. “

The fucker smirked. “I don’t know. Maybe you’ll focus better on field work.  Sounds like a win for everyone.”

“Whatever,” Flambae grumbled. “I’ll get a date by my fucking self. Thanks for nothing, Mecha Dick.”

“You’re welcome, asshole.”

Cursing slowly under his breath, eyes set forward, Flambae moves to the door. 

“Oh, and Chad?”

“What now, Robert?!”

He doesn’t turn. If he did, maybe Robert looks as soft as he sounds. “Your hair looks  hot today.”

Flambae trips while running off. 

Victor films it. 

——

He hoped  that little rescue would lose it’s momentum. That it’d eventually fade into LA’s obscurity, like all scandals. 

It didn’t.

His face was on the news. On talk shows. On some podcast clip Sonar saw at 4 in the morning, and sent Flambae 10 saves of. 

It’s not negative. Not exactly. If it was, Robert would’ve already glared it to death. 

It was just weird. 

The last time he got this much attention,  Flambae was burning alive, in a bank he didn’t plan on walking out from, fighting Mecha Man. The city’s golden soldier. Who didn’t want to kill, but didn’t want to lose, either. 

It was noticeable in that article, too, who’s the hero, and who failed at being one. But back then, Flambae’s face didn’t look like that.  

Like someone  grabbed devotion, and told it to walk.

 A part of him fears Robert will notice. The  bigger part of him fears he won’t. 

“…No.”

“Come on, he’s not that bad.”

“Chad,” Prism, tired, endeared, and fed up at once, gestures to his phone. “This man typed ‘dish soap is pretty much lube, right?’ “

 Phenomaman squinted, staring at the screen in scrutiny. “What is his opinion of dogs? And does he believe the power of friendship can conquer all?”

Phen’s  initiation to his and Prism’s friend circle was rather unexpected, but not intrusive. 

 Even if he still hung out with Robert, for the most part, he sort of squeezed himself into being  Flambae’s spotter at SDN’s shitty gym. He thought it was ‘a sign we were welcomed into each other's houses, clearly.’ 

Flambae had no idea where the guy lived. And for both their sakes, he doesn’t ask.

“I’ve talked to him for 5 minutes, Phe— he blocked me. “

Blocked by a guy who isn’t willing to risk it  because a man with freckles and a Chihuahua might get mad. His life was a fucking SNL skit. 

Prism’s hand touches his shoulder. For once, speaking softly. Which she shouldn’t have to do. Especially not for him. “You tried telling Robert about it?”

“That no one wants to date me cause they think I’m fucking him? Yeah. He thinks it’s hilarious. “

“Objectively, it really really is.”

He mutters under his breath, clicking the lid shut on the last lunch box.

 Carefully placed on his kitchen table, there’s eight containers, steaming, color-coded, and labelled. From Prism’s multicolored top, to a frumpy paper bag for Robert. 

“You made him fillet mignon? That’s a husband dinner. “

“It’s NOT. It’s hot, it’s made in a pan, it’s food.  Everyone got the same shit, basically.”

“Hermy got the grilled cheese you dropped on the floor.”

“It’s what he deserves.” 

Besides. He kinda owes  that sweaty prick for stopping him.

If it wasn’t for him, Robert would be ash and bone, and  Flambae would be worse. 

“Here,” Flambae grumbled,  placing a baby blue zip bag on the counter. “Tell him to take those bitch goggles off and he’ll see his name.”

“…Bitch,” Prism beamed, brilliant and shiny. “Is that his grandma’s pasta recipe?”

He should explode, just for the drama. “We text sometimes. Don’t make it weird.”

“You don’t need my help with that. Face it, hottie, — you’re getting soft in your old ass age.”

“I’m literally 36. That’s like… Young, just differently.”

“37! We still gotta do something for your birthday!”

Right. He forgot about that. 

He was hoping she would, too, — or all of them would. 

“ It’s literally just a day. Except Blazer gives you those dumbass birthday cards with the company logo on them. Who gives a fuck?

He kept the last three, but that seems irrelevant. 

“Nonsense!” Phenomaman waved that off, “It is  helpful to keep track of your short, fleeting lifespans! It avoids confusion at medical appointments.”

“And there’s cake,” Prism added. 

“And cake!”

“Come on,” she scoffed, lightly elbowing him in the side. “One day a year it’s all about you, and you wanna miss it?”

“It also means people are, you know. Happy you exist. Kinda not a thing here.”

“On the contrary!” Phen objected, “Our team talked about this event for weeks! Courtney mentioned gifting you a rather strange device. I think it is called a di—“

Flambae stopped him, shoving a sugary treat in his mouth. “I know what Viz got me. I just, — fuck it, I just don’t want a party. Okay? That’s all there fucking is.”

“Right,” Prism mumbled, arms crossed, shades slightly dimmer. “Next year, then?”

His hands still, like they remembered something painful. “…Yeah,” he confirmed, almost gently.  Almost like another self. “Of course next year.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Alright. No party, then. “ She sighed, picking up her phone and dropping next to Phen, cheek resting on his broad back. “No cake, no karaoke, no you. Yeah, they’ll love that.”

For a brief moment, he does want to take it back. He feels bad. Just not bad enough. 

Phen physically deflated. 

Flambae leaned over the counter. “You sad there’s no cake?”

A soggy nod. 

“You wanna play Baldur’s Gate and get the sad out?”

Another, soggier nod. 

——

As predicted, the team’s attitude didn’t get better the next day. Or the day after. 

“Okay,  I have an angry mob boss waiting to get his ass kicked on the 9th. Prism, you’re up. “ Robert instructed.

 Seeing him back in the field was strange. Being on the same side was even weirder. 

Especially with his dispatch voice always staying on. It certainly didn’t get easier for Flambae, now that they shared a route at Robert’s insistence. 

If an eye roll could talk, it’d probably sound like Prism. “And you ain’t sending Coop because…?”

“Because, Coop completed all of her missions without giving me shit  today,” Mecha Man replied, patiently. “ You haven’t.  So get your ass in gear, and be good at your job like you always are.”

“Or what? You’ll cut me? Who do I look like to you? Sonar?”

The hybrid huffed, “Okay. Ow. Accurate, but ow.”

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it, mate.” Mal added playfully, but they all heard that lower voice creep in. 

“She’s been assigned bitch at birth. Now you notice?” Visi chuckled. “What, Waterboy didn’t squirt last night, or—“

“Courtney, you better shut up before I shove my two Grammys up your Red Ring Healthcare ass—,”

The overlapping argument stayed beating in his ear until Flambae finally had enough.

“Leave her the fuck alone.” He ordered, not interested in a debate. “If she doesn’t wanna go, she doesn’t have to. I’m going. There. Get another topic.”

His command stunned the coms quiet. Probably because he was calm, and no one knew how to handle a calm Flambae in any capacity. 

Robert’s voice lowered, disapproval apparent. “That’s not how it works.”

“This shit is so unserious,” Prism grumbled, but he knew. He always did. “You know what? I’m going to my trailer. Bye. Bitches.”

“Alice, don’t you close that com—,”

She closed that com. 

Mecha Man managed to sound exactly like Robert, and a separate entity all together. His voice was deeper, in a way. More imposing, but colder. Calmer, but detached. 

‘All I want is a conversation.’

“You can’t just let them do whatever they want.”

“I’m not ‘letting’ them do shit, “ Flambae narrowed his eyes. “The only one who puts Prism in her place is Prism. And she’s a grown ass woman, in case you forgot.”

“I’m aware, smartass. Which is why I expect more from her. From all of you,” He emphasised. “ You guys aren’t villains anymore. You’re heroes. Act the part.”

He scowled. “She’s a good hero. They all are. Don’t you dare say they aren’t.”

“I’m not.” Flambae hated it. The way  Robert spoke like he was trying to soothe him. “ Look, everyone has their own shit, but you don’t carry it in the field. You don’t make it worse by being difficult.”

“Jesus Christ, Robert, she’s not fucking difficult, she’s just upset!” Flambae’s fingers glowed gold. “Is this your first time having friends, or something?!”

“Actually, asshole, it kinda is! Look, I have issues too, but I don’t take it out on everyone else. That’s not how you solve problems.”

“ That’s because not all of us can kill our  problems like you do!”

Robert said nothing back. Flambae wanted to say less. 

There’s no speech for a good 20 minutes after that. Unless it was clipped orders, or low commands to the suit, Robert kept himself literally shielded. 

Occasionally, Colm quipped here and there, mostly for Flambae’s sake than anything. He chuckled , strained, on the other end. ‘You ain’t bein’ a cunt. That’s worrying.’

Eventually, the clock indicated the shift was just about to end. Sighing, Flambae mentally braced himself.

He calculated the amount of fire needed to hover next to Mecha Man’s shoulder, eclipsing and titanic. 

 Chad bites his tongue, forcing his voice to cooperate,  “No one blames you for that, alright? The bitch grabbed Beef. He had to be put down.”

A metallic chuckle ringed behind the chest plate. “And you know. He shot my father five times. That also feels important.”

“Sure, that, too.  Look, that was fucked up. Especially since I tried to kill you. Twice. So, I’m…” He closes his eyes, lips tight. 

“Uh-huh. Go on, I believe in you.”

“Just, — don’t feel like shit over what I said, alright? I was being an asshole. Won’t happen again,” He paused. “Me bringing up your murder, I mean. I’ll always be an asshole, probably.”

 Robert had the nerve to sound like he was proud of him. “ Bravo. B+ for effort. Apology accepted.”

“Okay, that wasn’t an apology, that was, —-  accountability. Or some shit.”

“Accountability accepted, then. Thank you. I’m very proud of you.” Flambae was very sure  iron hid a smirk from view. 

It doesn’t  hide the arid warmth in his cheeks, thought. 

“Does Dylan still have you blocked, by the way?”

“You know WHAT, Robert—, “

——

The awkward energy was still felt, when they reached the headquarters. 

Now that he’s actually free of his armor, Robert regains some of that casualness everyone got gradually used to.

 He’s in a pair of sweatpants, way too nice to be his, so Flambae guesses Coop loaned it, and a  hoodie, baby blue, with a glossy ‘SDN’ font printed across his chest. 

He  saw it on Mandy, a few times. Flambae does the sensible thing and suppresses.

“What was that about, anyway?” The other asks, taking a mug from the cabinet. “With Prism and the others. “

 Flambae stores the lunches into the fridge, mumbling under his breath. “They’re just grumpy I’m not having a birthday party this year. Fuckin’ babies.”

Robert’s eyebrows frown. “That’s too bad. I bought a card and everything. Best two dollars I ever spent. “

 Pretending a spot on the floor was more important, he hands Robert the track star lunchbox,  “If I did have a party, you wouldn’t be invited.”

“Okay, well, I’m telling Chase, and Chase is telling your mom, — holy shit, is that filet mignon with garlic butter?”

“Yeah, It’s called real food. Crazy shit.”  Flambae also handed him a beat up five dollar bill, like it’s been wrinkled in a fist, unfolded, and wrinkled again.

“Here. Get your vending machine twinks.”

“That’s not what they’re— you know what? Never mind. Too happy.”

He scarfs it down like it’s gonna run from him. 

“If Dylan ever unblocks you, “ Robert, mouth full, but careful, closed his eyes in bliss.  “Tell him he’s a dumbass.”

Flambae decides that satisfied groan doesn’t affect him in the slightest. 

“ So. Prism. What’s up with that? Didn’t exactly feel like one of her ‘diva’ moments.”

Maybe he shouldn’t, but Flambae likes how Robert says people’s names when he’s worried. Like he’s holding something soft. 

“First of all, never say ‘diva’ again. That’s a bad bitch word. And she’s gonna be fine. “

“You sure?” He interrogates, which no one should have the ability to do with garlic sauce on their mouth. 

“Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? We just always celebrate shit together. When her song came on the radio for the first time, she was at my place.  My mom made us dumplings. We threw a party for her. And then we just… Kept doing it. And then I, —-“

Flambae’s teeth sink in his cheek. 

“I did that stupid shit back at the bank.”

He assumes Robert stopped listening around the second bite. 

When he peeks back, Flambae finds himself the center of gravity to brown eyes that have no interest in looking away. 

“Like, pretending to rob the place so you could blow yourself up?”

“I didn’t. I was ACTUALLY robbing the bank! Get in, get out. Like the YouTube tutorial said. And then your Nokia 5000 ass showed up. I didn’t plan for that.”

“Right. All the money got destroyed by the time I got there.“ He paused. “Zero hostages, no casualties, and no victims to testify against you. Because only you burned there.”

The skin across his arms prickles, rain cold, anxious. “What are you trying to say, Mecha Bitch?”

“It’s just weird. How someone so obsessed with his own life doesn’t give a fuck about it.”

Flambae wanted to break this silence hanging like a body over them. Or stomp away. But it’ll always linger between them, something made from venom and truth and history. 

‘You tried to kill yourself. And I saw.’ 

Flambae can run away from Robert, but not away from that. 

“You don’t know shit about me,” He rasps.

“You saw me at my worst, and I saw you at your lowest,” Robert summarized. “ So yeah. I don’t know everything. But I know enough.”

There’s not much to say back to that. Just wishing his worst moment wouldn’t be everything Robert knows. But wishing isn’t the same as doing. That, he always learned the ugly way. 

Robert moves from his chair. Flambae stiffens, for a moment, fists curling, ready for war.

 But instead of a lecture, or a pep talk he only used when he didn’t know what to say, Robert simply stood by him. Hands unsure, a bit clumsy, but loading food anyway.

They packed quietly, undisturbed by words, until Sonar’s box, — grilled mice, peppered, obtained through some very awkward phone calls between Flambae and his usual market, — was in the fridge. 

“If you did throw a party,” Robert tempted. “Where would it be?”

“Crypto.” Flambae instantly replied, thought, his shoulders sagged. “Not like I could. You know, ‘cause Ikea Iron Man  got us banned.” 

“Yeah, pretty sure couples share joint blame for arguing in public,” he mused. “But Crypto. Got it.”

“We’re not a couple. And that’s what you should’ve said 3 weeks ago. Haven’t heard a word of you getting any dates since. Bet you feel real stupid, huh?”

“Actually, it’s been the most relaxing time in my life,” Robert grinned, but still careful. “I’ll say something, okay? Next week. Set up a press conference. Clear everything up. Sound good?”

“It’s a start. And do NOT let Danny Diaz call me a bottom again.”

“I said I’ll clear it up. Not lie.”

Flambae could’ve whipped around and say something scathing, but the tiny drop of liquid alerted them both of someone’s presence. 

Waterboy, for once, was free of his yellow suit. 

Flambae knows Prism’s hands everywhere. That baby blue tee and form fitting jeans and the one bracelet around his wrist was her. 

“Hey, raindrop,” Flambae huffed. “Here, your  lunch is on the counter. Tell your grandma I’ll be there for,—-“

Perhaps it should shock him that Waterboy completely ignored him. It didn’t. This place never showed Flambae any respect, so why start now?

Instead, he walked, — marched, —- straight to Robert. 

“Sir,—- Robert, —,” Hermy took a breath, taking control of his words.  “I— I know Prism wasn’t the easiest to deal with today, but — you can’t — you will not. Speak to her like that. She’s smart, she’s powerful, she's brilliant, and she can take it but-,” the last part sat firm. “I don’t want to hear it again. A-Are we clear?”

Robert blinked. 

“…Okay.”  He nodded. Flambae didn’t miss that note of approval, or the slight pride in his eye. “You got it. Good job for speaking out.”

“And— just to be clear, she did not need me to speak up for her. I — did it so she wouldn’t have to.”

“Yeah, she put Sonar’s guano in my coffee mug. I got the message. Won’t happen again. “

“Oh, thank God, no more confrontation,” Herm exhaled in pure relief. 

A grin raised on Flambae’s lips, hand smacking Herm’s back, almost causing that wet noodle to fall over. “Hell yeah! Good for you, Hermit. That was so hot.”

“Oh,” Robert scoffed, eyebrows raised. “So he’s your type, then? Got it.”

“I’m just going through dick withdrawal. Thanks to you.”

“Sounds like I should fix it, then.” 

“Yeah! Good luck with your press conference. You’re gonna look dumb as fuck.”

Robert shot him a look of exhaustion, took his lunch, and walked off. A piercing scream of frustration rang through the hall. 

“Huh. The hell’s his problem?”

“You two are gonna have a beautiful divorce one day.”

“Okay, we really need to put that stutter back on you.” 

—-

The mission was fucked. 

Shroud tech Robert missed. Coop was injured. Prism took a hard fall, Sonar’s wing got fucked up, and Robert’s brute force was no help against that thing. 

It was big. A mechanical, scary looking, big ass war rig of a bird. Phoenix themed. 

Fitting. 

Even Blazer and Phenomaman, blurs of red and gold and too stubborn to stop, weren’t enough.

 It’s not that they couldn’t kill it. They could. They have. Over, and over, and again.  

 It was already dying. It just refused to die alone.

It stays above Los Angeles like an apocalypse in motion, bringing hell down on them.

The air reeked of  burnt hair, and roasted meat, and something Chad didn’t want to call familiar. 

“Robert,” Blazer’s voice cut through the open com-lines. It’s bled and strained. Like she saw half of Torrance burn down already. 

 Because she did.

 “If we don’t get this thing out of here, it’s gonna burn out and take everything within a 300 miles radius down with it. Including us.”

Chase scoffed. Flambae could picture him grabbing the monitor, like he could shake it to his senses. Roy’s age control serum will do that to you. 

“Fuck you mean, us?! That flaming asshole’s gonna be okay! WE’RE the dead motherfuckers here!”

“Nobody’s a dead motherfucker.” Mecha Man, — Robert, — both, —- snarled through the lines.

He must be cooking alive under that cool, bright, handsome suit.

“ That thing feeds off the strongest climate patterns it can find. If we get a high enough heat source, we can get it away from the city.”

“Right,” Sonar drawled. “Unless your armor moisturises daily, and can carry 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit, we’re pretty fucked here.”

“We’re not fucked. Just, — God damn it, let me think. “

“…If we don’t survive this, you guys should know,” the coms cracked. Or maybe it was just Victor’s voice. “I love you assholes. Also, I’m 3 months sober. I was gonna say it at Flambae’s birthday. I had a cool speech.”

Yeah, they were fucked. 

The phoenix screeches across the mars red skyline when Robert stabs it, and with a flick of it’s wing, Mecha Man goes down, landing right at Flambae’s feet. 

If the suit’s metal burns, Flambae’s hands don’t feel it. He grabs the edges of the chestplate, rips titanium clear off, and gets his boy right out of there. 

“Guess you’re still,” Robert chokes on smoke, freckles smudged with grey snoot, covered in cold, flimsy sweat  down to his stupid sky blue shirt. “babysitting me, huh?”

“Don’t talk, dumbass,” He whispers, laying him gently on the ground. “Your normie lungs are fucked up.”

“Can just— say lungs—,”

“Robert,” Chad’s voice cuts through, rough, calm, and knowing exactly where he’s going. 

It feeds off the strongest. 

It was already decided. It always was.

“…I have a plan.”

The team gathered. 

Punch Up and Visi on Prism’s diamond bright path, Waterboy on Malevola’s back, out of energy and spent. Phenomaman carrying both Sonar and Blazer, and Golem trying to shield them from flame. 

Like he always does. 

They always orbit around Robert, like something that came into this world already whole. 

“Chad,” Robert trembles, helped to his feet by Visi and Coop. “Chad, I’m talking to you, —!”

Flambae wasn’t looking at him. If he did, he wouldn’t go.

He looked at Blazer, face not moving. She always knew where he’d end up. That’s why she signed off on his admission. 

Her throat climbs and lowers and her vision is golden with water. 

But she nods. 

Robert, dizzy still, but just conscious enough for his pupils to shrink, shouted, “What the hell?! No, —-“

“Mallie,” Flambae turns to Mal, glorious, immortal with exhaustion. Flame already crawled on him, like a third skin, flickering, sentient. “Portal. Now.”

Yellow eyes narrowed down, hesitant. As if she could read Chad’s mind and hated what she found. “…No, mate, come on—,”

“Mal, open a fucking portal.” 

“Malevola,” Robert forced, voice burnt and calm. “Do not open that portal. Do you hear me? That’s an order.”

“Fuck his orders, Mal, — listen to me!” Chad shouted. Not like a teammate, not like a friend, but someone who lead them when Robert wasn’t here. 

Malevola stared, features cracking under stress. Sonar, half monster, half man, all hers, hisses, “Don’t you fucking yell at her, —!”

Chad’s throat splits on the words. Like they broke under the volume. Under desperation and love left to rot. 

He screams them anyway. 

“If we don’t get this  thing out of the sky, everyone, — Alice, Courtney, Colm, Jan, Robert, — you’re all going to die!” With a broad hand, he gestures to Victor, tears steam on his cheeks. “Including him!”

Robert tries.

He struggles against Mandy and lowers his voice five different tones and looks at Chad like he bit the world open. 

It’s not enough. 

Mal stares at him, briefly, lips mouthing a message meant for Robert, and Robert alone. 

With a smooth hand, her sword cuts through the tapestry of atoms.

Chad sinks inside, flames dying under him, and he rises. 

—-

‘I don’t want to die.’

It’s hot. 

His body isn’t built for that. For this awful, liquid agony flowing through every pore, every atom, splitting his nerves apart. 

He makes it hotter.

Until that thing stares up at him. Furious, glorious, and dying slow. 

“This as hot as you get?”

Robert’s voice yells behind him. And it follows him as Chad springs through mercury red sky, that mechanic screech on his tail. 

His body clashes with water, his name claws out Robert’s chest, and Chad thinks. 

He thinks about his niece. 

He thinks about Alice singing in his car. 

He thinks about Victor, always stealing his hair gel for his fur.

He thinks about sharing cigarettes with Chase on the roof, — my lungs don’t run me, motherfucker, now light me up, —- 

‘Put me back in.’ 

Most of all, when Shroud’s phoenix dies, a metal carcass sinking next to him, both of them covered in water and dark, Flambae thinks about Robert. 

‘I liked being here with you. ‘

Chad closes his eyes, points his middle finger at it, and smiles.

——

Turns out, he didn’t do it right this time, either. 

Robert jumps after him. 

No suit, no powers, just the anger of a thousand wars and tears on his cheeks.

His arms curl around Chad’s body, hands rough on his waist, still scalding hot and rising. His hands are big. 

“You fucking asshole.”

Flambae’s eyes are heavy, tired, and he can’t feel his face when he smiles back, half conscious, half alive. He whispers, vocal cords salty.

 “Did I burn good?”

He doesn’t catch the last part. Just faint, tiny notes of ‘dumbass’ and ‘kill you’ and ‘baby, talk, I’m here’ and then buzzing, piercing and linear. 

He likes it both ways. 

—-

“—-After suffering a harrowing hit left by discarded Red Ring technology, now detained under SDN custody, LA begins to live again. Even if it meant losing his life, thanks to a heroic, selfless act done by the amazing hero, Hot Fire Guy, the people of Torrance can, —-“

Flambae clicked the TV off. 

“Dying fucking sucks. “

“You think?”

“I try not to.”

Luckily, thought he did experience sunburn — and heatstroke, muscle damage, broken bones, and more, — for the first time in his life, Flambae didn’t need residential assistance.

Unluckily, the team feels like coming over to his place  unannounced is acceptable. 

“Jesus, lad,” Colm grunted, moving his couch, chairs, and tables around. Easier for his now limited mobility. “Pull a stunt like that again, I’ll let Jan kill ya properly.”

He just wants to keep his hands busy as to not punch him, Flambae thinks. 

“And I don’t botch,” Coop added, currently very annoyed she wasn’t able to cut  cucumbers in even pieces. “This is much easier with necks.”

Prism still wasn’t talking to him. She just sent Herm with a basket of peaches in hand.

“I’m allergic,” Flambae’s eyebrows pressed together. 

“Oh, she knows!”

“I thought this self-sacrifice bullshit would be like in the movies,” Flambae huffed. “You know, like the Avengers? When Tony flew into that hole, Steve falls in love with him, they fuck in the post credit scene? Coolest shit ever.”

“I don’t think that’s how the Avengers ended.”

“It should’ve.”

“Also, you’re not Tony Stark,” Coop stabbed the vegetables together. “He would’ve died a martyr. You would’ve just died.”

“And the Avengers could replace Stark in a week.” Colm patted his back. “We can’t get another you, can we?”

“Ew. Kindness.”

“Fuck you!”

“That’s better.” 

Coop dropped what pretended to be a salad in his lap. She also squeezes his shoulder, bumps her head against his, and sighs.

“Don’t do this shit again, bête. Nobody wins if the family dies.”

Flambae doesn’t cry right then.

He just chews the messy, chopped monstrosity created in his kitchen until his throat closes up, and Hermy holds his hair back so it wouldn’t slip. 

His phone buzzes. 

ho3sdepressed: still hate u 

but im comin over 

dying for los angels is crazy btw 

He starts crying. 

——

“He said you’re the most idiotic form of life he’s ever encountered, and that he was smarter  than you when he was braindead. Then, he told me to punch you. Which I will not! Also, the purple suit you wore for the interview was highly unattractive.”

Flambae groaned, trying to adjust the buttons on his shirt. Shimmery, bold gold, a flame pattern following the line of his arm and shoulder. 

“Tell him ‘I literally saved your life, bitch’. And that he looked stupid in that press conference.”

“I will do so! And edit it on the way!” 

Within seconds, Katon phased at blinking speed between Flambae’s penthouse, and Robert’s shitty apartment. 

“He used lots of profanity. Mostly referring to your severe lack of intellect. And shoving his armor up your shapely buttocks.”

It was Robert, which didn’t shock him. 

“He also requested I use my X-Ray vision to constantly inspect your vital organs! Your lungs still perform at 69% capacity.”

“That’s… Really funny. It’s gonna make him laugh. Goddamnit. Thanks, Phen.” 

“Not a problem, friend Chad. After your reckless, highly irresponsible act of self-sacrifice, I feel pressured into completing errands to show you my gratitude.”

“Okay, that’s… That’s  fucked up. Let’s stop doing that.” 

“Good! Your existence brings my inner sadness moments of not-sad-feelings. Also, do not wear purple again. It looks unappealing on you.” 

A small laugh left him. “Fuck off, I looked great. But I won’t.”

“Phenomamal! Friend Chad?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you want to die?”

Flambae’s hands stop, for a moment, and he looks up at warm, galaxy dark eyes. His shoulders soften.

“No, Kat,”  he eventually replies. “I really don’t.” 

Katon’s head tilts to a side, voice gentle. “No as in indefinitely, or no as in ‘not right now’ ?”

“Not right now. Definitely not right now.”

The other beams. “Then, for right now, that is good enough. Come! I fly faster than your now weak, helpless body. We shall arrive at the party for the scheduled time. Which is the time it was planned.”

Phen picks him up carefully, then dashes through his roof. Flambae kind of understands why Robert hates this shit, actually.

He didn’t even register Phen said ‘party.’ 

—-

Crypto Night still smelled when he was 26.

Like cheddar wood and fresh beer and that cheap cologne Dopple’s husband always wears.

The team takes complete advantage over having the bar to themselves, — plus a swarm of heroes who don’t particularly care Flambae burned out for this  city when it’s happy hour. 

But they watch him. Constantly, without pause, even if they dance, or drink, or do both. 

All of them except a head of strawberry brunette and freckles. Which Flambae didn’t even want there. Which he should digest better. 

“Well, look who came back with his ponytail between his legs.” 

Dopple, — older than when Flambae got his acceptance latter, and yet not older at all, pretends to clean a glass when Flambae sits down. “What, you got banned from the Sardines, too?”

“They don’t have peanuts like yours.” He shuffles, awkward, out of his element. “I didn’t know you unbanned me.” 

“Your dickhead talked me into it,” the other man sighed. 

From his counter, he takes out that nice bowl of peanuts, the one he gives to no one else, and slides it over. “Mark’s right. I’m getting soft. He still hates your costume, by the way.”

Flambae chuckles. Dopple makes his order without being asked. 

“Alright. Spit it out.”

“The peanuts?”

“What’s bothering you, idiot.”

Flambae stares at the open space between him and his drink, like it’ll make what he’s about to say easier.

 “…I don’t think I should be here. Like, — with them. With anyone.”

His gaze falls on those disasters on the dance floor. 

Victor has a ‘my friend almost died. Ask me about it (do not)’ shirt on, trying to shotgun a beer. 

 Mal is talking up a cute redhead, but her tail is nervous. Visi has 10 cigarettes dying her glass.

 Prism isn’t less furious, but she stays close, Hermy’s hand around hers.

Colm and Coop dance like the universe created two elements just for each other. 

But they’re nervous. He can tell. 

“I feel like I’m fucking everything up,” he confessed, voice almost drowned by the music pumping. “Like I’m hurting them, no matter what I do. I failed the villain thing, I’m failing  the hero one,  I just, —“

His chest shakes. 

“I just don’t want to be a shitty person.” 

Dopple hums. 

“ You will be a shitty person, sometimes.  You’ll continue to hurt others, through your life. And they’ll do it back to you. Some will forgive you, some won’t. You can’t undo that. But everyday, you get up, and you can try one more time. That counts. Everyone can become a hero. Not everyone can be a decent person. You’re good on that front.”

Flambae laughs, wet, but less painful. “That sounds like ‘we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing’ but fancier.”

“Yeah, well. Welcome  to the good guys,” Dopple gives him another glass, which they clink. “It sucks. “

——

Chad is drunk. 

The party goes smoothly. He thinks. He doesn’t really know where he’s at. It all muddled and smudged until everything and everyone is a single, grainy image. 

“Whosh  b’day is it?!”

“Baby,” Prism takes away his glass— he downed ten so far. For a normal person, it  wouldn’t be a problem, but for him, it is. “It’s YOUR birthday.”

She laughs. He likes that.

His eyelashes go down. He’s  happy. He  thinks. He misses Robert. 

Prism carefully brushes slightly sweaty hair from his face. “And you spend it shaking ass without me! Rude as hell.”

He laughs, knees giving up halfway. It’s dark for a moment.

Then, he throws up in a bathroom stall, with her holding his hair and petting his injured arm. 

“You sure you don’t want cake?” Prism sits beside him on a bathroom floor no one’s clean since the constitution, probably. “Feels good not to die, huh?”

“Mm. Wasn’t gon’ do it. Back at the bank. Wasn’t gonna.”

Prism’s voice softening. “Yeah, you would’ve.”

“Mm. M’older than you. Don’ w’ry about me. Not your job. “

“Oh, I KNOW that. Trust and believe. But you know, I ate your mama’s dumplings. We’re pretty much inseparable, at this point.”

“ Ali?”

“Hm?”

His head rests on her shoulder, hands sticky on the bathroom floor. “Still wanna die.”

“… I know.”

He throws up. Again. She holds his hair. Again. 

——

“Jesus. I didn’t even know you could get that shitfaced.”

Chad knows exactly who that is, even drunk, even half lost to the world. Happy and grinning and forgetting he exists, but he’d know.

“Bob-Bob!” He cheers, speech wobbly and vomit laced. 

He kisses Robert’s face repeatedly. From his cheeks, to the handsome line on his nose, to the bullet hole piercing his ear. Robert doesn’t push him off. 

“Didja see m’n Katon dance?”

“Oh, the lap dance? I saw. Let's not repeat it tonight, okay?”

“H’s m’ustache’s funny. Don't get a must’che though. Like your stubble.”

“Uh-huh. How about you come with me like Prism asked you to, huh? Like a good boy?”

“Mmm. M’37.”

“You are. Good job.”

“S’good age.”

“The best.”

“Yous’ so’ handsome,” he giggles, “ Y’ know that? Handsome. Pretty. An’ brave. An’ nice to me. Some’times. “

“Look who’s talking,” Robert is mad. He’s stiff, and his jaw is sharper from clenching it, but he’s not. “I didn’t even know you could smile like that. And I’m way nicer than you deserve.”

Flambae doesn’t really listen, too busy clinging with all the 6’4 inches he has.

Which Robert definetly shouldn’t be able to carry, but somehow, manages. 

“Why’d you come?”

Robert sighs, heavily, buckling his seatbelt for him, before getting into the passenger’s seat.

 “And why wouldn’t I come to see the hero of the city, great Hot Fire Guy?”

“Mad at me. An’ you don’ like me.”

“First of all. I’m mad at you because you almost died, and there’s nothing I could do about it,” Robert is careful when he drives. 

Flambae watches the lines of his hands. Thin edges, but broad, careful surfaces. Calloused, scarred, strong hands that got him here.

He’d kiss them with his soul,  if he could. 

“Second of all. I do like you. When you’re not posturing like the world’s most evil peacock.” He considers. “Actually, when you’re like that, too. A little bit.”

“Pft. You said ‘cock’. “

“Sorry, I was thinking about your mouth.”

Flambae, slow, lax, laughing, leans closer. Hand on Robert’s seats  Cologne and cheap soap and a permanent scent of metal still lingers. “M’ thinking about you, too. Cause I like you.”

“Chad.”

“I like you,” he repeats, ashy, but sweet. “Lot. Like. Your bitch ass face’s beautiful. An’ you love Beef like a baby. That’s cute. An’ you’re tough. And you’re the only guy who does the hero thing right.”

“Chad.”

“I like you. Love you, too. Just a little bit, thought.”

“Baby.”

Flambae opens his eyes a bit more. Robert leaned in, too. He could smell the soft, nervous  sweat on him. 

“I’m bein’ creepy. Sorry. Fuck, sorry, —”

“You’re not. I’m driving,” Robert cut him off, gently pushing him back, hand on his thigh.  Not angry, but heavy with a warmth Flambae couldn’t place. “And you’re drunk. So let me get you home, and wash your face, and get you something to eat. Tell me tomorrow.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll wait until you do. And I’ll wait if you don’t,” his thumb rubs slow circles in Flambae’s thigh. He could exist right here, if Robert wanted.

He wants to say more. Even drunk, even if it doesn’t matter. 

But Robert’s knee is already bouncing, and his eyes are wetter than they were a minute ago. So he doesn’t. 

“I do love you, too, by the way,” he rasps, chuckling, like he can’t believe he’s lost. “Just a little bit.”

Flambae throws up in his lap. Cries a little. 

Robert sighs, pets his head, and keeps driving. 

—-

He wakes up with a tiny tongue lapping at his face, a pounding headache, and a deep feeling of hatred for the creator of the sun. 

“Beef,” he coos, taking that domesticated marshmallow into his arms, smacking kisses all over him.

“My perfect little man. What are you doing in my house, hm? You ran away from that bitchass Bob-Bob?”

“Okay, I’m right here, asshole. Also, he’s not the one who brought you breakfast in bed.”

Blurry eyed, Flambae blinks, actually taking note of his surroundings. His whole body aches, from scalp to toes. 

“That’s ibuprofen.”

“Same thing. Lift your head.”

Before Flambae can process, Robert’s hand gently grabs his hair, — loose, now, with some glitter still shimmering, — and pulls his into an arch, placing the pill.

Flambae groans gratefully when water hits his mouth. 

“Did you just gentle dom me?”

“Nah. That’s just what I do with drunk assholes who confess their love to me. I was planning on asking about your self-sacrificial tendencies, but I figured I’d wait until lunch.”

Of course he did. 

Of course he confessed to Robert. “Look, — I was drunk,” he shook his head, frown hard, gently releasing Beef, whose paws scrambled off into another room. “It meant nothing.”

“Chad,” Robert was patient, but not permissive. “You said you loved me. I said it back. “

“Shut up. I was — drunk. And weird, and having emotions, and I, —“

“Okay. I wasn’t,” Robert shrugged. “I said that sober. But for your information, I also say it when I’m drunk.  I said it to Mandy, and to Chase,  and the team. And when you fall asleep on the office couch, I say it then, too. “

“Robert, —-“

“I love you. A little bit.”

His ribs feel tight, and his face is clenched, and Robert doesn’t comment on the water pooling on Flambae’s eyelashes. He just moves closer. 

“Why were you so mad when that video came out?”

“Why were you not?” He makes a terrible sound between choke and laugh and hurt. “You’re Mecha Man. You’re the best thing about everything. You’re a legit, real, actual hero. And you wanted people to think you were into me?”

“Right. Because fucking the guy who survived me, jail, and almost died for a goddam city that doesn’t know his name would be so embarrassing.” Robert snorted bitterly. 

“I think I missed it,” Flambae whispered. “I think that was my chance to change, and be good — and I missed it. And this version of me won't get better, if you stay.”

“Good,” Robert murmured, big hands wiping off water. “If you missed it, good. Dying isn’t a chance to prove you're more. It’s dying, and that’s it, ” he gulped. “You hear me?”

With something like glass in his throat, Flambae stared up. 

He speaks so quietly. Like something in him sat down and never left him, eyelashes blurred.

“I don’t want to die a bad person.”

He follows the fall and rise of Robert’s chest. Hands cradle him, pushing his face up, so Robert and him were a kiss apart. 

“Baby. You’re uncondemnable to me,” he promised. “There’s nothing you could do, that I can’t do worse. So you’re not going to die a bad person. Because I'm not letting you. Got it?”

He didn't. Not really. 

He couldn't make sense of it. Of Robert Robertson, of Mecha Man, of why he leans to kiss Robert when he does. 

But he does know Robert doesn't pull away.

And he understands what the slow grip of his hips mean. He understands Robert’s hands, hesitant, not timid, but hungry, on his chest and neck and hovering over his heart. 

He knew what it meant when Robert lays him down, soft, on the floor, and doesn't get off him for hours.Because Chad begs with tears on his mouth and his thighs five shades of red.

He gets it. For a minute, for a second, for however long it takes Robert to kiss him, he gets it. 

Chad, in some way, understands life because he understands Robert. And he doesn't want that to change. 

——

“We’re dating, by the way. Just so you know.  “ Robert’s hand connects with his ass when he walks past. Flambae screams. 

“Bitch, —-! Ask me! Like a fucking gentleman!”

“I went on the Bone Zone to say we’re not dating. And now I have to go again to say we're dating. I'd say it's even. Also,  do you let all gentlemen spit in your mouth?”

“I died for you. Literally. I deserve to be asked out properly. Or like… with tongue.”

Robert does kiss Flambae. There's lots of tongue and whimpers from him involved. 

“…Okay. Boyfriends. Cool. “

“Bet you 350 dollars the team won't notice for two hours.”

“Bet you 368 they think we just fucked. But we tell them we've secretly dated for months so they all lose. And we keep the money.”

“God, you're an idiot. Come back here so I can kiss you.”

Flambae, for all instances and purposes, would not let Robert Fucking Robertson The Third boss him around. 

He does let his boyfriend do it, though. 

—-