#ren write gud

[mechabae]

Grace has spent so much time amongst the Eridians that when he first hears a human voice crackle against the receiver, he convinces himself that he must be dreaming.

But the voice is insistent. "Who's there?" Desperate. "I thought I heard—no, that's not... can't be possible." Angry. "I KNOW YOU'RE THERE!"

No, not angry. Scared. Grace presses down on the transmitter and answers the stranger, "Um. Hello! This is Ryland Grace. Who am I speaking with?"

Silence.

Maybe Grace did just imagine a transmission from outer space—

"Tell me my name."

Baffled, Grace hesitates before replying, "Am I supposed to guess?"

"Say it."

"Well, you sound a little like a Mark to me."

An inhalation of disbelief prefaces the next reply, "That's not—you really don't know who I am?"

Grace clears his throat, "No, but you're human, right?"

"...probably. What's left of me anyway."

Well, that's mildly concerning. Grace spares a glance towards the sky, trying to come up with a way of asking what that even means while the Eridian scientists attempt to pinpoint where the signal is coming from.

"Hey," the stranger intones, "Are you still there? Could you... can you please just keep talking?"

Wow, usually people give him a look or walk away from him. Grace opens the line again and says what he should've said from the beginning, "Everything's going to be okay. We're gonna figure out where you are, we're gonna come get you, and we're probably gonna celebrate with a good ol' fashioned burger."

On his end, Simon openly weeps. He has nothing to offer, nothing to give: It's a shit deal, but it's the best one he's ever made.

[mechabae]

Simon is bereft.

In the place of rage, he has come to know a feeling called despair. Longing.

A man cannot want for that which he has never known but he has been blessed cursed with knowledge put into context.

Did you know?

Humans have surnames. They speak of lineage, of a legacy, of a desire to pass onto the next generation the gift of wisdom.

Grace is a surname. Grace inherited something that Simon—well, it's too late to bemoan his fate. He stares at the glasses dangling precariously as if Grace does not actually need them and frowns when Grace offers them up to him.

Simon peers through the thick glass and reality bends in ways that make him nauseous. He drops the glasses, hears Grace curse, and his stomach plummets.

Did you know?

Not all mistakes are borne equal. Grace smiles too much. He smiles, even when Simon is at fault: He could have broken his lenses that allow him to see the world - to survive - and Grace laughs.

"Yeah, I do that all the time. It's why I got a cheap pair from CVS."

"Where?"

"I think it stands for Consumer Value Stores?"

"The fuck does that mean."

"You know, I don't—I never actually bothered to figure that out. It's just... party trivia. Stuff you say to keep the conversation going."

Did you know?

There is a name for this desperate want. It is not a hunger (though it is certainly close), but it is a basic need all the same. Had he gone any longer without it, Simon might have been fine.

But Grace steals glances at him as if Simon isn't always watching him, waiting to see what he'll do next. He wants to know, needs to know, what to call this sickness that plagues him.

And then Grace whispers the truth between them, uncertain at first, then resolute by the time Simon tries touching his face.

Simon was bereft.

To borrow from the Eridian: Alive. Alive. Alive.

[mechabae]

"Is this your first time visiting since..."

Since they arrested Shroud?

Robert smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. "I told myself I didn't deserve to show my face until I put his killer behind bars. —I wonder who's been tidying up in my place."

The tombstone is simple. Clean. Discreet. No one would ever guess that this is where Mecha Man Astral lays, to one day be forgotten.

"Probably Chase. He always had good things to say about your old man. Could be Royd, too."

"He talked to Royd for an hour," Robert huffs, incredulous.

Flambae shrugs as he picks at an imaginary piece of lint. "You told me that's more than you two ever spoke, so," - his gaze drifts back over, settling on Robert's profile - "Get to it. You got shit to say to him."

Yeah. Yeah, he does. Robert hesitates.

A warm hand rests upon his shoulder, jostling Robert out of his paralysis. He moves slow, so the hand can follow, as he kneels down and places the bouquet of white and yellow chrysanthemums down.

Robert talks about wrecking the suit. About Z-Team. About how reckless and rowdy and full of life his team is. About his apartment furnishings. About Beef being kidnapped (read: adopted) by Chase.

"—and I wish you could have been here, to see all this happen. I know. I've talked your ear off, but there's one more thing I need to tell you."

With a deep breath, Robert places a hand atop the one at his shoulder and smiles when Flambae's grip heats up by a modest degree.

"I found someone, someone to love the way you loved umma. His name's Chad. You'd have hated him, until you realized he's great with cars, then you'd have loved him more than your own son—which, he's pretty great, not gonna lie, so I wouldn't hold it against you."

Tears start welling up in both their eyes but Robert just laughs through them. "Shit... I wanted to tell you I outgrew this, too..."

Sniffling, Robert continues, "I, uhh... I figured I'd tell you this now—I'm getting married."

This is, of course, news to Flambae, who pulls his hand back and croaks out, "You fucking wouldn't—"

But Robert is already down on one knee and Flambae's like, "I cannot believe your bitch ass is proposing in a cemetary," - "I like to keep things classy," - "All right, fine! Yes! Now get up before someone sees us, you unbelievable selfish piece of—"

Robert kisses him. Parting on a quiet cathartic sigh, he murmurs, "Thank you. For coming with me to do this."

Flambae makes a noncommital noise, only to press a kiss against Robert's temple. "Yeah, well, figured you were long overdue for this."

Sixteen years come and go, just like that, feeling lighter upon Robert's shoulders.

[mechabae]

happy father's day, robbie!

[mechabae]

"Remind me again why we have to go out tonight?" Robert peers up from his phone, debating whether or not he really needs a coat tonight. It's a toasty seventy-five outside and it's gonna be worse inside the club.

He can feel Chad's eyes on him, though, and if he doesn't bring it with him now, it's going to 'mysteriously' end up in the back seat regardless.

"Robert, it's your fucking birthday."

Robert narrows his gaze, even as his lips twitch in amusement. "Uh huh. Is that why we're celebrating by doing what you want to do— ...I'm gonna walk into something or someone if you leave the house in this."

Chad preens at that. "My eyes are up here, bebé."

"Yeah, I can't grab and squeeze those. These, on the other hand—hey!" Robert barks with laughter as he's hauled out the door, held out in front of Chad so he can't even pretend to get handsy. "And you used to whine so much when I didn't comment on your pecs."

"Yeah, yeah, get your scrawny ass in the car, I'm driving tonight." Mostly because Chad's tolerance is way higher, so Robert can get as sloshed and messy as he wants. "Present's in the glovebox."

Robert buckles up before he pops it open. In the din of the night, he can't quite make out what it is, but it feels an awful lot like a CD case—

"Hang on..." Chad fiddles with the dials. Skip, skip, skip.

An all-too familiar melody crackles through the speakers: "Memories consume—like opening the wound, I'm picking me apart again."

Robert chuckles, dumbfounded. "Is this signed?! How the hell did you find—Alice hooked you up, huh? Cashing in on one of your favors for my birthday..." He whistles, impressed. Flattered. Somewhat aroused.

"You like it—?"

Robert's already rolling down the window: "I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WORTH FIGHTING FOR, OR WHY I HAVE TO SCREAM...!"

"Jesus, Robert," Chad snickers under his breath, having long since given up months ago on introducing Robert to anything a little less, ugh, edgy. "Get your fill in, tch, it's not like I'd let you fucking," - "I'LL PAINT IT ON THE WALLS!" - "Grind on me to Linkin Park. Dork ass dweeb."

This is easily one of Robert's top five birthdays, hands down.

[mechabae]

autograph

read on ao3:

One night, after a round of drinks with the team, Robert comes home to a letter taped to his door. Blue envelope, no return address, and neither ‘Robert’ nor ‘Mecha Man’ scribbled across it. Robert wants to kick himself in the pants for feeling giddy over it.

Tucking his index finger beneath the flap, he tears into the envelope with reckless abandon, feathering the edges where the paper fibers sunder. The first thing Robert notices are the telltale blue lines of an index card. Then, he recognizes Flambae’s handwriting. Upon closer inspection, his secret fan’s not-quite-cursive spells out a series of instructions that amount to meeting him at a specific location at a set time.

For the sake of thoroughness, Robert flips the card over and notes that there’s more writing on the back. In tight letters, with many false starts crossed out, Flambae writes out his demands: Don’t fucking tell anyone about this. Or I’ll kill you for real.

Robert wrinkles his nose at the petulant reminder and threat. In what universe would he ever brag about his sex life?

Wear the cowl.

Robert blinks. Is Flambae aware that being bossy loses its effectiveness when you’re begging for favors?

With a smug grin, he steps into his apartment, shuts the door behind himself, and fishes his phone out of his pockets. Robert goes straight to Instagram and slides right into Flambae’s DMs: I’ll bring the cowl. Any other requests for my favorite fan?

The sight of three dots appearing, disappearing, and reappearing fills him with as much dopamine as the sweet cream filling of a Twinkie. Robert settles onto his couch and watches Flambae second-guess himself for what has to be a full minute.

Finally, at long last, Flambae sends him a defeated stfu devoid of punctuation, capitalization, or dignity.

I’ll see you at eight.

With the same willpower that enabled him to function as a vigilante for the better half of two decades, Robert tabs out of Instagram and heads on over to Maps. He punches in the address from Flambae and pauses. Instead of the cheap motel he’d expected, it’s a goddamn steakhouse.

Well, Robert did tell Flambae to buy him dinner.

[mechabae]

based on this post by @fandom-skellyweirdo-jumper

Hot, heavy, passionate—curses rasped like slaps across the face, hands grabbing and groping at any scrap of flesh they can find; Flambae biting him, breaking skin, showing him that he can still bleed like anyone else.

That's how it's supposed to go, their frenzy just like clockwork, methodical in their shameless needy chaos.

"What are you...?" Robert exhales shakily as Flambae kisses at the freckles dusting his shoulder without any teeth.

Flambae doesn't answer him, not verbally at least, but he draws his gaze up and regards Robert with a poignant sigh.

For a moment, Robert wonders what he's done wrong—another feather-light kiss grazes the outline of his pectorals. It almost tickles but Robert doesn't dare to make a sound.

He is rewarded for his restraint: Flambae moans softly as he maps out every hard plane, every soft curve barely left over from coma-induced atrophy, every ounce of strain and desperation Robert pours forth—it is not a wanton sound; it is music being played with his body.

Robert's arm trembles as he reaches forward, his hand settling upon his lover's cheek. "Flambae—"

"Chad." Flambae peers up at him, bearing the sun in his gaze. "Call me Chad when we do this. Okay, Robert?"

A fire needs oxygen to breathe, and Robert surrenders all of his, choking back a confused sob.

Gentle warm hands trail up and down his torso as if he's something worth cherishing. The thought pierces through the lust he has been kindling for Flam—for Chad these past few months, forcing Robert to question everything he has ever known. "Chad, is this... did you want this? Taking it slow." He might be falling in love.

"Mm," a sweet voice rumbles against his navel, "Don't get me wrong, I like it when you've some fight in you, but this—"

Chad tucks his hands under Robert's arms and over his shoulders, grinning as he drags himself back up. He continues, "This way, I can feel everything, and so can you. So c'mon, Robert, let yourself feel it, yeah?" And then the kisses continue along his collarbone.

Robert doesn't know what he's meant to feel but he definitely feels a sob building at the back of his throat which is the most unsexy thing he can think of and he tries to hold it in, he tries to be good instead of a self-absorbed piece of shit who just wants those hands on his back where his body aches the most and—and—

Chad kisses his tears away. More fall.

Robert whimpers as Chad murmurs into his ear, "It's okay, mashoogh, I've got you now. I'm right here, 'm not going anywhere."

And Robert nods along to every brush of those soft insistent lips courting the lower lid of his eyes, wanting to believe that maybe, just maybe—

He's finally good enough to deserve this.

[mechabae]

The sight of Robbie, devoid of life, is not even Chase's worst memory: No, that honor goes to the way Robert's eyes darken, the way his lips form a circle, and the only word to escape from him is a quiet and numb "oh".

It's the resignation, the breadth of Robert's immediate acceptance, that haunts him in erratic intervals: Chase remembers the day the light left those eyes when he tries to doze off; when the incontinence of old age catches up to him and he misattributes it to incompetence; when an homage post creeps its way up onto his feed.

No one knows about the boy who died that day alongside his father.

He watches Robert disappear in the way that read receipts become delivered receipts become "the person that you have dialed cannot be reached, at the tone..." become "this number has been disconnected".

Every time Chase thinks he should look harder, he swallows the bitter pill that is Robert not wanting to be found. Not wanting to exist.

The world lost a hero, yes, but the boy lost more than his dad: He lost himself, too, and that, Chase thinks, is the real tragedy.

We joke. We laugh. We suppress our trauma.

If Chase laughs himself to tears, will that little boy remember how to cry? How to feel?