Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter Twenty Four: Liar Revealed

Gatsby does a double flip off the kitchen counter, bounces up and down on the springy couch, and tumbles onto the floor in the span of six seconds, give or take. Angel 'eek's like he's seen a rat, but Gats ignores him. This will likely be the last time Gatsby ever uses his powers, so he uses them. He'll miss always landing on his feet. He'll miss having weapons grafted into his fingertips.

But the feeling of being ripped apart from the inside? Not so much.

"Well," he says, tossing a wink to his roommate who's frozen with a sponge dripping foamy soap in hand. "Where's the applause?"

"One of these days you're gonna crack your skull open." Angel scowls over the dirty dishes stacked in the sink, and Gats can't help but laugh. Everything is beautiful now. The way the sun sits in bars on the counters, the way Angel's hair falls, shiny and freshly combed over his shoulders, the smell of his roommate's Yankee candle, even though the scent of "freshly cut roses" clings to every molecule of fresh air and drowns it.

 It's all beautiful because Gats gets to live without unraveling. It's all beautiful because he's going to live to see it. 

"I'm so happy!" Gatsby tosses himself over the counter, nearly missing his roommate's shoulder by an inch. He lands on his toes, grabs Angel by the arm and twirls him so they're looking eye to eye. Angel rolls his. With a feline smirk, Gatsby pulls his old friend down by his shirt collar and smacks a kiss on his forehead.

"Cheese 'n Crackers," Angel says, shaking his head like he's used to being kissed by one of his 'bros and this is a daily occurrence. It's not and it hasn't been for a while.

"You can cuss now, you're a big boy." Gatsby hooks his fingers into his belt-loops and hitches his pants to his waist, giving the old friend the biggest smirk he can muster.

"Well, I don't want to."

Gats lets go of Angel's collar and kisses a soapy hand instead.

"Christ." Angel recoils, already giving up on his conviction, but he lets Gatsby keep his hand. There's the shadow of a smile on his face, the fullness of the cheeks and the glitter in his black and purple eyes. Like two painted pebbles. "What's gotten into you, little guy? You okay?"

 But Gats can hear the unspoken words. 'You haven't acted like this, you haven't acted happy, since the day you got the terrible superpowers.'

After that, it had been all wailing. All monologues of woe, amateur tattoos, and new drinking habits. It had been all locking himself in the bathroom and sobbing, it had been all ending up across state-lines with no recollection of how he got there, it had been all broken hearts and ended relationships, all their superhero friend locking him in an Angel's room so he wouldn't go out and accidentally die, which was mostly illegal and wholly necessary (the locking up part, not the death). 

One of the stumps on top of his head flicks. "You'll see. When I get back."

"That's terrifying, coming from you." The smile is gone. "Gatsby? Do we need to talk about this? Do I need to do something?"

Gatsby blinks up at his roommate. Angelos Fibbs fits the definition of a softie by most regards. He spends most of his day singing babies to sleep, and when he's at home, he's making dinner, lighting candles, and listening to whispering violins while sketching frozen lakes and howling wolves. By the easy way he plays therapist to his friends, you would never see the supervillain in him, would never know the deadly thing that lay behind the eyes. You wouldn't see the way a sword handle fits in his fist, you wouldn't see how comfortable, how competent, he is in battle, surrounded by blood and gore. You couldn't, because to the world, he's only a young man who can paint a mean landscape and cook a mean casserole.