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Chapter Text

40 Days

Jacob Lash has never been a spiritual guy. He puts his faith in himself, in the things he can accomplish with his own two hands, and not much else. If he had to thank a god or the universe or whatever for anything, it would be for his looks and the bald-headed bastard between his legs — and even those things, he could probably thank his father for if he ever met the guy. Being able to beat the shit out of people? That’s hard work nobody but Lash gets to claim credit for. So it’s a shock when a Patron starts chatting him up in his sleep.

A shock, but not a surprise. Sounds like this Ritual’s gonna require some violence, so of course the Patron wants to recruit the foremost expert in skull-cracking.

He’s less interested in working on a team, but even the Lash can’t be everywhere in the city at once. He just hopes these jokers are half as good as he is. 

28 Days

A month before the Maelstrom, Lash is met at the foot of a nondescript apartment building by an absolute freak in a tattered yellow robe. Their lips are dry and flaking, their eyes sunken, with yellow greasepaint smeared in wild symbols all over skin that’s begging to see the sun again. In short, they’re fucking creepy, and they’re giving Lash second, third, and eighteenth thoughts about joining this Ritual.

But the Hidden King promised him all he’s ever wanted with a gravity it’s impossible to ignore. Lash isn’t about to turn tail because some sewer-dwelling uggo forgot their Chap Stick.

The cultist escorts him to the elevator but thankfully lets him ride alone to the top of the building. He enters the Amber Hand’s hideout to the tune of an immediate, drawn out groan.

Funny he was just thinking about sewer-dwellers, because the noise came from that monkey thing from the Tunnel Rats. Frill? Drill? Whatever. He likes to bet at the Bear Pit, abscond with the occasional crate Lash sets aside down at the shipyard, and still pretend he’s better than the Lash.

“You’re late,” Grill says. 

“Fashionably late.”

A squeakier voice says, “That’s what we’re calling fashion these days? That barely counts as a shirt.” A purple-haired woman giggles from her perch on the arm of a leather sofa, with a giant, sparkly horn jutting from her forehead in one of the goofier displays of magic body modification he’s seen. She’s tattooed all over, but it doesn’t make her look like any more of a threat. She’s pretty enough that the Lash opens his mouth to dazzle her with his wit when she says, “Wait, I know you.”

“Everybody knows the Lash,” he says, puffing out his chest. 

“Yeah, you’re the guy who beat the shit outta Larry.” She doesn’t sound impressed, which might be because this Larry was so uninspiring that Lash can’t remember who she’s talking about.

“The Lash?” Another woman chirps, finally looking up from her book. She’s so dorky it makes Violet here look positively lethal. What has he gotten himself into? “Oh my gosh. I’ve seen the posters!” On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t underestimate someone with such good taste.

“You ever been to a fight?” he asks. 

“Oh, no. It seems like… a lot? I don’t know if I could watch,” she says.

“It is a gruesome battle royale. I hear some people watch through their fingers. I can get you in for free if you ever wanna try. Could be enlightening.”

“Or,” Sparkles says, “you could come out to Coney. That could be free too, with less bloodshed. I mean, usually, anyway. As long as Skeeter hasn’t hit the sauce again.” Ginger has turned paler than before, so Twinkle hits her with a bright smile. “Don’t worry. He never aims at the audience.”

“Uh-huh,” Lash says, casting about for anyone else to talk to. Over by the window is something very green.

Two black dots float in the green slime sphere that counts as its head. “Hello,” it says in a high, childlike voice. “I hear you like to punch people?”

“That makes it sound like I just go around breaking noses left and right. No, I punch people for money.” Somehow, he’s not sure that sounds better. “Prize money. And glory. And the adoration of the masses.”

“That sounds fun,” it says, but it doesn’t sound so sure. “I’m Viscous.”

“I probably won’t remember that,” he warns them.

“That’s okay. It’s for your benefit more than mine. Human mouths can’t say my real name.”

“Yeah, whew. Already lost me, Gooey.”

Of the teammates he’s met, Celeste is the prettiest and probably the least interested in men. Lash is good at spotting these things, mostly because it’s so rare someone isn’t struck dumb by his impossible beauty. Paige almost definitely likes men, and she probably likes them with muscles, but she also likes books so much that she’s reading in a group setting, which is a real turnoff. Viscous… well, maybe if he’s feeling adventurous. He dismisses the mole and monkey out of hand.

The fireplace and that nice looking leather sofa deserve his attention more than any of his fellow ritualists. Lash only realizes someone else is there when he nearly sits on them. 

Tucked into the corner of the couch is some vagrant in a tattered coat and scarf. They blink at him in surprise, and he’s briefly stupefied by how much that face does not belong with that bird’s nest hair. Their eyes are sullen and lined with exhaustion, but they’re also big and dark with a feathery fan of black lashes. Even the irritated pinch of their mouth can’t hide the perfect curve of a Cupid’s bow or the pout of their lips.

“The Lash did not see you there.”

“I’d hope not,” they say dryly. Their voice is low and soft, traveling from eardrums to groin in one fluid motion. All thoughts of his other teammates vanish. If he’s sleeping with any of them, this is the one.

“It’s your lucky day. A lot of people would kill to get smashed by the Lash.”

Their mouth twitches, but he probably only notices because he’s still staring at it. “I’ll work on my gratitude.”

They stare at him flatly until he feels compelled to give them some space — but only so much. They can’t be allowed to forget him. When that doesn’t satisfy, they move to a nearby armchair, where they hunch in like they’re trying to become one with the leather. Lash doesn’t mind; it only gives him a better view of their face.

25 Days

They are strongly encouraged to spend their time at the hideout whenever possible, which in Lash’s case mostly means late afternoon to evening. He’d much rather be at the bar or the gym, but he can make sacrifices.

Not too many sacrifices, though. “You think these freaky cultists could get a punching bag in here?” Lash asks aloud.

The cultists in question mostly lurk unseen, but if you need something, they’ll skulk out of absolutely nowhere in their dorky robes and the weird symbols painted onto their bodies. Lash does not enjoy talking to them directly. He’s not afraid, but caution is important sometimes, especially when they’re the kind of people painting their faces and hiding in shadows and raving about elder gods.

Within the hour, they’re honoring his request. In the big storeroom, there’s a solid looking heavy bag and a speed bag, which he didn’t even have to specify. Must be fans.

It pays off right away. Pocket sits near the bottom of a rolling staircase, chin in hand as they pretend to look past him.

Lash lets them look for a while before he asks, “Like what you see, doll face?”

They blink those big brown eyes at him. “Are you talking to me?”

He stops the bag from swinging. The last thing he wants is to get hit with it when he’s trying to put the moves on somebody. “Who else?”

“I don’t know. Someone who’d like being called that?” They pause, looking around. “So not anyone here, actually.”

“What would you prefer then?” He moves closer. They can look as unimpressed as they want, but he is Jacob Lash, over six feet of spectacularly sculpted muscle topped off by this chiseled face and perfect hair, with a fine sheen of clean sweat to make the skin shine. They’re not gonna look away again. “Honey? Sweetheart? Baby?”

They stare right into his eyes like they’re hypnotized — or afraid to look any lower for fear of soaking the staircase or popping a boner or whatever happens between their legs. “My name is Pocket. Let’s stick with that.” They rise to their feet then, eyes widening when they have to keep looking up even after they’re standing on the bottom stair. They can say what they like; their pink cheeks speak volumes.

“Whatever you say, Pocket,” Lash says with a smile, which he’s been told many times is one of his best traits. Even if that’s basically like trying to decide what’s your favorite million bucks, he’ll always take a compliment.

They can’t take their eyes off him even when they back away. They stumble into poor Paige, whose active imagination still can’t prepare her for the sheer animal magnetism between him and Pocket.

19 Days

They’re on that couch again, their legs tucked up beside them this time. They have a book in hand, which is just begging for someone to rescue them from the boredom.

Lash pauses at the end of the sofa while a vision of Pocket begging takes a quick jog around his brain. Before the lap is finished, either his irrepressible aura or his looming shadow alert them to his presence. Their gaze traces up his body before they find his eyes. Entirely accidental, they’d love you to believe. Lash takes that as invitation enough.

“So I was thinking,” he says, flopping onto the couch beside them.

“That’s new.”

“I— what?”

Pocket doesn’t answer, only staring innocently at him. He’s trying to get close, but it seems they have manners. They lean into the arm of the couch to make space for him. “What do you want, Lash?”

“Why Pocket?”

It’s their turn to ask, “What?”

“You know. Did your parents name you that? Probably not, right? So why Pocket?”

It seems he’s caught them off guard this time, because they give him a proper answer. “It’s… a joke? I guess?” Or sort of a proper answer, anyway. Point is they’re still talking.

“Okay. So what’s the joke?” They stare at him like they’re expecting this to be a trap of some kind, as if the Lash can’t sincerely ask a person why they’d name themself something stupid or accept a bad nickname. “Is it, like, a sex thing?”

“How would it even be— no, don’t answer that. No, it’s not a sex thing.” Protest all they like; the corner of their mouth keeps twitching upward. They want to laugh so bad.

“Excuse me,” Lash sing-songs. “The Lash did not mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“I’m not offended,” they say, sounding pretty aggrieved if you ask Lash. “‘Is it a sex thing?’” they repeat sarcastically. “Is the name ‘Lash’ a sex thing?”

They seem to realize their mistake as soon as it’s out of their mouth. They’re staring at the ceiling when he asks, “Do you want it to be a sex thing?” which means they miss his bewitching wink.

They make an incomprehensible noise, followed by a full body twitch. Are they choking? He’s prepared to impress them by saving their life, but they’re too slow to cover the sudden snort with their hand.

“Is that a smile I see?” Lash asks. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I’m just full of surprises.”

“The Lash enjoys a good surprise.” He stretches, draping both arms across the back of the sofa. If one of those happens to be right behind Pocket, that’s just an accident.

“Does this normally work for you?” they ask. They gesture up and down his body with the book. It’s closed now, which is far more important than any of the words coming out of their mouth.

“Everybody falls for the Lash eventually.” He smiles at them, all teeth.

Their own fades as quickly as it appeared. “Yeah, I bet everybody loves being told they’re another notch in your belt.”

“If you wanna be special, don’t worry,” he says, expertly reading through the lines. “The Lash’s attention makes you special.”

Pocket sighs. “The only thing I want from the Lash is for him not to screw up this ritual. I’m not looking for anything else.”

They leave him there, and even with the fire crackling a few feet away, the room feels chillier. “The Lash loves when they play hard to get,” he says, too late for them to hear. Stubbornly, he spreads out on the empty sofa, making a face at the creepy painting over the mantle.

17 Days

Celeste juggles. This is not surprising to anyone. The surprise is that she’s teaching Pocket how.

She summons three sparkling purple balls, and she starts them out slow. They’re a quick study, which Lash would prefer not to know, since he’s still annoyed they left him high and dry the other day. But it’s hard to look away when they’re laughing with her and the others.

He got them to laugh first, but that was before they resorted to the cold shoulder. They’ll come around. In the meantime, all he can think about is how many things he’d do if he got them alone. It’s a good strategy they’ve got going on; if they want to keep his attention, making him work for it is one way to assure it.

Not that he wants more than one night, really. The Lash is a free spirit. He doesn’t like to be tied down.

“You look lonely,” says Viscous, squelching onto the seat beside him.

“I’m not,” Lash says.

“Because I’m here now.”

“Sure, Slimy,” he murmurs, distracted by the way Paige’s eyes glint in Pocket’s direction every time they laugh. The ball falls at their feet. Even failure doesn’t break their spirit.

“Do you want to juggle?” Viscous asks him. “I have goo.”

“You could not pay me to juggle your goo.”

“Oh,” Viscous says, deflating. “I see now why nobody likes you.”

Lash sighs, finally tearing his eyes away from the others. “People love the Lash. If they don’t know what to do about their jealousy, that’s their problem, not mine.”

“I’m not jealous of you.”

“That’s because you’re new here.”

“Do you think if I stayed on the surface I would think you were nice?”

“I’m so nice.”

“That’s not what they say,” says Viscous.

The ‘they’ could be the group or it could be Pocket, but Lash chooses to believe it’s a general sort of they, that whole population of people who don’t understand shit about him. Pocket is definitely not confiding in Viscous, telling him Lash isn’t nice or that they don’t like him. They wouldn’t resort to sabotaging him like that.

“Hey, Goo Boy, why don’t you go play with your other friends? I’m kinda busy here.”

“You don’t look busy.”

“Well, I am.” Lash sighs, clenching a fist so he doesn’t rub at his face instead. “I’ve got my own thing going on. I’m sure they’d love to have you over there though.”

“If you say so! Have fun sitting by yourself!” He leaves Lash in peace, wobbling with every step like a jello mold.

15 Days

Everyone else gets on like a house on fire, and Lash is so bored with their nicey-nice bullshit. He shows up to their strategy meetings. He listens while they run down the same thing they’ve been talking about for two weeks now. Maybe he makes eye contact with Pocket or maybe they avoid it at all costs, because they’re still playing that game with him.

It’s working, kind of. He hasn’t gotten laid since he chose to focus on this particular conquest. He’s sort of itchy because of it — in the restless way, not in the crotch critters way, thank you very much — and he keeps finding his gaze drawn to their stupid, pouty, pink mouth. Maybe he wouldn’t be in this boat if they could suffer the cultists’ chapped lip situation. It’s obnoxious. They’re obnoxious.

“What do you think?” Paige asks. She’s across from him and an inch or two too close to Pocket, which could be an accident or could be something she’s doing on purpose. He’s resting his chin in his hand. It would be embarrassing for someone to think he was daydreaming or whatever while looking at Pocket. He was not doing that, but in case someone gets the wrong impression, he leans back in his chair.

“You’re gonna have to repeat that. The Lash wasn’t listening.”

“We were talking about a buddy system. You know, nobody goes out alone. Who do you think you’d like to work with?”

There’s an obvious answer here, but he’s not gonna make it that easy. “The Lash can do his thing with anyone. Doesn’t matter.”

Paige sighs. “Maybe you think you’re being laid back and easy to work with, but it’s actually harder if you don’t give an answer.”

“The Lash is not concerned with the convenience of mere mortals. It doesn’t matter,” he says again. “Point him at an enemy, the Lash will take ’em down.”

She sighs louder like he didn’t hear it the first time. “Still not helpful. So we’ll pair off and then whoever’s left can work with the Lash, since he’s so adaptable.”

The rest of them have all become friends. They don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, so it’s a mess watching them dance around deciding how to divvy up the responsibility. Lash zones out again, even though it’s his opinion that they’re not going to have enough firepower between them. He’s going to be picking up slack for everybody.

He’s staring at the ceiling when a cold, goopy finger pokes his arm. “They asked you a question,” Viscous says politely.

“The Lash was thinking about it. But fine, uh, repeat it. So I can think some more.”

Paige asks, “Are you fine working with Pocket? Or do we need to figure out something else?”

He refuses to look at Pocket again. He doesn’t need to get distracted by their soggy cat eyes. “Sure. Told you anything works.”

“Great,” Paige chirps. “Then you two can talk strategy, and I will be way over there if you need me!” She excuses herself, and for the first time in days, Lash is left alone with Pocket.

“Couldn’t keep away, could you?” he asks.

“Were you paying any attention?” they ask.

“Uhh…” he starts, trying to reflect back on any clues. The best he’s got is the sight of them all clustering together before announcing their decision.

“We drew straws,” they clarify. “One in five chance. Lucky me.”

“One in six, right?”

“Mo and Krill drew together. That’s a package deal.”

“Sounds like you wanted better odds of working with the Lash. You ever think about how they, you know,” Lash makes a circle with one hand and pokes his other index finger through it a few times.

Pocket’s face scrunches up, which is adorable, which is annoying. “I absolutely do not think about that, no.”

“Well, now I’m thinking about it.”

“And whose fault is that?” they ask.

“Theirs, really.”

Pocket slumps into their chair with a dramatic sound. “Whatever. We need to talk strategy.”

“Don’t need to overthink it.”

“Okay. But we need some kind of plan. An outline, at least.”

“You haven’t even shown what you can do,” Lash says.

Pocket hesitates, then says, “Fair enough. You’re right.” They don’t have to make that last part sound so much like a question. Anyone else might feel disrespected. They’re lucky Lash’s skin is so thick. “Come on then.”

They lead him through the big storeroom and take the teleporter to the nearby alley. The gun is self-explanatory; Lash just hopes they know how to use it.

The suitcase, though. That shit’s weird.

“So I… can get into it? If I need to.”

“Good to know you’re flexible,” Lash says approvingly.

“It’s not a normal suitcase,” Pocket explains like they didn’t hear it.

“Kinda got that part when you showed off the frogs.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean getting in there would be easy for everyone.”

“Careful. That’s almost a real compliment.”

“They’re all real.”

“I meant the kind that isn’t innuendo.”

Lash shrugs again. “Doesn’t make them insults. A double entendre is double the compliment.”

“You don’t get to decide what I take as a compliment.”

“God, you’re no fun.” In the moment, Lash even almost means it.

“So I’ve been told.” They snap the suitcase shut. “So the other thing, I can’t show you. It’s… I hope I don’t have to use it. But if I do, it’s kind of… slimy. I see you making that face, and it’s not like that. Come on.” Lash snickers, and Pocket levels an irritated stare at him, as if he can’t see how red their cheeks are getting. “I mean be serious. It’s really dangerous.”

“Fine, what is it?”

“An affliction. The frogs will make them sick. So sick they won’t be able to fight, hopefully.”

“Frog plague. What’s next? Murdering firstborns?”

He’s expecting them to be impressed by his clever literary reference, because that seems like the kind of lame thing they’d be into. He’s not expecting them to turn white like they’ve seen a ghost. “What did you say?”

“You know, frogs, locusts, rivers of blood, killing all the firstborns. It’s all very Exodus.”

“Oh,” they say. “Right. Yeah, funny.” They’re not laughing though. “I don’t think they’re related.”

If anyone else were to consult him, he’d say that what’s wrong with Pocket is that they’re not sleeping with him or even flirting at the moment. But this seems like one of those instances where asking will score him some brownie points, so he does. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” They look around, twitchy. Lash can almost see their skin crawling from here. “I’m just nervous about the Ritual, I guess.”

“Aw, don’t worry. I’ll watch your back.” He means it too, and not even in the dirty way. That bulky overcoat hides far too much.

“You,” they repeat, almost like it’s a question.

“Yep. I’ve got you.” He takes the opportunity to bask in their attention now that they’re not pretending to hate him. He flexes one giant bicep. “And the Lash doesn’t lose.”

“Call me crazy, but I almost believe you.” Their smile is small and wry, but he’ll take it.

11 Days

Lash’s last fight before the Ritual, and they had to go right for the money maker. Don’t they know he’s trying something here?

Anybody who fights Lash is supposed to avoid the face; it’s in his rider. Unfortunately, Mendoza’s got an axe to grind and way more sway than some piece of paper. If Mendoza tells Pitbull Pryce to fight dirty, he’ll fight dirty. Too bad for Pryce that Lash fights to win every time.

The face thing is pretty shitty though.

He stumbles into the hideout with a lingering scrape on his cheek and a split lip. When the others ask, he mutters rote things like “hazard of the job” and “you should see the other guy,” which pacifies them.

Not Pocket, though. Pocket looks at his face long enough that Lash wants to squirm. Then they reach a tentative hand up. They stop before they touch, close enough that he can feel the heat from their skin radiating toward his cheek.

“What happened?”

Lash tongues at the cut in his lip, knowing it’s gonna make it take longer to heal. “Some people can’t stand to see a beautiful face, so they gotta try to take it away.”

“I don’t know. It kinda suits you.” They look surprised by their own words, as surprised as Lash feels.

He wants to cheer. Instead he smirks. “You offering to kiss it and make it better? If we take this somewhere private, I got a scar that could use some attention.”

Their brow crinkles, and the warmth of their hand disappears before they ever actually touch him. “I don’t think I followed that one.”

“You know, when I was a baby, the rabbi—” He makes a snip-snip motion with his fingers.

“Oh, God.” Their nose wrinkles, and now they’re backing away. “I forgot who I was talking to. Won’t happen again.”

7 Days

The Ritual is coming, blah blah. Everybody knows that. But knowing and waiting around for it are two different things. There are only so many drills they can run, only so many preparations they can make.

He’s bored enough that he’s begun reading. It’s not for fun, though. It’s research. The book is the last thing Pocket read, which was lent to them by Paige, so he supposes Le Morte d’Arthur is just gonna make the rounds of the whole hideout at this point. Maybe one of those cultists will read it next.

“I thought there’d be more action in this,” he says, having skimmed through too much tedious chivalry already. “Where’s the good stuff?”

Paige looks up from her own book. “Try Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”

She’s been insulting enough before that he’s suspicious. “I did try that one. Boring.”

“No? The themes about being trapped by reputation didn’t appeal to you?”

Having skimmed too quickly to bother with things like themes or subtext, Lash resorts to pulling a face at her. “The Lash’s reputation is as dazzling as his wit. Not my fault if some people can’t handle it.”

Before she can insult him again or press one of her other books on him, Pocket interjects. They sit on the same couch as Lash, which feels like a small victory even if they have left too much space between themself and the Lash. “What about a mystery instead?”

“Too easy. The Lash will solve it in ten pages,” he answers.

They shake their head, but that tiny smile is back, tucked into the corner of their mouth just for him. “I’m sure the Lash has never fallen for a red herring,” they say.

“The Lash hates fish, actually.”

Pocket’s smirk grows. “So what would the Lash find entertaining?”

He glances at the huge clock over the elevator. “There’s gonna be a boxing match on the radio soon.”

“I don’t think I’ve listened to one,” Pocket looks thoughtful, “ever, actually.”

“Tonight should be a good one. Butler’s an idiot after all those blows to the head, and he’s probably only got, like, three of his original teeth, but he still hits like a truck. My money’s on Hachim, though. Everything he does is so clean. Nothing’s ever wasted. Not that either could hold a candle to the Lash, obviously,” he reassures them.

“Obviously,” Pocket says like they’re distracted. Before he can draw their attention back in, they say, “You really love fighting, don’t you?”

“You forget who you’re talking to again?”

“No, I mean you love all of it, not just winning. Everything. The whole sport.” They say it like they’ve discovered something truly profound, which almost makes him ask if they’ve taken any blows to the head recently. He gets distracted wondering whose ass he’d have to kick if they actually answered yes. “It’s…” they trail off and clear their throat, leaving him hanging.

With Paige’s permission, they retrieve the sleek Emerson off the desk wedged under the staircase and come back to him. Maybe it’s only his imagination, but they sit closer on the couch this time.

The radio glows when it clicks on, one of those weird magic powered types that doesn’t need to be plugged in. He still has to turn the dial until he finds the right station.

They’re starting at the handshake, which means their timing is almost perfect. Lash leans forward to lock in once the blow-for-blow starts. Pocket lights a cigarette beside him, but they lean in too. The radio announcer describes the start of the fight, the jabs taken as each boxer feels out the other.

“I’m not sure I get what’s going on,” says Paige, who Lash nearly forgot was there.

“I can sort of follow,” Pocket says. “But maybe I’m just guessing at it.”

“No, you’ll get it. It’s easy.” In a fit of inspiration, Lash pushes the whole table off to the side and lets the radio act as choreographer. Shadowboxing for both sides isn’t easy, but he’s never backed down from a challenge, especially not one that tests his prowess in combat.

Paige giggles as he shuffles close to her on a quick jab-hook combo from Butler. He feels like a little boy again, quick on his feet as he boxes along to the radio while his mom cooks a late supper. Only this time, his delighted audience isn’t just the mother who loves him overbearingly and unconditionally. Pocket finally cracks a real smile when Lash-as-Butler stumbles back from a nasty counterpunch from Lash-as-Hachim.

He didn’t think pretending to lose would be the thing that won them over, but he’s willing to do a few stupid things now and again in the name of lust. He hits the floor for the KO, winking at Pocket.

“Help me up,” he says.

They stand over him, hands loose at their sides and distinctly not reaching for him. “I don’t trust you like that.”

Considering he was planning to pull them down to the floor, he can’t even be offended by their suspicion. “Smart,” he says. They laugh, and his heart batters his chest and his ribs squeeze tight, and he wonders if he winded himself landing on his back like that.

Chapter Text

3 Days

Three days out from the Ritual, Lash swings by to see his mom. Florence Lash is the sort of mother who knows her son is perfect in every conceivable way but understands that the rest of the world may have some illusions about him. She’s also an excellent cook, which helps coax him back into her house regularly.

Besides, he figures she should hear about the Ritual. He’s gonna win it, but in the unlikely event it goes ass up, maybe she deserves to know he was there, at least.

She clutches her chest dramatically. “I carried you in my belly for almost eleven months. The doctor had to evict you. This body has never been the same. I raised you, I kept a roof over your head, I fed your endless appetite, and this is how you repay me? It’s not enough to risk your neck in your ferkakte fight club every week. Now you wanna throw your life away? No. I won’t stand for it.”

“Uh, you can’t stop me. I’m a grown-up,” he says, like an adult.

“You’re right. You’re a big, strong boy who can do anything he wants, like give his mother a heart attack.”

“You’re not having a heart attack, Mom.” He rubs at his brow for a moment. “The Bear Pit paid off your house,” he reminds her. “Imagine what I can do when I win a Patron’s favor.”

She softens then. “I’m not asking you to do it for me.”

“And I’m not. I’m just saying the benefits of being the Lash’s mother will trickle down like they always do.”

She makes him go back and forth for a while, but after dinner and a couple drinks, she comes to see it his way, as always. Or at least she stops telling him about how he’s killing her with stress over the shit he’s gonna do anyway. Good enough.

She presses a kiss onto his cheek and a tin of cookies into his hands and sends him on his way. The cookies are more than he could possibly eat by himself, as usual. But he can be magnanimous. Maybe the cookies will make his teammates loosen up.

What he finds at the top of the elevator suggests that they don’t need his help in that department. Music hits him the moment the doors slide open. Celeste and Paige, conspiring nearby, glance up like he’s interrupting something. Then Celeste says, “Oh!” with delight at the sight of him, which is his second clue something is very different here. “I bet the Lash will dance with me. Ooh, are those cookies?” She snatches the tin from his hand before he has time to answer.

“You’re welcome,” he grumbles. One of those freaky cultists is manning a refreshments table that is about 95 percent alcohol, and beyond them in the training room he can see Viscous trying to move his feet to the rhythm. “When did you decide to throw a party?” For whatever ‘party’ is worth to these people.

“Like three hours ago,” she says with a shrug. At least it takes the sting out of not being invited, you know, if he were going to be bothered by that sort of thing, which he isn’t.

Paige appears, drink in hand. “You would’ve known about it if you weren’t late. Again.”

“The Lash had important business to attend to.”

“Like a hot date with a honey who bakes?” Celeste asks, then shoves one of the cookies in her mouth whole, licking sugar dust from her fingers. “Oh my God, these are incredible.”

“Of course they are,” he says, peeved that she would imply he’d bring inferior cookies. “I’ll let her know.”

He’d like to be more skeptical of the whole cult situation, but when the cultist at the refreshments table hands him a piña colada, he’s not sure why he should protest. Deeper into the training room, there’s Viscous wobbling along to the music, and Mo and Krill watching.

Lash almost asks where Pocket is, but he’s not that lame. Instead he gives Celeste a quick twirl around the room, then Paige, then Viscous, who’s trying his best, then Celeste again. He’s one and a half piña coladas and three dance partners into this joke of a party, and still no Pocket. He passes Celeste off to Paige and drains his drink, valiantly fights brain freeze, and uses the empty glass as an excuse to disappear.

After a quick refill at the refreshment table, he finds Pocket in what is, in hindsight, the most obvious spot, sulking on what Lash definitely does not think of as his and Pocket’s couch. They look up at him with big, unguarded eyes, but he’ll be damned if he can tell what that look means.

When he sits, they adjust so they’re not being swallowed by the cushions anymore. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” they say. Their words all kind of slip together. Combined with the flush in their cheeks, Lash can guess at their relative state of mind.

“Waiting on the Lash to make your night, huh?”

“Maybe you’re just predictable.” Their bottom lip looks like it’s been chewed on, and now it’s dangerously close to a pout. Maybe if they were sober they could play coy, but not like this. “Did you really go on a date?” they ask.

Lash is ready to throw a parade. “What are you gonna do if I say yes?” he asks.

They stare into the fireplace. “Nothing,” they mumble, then take a big sip of their drink. “Judge her, probably.”

“Hey, you be nice to the Lash’s mom.”

“Your—” They stare, slowly piecing the words together. “You were with your mother?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell anybody. Can’t let ’em think the Lash is soft.”

“I’ll keep your secret,” they whisper very solemnly and very loudly. Then their mouth tips sideways into a too-easy-for-them smile. God, it’s cute.

“What’s even in that glass?” he asks, snatching it away from them. It smells like straight gin. “That’s awful. At least mix it with something.”

“Like coconut?” They make the universal blech face in the direction of his glass.

Lash snickers. “You’re drunk.”

“Pfft. You’re drunk.”

“Not really.”

“No?” They blink owlishly at him.

“The Lash has a powerful metabolism. And had a big dinner. And also weighs, like, twice as much as you.”

Pocket’s voice changes as they try to match his. “The Lash’s liver filters poison twice as fast. Yours will never compete.”

“It’s cute that you think you’re funny.”

“I am funny,” they protest.

“Hilarious,” Lash says to placate them. “I like you like this.”

“I think you like me all the time.” They say it like they’re revealing the solution to some great mystery.

“Can’t believe I’m in the presence of a genius.” They shrug and Lash snorts. “What gave it away?”

“Probably all those times you’ve tried to sleep with me.”

“The Lash has been told persistence is one of his many charms.”

“Who lied to you?” Normally this would come out sardonic, but Pocket slips into a laugh right at the end. They really are drunk.

“My mom never lies.”

“Must be nice,” they mutter, then take a big gulp of their drink. “Sorry,” they slur. “This is why I’m banished.”

“From your parents?”

“From them,” they say, flinging a hand vaguely in the direction of the other room. “She called me a buzzkill.” Lash doesn’t answer that with more than a grunt. He knows a trap when he sees one. “But I’m not a buzzkill,” they say. “I can be fun.”

“Oh, I wanna believe you, but where’s the proof?”

They stare too long while they process it, lips parted the whole time, which is distracting as hell. “I know what you’re doing,” they say finally. “You’re trying to get me to…” they trail off, making a floppy, incomprehensible gesture with their hand.

“What am I trying to get you to do?” Pocket gives them a look that is clearly meant to convey You know exactly what, but Lash is not letting them off the hook that easily. He wants to hear them say it out loud. “What do you think I want?” he asks, leaning in.

Pocket studies his face with an amount of concentration that could be an exaggerated put-on or could just be a product of the alcohol. Then they say, “You.”

“I want me?”

“No. You said you. Or I when you said it.” They tilt toward him. “That’s what you said before. ‘I’ll watch your back.’ You. Not the Lash.” They poke their finger into his chest for emphasis.

Bemused, he says, “I am the Lash.”

“Sometimes.” They clearly think they’ve stumbled into something profound. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has insisted they could separate the man from the legend, but it is the first time it’s wormed under his skin. Pocket’s judgment of him matters, annoyingly enough, but if they think he’s two different people, then them liking one of those people is a step on the way to getting laid.

He doesn’t argue. Instead he focuses on their knee brushing his, on the way their hands fumble for a cigarette. Their lighter is on the table in front, so it’s easy to grab before they do and light it for them. They don’t say thank you. Instead they lean away, back against the arm of the couch, and plop their legs across his lap, smirking like they’re getting away with something and not playing right into his hands.

“Tell me more about myself,” he teases, plucking the cigarette from their mouth and taking a quick drag before he hands it right back. He wants to see what they’ll do. They lean forward, taking it without their hands. Their lips barely touch his fingers, and he feels warm all over. He is absolutely gonna nail this kid six ways to Sunday.

They look amused by the prompt, but they take a moment to think. “You’re not very nice,” they start.

“I lit your cigarette for you two seconds ago.”

“Because you think you’ll get something out of it.”

He grins. “Will I?”

They’re trying to play coy again, but it’s a lot harder when they’re sprawled across his lap. Could be getting comfy, or they could be staking a claim on this territory for anyone viewing, or just enjoying that it keeps his attention. All signs point to the same end result. Their non-answer is answer enough. “Maybe nice is overrated,” they say with a too-casual shrug.

Lash’s grin only gets bigger. “Go on, then.”

“You’re a mama’s boy,” they say, not in the tone of the idiot kids on the playground, but another dry observation.

“The Lash could come from nothing less than greatness.”

“But you don’t talk about your father.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“So is he dead or less than great?”

“I’ve never met the guy. Far as I’m concerned, the Lash’s conception was immaculate.”

Pocket snorts. “Your ego could fill up a whole city block.”

“You’re thinking too small. Somebody once said the Tri-State area.” Lash takes a swig of his own drink, nearly forgotten until he watches Pocket drain theirs. “Humility is for losers and grifters.”

“Wow,” they say like they disapprove, but their eyes are glinting with amusement. “I think it’s kind of enviable.”

“No way you got low self-esteem, kid.”

“Not about most things, no,” they say. “But it’d be nice to have that kind of certainty, I guess. Be able to say we’re gonna win like there’s not a hundred ways we could fail.”

“There’s a hundred ways some people could fail, but we won’t,” Lash says with a shrug. “Not while I’m around.”

“That,” they say. “That’s what I mean. I wouldn’t mind some of that.”

Lash twists to look at them directly. “You’re not a loser, so you’re not gonna lose.”

“You’re just saying that because you wanna sleep with me.”

Lash’s eyes roll. “You got it backwards. The Lash wouldn’t waste his time trying to bang a loser. I’m not gonna let my teammates fail, and neither are you.”

They smile faintly, softer now. “You act on whatever you say, even when it’s stupid.” Lash doesn’t know how to take that one or turn it into a joke, but it doesn’t matter, because Pocket continues. “I like it. Makes it easy to believe you.” They blink like they weren’t prepared for their own words.

“You can put your faith in the Lash,” he says. “He’ll—”

“Not the Lash,” Pocket says, cutting him off before he can deliver his clever line. “You.”

He could remind them there’s not a difference, but he’s got a better plan. He takes the cigarette from them again to get it out of their mouth. The angle’s going to be awkward, but he leans in, one hand steadying himself on the arm of the couch right next to their head. Their eyes go drowsy and their cheeks flush; he can see in their face that they know what’s coming, and they have plenty of time to dodge or move or say something to stop him, but they don’t. Lash bends down and—

“Oh my God,” Celeste squeaks from over by the refreshments. “Get a room!”

The weird spell broken, Lash sighs, loud and exaggerated enough that she can hear it. “I’m working on it.”

“Work faster! I’m trying to keep my cookies down.”

“I know it’s hard to take your eyes off the Lash,” he starts, “but—”

A fist tangled in the front of his shirt cuts him off and redirects all his attention back to Pocket, who’s suddenly sitting up, face only inches from his. Their smirk has gone lopsided. “You want to?” they ask.

Lash finds himself, for once, at a loss for words. Head empty, Celeste forgotten. The only thing that matters is that Pocket is incredibly close and trying to get closer. Lash fumbles for anything remotely cool to say. “You make me work for weeks and now it’s that easy?”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Nope. No. Not at all.”

Satisfied, they swing their legs from his lap and rise to their feet all loose-limbed and broad. Amused by the hand they offer, he lets them try to pull him to his feet. It takes so much effort that when he finally has mercy, it nearly sends them flying.

He catches them by the waist and pulls them close. “Smooth moves,” Lash says.

With the flush from the alcohol, it’s hard to tell if they’re even properly embarrassed. What they say is “I ended up where I wanted, didn’t I?”

“Oh my God, when did you become such a flirt?” Lash says.

“I’ve been flirting for days,” they answer.

“Days? I have notes,” he says, probably counter to his goal of getting laid. He might be a little tipsy too. Just a little.

“Wow,” they say.

They’re very close to pouting again, so he doesn’t argue his point. “Where’s this room you wanna take me to?”

They take his hand and lead him up the stairs. Celeste has moved on and nobody else seems wise to it, which is probably for the best, since he doesn’t need Paige falling apart all brokenhearted now that he’s gonna get off with someone else.

In one of the rooms Lash has never been in, between strange statues and crates all covered to protect them from dust, a mattress lies on the floor with a few ratty blankets. “Have you been sleeping here?” he asks. A strange pang hits his chest. Heartburn, maybe. It’s not nausea, at least. He can’t get sick. Not when he’s so close.

“Don’t get distracted,” they mutter, not quite looking him in the eye.

“Okay. Sure, I’ll ignore the mattress on the floor. And the spare clothes. And the books.”

The annoyed face they pull is closer to the Pocket he’s spent the last month attempting to win over. It’s almost refreshing. They shove out of their overcoat and scarf, and they scowl at him, challenging. “Are you gonna kiss me or what?” they ask.

Well, when they put it that way, who is he to deny them really? This bratty side is funny though. Maybe next time he’ll explore that.

He steps forward, slips a hand around their trim waist, and kisses them like he’s been waiting 24 whole days to do it. They cling to his impressive biceps, and now they finally swoon, swaying bonelessly into his arms. Their mouth opens for his tongue, hungry and dirty enough that any fantasies he’d held about leaving his mark on some blushing virgin fall away.

This is better anyway, if a little messy.

Maybe a little too messy.

Their mouth burns with the taste of alcohol, and that’s after Lash has been drinking, himself. The death grip on his arms may not be because they’re desperate to touch, but because they’re trying to stay on their feet. And then there’s the swooning — damn it.

He backs them toward the mattress, and they stumble again. They’re easy enough to catch — half his weight and all that — but it doesn’t fill him with confidence.

Their hand finally budges from his biceps to skim his stomach instead, pushing the hem of his shirt up, which makes what he’s about to do really, really stupid. Lash might only be looking for a one-night stand, but they should probably remember it happened.

He grabs them by that wrist, trying not to get distracted by the way his fingers nearly close around it. “So how many drinks did you have, anyway?” he asks.

“I dunno.” They giggle and he sighs.

Pocket smirks. Pocket huffs. Maybe they give a sensible chuckle here and there. Even the Lash, charming and funny and awesome as he is, doesn’t make them giggle.

While he’s having all these lame thoughts, Pocket does their damnedest to distract him. There’s the mouth on his collar bone, for one, and their other hand groping along. They’re not tall enough to reach his neck, which is probably for the best, because if they found any of the sensitive bits he’s not sure how long his resolve would stick.

“What if I didn’t pound that ass tonight?”

They pause, pulling back enough they can glare up at him. “What?”

“Oh, you know,” he looks at the mattress, remembering the pang in his chest. “The Lash had a lot to drink. Ate too much fried food and all. The Lash has heartburn.”

“And that’s gonna stop you from—”

“Yep, it’s tragic. The worst luck, really.”

“You’re lying,” they say, and it truly is terrible luck that Pocket’s pretty shrewd even when they can barely stand.

“Why would I be lying?” he asks, exactly the way a liar would.

“I don’t know. You don’t have enough shame to lie.” Their eyes get bigger, and he feels it physically. “Did you change your mind?” While he’s fishing for the right answer, Pocket goes on majestically leaping to conclusions without him. “Is it just about the chase for you? Oh, God, it would be, wouldn’t it?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Pump the brakes, babe. I’m just, you know—”

“Not interested anymore?” they ask very stupidly.

He tightens his grip on them in case they get any funny ideas. “Fine,” he sighs. “You’re drunk-drunk. I don’t want you to, like, puke halfway through getting your tonsils tickled or pass out before we’re done or whatever.”

Their eyes narrow again, but this must be close enough to the truth to pass the sniff test this time. “I wouldn’t,” they mumble. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have had so much, huh?”

“Not if you wanna get lucky with the Lash. You’re gonna need all your coordination for what I wanna do to you. And flexibility. And stamina. And—”

“Yeah, I get the picture.” They clear their throat. Their eyes are sad again, which is kind of how they always look but also kind of makes his stomach hurt, which is why he doesn’t have it in him to say no when they ask him to stay. Besides, getting home in this state is a bitch.

He curls up on that shitty mattress that is definitely too small for him, with Pocket’s back pressed against him. It’s nice to lie down, even if it now means the world rocks woozily on its axis. His eyes are so heavy they close on their own. Pocket wiggles against him as they get comfortable, which could be an accident if they didn’t do it again a moment later.

“Stop it,” he growls against their neck, digging his fingers into their side.

They gasp, shuddering against him in a way that’s definitely involuntary this time — which proves the other times weren’t, but that’s a distant secondary concern now. At least they quit squirming before it kills him. They yank his hand away from their side but don’t let go, fingers tightening until he wonders if they’re trying to cut off the circulation.

He should go home. He’s not getting laid tonight. He knows they’re gonna be a monster in the morning. He might be hungover tomorrow, but they definitely will be. There’s no fun in any of it.

He’s just trying to get lucky. It shouldn’t take all this effort. They’ve made him work so hard for it, and they’re still not putting out. With a disgusted sigh, he pulls them closer, tightens his arm around them, and passes out with their hair trying to creep into his mouth.

2 Days

Lash wakes on a flat mattress in a dusty storeroom.

He fell asleep on his side, but he’s on his back now, with Pocket splayed out on top of him. Their legs tangle with his and their head has claimed his pecs as their personal pillow. One hand crept under his shirt in the middle of the night, and it’s now wedged skin to sticky skin between his oblique and the mattress.

Clingy, he thinks. He should have known. It’s always the standoffish ones.

He should get up, push them off. They’re going to get the wrong idea about what he’s here for. Not that Lash cares about their feelings, but if they’re gonna keep a clear head in the Ritual, he doesn’t want to break the news to them that he’s just trying to get his dick wet. He didn’t make any promises to the contrary.

They should know Lash is a free spirit that can’t be tied down. He’s definitely not gonna get tied down by some urchin a decade his junior, some judgmental, sarcastic wet blanket who needs a proper fucking haircut.

His arm is numb beneath them, but he manages to wriggle it free, then brings it to rest across their waist, securing them against his body. He shuts his eyes and listens to them breathe while he dozes off again.

When he wakes a second time, it’s because they’re moving, restless in his arms. Instinctively he tightens them before he gains full consciousness and decides to let them go.

They groan and pull away, leaving him colder. When they realize he’s awake too, they go stiff. “You stayed?” they ask in a tone that sounds like bricks laying a new wall.

“You kept me up late. Just needed somewhere to crash,” Lash grumbles. His head is pounding, but it can’t be half as bad as theirs.

They stare at him with dried out eyes, sitting up on that stupid mattress. Their rat’s nest of hair is somehow worse now, one side sticking up high. They probably think they’re being subtle when they look at their body and then his, taking note of the far too many clothes they have on. “Yeah, I bet,” they say dryly, rubbing at their head.

Lash is, for the second time in as many days, uncertain what to say. He figures it’s about a 50/50 chance they even remember kissing him, and a smaller one they remember any conversation.

“Did we…” Pocket trails off, and finally there’s some color in their face because they’re flustered.

“Did you try to climb the Lash like a tree? Play tonsil hockey? Grow extra arms so you could grope the Lash in a spiderwebby cult hideout?”

“Oh, God,” they say, rubbing at their face.

He’s not finished. “All of the above, baby.” They stare at the cobwebbed ceiling for a moment. “No way you forgot it.”

“Oh my God,” they say again, this time with greater despair.

“I know. It’s hard to come to terms with, but you’re a mere mortal. You couldn’t help yourself. They all succumb to the Lash’s charms eventu—”

Pocket scrambles to their feet and runs, which is the most insane reaction anyone has ever had to being told they were blessed with the Lash’s attentions. The sound that follows explains a lot though: they’re puking up the poison from last night, noisily and with a lot of coughing. The Lash’s stomach is made of stronger stuff. He doesn’t need all that.

When the wet sounds desist, they’re followed by coughing, echoing into the chamber of whatever vessel they found. Something does twist inside him then, but not in his stomach. He wonders if he’s getting heartburn again.

The funny feeling compels him to hunt them down. Attached to the room is a small bathroom, so at least they’ve found a proper place to do it. He finds them crouched on the floor, braced over the toilet with their forehead pressed into the cradle of their arms.

“Move your head,” he says, then flushes for them when they do. That helps settle his own stomach, but then he sits cross-legged on the floor beside them, sighing as he rubs between their shoulder blades. He still hasn’t gotten laid yet, so he’s willing to make a few sacrifices. Besides, he’s been here enough times himself.

They groan into the toilet, coughing again, and then sniffle, which could be crying or could be general overwhelm. “Gross,” he tells them after a moment, which makes them laugh, echoing against the porcelain bowl again. “You got anything left in there?”

Their answer is, well. Illustrative. When they’re done heaving, he rests his hand between their shoulders again. This time they fumble for the handle and flush the thing themself, which Lash takes as a sign of progress.

Unfortunate that this is the least amount of clothing he’s ever seen Pocket in, and they slept in their shirt and trousers. It’s just that they took off the other layers, so he’s distracted by the sight of their sweaty, pointy shoulder blades through the clinging white shirt.

Finally, those shoulders bunch and they push their face out of the toilet, though they haven’t looked at him yet. “I bet you think I’m really sexy now,” they mutter. He might not hear it if it weren’t for the incredible acoustic properties of the toilet bowl.

Lash snickers, but part of him feels lighter — if they care about whether he thinks they’re sexy, that’s a win. “Oh, no, you look like shit,” he says, watching them wipe at their mouth with toilet paper. “But we can’t all be blessed with the Lash’s indomitable constitution.”

Pocket huffs at that, which Lash prefers to believe would be a laugh under better circumstances. They flush the toilet for a final time then move to the sink to rinse out their mouth and splash water on their face.

While they collect themself, he rises to his feet and keeps talking. “At least it proves you’re a regular person. I was starting to think you might be part frog or some shit.”

“What? Why?”

Lash shrugs. “Nobody human could resist my charms for so long.”

Their whole body slumps against the sink, and they groan, presumably hit by another wave of hungover nausea. “Yeah, that’s the only reason.”

He grins, fine with waiting them out. Once they seem ready to leave the bathroom, he has to step aside to let them escape, which means they pass too close to him coming through the doorway. They won’t really look at him, which is frustrating. The vomit thing is a setback, but he doesn’t want to accept more than that. “Sooo,” he starts. “How much do you remember from last night?”

“Enough to be embarrassed,” they mumble, yanking open that weird suitcase to dig through it like it’s a not-weird suitcase. The thing inside ribbits madly while Pocket reaches an arm through its phantasmal mouth and deeper than the case ought to hold. It’s unsettling to watch. What they produce is a perfectly normal, haphazardly folded change of clothing. “I’m gonna clean up now. If I could get some privacy?”

He doesn’t know why he lingers, except that maybe he thinks they’ll show a little skin. “You sure you’re done yakking up everything?”

They wince. “I’m not, but a shower will do me some good.”

“So would a decent breakfast.”

They pause, staring up at him from the floor in a way not dissimilar to the ones he’s been thinking about lately. They’re too far away though, and greener around the gills than he’d like. He’s still thinking about the puking, is the point. “You wanna get breakfast?” they ask slowly. “With me?”

“Well, if you’re asking me out,” Lash says. “Who am I to turn down a pretty face?”

“I wasn’t—” Pocket’s mouth flattens out with irritation. Then their stomach grumbles, loudly, and not in the way that suggests something’s coming back up. They sigh. “Let me get cleaned up first,” they say, turning away like they can hide the red suddenly spreading across their face.

Huge win for Jacob Lash. Even if it means he now has to have a date, like, in public, when he probably smells like a sweaty ashtray. The Bear Pit’s not far though, so he could do something about that.

“Hey,” he says, “you got a piece of paper?”

They hug their clean clothes to their chest and point to the stack of books by their mattress. Lash waves them off and sticks the name of a diner on it. It’s close enough to the hideout that Pocket doesn’t have any excuses not to show, but otherwise, he’ll have to take his chances.

Unless… once they’ve closed the bathroom door behind them, he sniffs at his shirt, then at his pits. Yeah, no, he needs a shower.

He writes “BE THERE” in big blocky letters at the end of the address, which is a command but in hindsight looks like desperation. The only thing worse would be crossing it out and starting again though, like he put too much thought into it, which he’s definitely not doing. He tosses the pen down and walks his ass out that door, telling himself he is very, very confident that Pocket will show up.

Fortunately for him, the Lash has had enough one night stands all over the city that he keeps a duffel full of everything he needs in his locker at the Bear Pit. It’s good after a fight too, but after a fight he doesn’t usually need a toothbrush.

He showers and wonders whether he has time to jerk off — then does not, only because he remembers Pocket started their shower first. They’re already ahead of him, and if he makes them wait, the chances they’ll disappear on him seem impossibly high. He’s never gonna get any if he can’t get them to stay in one spot without boat loads of alcohol.

Should have just gone for it last night. What was he thinking?

He was thinking the Lash doesn’t need to take advantage of anybody to get what he wants. Pocket’s gonna come to him fair and square and they’re going to do all kinds of nasty things and then they’ll both be in a great mood for the Ritual. He starts adding to the list of things to propose, which logistically cannot possibly all be done in one night, but he figures they should have options. Who sticks what where seems like a good start, but he concedes that their flexibility and his own unsurpassed athleticism lend themselves to more exciting options.

He’s still thinking about it when he stumbles into the Sunnyside Diner, hands thrust in his tight jean pockets to communicate how incredibly casual he feels about all of this. He is equally casual about surveying the diner and not immediately zeroing in on Pocket. He can’t quite control the puff of air that escapes when he realizes they are there, though, tucked into a table in the corner and looking, as they so often do, simultaneously wide-eyed and innocent yet wildly suspicious, thanks to the way they skulk around and slump into their seat.

Lash’s mouth betrays him with a smile that isn’t even performed for their benefit. He’s just… preparing, obviously.

He drops into the seat across from them, and they glance at him once before going back to perusing the menu, which is a cute act only given away by their cheeks pinking up. That’s just fine with Lash, because it gives him a chance to make sure they don’t look like they’re mad about anything or going to try to let him down easy or whatever. Not that they should, but they have been giving him the runaround enough that they might try it one more time.

They’re practically squirming where they sit. He can wait them out.

The waitress drops off coffee and takes their orders before Pocket bothers to acknowledge him. The pink in their face has come under control, but it isn’t entirely gone. “I’m sorry,” they say quickly, eyes darting back to their coffee right away. “About last night.”

At first he thinks they mean the vomiting bit, but that was this morning. “Which part, exactly?” he asks super casually, like the most casual anybody has ever been.

“The part where I,” they pause, hand moving in a circle like that explains anything, then they lower their voice, “made a pass, I guess.”

“You think you’re the first person to get drunk and try to schtupp the Lash?” They cover their face with both hands, which isn’t really an answer. “I can assure you it happens all the time. No judgment here. I totally get it. The Lash is a certified dreamboat.”

“Please stop,” they say, muffled by their palms.

“Why, so you can go back to pretending all of this” — Lash’s gesture down his incredible body is wasted on the backs of their hands — “doesn’t give you hot pants?”

“I’m not pretending any—” They drag their hands down their face and take a deep breath, before they look him directly in the eye. “Fine. Fine. I got drunk. I kissed you. That definitely happened. We almost slept together and didn’t because— that part’s foggy, but I assume because I couldn’t see straight at that point. That isn’t wordplay. Stop laughing. Anyway, yes, it happened. I’m not gonna say it didn’t. I am gonna re-emphasize the part where I was really, really drunk, though.”

“They say alcohol is like a truth serum in some ways.”

“It impairs inhibitions because it impairs judgment. There’s a difference.”

“And that’s why you’re here having breakfast with me, because you regret all of it and would never do it sober and can’t stand the thought of laying one on the Lash again,” he says. “Sure, babe.”

“I thought it would be right to tell you in person.”

“God, you’re a bad liar.” He laughs when he says it then laughs again when Pocket’s blush returns. It’s going to become a permanent fixture at this point. “Hey, uh, Sandra,” he says.

“Jackie,” the waitress corrects, tapping at the name tag on her blouse before she tops off their coffees.

“You like men?” He assumes not. Much like Celeste, she has not glanced even once at his glorious muscles. “Let’s say you do, for argument’s sake. Now let’s say you come on to one when you’re drunk, then you regret it and want to tell him off the next day. Do you go to breakfast with that guy or nah?”

She looks between the two of them, probably trying to calculate who’s going to be responsible for her tip, before she gives up the calculation and answers honestly. “No. I’d call or meet him outside, but I wouldn’t go in with him. I certainly wouldn’t order food if I did. And I wouldn’t bother his waitress about it.”

Lash laughs, then he turns to Pocket while she hastily retreats. “Even the wait staff’s calling your bluff, babe. You like me. You wanna kiss me again so bad.” He reaches across the table, putting his hand on theirs. “Don’t worry. If you were looking to be memorable, I’ve never seen anybody get so bent out of shape about finally getting caught. Usually they’re getting bent into shapes, so maybe that’s it. Are you grumpy ’cause you barely got to second base?”

Their eyes stay fixed on where their hands are joined. “No,” they say, but it comes out too slow and so does them pulling their hand away. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Who hasn’t spent a morning wrapped around a toilet? It’s no big deal.”

“That’s not—” They pause as their food lands in front of them. When the server clears out, they start again. “We’re two days out from the Ritual,” they say in a hush, as if everyone in this city doesn’t know the Maelstrom’s coming. “In two days my whole life is gonna change. If I mess this up, the best case scenario is that I can try again in fifty years, and the worst… I’m not even sure we can imagine it, given what we’re up against. It’s a lot of pressure, and I don’t need to be distracted by you or by hangovers or by anything else.”

Or at least that’s what Lash thinks they say, because every bit of it is said in between enormous bites. The kid eats like they haven’t seen food in a week. Lash would normally make a joke about this, but he’s struck with the sudden mental image of that shitty mattress on the floor of the hideout and the state of their clothes, and his chest does that weird thing it’s been doing too much lately. He takes a big swig of his water in case there’s some food stuck in there.

“You do need to be distracted, actually,” Lash says. “Relaxing is vital to your success in a fight. The Lash generously volunteers his time.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Pocket mumbles behind their hand, simultaneously trying to scarf down a huge forkful of hashbrowns.

“Funny way to pronounce ‘irresistible.’” When Pocket manages to look bitchy while chewing, Lash sighs. “You’re talking to an expert in winning fights. People would kill to know my method, and here you are treating it like it’s nothing. If you don’t figure out how to indulge in some self-care before a fight, you’re gonna fuck up because you got too much weight on your shoulders.”

“There are other ways to relax. I’m sure you don’t spend all your downtime horizontal.”

“It doesn’t have to be horizontal.”

Pocket groans again. “Talking to you feels like tiptoeing around a minefield.”

“A minefield of your own design. I’m not making you say that shit.”

Pocket closes their eyes, visibly collecting their patience. Lash takes the moment to enjoy his coffee. They let out a long breath, then say with a tight, plastic smile, “Surely as the leading authority in fighting, you’d be willing to share some tips with your teammate about what else I could do to relax.”

Sometimes he forgets they’re a little sneaky. Pitting his desire to show off against his impulse to make dirty jokes is a smart move; even knowing that’s what they’re doing, it works. “Okay. First, you gotta get a good night’s sleep. If I am taking someone to pound town, which I usually am, that’s happening by 8 p.m. and then they’re going home so I can get some proper rest. Second, you can drink, but not like last night. I mean one or two, whatever loosens you up but doesn’t make you sick or stupid. Hair of the dog the next morning is fine, but the same rules apply. Third, you gotta take your mind off of it for a while. The sex doesn’t hurt there either, but I do other stuff. The cinema, a ballgame, a comedy show. Maybe hit the sauna or take a bubble bath after. Then, you know, it’s just eat right, drink water, stretch, and don’t do anything crazy.”

“Surprisingly restrained advice. I thought you’d mention sex at least one more time.”

Lash smirks. “Yeah, well, you asked about before the fight, not after.”

“Right,” Pocket says dryly, but their mouth tics like they want to smile. “I should probably get out of the hideout for a while.”

Lash drops his napkin into his empty plate. “So what’ll it be? Movie, ballgame, or comedy show? I guess it could be something else, but museums are boring and the cabarets won’t open till after dark.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to, sweetheart. The Lash can read between the lines.”

“Yeah, you’re really good with subtlety.”

“You can’t play hard to get after you’ve already come on to me.” Their entire face turns beet red, which means either he struck a nerve or they suddenly remember how very many places they put their hands on him before it was over. “Besides, what else are you gonna do all day?”

Lash yanks out his wallet. While Pocket’s picking at the crumbs on their plate, he does a surreptitious check to ensure he’s not getting overly ambitious. Then he flags down the waitress and pays for their breakfast. He even leaves a big tip because they’re probably the type to think that’s impressive.

All that time to think, and Pocket never does come up with an answer to his question.

Chapter Text

Despite that Lash insists he can pay — and he can, even if money’s tight — Pocket complains about the wallet they left in yesterday’s trousers until he relents and escorts them to the hideout. He bums a smoke off of them, because of course they remembered those, then waits for them outside. The smoking keeps his hands and mouth occupied and almost keeps his mind from conjuring up the many ways they might not come back down.

They take longer than they should, even if it’s not much time in the grand scheme. They also return with company in tow.

“I heard you were going to a baseball game,” says Viscous in his squeaky voice. “I want to see America’s favorite pastime.”

Lash scratches at the back of his neck instead of wringing Pocket’s. Then he grabs them and gets a little distance from Viscous. “Is this another one of your games?”

“I don’t play games,” Pocket says, like a liar, then hits Lash with the doe eyes. “I didn’t ask him to come. He invited himself, and I didn’t know how to say no. He’s so excited.”

“I can whisper too!” Viscous’s giant head suddenly butts against Lash’s. If the goop leaves residue in his hair, he’s going to kill somebody.

Lash is perfectly willing to explain in no uncertain terms that Pocket is a bad friend who misled him into believing he could tag along on what is obviously a date, but a warning look from Pocket makes him reconsider threatening violence. “Listen, Gooey, tickets cost money, and I only budgeted for two.”

“That’s not a problem.” Viscous produces a fan of moist but perfectly usable bills. A lot of them. “The Hidden King’s friends gave me this when I left.”

“You know what? This just might cover it.” Before anyone else can get funny ideas, Lash plucks the whole wad of cash from Viscous’s hand. “Why don’t I hang onto this for you?”

“Oh, good! I don’t really know how to use it.” Viscous somehow gives the impression he’s beaming, and Pocket is still giving Lash those big pleading eyes, so Lash shoves the money into his billfold and sighs.

“Come on then. First inning is gonna start soon.”

Viscous trails behind them, gawking in every direction like the tourist he is. Lash can’t be sure who’s chaperoning who, but the extra distance helps.

Pocket glances at him. “If you swindle that poor sea creature…”

“Me? I’m protecting him from getting swindled. You saw how he was waving that money around, just asking for every scammer in this city to fleece him.”

“I see. Your altruism knows no limits.”

“The Lash is a man of the people.”

Every so often, they look back to check on Viscous, but otherwise they stroll at Lash’s side, weaving through strangers on the sidewalk as if it’s second nature. Not that Lash needs to know where Pocket’s from to get what he wants, but in contrast with Viscous, it stands out that Pocket’s probably a native — if not to the Cursed Apple, then some other big city.

They have to take the train to get out to the stadium, but Pocket doesn’t complain when Lash squeezes into the seat right next to them. Viscous sits across the aisle, at times staring at them, but more often staring at the strangers churning around him.

“Why baseball?” Pocket asks.

“Can’t be too picky when there’s only so many things on the schedule today. Besides, the uniforms make their asses look great.”

When Pocket laughs or smiles at the things he says, it always seems like they don’t really want to. That they do anyway is swiftly becoming a point of pride. “Of course,” they say. “I don’t even know if I like baseball.”

“Not into sports, or?”

They shrug. “Not really. Nothing against them. Just never found one that called to me.”

Lash makes a thoughtful sound.

“What? No jokes?” Pocket asks.

“Just surprised. I have it on good authority you’re in pretty good shape,” he says with a grin. Just because he stopped them last night doesn’t mean he didn’t get a handful.

“I try,” they say flatly as if their face isn’t flooding with pink. “But nothing organized, really.”

“Here I thought you’d be the second deadliest person on our side.”

“I assume you’re the first.”

“Naturally.”

“Who’s second now?”

“Guess you’re getting outplayed by Sparkles. She might look crazy, but those acrobatics are no joke.”

Their voice drops to a near whisper at the end, as if the train isn’t drowning out everything beyond a few inches away. “I don’t have to be able to cartwheel to carry a gun or use magic.”

“If you want me to raise you in the ranking, you’re gonna have to show some muscle.” Lash leers in case they somehow miss his meaning.

“Everything’s a setup with you. Here’s something I’ve never said in my life: can we go back to talking about sports? You ever do any, other than the obvious?”

“I tried plenty as a kid,” Lash says. “Wrestling, soccer, basketball, boxing. Whatever it took to burn off all the energy.” And the calories, Lash doesn’t say. That’s for another time, if it ever gets that far. Which it won’t, because he just wants to get his dick wet and move on. “The Lash has always been cursed with too much stamina.”

Pocket rolls their eyes, but their answer is serious enough. “I tried fencing in high school. I was horrible at it.”

“Fencing?” Lash does not pull a face. It’s hard to reconcile the Pocket who dresses like a hobo and sleeps on the floor of the hideout with someone who went to a school that teaches fencing.

“The most I got out of it was that I stopped tripping over my own feet by the end of term.”

Lash snickers. “So you’re not the sporty type. I don’t think much of a drama dork either. Art, maybe? No.” He snaps his fingers. “Music.”

“I might have played the piano for a few years.” It’s a real smile this time, but a sad one.

“How many is a few?”

“Twelve, I think.”

“Why’d you stop?”

Pocket looks up at him with those miserable eyes, and he regrets asking. Whatever the answer is, it’s going to be a huge downer. He should have seen the warning signs. And Pocket called talking to him a minefield.

They’re both saved by the train thundering to a stop. “This is us,” Lash says, pulling Pocket up with him. “Come on, Gooey.”

Pocket’s quiet on the short walk to the ballpark, but Viscous more than makes up for it with his running questions about where they are and what they’re looking at and why everyone else is looking at him. With the cultists’ money, Lash pays for seats behind home plate like this is the kind of game that matters and not an off day doubleheader between minor league dweebs.

He stands aside to let Pocket go first, ready to follow next, when the goo says, “Thank you!” and pushes right past him, settling into the seat between them like a stiff blob of jam. Over his head, Lash can see Pocket smirking, which is better than the depressing look from before, so Lash lets it go.

Making Pocket entertain the goo by themself seems like a proportionate act of vengeance anyway. “I’m getting refreshments. Any requests?” he asks.

With the cultists’ cash burning a hole in his pocket, he browses the souvenirs. Neither team has a reputation for being champions, so Lash selects the merch based on color scheme alone. The Brooklyn Banshees’ gray, purple and blue color combo is superior to the red and yellow of the Harlem Gargoyles by far.

When he returns to their seats, he’s got his arms full and a Banshees baseball cap sitting snug on his head. He reaches past the goo to hand Pocket a beer. “Hair of the dog. Just the one,” he says, amused at the way they scowl stubbornly up at him.

“I thought that was called beer,” Viscous says.

“That too,” Lash answers. “Hold this,” he says, trusting the goo with his drink for a moment. Then he yanks two more caps out from under his arm, setting one on each of their heads. Pocket adjusts theirs so it fits properly. Viscous simply lets his sit there. Then Lash tucks into his chair and gets his beer back, trying not to stick his elbow too deep into the slime beside him.

After the second inning, Pocket squeezes past to use the restroom, and Lash convinces Viscous to scoot over, leaving Pocket the seat between them — which means they get to sit next to Lash and have to share elbow room with the goo.

“I should’ve known,” Pocket mutters when they return.

Lash beams at them. They relax eventually, leaning back into their seat and keeping their mouth shut about the arm Lash has draped behind them. The game even makes them smile a couple times, which he keeps getting distracted by. Pocket’s hair pokes out from under the cap at jagged intervals, and they look a little silly, and Lash wonders if the beer and the greasy breakfast were all too much because there’s that feeling in his chest again.

The audience groans, and Lash realizes he’s missed something. Pocket laughs, eyes straight ahead on the game. “That’s the third time he’s tried to steal a base. What is he doing? I thought these guys were professionals.”

Lash snorts. “One game and you’re suddenly an expert?”

“This isn’t my first game,” they say.

“I thought you said—”

“I said I didn’t know if I liked it, not that I’ve never been.” As Pocket speaks, they monitor the proceedings on the field, which are admittedly boring at the moment. “My dad had box seats. It’s just—” They stop there, cringing.

Lash files the box seats away for later, adding only, “He sucked?”

Pocket clears their throat, staring into their empty beer cup. “Yeah. He sucked. Made it hard to care about the game when he was there.”

Lash thinks about the minefield again, and thinks maybe this time it’s best to say nothing. Instead he drops his hand from the seat to Pocket’s shoulder, rubbing in a way that might be comforting. They don’t say much else, and he lets that one go, because they don’t shrug away from his touch either. Then the Banshees hit a home run, Pocket whistles sharply through their fingers, and Lash’s heart pounds in his ringing ears.

The Banshees win both games, because Lash knows how to pick a winner even between two losers. Still, those losers give them several hours of entertainment. By the end, Lash and Pocket are both on their feet cheering. Viscous follows suit, mimicking the people around him — and because, weird as he might be, he does have a good sense of fun. Amid the applause and the shouting, Pocket glances up at Lash. Their smile is the freest he’s seen since he met them, unburdened by the upcoming ritual or anything else, and they turn with a hand on his arm like they’re going to say something, and all Lash wants to do is yank that silly cap off their head and kiss them.

“I love baseball,” Viscous declares. Instead of Lash sweeping Pocket off their feet, he and Pocket both get swept into Viscous’s gooey embrace.

Lash groans quietly, but somehow his mood isn’t totally crushed by the moment. Viscous is kind of growing on him. Or at least Viscous’s enthusiasm and, more importantly, Viscous’s money are growing on him.

On their way out of the stadium, Pocket talks Lash into buying Gooey a Banshees jersey to match his hat. Once he manages to stretch it over his big head, it fits well enough, but it does make it look like he’s naked slime with only a shirt on instead of slime in a suit, which is not an improvement.

Pocket does not fight Lash’s arm around them on the train ride, and they don’t take off that hat no matter how stupid their hair looks under it. “What’s next?” they ask. “Still have a few hours to kill before I can say the day is over.”

“I do not think I want the goo in a sauna,” Lash muses aloud.

“Where would we even find one?”

“There’s a gym near the Bear Pit that lets me use it whenever I want. I’ve made the owner a lot of money, so, you know, he lets me go in the off hours so I don’t get accosted by fans.”

“You haven’t been accosted by a fan all day.”

“The hat is doing a lot of work,” he insists.

“Okay. Well, no sauna anyway.”

“Can’t believe you’d turn down another opportunity to see the Lash in all his glory.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Pocket says, “but you don’t leave a lot to the imagination.”

“I know it can be tough not to compare yourself to this gorgeous body, but you gotta trust the Lash would not be interested if he didn’t expect to like what he sees.”

Pocket manages to look annoyed and amused at the same time. “That’s reassuring. That was definitely my concern.”

“I keep telling you, babe, you got nothing to worry about.”

It says a lot that they don’t argue against the pet name. They just smirk and lean into his arm, and he does his best not to get too curious about exactly what they’d look like naked and gleaming with sweat. Save that for later, when he’s not on public transit.

A few stops out, Pocket says, “Celeste made me promise if we went to see a peep show we’d have to invite her too. I don’t know if it was a joke or not.”

“Is this a suggestion?”

Pocket snorts. “It wasn’t.”

“Would have to ditch Gooey.”

“That’s mean. It could be funny to take him, I bet.”

“You got no respect for those hard-working women, you pervert.”

“That’s your hangup?” they laugh.

“The Lash respects showmanship and athleticism and embracing the beauty of a magnificent physique. What about this is a surprise to you?”

They stare at him for a moment, pretty mouth open while they look for words. Then they shut it. “Good point, I guess.”

“At least if we take him to a burlesque show, there’s something more than bodies for him to gawk at.”

“Like feathers.”

“Like feathers!” Lash says approvingly.

“I wasn’t serious about taking Viscous to either of those things,” Pocket says. “Or Celeste, for that matter.”

“But you’d go with me?” Lash asks with a grin.

“Not” — Pocket glances at him and then away — “tonight.”

Lash wants to cheer. He wants to grab them and kiss them right there on the grimy subway train. He wants to carry them back to his apartment and lay them out on his bed and not let them leave for three days, which totally counts as a one night stand if the only places you go between rounds are the kitchen and bathroom. “Cool,” he says.

By the time they get off the train, the sky is shot through with reds and golds. Lash drags his feet, racking his brain for a way to get rid of their third wheel without returning to the hideout.

Pocket beats him to it. “I had a great time, Viscous,” they say politely. “I’m glad you came with us.” They sound sincere, which is impressive. They’re not that good an actor.

Then they elbow Lash. “Yeah. Hope you had fun, buddy.” Another jab from Pocket’s elbow, and Lash fishes out his wallet. “Here’s your money.”

“I don’t need it in there,” says Viscous. “You know what you’re doing with it.”

He dismisses himself, leaving Pocket and Lash alone on the sidewalk. “So,” Lash says, still holding Viscous’s cash. “Dinner? Could take you somewhere real nice with this.”

“Anywhere too nice, and they’re not gonna let us in,” Pocket says.

“I have a suit in the back of my closet,” Lash says.

“I don’t,” Pocket answers, and Lash should’ve figured that was coming.

“Could probably find you something with Viscous’s money,” Lash offers.

“And then we couldn’t afford the dinner,” Pocket says with a laugh. “Let's try somewhere more laid back. Save the money for something else.”

Dinner isn’t exactly at the Ritz, but they find a nice enough Italian place Lash knows that lets them in dressed as they are, as long as they take off the baseball hats. Over a pile of pasta nearly too big for his plate, Lash waxes rhapsodic about his last fight, the one that left his face busted up only to discover Pocket still thought he was handsome.

“So I’m diving in, boosh, from way up high, and he tries to roll away, so I land right on his collar bone, which is, I’ll be honest, pretty horrific to see. I mean, that’s on him for not knowing how to take the hit correctly, but ugh, the sound.”

Pocket grimaces while they scarf down their own platter, matching him almost pound for pound in delicious carbohydrates. Insane, considering he’s got nearly twice the body mass to maintain. He definitely does not bring this one up either, but he tucks it away in the file he’s started keeping in his head, profiling them like he’s in one of those noir films. Can be bribed with food, filed under Likes.

Lash has learned so much in one day, it’s nuts. There’s the piano and the fencing and the daddy issues, which all lead up to some kind of probably-rich asshole family who don’t know what to do when their kid starts acting queer. Not everyone is blessed with a mother like his, who couldn’t give a single shit what kind of person Lash is into, as long as they’re worthy of his time. According to her, he has yet to introduce her to someone good enough for him, but that’s a better problem to have than parents who can’t stand you.

“You ever been in a fight?” Lash asks. “Not your sad fencing career. That doesn’t count.”

“I, um…” Pocket stares too long, which is how Lash knows it was a stupid question. The answer is yes, or something like it, and they’re either not going to tell him or they’re going to explain it in such excruciating detail that he regrets asking. Their eyes dart away, then they say, “When I was twelve, I got in a fist fight.”

Relieved they seem to have found the middle path, Lash pretends to believe it’s the only answer, and he leans in. “Yeah? Over what?”

“This boy had been sort of bothering me for a while, and my dad and this girl I knew told me if I stood up to him just once, he’d leave me alone. Then he got nasty with her and called me an invert.” Their mouth tics into that almost smile. “Guess he was right on that count.”

“Did it work?”

Pocket huffs, amused. “No. I hurt my hand, and he made fun of me for hitting ‘like a girl,’ which, you know, had the opposite effect of shutting him up.”

Lash looks them over, considering how their compact build would have looked at that age. He knows from practice that Pocket hits surprisingly hard now, but they’re also a grown adult with something to prove. “He ever leave you alone?”

“My dad intervened. I think the whole situation embarrassed him.”

“That didn’t make it worse?”

“You don’t know my dad. It definitely stopped. Then junior high started, I made more friends, and he probably moved on to easier targets.”

Judging from the way they won’t quite make eye contact, pursuing this further will probably make them shut down or take on that thousand yard stare again, so he side steps and goes for a different detail. “Wouldn’t have guessed you were one of the popular kids.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but sure, I had plenty of friends. Some of them even real friends.”

“As opposed to imaginary?”

“As opposed to social climb—” They pause, as if realizing what they’ve said. He watches them visibly gather themself. “Social climbers, sycophants, opportunists. Baby vipers learning to be just as venomous as their parents.” Their face is tight as if it cost something to say it.

Lash feels strangely touched that they’d make the effort. God, it must be hard to want him so bad. He decides to have mercy on them. “I had a bully. More than one,” he says, watching Pocket’s expression open up again at the subject change. “I know, it’s hard to believe, but the Lash has had to overcome adversity.”

Their eyes say go on, even as they shovel more food into their mouth.

“I was eight and this kid, Jamie Paxton, wouldn’t leave me alone. I was—” Fat, he thinks. A loser. A weird kid with no dad who wore a key for a necklace when his mom was at work, a kid who ate his worthless feelings and hated himself more than his mother’s love could make up for. “Kind of a loner at the time,” he finishes. “And I was obviously not the specimen you see before you today. I didn’t know then that I was destined for greatness. So he picked on me for months, and just like you, somebody told me to stand up to him. So the next time he popped off at the mouth, I decked him hard as I could. The Lash’s first KO, baby: a third-grader.”

“I hope it helped. I mean, I don’t think you should fight children now, but…” Lash snickers, and Pocket relents. “You know what I mean.”

“You don’t wanna see the Lash suplex an eight-year-old?”

Pocket laughs then covers their mouth in horror. “No, that’s awful.”

“I don’t know why you’re laughing then.”

“It’s — I’m sorry,” Pocket says.

“You don’t have to apologize to me. You have to apologize to the children.”

“I imagined it like something out of a cartoon. It’s not funny. Oh, God. Go back to your story before I laugh at something terrible again.”

He’s never slept with somebody so hung up on being a goody two shoes, but Pocket wears guilt like a second skin. Maybe Lash can be a good influence. Maybe he can rub off on them when he’s rubbing off on them.

“Unlike you,” he continues, “mine didn’t stop. Or that one did, but others still tried to pick on me. I don’t know. I guess I was kinda runty and alone too much and maybe kind of…” He doesn’t know the word for what he wants to say. Probably a pejorative about his sexuality, but it’s not as though he’s ever given off particularly feminine vibes.

“Theatrical?” Pocket supplies with a smirk.

“Heh, maybe. I don’t know. They couldn’t handle my natural showmanship, probably. Those kids were like sharks and whatever I was doing chummed the water. I had to win a lot of fights before they learned to leave me alone.” He takes another bite of his food, a tiny act of rebellion against the part of him that to this day says he shouldn’t. “So, you know, I learned how to fight the hard way.”

“I don’t think anyone learns it the easy way,” Pocket muses.

“Except maybe fencers.”

They snort. “Yeah, except them.”

They finish their meal in relative peace, eating until they’re both left picking at the remains on their plates. The big clock on the wall ticks away, and Lash smirks. “So,” he says, “we still got fifteen minutes before my cutoff if you’ve changed your mind.”

Pocket sighs loudly enough that he knows they want him to hear it. “Come on. I haven’t. I told you no distractions.”

“You sure seemed to want this distraction last night.”

“I was drunk, and I—” They try to stop themself there.

Lash grins. “Go on. Tell me again how irresistible I am.”

“I thought it would be easy.”

“Nothing wrong with that. The Lash’s allure is inescapable, especially when he’s turned his attentions on you.”

“Not what I mean,” they mutter.

“You lost me. What’s the problem?”

They won’t quite look at him when they say, “You make it easy to underestimate you. As a person, I guess. I thought I could…” They make one of those incomprehensible gestures with their hand. “Get it out of my system and move on.”

It’s not embarrassment on their face. It’s shame, and for what? Wanting a one night stand with an impossibly gorgeous man? “Okay, and? It’s fine. Totally fine. Kind of a relief, actually. So what if you only wanted one night? That’s all the Lash was after. It’s fine. No big deal.”

“It sounds fine.”

“Yeah, ’cause it is. It’s mutual. We’re adults. Who cares? The Lash does it all the time, you know. He’s a busy guy. No time to get pinned down. It’s fine. There’s whole wide world of hot people out there. Honestly, it would be selfish of you to keep them from getting their chance with the Lash. So it is totally fine. I don’t care.”

Pocket’s eyebrows have disappeared into their shaggy hair as if they’re shocked by how very cool Lash is with being treated like a piece of meat. “Right,” they say slowly. “Well, maybe you think it’s fine, but—”

“It is.”

“Yeah, I got that. But it turns out I’m not that kind of person.” They’re speaking to him like he’s a child or something, which is infuriating at all times, but especially coming from anyone under the age of 25.

Besides, Lash has frankly heard enough of their self-flagellation over what is, once again, totally fine. He stands and stretches, uncaring about the way the chair scrapes noisily along the floor. “Probably for the best, since your window’s closed anyway. The Lash forgot to factor in how long it would take to walk home, so.”

Scrunched down and scrubbing both hands through their hair, Pocket stares at him like he’s grown extra limbs, which is crazy, because he’s making perfect sense. So much sense, in fact. Like way more sense than they ever have. “Can you sit down?” they ask.

“Nope. The Lash has a strict pre-match bedtime, remember? Check, please!”

Chapter Text

Some other time, Lash might find it funny how Pocket has to scramble to keep up with his quick pace. As it is, he is too busy reminding himself he simply does not care.

He doesn’t care that Pocket only wanted to sleep with him, because that’s what he wanted too, obviously, and he doesn’t care that they then gave him the runaround by treating today as some kind of date or whatever, or that they did all that while also putting off the part where they actually have sex. It’s all completely fine.

Not like they’re the first person to think Lash’s attention gives them some kind of bragging rights. And why shouldn’t they enjoy it? It’s a compliment, and one Lash doesn’t bestow on everyone. It probably makes them feel special. If only they weren’t stringing him along to do it.

Maybe it was nice of them to let him know he was wasting his time. They did him a favor, really.

“Can you slow down?” Pocket says beside him, sounding out of breath, which he also — he cannot emphasize enough — does not care about.

“Told you the Lash has a strict bedtime.” He picks up the pace with the reminder that he has places to be, and he is not remotely amused by the quick patter of their feet just behind him.

Their voice tightens when they say, “You’re not listening to me.”

“Heard you loud and clear, kid.”

“I really don’t think you did.”

“You wanted the Lash for his body, then you changed your mind. Fine. Feeling’s mutual.”

“That’s not what I said. Or it is, but not like that.”

“It’s fine,” Lash says, louder than he means to.

“Fine,” they say before they fall quiet.

A pit opens in Lash’s stomach, but he reminds himself it doesn’t mean anything. Pocket always sounds like that. They’re a miserable wet blanket with a boat load of baggage he does not need to deal with. He’s known all along that they’re too much work for what he wants out of them, but like a fool, he couldn’t resist the challenge. He should have gone for Paige; she might be another tough nut to crack, but he bets once she does, she knows how to have a good time.

“Well, no,” Pocket says as if they’re jealous he dared to think about someone else. “It’s not fine and I don’t believe you when you say it is.” Lash is sure any second he’ll find the words to tell them off, but they’re too quick on the draw. “I was trying to say I think I’m not a one-night stand person, and I had a really nice time today, and maybe that’s more like what I want from you. But I guess I hurt your feelings, and now you’re being a real jackass about the thing you didn’t let me finish explaining, so maybe I’m second guessing all of it. And this is definitely breaking my no distractions rule, by the way. Like this is really, really distracting.” Lash stops in his tracks to breathe a heavy, tired sigh. Pocket’s monologue finishes with a muffled “mmph” as they walk into him.

While he waits for a couple cars to plow through the intersection, Pocket extracts themself from feeling up his body with their face. Something hot and uncomfortable sits in his stomach, aching in the pit that opened up before. He tells himself it’s anger.

“Whatever,” he mutters eloquently.

“Seriously? That’s it?” There’s an aggravating creak in their voice that makes his whole body clench. “I don’t know what I expected. You’re exactly as big an asshole as everyone says you are.”

Now, that was meant to get under his skin. He is not going to let them have the victory. He’s not. He couldn’t care less about Pocket’s opinion of him. All they do is drag everything down with their baggage and their moping and their judgy bullshit. Lash deserves better. He deserves someone who recognizes what a gift his time and attention is. So he doesn’t know why he finally turns to look at them.

“You really think that?” he asks, realizing only once he’s spoken that he’s in dire need of something to drink.

Pocket blinks up at him. He has the perverse impulse to smooth his fingers over their crinkled brow, but he keeps his hands curled into fists in his pockets. “Sometimes, but not to me. Not for most of today. I really liked today.”

“Me too,” he admits before he can stop himself by overthinking it.

“Okay. So can you, I don’t know, actually hear what I was saying before, or are you going to just tell me it’s fine again?” They reach a tentative hand out, fingertips cold on the outside of his wrist. It’s nothing terribly intimate, but it does feel like they’re grounding the electrical current running through him.

Lash stares at their face, which has always had the crossed-wires effect of being both pretty and handsome, and especially here under the warm glow of streetlights. He takes a steadying breath to banish the distraction.

So even though he had an appropriate and justified and perfectly measured reaction to what Pocket said before, he might have misheard a teeny tiny bit, which is of course their fault for introducing the topic in the manner they did. Anybody would have arrived at the same conclusion as Lash. However, forgiving them for their shit communication, he can see that maybe they meant something different, and maybe what they meant is sort of sweet, if you’re into that kind of thing. “You like me,” he says after a moment.

Pocket’s jaw sets stubbornly. “And you like me,” they say, no more a question than when he said it. Lash doesn’t answer, but it seems he doesn’t have to. “It’s just with the Ritual, that’s a lot to have to worry about. So I’d prefer if we could move slow, or maybe set it aside for now.”

“You’re not the only one who’s here for the once in a lifetime chance. I’m not gonna sabotage it. So if you think this raging sexual tension is too much of a distraction…”

Pocket smirks. “I do think that.”

Lash’s shoulders finally loosen up. Pocket visibly relaxes too. The crosswalk opens up, but they simply stand there, sharing the space. Then he says, “So, you say no hanky panky before the Ritual, but what about…” In lieu of words, he steps closer, settling a hand into the dip of Pocket’s back.

“What about what?” they ask, blinking innocently.

He figures the only answer to that is one without words. He tightens his grip on their waist, pulling their whole body snug against his. There’s plenty of time to protest or push back as he plucks the baseball cap from their head, but all they do is stare up at him wide-eyed, pink-cheeked, lips parted like they’re ready for him. He leans in with intent, feels the moment their breath stutters.

With only inches between them, Pocket stops him with their fingers against his mouth. They’re so close he can hear when they swallow down their nerves. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Their gaze darts from his eyes to his mouth and back. “It’s not a no,” they add quickly, trying and failing to sound less flustered. “Think of it as, you know, an incentive. A way to celebrate if we win.”

Lash laughs off the last ounce of tension, pulling their hand away. “And you say I have a big ego?”

“Excuse me?” they sputter.

“Going on and on about how this ritual is supposed to change our entire lives, then acting like kissing you is the real prize?”

“Oh my God, I did not mean it like that.” The red in their face deepens well beyond the flattering shade from before.

“Oh, I think you did.” They start to draw away from him, but he doesn’t let them get far. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s cute when you act like you’re hot shit.” He gets a hand in their hair, tipping their face back up toward his, and they make a soft, strangled sound. Smugly, he files that reaction away for later. “I can do slow. But if you’re calling it an incentive, you’re gonna make sure it’s worth the wait, aren’t you?”

“Only one way to find out,” they say as if their feathers haven’t been thoroughly ruffled.

If he kept trying to coax them, they’d eventually relent, judging by the flustered way they yank the baseball cap back on and tug their rumpled coat into place. He doesn’t know why he holds back then, returning his hands to his pockets and trying to be satisfied with the knowledge that if they thought they could say yes, they would.

“We should at least check in at the hideout before I head home,” he says, breaking the silence. It feels like the only option, but he doesn’t especially want to. He’s not going to spend another night there, and the idea of Pocket sleeping alone on that mattress on the floor doesn’t fill him with pleasant feelings.

“Good idea.” While they walk, they stay close enough that he could reach out and grab them again if he wanted. Somehow he’s content with their elbow occasionally jostling his.

When they return to the hideout, the cultists are in a tizzy. “I’m sorry,” Celeste shouts at one of them, who growls back in a language that feels like it’s scraping Lash’s bones clean.

“What happened?” Pocket asks.

“Listen,” Celeste says, face tight with stress in a way he’s never seen before. Her normally buoyant hair falls in a heavy wet curtain all around her. “They want us to check in every day. Sometimes a girl comes fresh from work, but she ain’t so fresh, if you know what I mean. And there’s that shower up there, and—” Her hands flop to her sides. “How was I supposed to know these old pipes can’t handle the glitter?”

From the upstairs landing, water drips down into the main room, shimmering with reflective specks. The mole has lifted up onto his hind legs, likely to keep the monkey as far from the water as possible.

Krill says, “It was more than glitter. Purple hair everywhere. Confetti. Fur, for some reason. Chewing gum. This woman is a menace to society.”

Pocket’s face falls as they follow the dripping water to its source, so Lash says, “At least it wasn’t the toilet?”

“See?” Celeste demands. “It could be way worse!”

Lash does not laugh, but only because Pocket looks so stricken. They climb the stairs, stepping warily around the water puddling along the landing. Despite his hatred for getting his boots wet, he accompanies them. Sure enough, beyond the door, their mattress sits in the stream of glimmering water, looking like it’s ready to float off at any moment. They look distressed, and so he wades deeper.

With a grimace, they pick up a handful of discarded clothes left soaking in the water. “Nothing a laundromat can’t fix,” Lash says, trying to channel somebody like Paige or Celeste, who both have a decent handle on cheering up Pocket without dirty jokes. “Hey, look, your book is alright.” He plucks that off the crate they’d been using as a makeshift nightstand.

“Not exactly the relaxing end to the evening I’d hoped for.”

Before he’s really thought it through, Lash volunteers, “There’s a laundry room in my building. And I’ve got a big bathtub, probably tea if you’re into that kind of shit, and a big bed that isn’t on the floor or covered in glitter water.” They look at him dolefully, so he holds up a hand to cut them off before they can protest. “I mean to sleep in. Obviously you’re allowed to change your mind about that, but I didn’t forget.”

Sloshing closer, he takes the wad of sopping wet clothing from Pocket’s hand. “You could’ve had all of that anyway, but I was trying to respect your wishes to pretend you don’t want to take a ride on the Lash’s hot rod.”

“I can’t emphasize enough how much it’s not pretending when you say things like that.” Pocket’s mouth tics up in that almost-smile now. “But I do need to do my laundry now,” they add with a sigh, like he can’t tell they’re secretly thrilled to have an excuse to spend more time with him.

It leaves Lash flying high through their French exit and through Mo and Krill’s matching scowls in his direction, like he’s doing anything other than helping their mutual friend and teammate out of a tight spot. Those animals have never understood him and never will.

Pocket smokes like a chimney on the next leg of their journey, but it is otherwise an uneventful trip from hideout to basement laundry. “Nobody’s ever stolen anything out of here,” he reassures Pocket as they load up the washing machine. Secretly he assumes most of their clothes aren’t worth stealing, but he doesn’t figure that will land him in their good graces, so he keeps it to himself. “You wanna take a bath upstairs?” he asks instead.

Lash lets them get situated in the bathroom before he washes up the best he can in his tiny kitchen. When their stuff is done downstairs, he tosses it in the spin dryer. It’s all ready to hang dry once they emerge from the bathroom, pink-cheeked from the heat and skin still shining damp, hair weighed down except where the wet ends curl. Their pajamas are a cute striped number, in better shape than some of those other clothes.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell them he normally sleeps naked. They’re gonna read some ulterior motive into it, so he grits his teeth and finds some not-uncomfortable shorts and another tank top to sleep in. “I’m not offering to sleep on the couch,” he announces.

“I didn’t expect you to.” There’s less snark in it than usual, and Pocket won’t quite look at him.

He thinks about the way they woke up this morning, sprawled on top of him and clinging like a barnacle. Seems like they don’t spend much time snuggled up to anyone. They’re not gonna go so far as to say any of that though. “The Lash makes an excellent pillow,” he says with a great deal of gravity. “But this bed is big enough for two, if you want to pretend you don’t want to cuddle.”

Pocket almost-laughs, sounding relieved. “I’ll keep it in mind.” They squirm into place facing the wall. They really are going to pretend, aren’t they?

Suppressing a roll of his eyes, he climbs in beside them, careful not to touch so they can keep up the lie that snuggling up to him isn’t their first choice. Maybe it was a bit of an exaggeration to call the bed big enough for two; maybe if they were both Pocket’s size, sure. Big enough for Lash and another person is cutting it awfully close. He lies there on his back, keeping his hands perfectly to himself, but his skin prickles with awareness of Pocket’s presence.

His fingers drum along his own stomach as he stares at the familiar ceiling, goosebumps rising on the arm closest to them, body strangely attuned to the rhythm of their breath. They’re as wide awake as he is. He wants to be annoyed; more than that, he wants to get off. It’s the most surefire way he knows to fall asleep fast, especially if he also has to deal with the added stimulus of another person there, you know, breathing and whatever.

After a moment the bed squeaks as Pocket rolls into another position, sighing like someone who really wants to sigh louder. Another minute of staring at him in the dark, then they finally crack. “Thank you for today,” they say, hushed like they’re worried someone will overhear. “I think you were right that I needed it.”

“What did I tell you? The Lash is a pro, babe.”

“It was sweet of you to share your method with me. And to take me out.”

“Don’t call me sweet where other people can hear. People are gonna want me to start holding babies and shit.”

“What stranger is just handing you their baby?”

“Uh, lots of them if they think I’m soft. Fans are fucking weird.”

Pocket hums, amused. “It’ll be our little secret that you’re sweet when you want to get in someone’s pants.”

“Still can’t believe you’re turning that offer down. You have no idea what you’re missing. This body is a well-oiled machine. Whichever parts you wanna work with, you got—”

For the second time this evening, their hand closes over his mouth. “Shut up,” they say in a tone that makes his heart thump in his chest. It only gets worse when they lean over him so they can look him in the eye.

It’s instinct to pull them closer, feel their breath hitch and their body press against his. That’s all he does though, nothing more, keeping his promise. They’re heavier than they look, more solid, and he finds the weight strangely comforting.

For a moment, he thinks they’ll break. They’ll kiss him, give into all their pent up desire and cut loose with all the rest too. Their eyes burn, but the pressure of their hand doesn’t relent. Instead they lean down, pressing their mouth to the back of their hand, never breaking that fiery eye contact or the barrier between them.

“Weirdo,” he says, muffled against their hand. Pocket snort-laughs and the moment passes. When the spell breaks and they give him space, his breaths take a moment to return to normal speed. “You wanna kiss me so bad.”

“Go to sleep,” they say, awfully coy for someone who keeps doing shit like that. They curl up against his side with their head on his shoulder, which doesn’t suggest they’re going to deny his accusation. Maybe he should be bothered, but he catches his fingers in their damp hair and holds them close and doesn’t mind so much that they’re an unbelievable tease.

1 Day

The final day before the Ritual is disjointed, a flurry of preparations at times interspersed with the boredom of waiting around.

It’s easy to convince the others they need a break. He thinks about Pocket’s little stunt last night, then figures turnabout is fair play.

He takes them to the sauna. Sure, he has to watch them sit there in nothing but little shorts, and he has to stay as far as humanly possible to maintain the willpower it takes to do nothing. But it’s worth it to know he’s not the only one being tortured.

He works very hard to look like he does, and he’s rewarded with their inability to look away from the moment he takes his shirt off, which only gets worse once he starts glistening in the heat. What did they say before? His clothes leave nothing to the imagination? He smirks at them now, across from them in the small, sweaty room. “Don’t drool everywhere,” he says. “You need to stay hydrated.”

They roll their eyes, but their face is pink and their knuckles white where they grip the edge of the bench.

He never gets to find out what they might say about it. The door swings open on a gust of fresher air, and Paige and Celeste join them, both with hair piled high on top of their heads. Celeste’s leotard doesn’t show any more than any of her others do — which is to say it’s still a lot of skin, but they’re all pretty used to her by now. Paige’s, however, demonstrates exactly how much she hides under her sweaters and plaid skirts. Some other time, Lash would probably reassess his dismissal of her, but for some reason, he only gives her a passing thought today.

Celeste immediately settles in, leaning her head back with a wet rag over her eyes. Paige smiles politely at Pocket, then her gaze gets stuck when she looks at Lash. Well, not at all of him, exactly.

“Excuse you. My eyes are up here,” Lash says like he’s upset.

“Don’t read into it,” she says. “Not all of us mistake muscles for personality.” He snickers. He likes Paige, even if he’d never tell her that.

“You gotta be nice to the Lash,” Celeste chides. “He’s gonna put that body to work for us tomorrow.”

Sometimes when he’s at the market, there are these lumpy tomatoes that are more purple than red. Pocket’s face has achieved a shade that reminds him of this fact. Never mind his previous judgment; the sauna was a spectacular idea, teammates and all.

“I can be nice without stroking his ego,” Paige corrects. She looks at his face now and says politely, and probably sincerely, “I think you’re going to do great tomorrow.”

“What if we don’t talk about the nerve-wracking and life-changing ritual we’re all about to partake in?” Pocket asks, voice tight.

“Sure,” Celeste says easily. “Why don’t you tell us about your date last night?” Her pink lips are curved where they’re visible under the washcloth. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Lash waits for Pocket to deny it, but instead they say, “That’s not your business.”

“It’s my business if you two mess up the team dynamic or, like, make things weird.”

“Maybe people deserve privacy,” Paige says. “And dignity.”

“They threw dignity out the window the moment they went out with the Lash,” Celeste teases, but she lifts the washcloth from her face long enough to wink at him, sucking out any sting someone with a less ironclad self-esteem might have felt.

“Hey,” Pocket protests lamely. They glance at Lash like they want his help, but he likes watching them squirm too much. “It was nice,” they say finally, in a tone that softens Lash’s amusement into something warm and unfamiliar.

“No accounting for taste,” Celeste says, and that’s the final word on that.

The sauna is the most eventful part of the day. He debates cooking dinner for Pocket — showing off another of his many talents, of course — but the Hidden King’s acolytes offer dinner in the hideout. In the room previously used as a conference room, the table has been covered by a thick white cotton tablecloth, and they’re served a literal feast.

Probably for the best, he thinks, watching Pocket once again put away a stunning amount of food for their size. He’ll have plenty of resources after the Ritual, but skipping out on work and missing fight nights in preparation for this has not been kind to his wallet.

“Are you two playin’ footsie over there?” Celeste asks halfway through dinner, which is how Lash knows he’s been staring at Pocket too long.

“What’s it to you?” he demands.

At the same time, Pocket says, “No. Don’t give him ideas.”

“Gross,” she says with an eye roll, but her teasing is lighthearted, friendlier than she’s been toward Lash before today. Maybe taking Viscous out had some unexpected knock-on effects.

Pocket smirks at him from across the table, almost mischievous the way they glance up from under their lashes. They could have denied Celeste’s accusation in several ways, but they chose one that didn’t deny Lash himself. In fact, they’ve been doing it all day. The realization makes something curl in his belly, and it doesn’t go away even once he’s stuffed with dessert. It follows him all the way to bed.

Lash wakes before dawn with a mouthful of black hair, and he refuses to let Pocket move until his alarm has gone off. Not that they fight him; they’re not awake for any of it, and they’re amusingly groggy once they do open their eyes.

It’s still dark out, but the hideout’s buzzing when they arrive. Paige and Viscous seem perfectly content to be here this early, but Celeste and Krill keep yawning and squinting at everything. They speak primarily in single syllables, which they have in common with Pocket. Fortunately for everyone, breakfast is almost as generous as dinner last night.

When pink fingers of light begin to creep across the stormy gray horizon, they make the trek to the base where the Hidden King’s herald has set up. The place smells like metal and fire and makes the hair on the back of Lash’s neck stand up, but he has his eye on the prize.

Pocket is silent and tense at his side. When he knows their teammates are too busy to notice, Lash nudges them with an elbow. “Hey. You nervous?” he asks quietly.

“Of course I am.”

He thinks for a moment about telling them not to be, reassuring them that the Lash will be there to protect them and lead them to glory. Instead he follows a different impulse. He reaches for their hand and says, “You got this.”

They stare at their linked hands for a time, like maybe the caffeine still hasn’t woken them up yet, but a smile slowly dawns on their face as their fingers tighten around his. “You know,” they say. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“Saving it ’til the end. I believe you that we’re going to win, but… a little luck couldn’t hurt.” This does not clear up anything, but Lash doesn’t want to sound stupid by asking for clarity. Fortunately, Pocket makes their meaning clearer when they turn to face him fully. A finger traces one of his suspenders before their fist tightens, yanking with a strength they haven’t yet shown, until he’s bending toward them. “For luck?” they ask, mouth hovering so close to his that he can feel their breath.

“For luck,” he agrees. He’d probably agree to anything right then. He closes the distance, and they press up onto their toes to meet him, lips clinging to his more carefully than expected. Lash has never been big on the sappy shit, but he feels this kiss with every cell of his body. He suffers the softness of their lips and the brush of their tongue knowing he can’t take it any further. But if anything goes wrong out there today, at least he’ll have this as his last memory.

Pocket tries to break free, but a thumb brushed along their jaw is all it takes to turn their mouth back to his. He has to make sure they don’t get any funny ideas about dying or changing their mind later. He coaxes their mouth wider, kisses them so thoroughly it ought to crowd out everything except the reminder that they’ve still got unfinished business with him. He keeps it up until their body is sagging helplessly against him and their grip on his suspenders has gone slack. The only force strong enough to stop him there is the once in a lifetime magic ritual mere minutes away.

When he’s caught his breath, Lash asks, “You ready to change your life?”

“Yeah,” they say. “You?”

“You know it.” He steals another kiss, this one a quick peck. They turn to face the city head on, squaring their shoulders as magic surges up around them. “Let’s give ’em hell, babe,” Lash says, swatting them on the ass to distract from the clamor of his racing heart.

It’s not nerves, only anticipation, the buzz of adrenaline starting under his skin. No way do they fail today, not when he’s already on top of the world. If he could win over Pocket, this Patron shit should be a breeze.