Angelos.

I used to love sleep. I loved burrowing deeper into my sheets and slipping back into whatever dreams I had, but then the nightmares arrived. Once they threw down their bags behind my eyelids the thought of wrestling with my conscience for eight or more hours in total darkness lost its appeal. So today, I felt no sting setting my alarm clock to 4:00 A.M.

I butter bread and fry grilled cheese sandwiches, take Kepler to the park, shower, and have my butt back in bed at seven, before the first touches of purple swirl the sky.

Then the nightmares begin.

The city is a smolder, the sky a whirl of purple and black, the flickers of orange glow a glint on a burnt horizon. The fire is so thick I can taste it, and it tastes like chemical ash. Through a curved, soot-smeared window, I see the billows of black smoke. And all around me, my father's inky aura presses into my flesh and gnaws me down to the bone, eating me alive. Even my tears burn.

I twitch and claw to open my eyes, but I'm paralyzed, I'm paralyzed. And then the BEEP-BEEP-BEEP of my alarm shreds the aura, the fire, the window, and catapults me back into my own reality, the white white white bedroom and my sweaty sheets and the pink stripes of light slashed across the pillows, and Gats. His wiry, alabaster body is pressed against mine. He draws in sharp inhales. His exhales are sighs. Listening to the still boy breathe, watching the dips and rises of his chest, it blurs the fire, distracts from the crisp chemical taste still sloshing in the back of my throat. As Gats groans to consciousness I slide the clock's alarm to 'off,' pad across carpet that squishes through my toes, and brush my teeth over the bathroom sink.

By 4:20 I've taken a scalding shower, bound my wings with gauze, slipped into my uniform and tied a fresh blazer around my waist. By 4:30 I've pocketed Storm's faux leather wallet, fed the wolf, fashioned her a leash out of a scarf, and begin my jog down the stairs and toward the park. I've forgotten the crisp chill of a spring wind, the slow morph of colors brought by a sunrise, Starlight City's car-exhaust and wild grass smell come from the park. Kepler loves it. She paws the grass, rolls in the mud, howls happily at the rising sun. I wonder how long she's been kept in that dirty basement, and once she's panting, her tail wagging so quickly she gusts grass into my eyes, I make a Whole Foods run. The cashier is so groggy she doesn't seem to notice the wolf tangling up my ankles in scarf or the wet-dog smell of her fur, just hands me my receipt and fifteen pounds of meat and vegetables.

By 5:45, I have my Kiss The Cook apron thrown over my uniform and am already sauteeing green beans in olive oil with minced mushroom, chilli peppers, and onions, lost to the crackle of the juices and the heat rising off the steaks in the cast-iron skillet. I'm swinging my hips to George Gershwin, awaiting the rice to fluff and the coffee in the percolator to bubble. Perhaps it's freedom. Perhaps it's knowing I've survived something horrible, but here I am, dancing alone in my kitchen, alive enough to tell the tale. Or perhaps it's because I'm already drinking my coffee, brewed so thick it goes down the throat like chowder.

"Do you normally cook steak for breakfast?"

"Aiyee!" I whip around, crouched as low as my center of gravity will take me and my fists lifted in a guard in front of my face. A short boy with a black ponytail blinks up at me, in a tee shirt and pink-lamb pajama pants. He shuffles forward, tattered slippers squeaking on the floor, and in one hand he clutches a drawing tablet. "You must be Angelos." He rolls his shoulders back, smiles good-naturedly, and waves at the percolator. "May I have some of that, please?"

Nodding, I shake the green beans over their burner, flip a steak, reach up for the cupboard, and pour him a mug. "So, uh, who are you, exactly?"

"Shiro." He draws a long sip. "I'm, uh, supposed to be living with you."

"Oh." My shoulders relax. "Typical Storm and June. Naw, man, steak at Six A.M is weird, but I was in the mood to cook something heavier, you know?"

He nods. Gives his drawing tablet a squeeze as if out of understanding. Takes another sip of coffee and makes a little squeak of ecstasy.

"These green beans are almost done." I can tell by the smell. The spicy scent of chilli sauce, it's crackle. The sweetness of the onion mixed with the earthiness of the mushroom. "Want me to fry you an egg? Make you fried toast?"

His eyes shift down to those fleecy black slippers with holes worn at the toes. "I... uh..."

"I'll take that as a yes. Don't be shy. I get it, new place, weird kid cooking at ungodly hours. But if you need anything, just ask. I mean, you're probably freaked."

"You, uh." He swallows audibly as I switch tasks on the stove. Dial down the heat, check the rice for fluff-factor, mmm. Nice and steamy. "You have wings."

I remove the beans and rice into separate platters, toss the steaks into a bowl and throw a fourth slab of marinated meat into the pan. Generally, manning four burners while carrying on a conversation is frowned-upon cooking behavior, but I've missed this, missed this hobby enough I could sautee whatever's cooking in my happy tears. I enjoy the challenge. "Yeah," I say.

"And Heaven is a superhero and Gatsby is a cat."

I snatch a clean pan from the cupboard and crack two eggs in it over a hot burner. "I know we must fit whatever stereotypes you've heard about Starlight City, but the rest of the pace isn't like this." We listen to the eggs crackle in silence. "It's just us."

He watches me, but he's chill about it. His eyes flick to the bulge in the back of my shirt, and then he glugs a little more of his coffee, his mind assumedly turning over this information. I fix him a plate of eggs and beans, watch him carefully set down his cup. With his fork dug into the vegetables, he takes a bite and a mmmm sound reverberates from the back of his throat, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

"For a superhero, you sure can cook," he says, before cramming more vegetables into his mouth. Sets his food back on the counter and picks up his coffee, nibbling contently with his eyes all glowy when they look up at me, like he found a new teen idol.

I shake my head. "Naw. No superhero. Just the technical 'leader' of this... Syndicate. You heard of it? I think it's just a Starlight City thing."

The last steak has turned a rich brown, juices sizzling around it. I turn the stove off and throw the slab on top of the others, which is probably against procedure, but I haven't cooked steak in at least forever, considering Gats is supposed to be a vegetarian. I don't know why I mention Syndicate, the reference sort of tumbles out, maybe because I want to gauge its reach, maybe because I want to get the secret off my achy chest to someone on the outside.

Shiro blinks at me, eyes wide. Then all the blood drains in a tan face so it goes stone white, cheeks sallow. Then he coughs. Then he makes a little gurgly sound and his drained mug hits the floor, shatters into a thousand shards, and I race over to his side because he's plopped to his knees, gasping with his tablet clenched to his hear. I lock my arms around his chest and push both laced fists into his stern, reminded of Ceres' caging hold, wincing as I slam enough pressure into the little guy's rib cage to break something, when Shiro yelps and his breathing returns to teeny ragged pants. "You alright?"

He drags himself to the trash can, spits, and returns to his food. Never takes his eyes off me. Moving at a low crouch, like he intends to fight me, he shovels more eggs down his throat.

"Are you alright? Do I need to get you an ambulance?"

He shakes his head and leans against the counter. His face is all red. "So... Syndicate, you say?"

I run a hand through my hair. "Yeah. But what matters is that you almost choked to death—"

"I'm fine!" He pushes past me, squirming the pantry door open. "I'm sorry I'm causing you so much trouble, let me clean it up."

I snatch the broom out of his hand as soon as he grabs it. "No, bud, you just sit down and finish your food if you're sure you don't need any actual medical help." When I pat him on the head, he flinches, but I don't have time to interrogate him because the kitchen door creaks open. Heaven peeks and I actually jump. I cock my head, blink once, twice. Her tie is straight, her shirt is crisp and clean, which is already a shocker. But I'm staring at her open-mouthed because of her hair. Her face. "Hev is there.... is that eyeshadow?"

"Yeah, Fibbs." Her lashes are even thicker than they usually are, her eyelids dusted with this glittering purple powder, her lips at a full shimmer, plum. And her curls are shiny, swinging against her shoulders, mat-free. She throws her weight into her hips. "So what? You wanna fight me over it?"

She's glaring at me. In this moment, I want to fling my arms around her and twirl her like a bride-to-be, because I'm suddenly so in love with Old Hev I could marry her. Instead, I let a dopey smile crawl up my dopey face and shove past her into the living room. The door slams behind me. "Gatsby!"

He's curled up in a ball, snuggled deep in my sheets under Kepler's weight. She's taken a liking to him and she's lathering his face in long, loving licks. Gatsby only struggles over onto his side, failing to push the eighty-pound animal off of him 

"Gatsby?" I step over to his limp form, place both hands on his shoulders, and give him a soft shake. "Gats. Wake up. Time to go to school."

His eyes whip open. He screams, a low gravelly sound, and sinks his claws into my forearm, making blood bubble up from a new gash. It splatters the white cotton, turns it red. The strange cat-ears are pinned back, his blue eyes huge, glistening with dry tears, and I know I've awakened him from a nightmare.

"Hey." I pry his claws out of my arm and roll up my sleeve to hide the blood spot on my uniform. I gentle my voice so it falls softly on his ears, hardly a whisper. "Heaven has makeup on. I think this means the apocalypse is a'coming."

Gats retracts his claws and turns over so his face is stuffed in the pillows. I grab him again by the shoulder and shake him. Still softly, but a few more times now. He's thin in my hands, almost bony, his skin pale and papery. I decide I'll have to fatten him up. "Rise and shine, kitten."

"I'm not going," he mutters into the pillows. His voice is obscured between the fabric, his accent, and the early morning gravel. "And you can't make me."

"But it's April first. Hev's birthday. Play auditions."

"Don't care."

My heart skips a beat. "You've been looking forward to this all school year."

"It doesn't matter."

I bend over the last drawer and pull out my only beanie. It's a faded, overwashed gray, so unused it smells of dust and mothballs. I fit it over my head, check out my reflection. Yup. Rocking the prep-boy-pirate-hipster look. "You give me no choice."

Gats is curled in a slim ball, stripped down to a wrinkled button-up and gym shorts. I hook my arms around his waist and throw him over my shoulder. He cried out, struggling and clawing and kicking. He's so light I hardly notice the extra weight, and I'm already calculating the highest calorie foods to feed him. His foot turns over and he slams his heel into my ribcage. I double over, draw a breath through clenched teeth, and drag myself across the living room. "Why can't you just leave me alone!"

"Cause you can't fail out of school and the play needs its best actor." I carry him, a kicking, clawing lump, and toss him onto the mattress. He scrambles to his feet, but I'm already leaned up against the inside of the door, awaiting his next attack. His lip curls up into a snarl. But I'm not scared of him, even if he has miniature blades growing out of his fingertips. I made up his bed and left his uniform folded on the sheets beside his beanie.

"Breakfast is waiting. You can get dressed in the bathroom or I'll turn around, but I'm not leaving until you do."

Gatsby grabs fistfuls of his hair, which has grown thick and unruly. His eyes flick up my body, and I know he's sizing me up. Agility versus strength. Apparently, strength wins out because he slumps, his eyes lifted to meet mine. He cups his hands together, starting to pace. "They'll laugh at me."

I point at my beanie. "By lunch, half the school will be wearing one of these. It'll be the Hair Revolution II."

He shakes his head. "I'll fall asleep during class."

"I've packed two thermoses of coffee in your backpack. Three packets of sugar, a dash of cinnamon, and a ⅙ cup of cream. Just the way you like 'em." I cross my arms over my chest. "Can't get out of this, Gats."

He cups his face in his hands. "What if we're attacked?" His knees wobble together. His eyes are blue glints. He looks so small and young, nothing like the suave charmer I'm used to seeing.  "Angel, I'm really scared."

I place a hand on his head, ruffle his hair between my fingers. When he tenses, I stoop to his eye-level, which is a real ache in the thighs. "It's over. Nothing's gonna happen to you. Owl is dead."

"But Fallout—"

"Just wants me. I promise, Hev and me won't let anything happen to you. And if anything does, we'll kick the butts of whoever laid a hand on you."

Gats wipes his eyes, nodding. Even smiles, and though his eyes are ringed with dark circles, if you didn't know him, you'd think it genuine. No wonder he's the drama teacher's little darling. "Thanks, Dad."

"Two minutes. You try to climb out the window and I will swoop down and catch your skinny butt, so don't even think about it."

"Jeez, it's like having two Heavens." Gats rolls his eyes, the fear so clear in his expression melting into a signature smirk. He peels the clothes from the sheets and scurries into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

As soon as he's gone, I slide down the wall.

Yeah, Gats, I'm really scared too.

***

Apologies for the late chapter. I kind of forgot to post. Eh heh heh heh. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!