Archive of Our Own

Rain hits the canopy in an irregular rhythm of constant drumming. 

Night’s only barely made it under the small roof before the downpour truly started. The clouds have been heavy on the sky for most of the evening, capturing the warmth in a sweltering heat beneath their fluffy walls. The rain, of course, only waited until Night left the karaoke bar. 

His wig’s become a little wet and he itches to pull the fake hair off his head. However, he’s already had the experience once of someone seeing him remove his wig in public and the reaction hadn’t been encouraging. 

(He’d only barely got away, with a burning lung and a bloody foot, thanks to a broken bottle on the ground when he’d kicked the heels off to run away.)

So the wig stays on, even if he can’t see anyone at the moment. That doesn’t mean nobody is watching. Usually people are easily fooled, seeing what they want to see, so as long as Night stays here, and other people keep their distance, it’s not hard to keep the illusion going. 

He sighs loudly and accidentally bangs his head against the wall, when he leans back. The rain doesn’t seem to lessen and the last thing he wants to do is stay here for the rest of the night. 

He should’ve said no, back then when Momay asked him the first time to take on the role of Nutty again, but when Momay begged him, he wasn’t able to deny her. After everything that had gone down with Mama, he still owes her, and it would be just one night he had told himself. 

Reluctantly (not quite as reluctantly as he keeps telling himself each time it happens) he'd donned the dress and let Momay send him make-up videos. He didn’t dare go to Neon for that this time. Things were still awkward between them ever since their break-up and with both of them trying to act as if everything is okay, the awkwardness only grows with each interaction. 

Maybe, just maybe he enjoys singing and dancing on stage. 

Maybe he likes the way make up makes his eyes seem larger and his skin glow. 

Plus the constant income isn't bad either, especially as a starving writer. 

So ... maybe he's a little dramatic today, bnecause when he arrived at Hiso Ciety, Momay redid his whole face after he'd sat hours on it. The disappointment sat heavy in his gut. Night did an amazing job and he was proud about the wing of his eyeliner and the touch of rouge on his cheeks. The night went well and he made a few tips to take home with.

It was only when he left the bar that everything started to go wrong.

First he missed the last bus home and now this.

So now he’s huddled beneath a tiny canopy in an even tinier dress. His feet are completely wet and he thinks his shoes are just about to melt off his feet with how slick they feel. The nylon tights Momay has told him to wear do nothing to prevent the cold from climbing up his legs. At least he’s had the good sense to take one of the old suit jackets from the lost and found corner to wrap his body in before he left. 

“This can’t get any worse,” Night grumbles just as the first growl of thunder rolls through the streets. He shakes his head and tugs the jacket tighter around his body, debating whether it’s better to just suck it up and run through the rain before the thunderstorm arrives in full force, or whether he’s safer here. 

The thought of staying out during the flashes of lightning and the threatening drums of thunder finally convince him to inch forward. By now the heels are completely and wholly soaked. Sighing once more and cursing his luck, he pulls them off his feet and gathers them in his hand before he moves, leaving the protection of the canopy.

Night grits his teeth as the water immediately pours down on him, drenching him within seconds. Still he musters on, fingers digging into his jacket and head held down, so the water has a harder chance of getting in his eyes. 

This is why he doesn’t see him until he quite literally runs into him. 

One moment he’s hurrying down the street, the next he’s crashing against someone. 

“What the—”

“Shit, I’m—are you okay, Miss?”

“Miss? What—”

It’s probably saying something about the guy that when Night looks up, the curse gets stuck in his throat.

Because Night's not gay. 

He isn't. 

(Oh god, maybe a little bit? For unfairly pretty men?) 

Because this man is gorgeous. And just like himself, he’s sopping wet. 

“Are you alright, Miss? You really shouldn’t be out this late. It’s dangerous out here.” His voice is kind and warm, despite the fact that Night ran into him. His hand is holding Night's upper arm for balance, Night presumes.

“And wet,” Night says, automatically, still stupidly stunned. The young man, probably his own age, smiles. 

“Yes,” the man agrees. “You’re gonna get drenched.”

Night doesn’t say he already is. Drenched. Completely to the bone. 

“So will you.”

The young man laughs at that, almost surprised, like he didn’t think Night would say that. Like he didn't expect any regard for his own person. 

“I don’t matter,” he says with such surety, it makes something sour travel up Night's throat. 

“Bullshit!” Night spits out. He sees the guy’s eyes widen as he stares down at him. That’s when Night remembers he’s still wearing a dress and a wig and that the make-up on his face is probably smudged. “Kha,” he adds sheepishly in a much more feminine tone. 

In contrast to what Night thought the guy would do, his face splits into a wider smile and Night swallows heavily. 

“You’ll get sick,” the guy tries again. “You should really—watch out!” 

Too much happens at once. The guy grabs Night around his waist and swivels them around, so they’re changing positions. The air is pushed out of his lungs when Night’s back hits the wall as the guy shoves him against it, crowding him in just as a truck blazes by. It crashes against the building to the right of the cross section. 

Night blinks, the fingers of his right hand tightly bunch around the sleeve of the guy’s t-shirt. 

He can clearly see the accident over the guy’s shoulder, watches as smoke rises from the vehicle, their surroundings suspiciously still. Even the rain seems to have thinned out, leaving the scenery almost comical.  

“Are you okay?” the guy asks against the side of Night's face. His breath tickles the shell of Night's ear. His chest is warm against Night’s front, despite his soaked clothes. 

“I’m okay,” Night replies breathlessly, but more steadily than he would have thought he had the capability of. “Are you?”

The guy smiles. “I’m fine,” he says. Night can’t shake the feeling that he would’ve said he was fine either way, even if he were not. 

His attention is pulled back to the truck when the door is pushed open. A man clambers down the steps on wobbly legs. He’s swerving on his feet, looking around almost feverish until he catches them, still huddled together. 

“We should help him,” Night says.

“Wait!” the guy next to him hisses, pulling Night back to him with a grasp on his arm once Night has taken a few steps.

“What for? Look, he’s hurt and—”

The sound of gunshots keeps Night frozen for a second. The fingers around his forearm dig into his skin. The guy’s jaw tightens, his eyes focused somewhere behind Night. When he turns his head, he sees him staring at the man by the truck. Like this, the guy looks dangerous in a way Night hasn’t perceived before. All the warmth has melted off his face, brows drawn, darkening his eyes. Night doesn’t dare look away, completely caught, like a fly in a spider’s web. 

And then the guy bolts, dragging Night with him. 

Another gunshot cracks through the night and then another and another, followed by the rolling of thunder. The guy grunts, but doesn’t stop as he pulls Night with him. 

Night's naked feet hit the concrete, almost numb with the cold water. All he can hear is the slapping of their steps, their harsh breaths and the occasional gunshot. All of it somehow loud in his ears among the drumming of the rain. 

They come to a halt eventually, hidden in a small alley, tucked between two houses, barely fitting the both of them. The tights are torn at the sole of Night’s feet. He can feel the sharp stones digging unforgivingly into his sensitive skin. 

“We should be safe now,” the guy grunts, and finally lets go of Night. The sudden loss of warmth makes Night feel unbalanced, and he trips backwards where he’s immediately caught by the cold, wet scrape of stone. 

Night watches him for a moment. His face has gone pale, but, despite the situation, there’s still a friendly smile plastered on his face, although it looks forced. His jaw is too tight and the corners of his lips twitch and probably because of that it feels like he’s downplaying the situation.

Which—duh. 

“What the hell was that?”

Night’s well versed with dangerous situations by now and he probably should know better instead of breathlessly shouting at a person he doesn’t know and can’t properly read. He blames the adrenaline for that. 

“What was what?” the guy asks nonchalantly.

At least that’s what it feels like.

“Don’t play me for a fool! You didn’t flinch when the guy shot at us. You weren’t surprised that the dude had a gun. It’s like you expected it—you—it didn’t feel— Did you know the accident was going to happen?”

From the way the guy avoids his eyes, Night knows he’s right. Sweat’s gathering at the guy’s temple (or maybe those are just rain drops) that run down his long throat, somewhat mesmerising. Night blinks and focuses back on the topic at hand, cursing silently at himself. This is not the time to open that particular new box he has to unpack.  

Thinking about it, Night’s not sure he wants to know what he stumbled into. After all he’s seen, the way the guy changing his stance, turning from polite and friendly to focused and dangerous. And Night isn’t eager to learn what he’s actually capable of. 

“I—”

“You know what, I changed my mind. I’m leaving. I’m not gonna get involved.” Night expects something. He isn’t sure what, but the guy staring at him, blinking once, twice and then nodding is not it. It’s like he’s reserved again, not daring to oppose Night.

Night nods as well and grips his heels tighter. He says, “See you,” and immediately regrets it as a small and unidentifiable smile appears on the guy’s lips.

However, leaving like this would probably be too easy and because Night’s life is out to get him, the guy doubles over, just when Night steps away from him. He groans, his hand clutching his side. And only then does Night see something dark seeping into his clothes, running over his fingers. 

Fuck. 

“Have you been shot?”

The guy smiles at him again. It’s different and yet it really infuriates Night nonetheless how calm he is. “Don’t worry! It’s fine. It’ll pass.”

Yeah, it definitely won’t. 

Fuck. 

He should leave. He should definitely leave.

The guy groans, eyes squeezed together. He takes wheezing breaths as if to compose himself. Night can see how much he tries to pull himself together and at the same time how much he is fraying at the seams. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshit. As much as he wants to leave, to go back and crawl into his bed and pretend this day never happened, he can’t leave him in this condition. 

Night tightens the grip around the straps of his heels. “Look, let’s get out of this rain together.” He steps back towards the guy, a hand on his arm to keep him balanced. 

The guy’s eyes snap back open. He shakes his head. 

“It’s fine. I promise. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Night protests, watches as blood spills through the guy’s fingers that are still wrapped around his wound. “And if you don’t get this treated—”

“I’ve had worse!”

“I don’t care. I’m helping you. So let’s go!”

“You shouldn’t. I’ll only bring you bad luck. Just—I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, well I already realised that,” Night says, frustrated at the unwillingness of the guy. Night’s cold and wet and he really wants a hot shower and crawl into his bed. The guy flinches at his tone and Night bites his tongue. His voice is more gentle when he continues. “But I’m pretty sure you saved my life. If it weren’t for you, it would be me with a hole in my body, so I owe you.”

The guy shakes his head. “No, you don’t!”

“Yes, I do! I really do. I—” Night breaks off and exhales. “Please,” he continues in a much softer voice. “I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

“Okay,” the guy says quietly, almost in a whisper. If Night hadn’t stood as close to him as he does, he wouldn’t have heard him over the drumming of the rain. “I’m Korn.”

It dawns on him then that this is the last opportunity he gets to change the assumption of his gender. Or … whatever it is Korn sees. The locks of the wig are plastered against his cheeks and the fabric of the dress clings to him uncomfortably. 

And yet, when he opens his mouth the words that come out are: “I’m Nutty.” Korn’s smile widens and Night swallows hard to ignore the rumbling in his stomach at the lie. 

“Hi,” Korn breathes. It’s almost drowned out under the heavy splatter of the rain around them. It must have picked up again. 

“Okay Korn, I’m gonna get you to a hospital and—”

“No!” Korn barks and then winces, his hand around his side tightening. “No hospital.”

Night can’t help but laugh hollowly. “Look dude, you’ve been shot and I have no idea how to take care of a literal hole ripped through your body.”

“It’s only a graze,” Korn says. 

“Oh good, that makes me feel so much better!”

Korn makes a face at him. “I’ll only need a few bandages and then I’ll be fine,” Korn says and Night isn’t sure how much he’s downplaying his injury. Night wants to argue, but he has the feeling that it doesn’t matter what he ends up saying. Korn won’t agree with him.

“If you die in my flat, I’ll dump your ass in the dumpster.”

“That’s fair,” Korn says and Night really wants to shake him with how little he thinks of himself. 

Night rolls his eyes and moves Korn’s left arm over his shoulder to give him at least some support. Korn grunts but nods when Night looks at him questioningly, he realises that Korn has become a shade paler. Quiet noises escape his clenched teeth as they move slowly through the streets, slower still than Night thought they would, because Korn keeps stopping them, squinting through the night before signalling Night to continue. 

By the time they reach Night’s apartment complex, they’re both shivering. Night’s grinding his jaw tightly, so his teeth don’t chatter. 

They make it to his rooms without anybody bothering them, and with Night dropping the keys only twice. He leans Korn against his wall and picks them back up again, before opening his door with shaking fingers. 

He kicks the door closed when they’re inside and immediately guides Korn to his bedroom. The moment he lets go of him, he slumps down on the bed, hands tightened into fists, breathing hard. 

“I’ll get you something to dry off with,” Night mumbles, hurrying to the bathroom to get a towel and the first aid kit. When he’s back, Korn has sat up, his eyes a little unfocused as he leans against the headboard. 

By now the side of his shirt has been soaked in blood and Night tries very hard not to focus on it. 

“Let’s get you out of that shirt. Can you raise your arms for me?,” Night asks, setting the first aid kit and the towel aside.

It’s shaky, but Korn raises his hands. He winces when Night accidentally grazes his wound while helping him to take the fabric off. With the garment already ruined, he uses it to gently wipe away the excess water and blood on Korn’s right side and then throws it away. It lands somewhere behind them with a wet squelch. Night’s going to pick it up later. First he tries to get Korn to raise his hips to pull off his jeans. 

Korn groans low when Night pops the button open and opens the belt. The wet jeans cling to his body and when he tugs on them, the boxer shorts slide down with them. Night curses softly and pulls them up again, trying to take the jeans off one-handed as he holds the underwear up. When he finally manages to pull the jeans down to his legs, something plops down on the bed. Night frowns, shucking the wet jeans towards the shirt and checks around Korn. With the low light of the lamp on his bedside table he can make out a dark shape. When he picks the object up, it’s surprisingly heavy and clunky. 

It takes a moment with the bad lighting and his tired brain to actually see what he has in his hand. 

A gun. Korn was carrying a gun. A gun that is now in Night’s hands. 

He drops it immediately, before scolding himself how stupid that is. He curses once again, this time more colourfully and looks around his room. He has no idea where to put it, but leaving it out seems somehow wrong. 

His eyes land on the heap of wet clothes. The t-shirt is done anyways, so he takes it, wraps the gun in it and shoves it somewhere underneath his bed with the rest of his stuff.

Korn hasn’t moved, still lying on his bed, wet skin shining. 

He towels him off roughly and then focuses on his wound. It’s bleeding sluggishly now, but luckily, just as Korn had said earlier, the wound isn’t too deep. 

Night busies himself with disinfecting and dressing the wound with gauze and bandages. When he’s finished, Korn has his eyes closed, breathing more steadily. Night dries off his hair as well as he can without waking him and pulling on the wet strands. He tightens the towel around his hips, hoping it will absorb as much water as possible from Korn’s wet boxershorts, before he leaves him to his sleep. 

Without a goal in mind what to do next, he feels somewhat at odds with himself. Night’s still wearing the dress, which is still sopping wet. The wet strands of his wig are clinging to his face and back and his feet hurt from first wearing the high heels and then walking across the concrete. 

He only now realises that he is still shivering. 

He pulls out a few clothes to change into and vanishes into the bathroom.

Setting the wig aside to let it dry, he looks into the mirror. The makeup is smeared across his face. One of the lashes is only clinging to his lid by sheer willpower, so he pulls both of them off and sets them aside. Gradually he manages to slip the dress over his body, leaving it on the bathroom floor with his wet underwear. 

He sighs and steps under the warm water spray. He feels his muscles relax under the stream, watches as the grime of the day washes down his body. He scrubs at his face, hoping the remnants of the make-up will vanish with it and leans against the still cold tiles of his shower. 

The events of the night feel all jumbled: meeting Korn, surviving an accident, avoiding being shot and then bandaging him. Korn himself, who apparently owns a gun and is a very pretty man. And isn’t that a revelation? He’d never felt attracted to men. Sure, he admits when people are aesthetically pleasing, but he’s never really felt the way he did when he was cold from the rain and Korn had helped him up and—

It was probably all in the moment. 

Night nods to himself. Something in the wig must have crossed some neurons in his brain. He’d never experienced it before, but that kinda felt like a safe bet. Once again nodding to himself, he shuts the shower off and steps outside. He dries himself and stares into the mirror. It’s all fogged up from the steam and he wipes at the surface. A few streaks of make-up are still clinging to his face, but he has got rid of most of it. 

He stops dead when he puts on his warm clothes. Korn will probably expect a woman to be in the room with him when he wakes. Night bites his lip and looks back at the mirror. Without the hair and the make-up, he can’t see Nutty in his face. It’s a weird sort of transformation, he’s never understood but let Neon and Momay do it on him. It’s like Nutty appears and Night disappears temporarily

His wig still sits where he put it, still drenched, a puddle of water gathering on the floor. His body shudders at the mere thought of putting it back on his head. He doesn’t want to, he’s in his home, in his own rooms, he shouldn’t have to still wear the clothes. 

At the same time he also knows that not doing it might hurt him more than he expects. Sure, Korn doesn’t seem to be the type, but people often don’t. His gaze wanders back to the mirror, which has already fogged up a little again. He sighs and takes the small make-up remover out of his cabinet that Neon had given him. He takes one of the cotton pads she’d forgotten the last time she’d been here and wets it before running it over his skin. It gathers more make-up than he had thought, but once he’s finished he feels more like himself.

He shoves the wet hair into an empty cabinet and rubs some cream over his face and dabs a bit of eyeshadow on his lids. It doesn’t look as well as Momay had done it, so he uses the mascara as well, this time without the fake lashes. 

The result is a weird mix between Night and Nutty. He can see traces of both of them, of Nutty’s femininity and Night’s masculinity and it leaves his gut squirming with a feeling he can’t quite identify. 

Once he’s done and ripped himself away from the mirror, he leaves the bathroom. Korn is still sleeping, slightly snoring and Night takes one of the spare wigs out of his closet. It isn’t really the same length as the other one was, but he hopes that Korn won’t realise that he’s lost a few centimetres in length.

Men usually don’t, and he’s including himself in that statement. 

Watching Korn, Night settles down at the foot end of the bed, wrestling a pillow from Korn’s grasp and pulls the blankets over himself.  Then he closes his eyes.

He falls asleep almost instantly. 

+++

When Night wakes, his head is foggy and he’s comfortably warm. A blanket is wrapped around his body. The room is completely dark, barely illuminated by the moon. He blinks slowly and rubs his head, frowning as his fingers touch the hair of the wig. 

He’s just about to wonder why he is awake when someone knocks on his door, loud and forcefully. 

Korn jerks up from where he was just sleeping on the bed, holding his side with a grimace. His hair is dishevelled, but his eyes are alarmed and clear. 

“Police! Open the door!”

For a long, awful second they look at each other before they finally flurry into motion, whisper shouting over one another. 

“I need to—”

“They can’t see you—”

Night groans, biting his lower lip as he thinks. He turns in his bedroom until his eyes stop at the window. “Outside. Quick, I’ll get them to leave.” 

“You want me to climb out the window?” 

Granted, it’s not the best idea, especially with the wound in his side, but Night is sure if they find Korn with a bullet wound, they won’t ask further questions. “Unless you’d rather be taken in by the police, yes.”

“Police! Open up!”

Korn’s eyes slide to the door and back to Night, then he nods. After opening the window, he groans quietly when he raises his leg, swinging it over and carefully climbing out, still wearing nothing but his shorts. “If they catch me, I’ll—”

“They’ll die of laughter if they catch you, stupid, so shut up.” With a decisive movement, Night closes the window again and exhales, shaking out his arms.  

Walking to the main door of his apartment, Night tries to look as rumpled and tired as he can. He can do this. He just has to pretend to know nothing, to pretend he just got woken up. He's good at deceiving people. After all, he deceived Mama for months. He just needs to get back into it.

He shakes his head, clearing it. Long hair brushes his cheeks and the base of his neck. Only then does he remember that he is still wearing the wig. Cursing quietly he pulls it off his head and shoves it in one of his jackets, before opening the door. 

Warm light from the hallway spills into his rooms, contrasting the two shadows standing in the light. Night has to blink for the two shapes to take real form. Two policemen stand in front of him, one of them already raising his hand to knock again. 

“What's going on?" 

The policemen muster him for a long moment, and Night realises only then that he's still wearing eyeshadow and mascara. He hopes it's as little visible as possible. From the way the older of the policemen sneers, he has little hope of that.

“There's been a shooting involving an armoured truck a few streets down,” the younger of the two informs him. He’s lanky and tall, his face long and thin, but there's a modicum of kindness in the lines of his face. “Witnesses reported two people, a man and a woman walking towards this apartment complex.”

“Oh,” Night manages, and hopes it's enough. His throat is closing up, even though he’d known that they were here for them. Though, he didn’t think that they had been seen. 

“The man has been shot. We'd like to do a cursory search for the suspects, if you don't mind.”

“There's nobody here, but if you must,” Night steps aside and gestures for them to enter. The younger among the two nods and walks inside, heading for the kitchen first. 

Night watches him open cupboards and peering under the tables and he only then remembers that there’s still a gun wrapped in a bloody shirt under his bed. He feels his hands twitch and immediately pushes them against his shirt to stop their traitorous movements. 

The older policeman keeps watching him. There are hard lines on his face, his eyes cold and calculated, and Night hopes never to meet him alone in an alley at night. “Please raise your shirt,” he then commands in a voice that doesn't leave room for arguing. Night follows immediately, getting tangled up in his haste to push it up. He watches the policeman, who frowns, clearly dissatisfied, and then finally nods, motioning for Night to lower his shirt again. 

“You're sure you haven't heard anything?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe. Night almost thinks it’s a trick question. 

“It’s Bangkok, sir,” Night says. “There’s always some kind of noise but I didn’t hear anything I’m not used to.”

The policeman watches him, like he’s able to catch him in a lie like this. He should probably thank Mama that it doesn’t make him as nervous as it is clearly intending to be. After everything with her, it’s easier to calm himself, to force a state of casualness despite nerves burning in anxiety.

A moment later the younger policeman returns. His eyes flick to Night, watching him for a short moment. And although his hands are empty, it feels like his eyes are trying to burn through Night. 

Only then does he remember: The image of his wet dress lying in a crumpled mess on his bathroom floor. He can feel his hands becoming sweaty and suppresses the urge to wipe them on his pyjama bottoms.

“Nothing, sir,” the policeman says.

If the younger policeman thinks Night is hiding something, then he obviously came to the wrong conclusion. 

“Very well,” the older man lowers his head infinitesimally. “Please excuse the late disturbance, we’ll be on our way. And don’t hesitate to call in, should you see anything suspicious.”

“Sure,” Night breathes. The younger policeman’s face soften slightly and he nods. Night smiles tightly back and watches them turn and walk over to the next apartment. Night tries not to close his door too hastily. He has the mind to pull out the wig from his jacket and set it atop his head, before he’s sprinting to his bedroom window and rips it open. Korn is still standing there, lips blue, shivering and once again, completely wet. 

“Come in,” Night urges. Korn follows, his movements stiff. Night towels Korn roughly dry again and then takes a blanket from his closet and wraps Korn in it, who smiles gratefully at him. 

“I might have to redo the bandages,” Night muses, as his eyes land on the wet fabric. Korn, though, shakes his head and smiles. 

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve been enough trouble for you. Um, which, by the way, did you maybe see something—”

He thinks the adrenaline is still riding high in his body, because he is not cautious at all. “You mean your gun?”

Night can’t really tell, but something changes in Korn. He stands straighter, his eyes sharper somehow. “Yeah,” he says, “that.”

“Why are you carrying a gun in the first place?”

Something in Korn’s jaw tightens. “I don’t—I don’t run around shooting people, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t—I don’t want to. I only use it to protect myself and the people I love and even then I try not to.”

“You’re telling me you’re running around with a gun intent on not shooting someone?”

“I don’t shoot people if I can avoid it,” Korn says earnestly and if he weren’t wrapped in a blanket, still standing in Night’s bedroom in his underwear, Night might not have found him so ridiculous. 

“If the police had found it, I might have been toast.”

Korn does look sheepishly at him then, and Night is tired and jittery and exhausted and anxious. Instead of it slowing him down, it’s like fuel to his brain, running on the fumes, probably. The way Korn’s looking at him, guilty, makes him more suspicious of the situation they had been in. 

And something clicks.

“You knew.”

Korn fidgets, which in all honesty, is all the answer he needs. “I knew,” Korn affirms his suspicions. “I—” he licks his lips, avoiding Night’s eyes. “It was kind of the reason why I was there in the first place. He wasn’t supposed to have a gun, though.”

For a moment Night has no idea what to say. There’s something stuck in his throat, fingers shaking, when finally his words make it through to him. The accident, Korn had been responsible for it, and of course Night just had to go and incriminate himself in the crime. If either Korn or the weapon had been found, it would have been Night’s neck on the line.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Korn says after a moment and it’s so earnest, he almost feels the anger melt away completely. 

Almost.

“You plan a shitty robbery where the truck driver wasn’t supposed to have a gun, you say sorry and all is well?”

Korn’s eyes widen where he’s still standing in Night’s bedroom, half his face hidden in shadow, the blankets wrapped around his body, almost the embodiment of a drenched rat. 

“Wait, wait, wait, I think you got something wrong here. I mean—look, I was trying to keep a gang from robbing the truck, because he wasn’t supposed to have a gun.”

“You were trying to keep a gang from robbing an armoured truck?” Night checks. Korn nods. “You and … who exactly?”

Korn turns red under his glare and Night knows without him saying that it had been only him, nobody else. 

“Why would you even attempt—”

“Look, I knew of the plan and I shared it with A—my boss. He didn’t think it was our problem, but if the driver would have got hurt, I knew I would have blamed myself. So I went there and then—then you tripped over me and … my priorities changed.” 

Night can feel himself blush. “Idiot,” Night grumbles after a moment and then motions towards his bed. “Go get on the bed and let me check your bandages.”

Korn follows, a smile back on his face, and Night finds himself fascinated at how easily he’s smiling at him again. Korn settles down on the bed again and watches Night as he takes off the wet bandages and dries and wraps his wound. His eyes are clear and attentive, following Night’s fingers carefully. 

They don’t talk. The rain is still hitting the window in a soothing rhythm. 

“Done.”

Korn smiles at him. “Thank you,” he says, and Night can hear the sincerity in his voice. It makes him scratch his nail against his arms. 

“You’re welcome,” Night answers. 

Night scoots back and then settles down next to Korn, leaning against the wall. Neither of them speak. The silence that surrounds them is deafening, uncomfortable in a way he can’t describe. 

“So—”

“I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow morning,” Korn says without looking at him. His jaw is tight, controlled, and Night nods. 

“Alright,” he says, because there isn’t anything to say. Night should be happy about it. By tomorrow morning Korn and his gun will be gone and he himself will be back to his own life. A life that consists of him wandering the city, trying to find a place to write in, hoping to finish something to actually give to a publisher, while struggling to pay the rent. 

Night pulls the blanket over his body. A spot in the back of his head, a little left to his right ear is itching and he tries very hard not to touch it in fear of moving his wig too much. “Lie down, it’ll heal faster,” he says before finally closing his eyes. 

Korn hums in what Night assumes is confirmation, but he doesn’t hear any fabric rustling. He has half a mind to comment on it, but Korn’s breathing is soothing next to the pitter patter of the rain against his window. After what he’s experienced today, he doesn’t have any more strength in him to fight sleep when it comes for him. 

+++

For the second time this night, Night is being torn out of his dreams. He blinks frantically, almost sure he’s still hearing the faint traces of a scream, but his rooms are quiet. The rain is once again beating harder against his window. For a moment Night wants to go back to sleep, with the rain as his companion as it swallows all the sounds. His blankets have somehow wandered down towards his legs and he grunts as he pulls them back up, when his gaze falls upon Korn. 

He’s still sitting just a few centimetres away from him, not having laid back down as Night had told him to. His face is sweaty, his mouth forming silent words, brows furrowed as if he is in pain. 

“Korn,” Night says, shaking his hand just a little. “Korn!”

Korn’s eyes shoot open and somehow it takes Night so much by surprise that he squeaks (very manly) and hits his head against the wall. He groans and slides his fingers behind his head, along the point which will probably develop a bump. 

“I’m sorry!” Korn says wide-eyed and Night rolls his eyes almost on instinct. 

“Nothing happened.”

“Let me check, please?”

Night thinks, looking at Korn with his huge doe-eyes, that it would be easier to shoot a puppy than him. Not that he really plans on shooting a puppy. 

“I’m fine, really!” he protests, pushing Korn’s searching hands away. “I told you to lay down, why were you sleeping sitting up?”

Night doesn’t know why he knows it, but the crease appearing between Korn’s eyebrows pretty much tells him that Korn will not simply let it drop. He really had to pick up a decent human being, didn’t he? 

“I just want to check if you’re okay,” he says, raising his hand again. “That sounded pretty bad,” his fingertips graze against Night’s neck, trailing along a tendon up to his ear. He can hear his heart leap to his throat, hard thuds vibrating on his tongue. 

The moment Night’s hand closes around Korn’s wrist, he freezes. Night is sure he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, can feel Korn’s fingertips at the edge of his wig.

“Listen,” Night starts, then stops, when Korn’s hand dips down until his thumb gently scrapes across his throat. It’s nothing threatening, at least it doesn’t feel like it. Despite the sensitive skin, the touch is almost comforting. Soft. 

“Adam’s apple,” Korn mumbles.

The words freeze Night where he’s sitting. He’s hyper aware of their knees touching, of Korn’s fingers on his throat. The thought of his hands there changes almost violently from comforting to threatening, without Korn changing anything. The realisation, that if he wanted, all Korn had to do was squeeze, is dizzying. There’s hardened muscle under Korn’s skin and though Night isn’t weak, he doesn’t believe he’d have a chance. 

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Korn repeats once again. He frowns at the lack of a response and only then, as if he were aware of Night’s thoughts, moves his hand into a different position. His thumb is now gently stroking his jaw, his hand splayed loosely around the side of his throat. His voice is even softer now. “Please?”

Korn’s eyes are earnest and warm. His whole face is pleading in an absurdly attractive way. 

Night nods numbly. 

He waits as Korn pushes his hand against his wig, brows furrowed in concentration. He must feel it now, Night realises, but he doesn’t take the wig off. Korn explores what Night lets him do and no more. He runs his hand over the back of his head and the edges of his wig. 

“I don’t mind,” Korn says then, his voice still gentle. Until now Night didn’t know that he needed to hear that. That he needed to be made sure of Korn’s acceptance. He feels himself relax, leaning towards him. “I—I don’t have a say in who you are, but I do respect you the way you are, I—” Night must imagine the way Korn’s eyes flick down to Night's mouth. 

The crazy thing is, Night’s never wanted to kiss a guy. He didn’t feel comfortable when Judoo had … done his thing. 

But he wants to kiss Korn. 

“This isn't who I usually am,” Night says. 

“You don’t have to—” 

“I know I don’t. I’m not making excuses. I—I don’t mind this, and honestly, I’ve become pretty good at this, but I did it because a friend was in a pinch and after meeting you I didn’t know—” he leaves the words incomplete. Korn nods, like he knows and maybe he does. 

It’s a weird feeling somehow, but somehow it feels important to be him, to have everything cleared up. Before he can really think about it, Night pulls the wig off and unexpectedly he feels more naked than he has all night long. 

“Hi,” Korn breathes and it almost makes Night laugh. “Hi…”

“Night.”

“Hi Night,” he says and this time it does make him laugh. The whole ridiculousness of the situation makes him laugh. The fingers cupping his cheek make him shut up. Korn is still looking at him, his expression soft and gentle. 

“So … you wouldn’t mind if I kissed you?” Night asks then. 

“I most definitely wouldn’t,” he says and it’s all the consent Night needs before he leans closer and presses his lips to Korn’s. They’re warm and soft and good . He scoots closer, feels Korn’s other hand fall to his hip and Night holds onto Korn’s shoulders, fingers brushing against the base of his neck. 

He feels himself shiver and involuntarily presses closer. Their upper bodies are touching now, legs pressed against one another, his chest brushing Korn’s arm. 

The kiss doesn’t last for long, just a few moments, but it’s enough to shoot warmth into his cheeks. Korn licks over his lower lip, his tongue dragging across it almost lazily. Then his tongue vanishes back in his mouth again and his jaw tightens. 

Night flicks his gaze back to his eyes again. Korn has become serious, there’s something like regret shining in his eyes and it really shouldn’t bother Night as much as it does. (It might be because Korn is his first kiss with a guy.)

“What?” he asks and winces at the sound of his voice. He sounds more raw than he’d wanted to. 

“I’m sorry,” Korn says, just a breath between them. 

Night’s hands curl around Korn’s shoulders and if he hadn’t been injured, Night would have pulled him closer without giving a shit. “Why?” he asks and it sounds more like a hiss. 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says. “It’s not—”

“I asked you!”

“And I shouldn’t have given permission!”

The words reel him back with a sudden burst. “Oh,” Night mumbles, not sure what else to say. Night almost expects an explanation and is put out when none comes. His body feels restless all of a sudden, so he gets up from the bed and grabs the wig from where it’s lying on the bed. He cards his fingers through the hair and traps back to the bathroom. He sets the wig aside, still catches some glitter from his last visit to the karaoke bar in it. 

Aimlessly he walks back into his bedroom. For a second he thinks he can feel eyes on him, but when he turns to check, Korn has laid down, the blanket dragged half over his body, face turned away from him, but his body is too stiff to belong to someone asleep. “I can leave,” Korn says to the wall. 

“Shut up,” Night says, quite possibly with more heat than he intended, “you’re injured, of course you’re staying here.”

He stops in front of the bed, undecided of what to do. Even sitting on his bed seems somehow inappropriate now. 

His lips tingle. 

“Okay,” Korn whispers. 

Night waits for him to fall asleep, waits for the breathing to even out and only then walks over to the next room and brings a chair. His body will hate him for the decision, but he doesn’t care. He needs the space now. He snatches the other blanket off the bed and tries to get comfortable on the chair. 

It doesn’t quite work. 

He stays awake for most of the night, pondering how the situation could have gone wrong so fast, and when even his brain is too tired to come up with another reason, watches instead as the rain thins and then stops completely. 

When the sun rises, his eyes finally close. The clouds have slowly vanished from view, making space for the sun and the faint blue of the morning. 

+++

When Night wakes much later in the morning, the bed is empty. Not just empty, but the bed has been made. He raises himself up from the chair. His back hurts from the uncomfortable position and he groans low. It’s the only sound. The rest of his apartment stays quiet. The rain hasn’t started again, he notices, only a few raindrops cling to the window, but the sun is already shining through it.

His feet are cold on the floor as he checks the different rooms. His heart sinks lower with every room he enters that doesn’t reveal Korn. His clothes are gone from where Night had dumped them. 

There’s a note in the kitchen, easily discernible atop a newspaper. Today’s newspaper. It features the attempted robbery, talks about a few arrests that have been made. But no word about the two of them. 

The post-it note has only two words on them. 

Thank you.  

Night crumples the note and slides to the floor. 

He tells himself it’s better this way. 

If only he could convince himself of that fact. 

(It’s about a week later when he realises that the gun is still lying wrapped in Korn’s bloody t-shirt, hidden under his bed.)