Wesley saw the post an hour after it went up. He'd been scrolling through Iris's account for the past ninety minutes while waiting for a response, examining her perfectly curated page, the images with a very specific filter over each of them, alongside cute one liners in the caption. Going back about two years, a solid half of them involved Helena — causing him to frown, wondering why she'd not taken them down.

They got the most likes, it seemed as he further investigated. Not that she was lacking in the individual posts, but the times in which Helena appeared in the life she chose to show gathered the most attention from the internet onlookers.

A very clear unsaid message was attached to every post Wesley scrolled past — you want to be us. You can't be us. You want to be us. You will never be us.

It was the kind of message he knew Iris wanted to put out to the world.

It was the kind of message he wouldn't fall for. Not when he'd gotten his first peak behind the curtain that was Iris Crawford's life. Seen her when she wasn't wearing that mask of perfection.

He'd seen her laugh, and seen her upset, and most importantly, he'd seen her hurt.

The person on his screen wasn't the kind of person who felt hurt. He wasn't sure the image she wanted the world to see felt anything at all, save for perhaps amusement at the downfall others.

She wanted to be mean, to be scary. It's why she glared at the camera on occasion, as if telling off the person viewing it. You can look, those hazel eyes said, but only from a distance. Know your place.

Wesley wasn't sure he did.

Not when he'd broken out of the confines his social standing had shoved him into. She'd given him the time of day. She'd made several bargains with him.

She'd told him her mom was dead.

And that, to him, was enough to boost his ego, and his impression of their relationship. She denied they were friends, and yet, here she was, messaging him throughout her family breakfast. Following him on not just the Phantom account, but his real one.

That had to mean something.

And now, his own face, concealed by an eye mask, plastered on her account with a red heart in the caption — everything that needed to be known had been said without a single word used.

The comments were rolling in already, Wesley hesitantly tapping on the post to view them.

helenahaider09: cuties :)

Wesley rolled his eyes at the clear attempt to suck up, scrolling further.

bbbeccapalmer: this is news to me! you guys are adorable!

nelson.lillls: hello??? call me??? this is crazy???

calliecarson17: oh my GOD.

Knowing Iris wouldn't appreciate a comment from him, he switched to his Phantom account before engaging with the post, leaving a like and a comment simply stating: my girl alongside the same heart she'd used.

A knocking on his bedroom door nearly had Wesley toppling off the bed he'd been lounged atop, legs kicked up in the air and elbows resting on his pillow.

"Dude, open the door!"

"It's unlocked, Martin," Wesley called to his best friend, bracing himself. He'd not had the time to inform Wesley of what had happened between him and Iris — between Martin's drunkenness after the party, to the mutiny the next day, they'd not had time alone.

He held his breath as the door pushed inward, making room for him.

However, what was stretched across Martin's face wasn't the expected scowl, but instead, the brightest smile he'd ever seen on the boy. "Dude, I knew it! I fucking knew it — you owe me fifty dollars!"

"I owe you — what are you talking about?"

Shutting the door behind him, he skipped across the room before planting himself atop Wesley's mattress. Sagging beneath his weight, Martin leaned in until he was inches from Wesley's face, giving the impression he was about to kiss him before proclaiming; "I knew you fucked with Iris. I knew it! Pay up, dude."

Wesley pulled away at the rancid scent of Martin's breath. "There's about a hundred things wrong with that statement, the top of which being why I would owe you any money at all."

"I made a mental bet with you," he explained. "And you lost."

"I think to make a bet with someone, they actually have to be a part of it."

"I don't think so, actually," was Martin's matter-of-fact response, the kind that told Wesley he had no hope in arguing.

"Is there a reason you want fifty dollars?"

"There's a new Lord of the Rings Lego set."

"You could always...get a job?"

Martin shuddered. "Not happening, dude."

Wesley sighed, reaching towards his bedside table and feeling about for his wallet. Tossing it towards Martin, he let out a resigned, "Take as much as you want. I'll just rob another bank next week."

"Thanks, bro." Martin fished around in his wallet until he pulled out four twenties, tucking them into his pocket. Eyebrows doing a bizarre dance as his gaze refocused on Wesley, his words were equally as off-putting. "So, tell me how you bagged Iris Crawford."

"I didn't bag her."

"She doesn't know you're the Phantom, then?" His nose scrunched. "The mask stays on during sex? I mean, I guess I can see how that would be--"

"Stop! Christ, I'm not having sex with her!"

"Dude, her boobs are all over that picture. It's more cleavage than face."

He had a point, but it felt disrespectful to agree. "I'm not having sex with her."

He quickly explained the arrangement made, watching as Martin's expression shifted from eager to shocked to baffled with every word spoken.

"So you're...faking it?" He concluded. When Wesley nodded, he pressed on, "And you don't think she's going to go snitching to her dad the moment the opportunity strikes?"

"She would've already if she was going to."

"I mean, fair. I don't trust it, though — and I don't think you should either." Martin rolled over onto his back, resting against Wesley's Star Wars bedsheets and staring up at the spinning overhead fan.

Wesley did the same, positioning himself on his back and folding his hands atop his chest.

"I probably shouldn't trust it," he agreed. "But I don't have much of a choice. It's basically blackmail."

"Did she say what she'd do if you didn't agree to fake date?"

"I don't want to test it. The only other option is to kill her, which I'm not about to do."

He hadn't been able to bring himself to before he knew who she was, hiding out in the closet at Helena Haider's party. How would he now, when he'd already grown attached? When he was testing the boundaries of a friendship she proclaimed she didn't want, and yet, had spent the morning texting him.

Not Helena. Not Brayden.

Wesley Moran.

That had to mean something. He wanted it to mean something.

"Fair," Martin said again, bending his knees so they were arching towards the ceiling. "Besides, as far as fake dating goes, you can't really do much better than Iris. She's hot — almost as hot as Helena."

Wesley nodded absentmindedly. He'd never thought to compare her to Helena — they were different kinds of pretty, because they were different girls. No one better than the other, just different.

It felt wrong to agree, but mean to argue against Helena. Something about the sexism Iris had scolded him for. Comparing women was probably in that realm, putting one down to bring up another — even if it was a total asshole being dragged.

So, he didn't. "Iris is beautiful. And...fun."

"Fun?"

"Yeah. When she's not being a jerk, she's super fun. She's still fun when she's being a jerk, to be fair."

Martin snorted. "I knew you liked her."

Rolling his eyes, Wesley didn't offer a response. Instead, he said, "What Brayden and Helena did to her was shitty. I'd help her out even if she hadn't blackmailed me."

"Because you hate Brayden?"

"He hasn't bothered me much lately."

"Doesn't mean you don't hate him." Martin sniffed. "I hate him, for what it's worth. What he's done to you since middle school is cruel — it's bullying."

"It's not bullying," Wesley argued, shame curling in his gut at the thought. "He's just a dick. I'm not some sort of victim."

"What would you say if it were me?"

He was silent, the humming of the fan filling the quiet that passed between them. Martin had a point, embarrassing as it was to admit. If it were him getting shoved in lockers and head pushed down toilets and called names like freak and loser and dumbass every day, yeah.

He'd call it bullying.

Maybe it was pride that kept him from wanting that label attached to himself. That, as a Villain, he should be above mean boys at school, and the girls that laughed along.

As if reading his thoughts, Martin added in a low tone, "And honestly, dude, unless Iris apologizes for being a bystander to it all, I wouldn't give her as much credit as you are. She's hot, yeah, and it's fun, what you're doing. But I wouldn't get too close. She'll throw you to the wolves the moment it serves her."

Wesley released a humored breath. "Throw me to the wolves? Isn't that a bit dramatic?"

"Am I wrong?"

"She's not a Villain."

"She's not," Martin agreed without missing a beat. "But she could be."

"Wesley," a voice echoed from behind the shut bedroom door, as he fumbled for a response to Martin's proclamation. His father, tone instantly causing him to jump to attention. "Are you in there?"

"Uh, yeah. Martin's with me. Is everything okay?"

August cleared his throat, muffled from the wooden barrier. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fantastic! There's just something on the news you might want to see."

Leaping off the bed and onto his feet, Martin trailed after him in a similarly on edge disposition, pulling the door open to reveal August's bruised face. The injuries he'd sustained in the Inferno's attempted takeover of SuperHQ had increased in their grotesqueness, his skin black and blue and a scab atop his lip that broke every time he spoke. Currently, a small trail of blood was sliding down the length of his chin, getting caught in his stubble.

While Wesley choked back a gag, Martin didn't bother masking his disgust at the dishevelment. "I didn't know they let you out of the Healing Wing, Boss."

"This morning," August said with a chipper smile, increasing the blood flow from the scab. "Back and better than ever." He brought a hand to Wesley's shoulder. "We're all gathering in the Common Area to watch Crawford's rally. He has a young girl speaking with him — maybe you know her. She looks about your age?"

"Iris?" Wesley asked, whipping towards Martin, as if he had the answer. All he managed was a shrug, but he knew the inner workings of Martin's mind well, and precisely what he was mentally projecting towards Wesley.

Told you so.

"Don't know her name," August answered. "But we don't want to miss it. They're talking about Dana — and that mysterious new Super."

"The Bolter," Wesley corrected as he rushed to follow his father down the halls. The fake windows felt like a mockery, an ever blue sky that he couldn't break out through.

His mind trailed back to his conversation with Iris at the park, about both the Bolter and the Buzzer, and their interaction at some diner. It wouldn't have made any sense for her to be the one August spoke about, aligning herself with Evan Crawford's ideology on public television. And yet, he couldn't think of who else it might be, not until they were entering the Common Area and dozens of heads were turning.

The Inferno was among them, dark eyes fixed on Wesley as he let the door fall shut behind him.

At his sides, his fists curled into instinctive balls, yet Wesley was able to contain himself to a rational, calm state. Even through the influx of violent thoughts directed at the man who'd hurt his father, the man who'd attempted to steal his own claim, the man who was, at this moment in time, concocting what was sure to be an impossible task for Wesley to keep his own birthright.

He wanted to hit him.

He'd never wanted to hit anyone before. Not even Brayden Berry.

But Aaron — the Inferno, he'd drawn first blood. It felt only fair to further the fight he'd begun.

All he needed was permission.

Eyes flickering towards August, his dad was already looking at Wesley. When their gazes met, he shook his head — one short, simple motion.

An order.

Wesley took it in stride.

Ignored the Inferno and his jeering smile as he walked up to the nearest empty couch, he plopped down next to Martin's aunt — the Stingray. A polite nod was directed his way, but everyone's focus were quickly redirected towards the massive TV.

Iris wasn't present on the screen, just as Wesley had expected, though it didn't dim the shock that came alongside recognition. Rather, Jessica Taylor was situated on Evan's left, nodding along as he spoke into a microphone, held up by one of the many reporters that surrounded him. Situated outdoors, a harsh wind picked up in the audio, slightly obscuring the mayor candidate's voice.

"—no way of knowing who these Supers align with," he was saying, using his hands to emphasize his words in large, exaggerated movements. "As Miss Taylor explained, they insisted they were neither Hero nor Villain, which, while should be taken with a grain of salt, I think only emphasizes my stance that all Supers, no matter allegiance, are a danger to society."

Jessica Taylor nodded, earning a soft breath from Wesley. So much for that whole Phantom crush.

At least he wouldn't be committing any further accidental arson to get her attention.

"Mr. Crawford," a reporter began, drawing his attention. When a nod was sent towards the reporter, she went on, "What would you do with Supers in New York City, if you win this election?"

"A difficult question," Crawford mused. "As mayor, I won't have as much power as, say, a governor, — but considering the size of the city I will be representing, I will have sway with higher ups. At the very least, I will ensure Supers have no place in this city — and those who are caught will face severe punishments."

"Asshole!" The Inferno shouted at the TV, earning several hums of approval.

Even Wesley couldn't pretend he didn't agree.

Punishment for what? For being born with an ability no one understood? He could wrap his head around suppressing Villains — their goal was to create strife, chaos, boost their own wealth while stepping on civilization as a whole. But Heroes?

What had they ever done but the right thing? He had reason to hate Brayden Berry, but the Bravin' Raven hadn't done anything but improve the society Evan Crawford claimed to want to represent, to protect, to serve.

It made no sense, this level of unfounded hatred. But Wesley wasn't sure he wanted it to make sense. That the disconnect between the two meant he wasn't discriminatory, even in thought.

"Mr. Crawford!" This reporter was a young woman, not too much older than Wesley himself, waving a hand until he fixated on her. "If the Buzzer and the new one — the Bolter, if they aren't Heroes or Villains, are there other Supers in New York City without alignment?"

"I don't know for certain at this moment in time. But it would be safe to assume that, yes, there are. Either Supers who have yet to come into their abilities or others who are dodging the call of Heroes and Villains. From what I understand about them, they have large organizations — secret to the rest of the world."

"Do we have a snitch?" The Stingray roared from Wesley's side.

"It could be from Heroes R Us," Martin said, easing his aunt's sudden rise of fury. "Or it could've been Dana, after she left."

"It's mutually assured destruction, if the Buzzer did decide to rat anything out," August reasoned, casually rubbing one of the welts on his face from where he'd positioned himself on a cushioned chair. "She knows a lot about us, yes, but we know equal information on her. Her identity, her weaknesses. She wouldn't speak on SuperHQ unless she wanted to face her own downfall."

"Spoken as if it's not your fault she left," the Inferno spat.

"Aaron," August warned, though he didn't lose his steady tone. "Until Wesley has completed his task, we are at a stalemate. There's no use for picking an argument."

The mention of the agreement had the moisture leaving Wesley's mouth, as he fixated on the TV. Another reporter had just asked about the tax impact of enforcing anti-Super laws in the city, and Evan Crawford was spouting out too big of numbers for Wesley to understand.

"I wasn't aware a stalemate meant I couldn't point out the obvious," the Inferno argued.

"It's fine." Sensing what was brewing, Wesley scrambled to cease the flames before August could further fan them. "We should focus on the news."

"Speaking of the task," the Inferno went on, ignoring what was said. Leaning against the side of the chair he'd plopped into and into Wesley's direction, his dark eyes shone with excitement throughout his speech. "Tomorrow. After breakfast. I'm nearing the conclusion of what we want from you."

Wesley bit down on the side of his cheek. Whatever torture the Inferno was coming up for him, it could wait.

He instead drew his attention back to the TV, just as a reporter with a choppy haircut asked, "What do you have to say about the rumors that your daughter is involved with a Super?"

A brief flicker of fear crossed Evan Crawford's face, but he shook it away with a smile taking its place. "While, of course, my family's personal life is no one's business, I understand how this could be confusing. My daughter was tricked by the Bravin' Raven. She had no idea of his Super identity, and has since left him."

The reporter frowned. "Not the Bravin' Raven. The Phantom."

In the Common Area, all heads spun to Wesley.

Martin, it seemed, was the only one of the Villains who was aware that he and Iris even knew each other, as everyone gaped as though Wesley had said an unforgivable slur.

"A traitor!" The Inferno leaped to his feet. "Get him!"

No one budged — no one seemed to notice he'd spoken at all, too fixated on Wesley himself.

"Shut up, Aaron!" One of Martin's dads scolded. "We want to hear what Crawford says."

Meanwhile, Evan had been momentarily rendered silent. "I...I can assure you, my daughter has nothing to do with the Phantom."

"It's all over social media," the choppy haired reporter insisted. "She posted it on her own account — which she made public. An image of her and the Phantom, with the official Phantom account tagged. He commented too."

"This is...this is news to me." He let out a high pitched laugh, nerves outlined with how intense his body movements became. "I...I frankly don't know what to say."

"Are you a Super sympathizer?" Someone in the crowd shouted, followed by angry jeering. Jessica, who Wesley had forgotten was even at the politician's side, flinched from the sudden onslaught of anger directed towards them.

"No!" His face burned scarlet as he rushed to defend himself. "My daughter is...well, as I said, I would never bring my family's personal issues public. But I understand why this may raise confusion. My daughter is incredibly mentally ill, and this is her finding a way to damage herself. Self sabotage, that I swear does not reflect on my personal beliefs, or my campaign."

Wesley felt his stomach lurch, just as Jessica Taylor flinched, eyes shifting towards him in a look of disbelief.

He could scarcely focus. Not through the rushing of blood in his ears, and the red he began to see spot across his vision.

That was two people in less than ten minutes whom he wanted to physically assault. The Inferno, and Iris Crawford's father.

No wonder she had such an issue with him, if this was how he deemed appropriate to publicly speak about her. Saving his own ass by throwing her under the bus — tossing her off the lifeboat to keep his own head afloat. Airing out her issues to avoid the public from seeing his own.

His words seemingly eased the crowd, from what the TV showed at least. Not that it mattered. Wesley's mind was fixated on one singular thought — was Iris okay?

It briefly occurred to him that Evan could be lying out of his ass, calling Iris mentally ill, but Wesley decided it didn't matter. The truth wasn't what was important, it was the fact that something personal to Iris had been used as disposable.

His phone, he'd left in his bedroom, realizing this as he patted his pockets in search for the device. A desperate need to get in contact with her, to check in, without any real reason for it.

They weren't friends.

But they didn't have to be, for him to care.

"Wes?" August called his name — he'd stood up, and not realized it until his father's voice had broken through the ringing in his ears. "Are you actually dating Evan Crawford's daughter?"

There were three options — the truth, a lie, or something in the middle.

A moment of consideration led him to deciding on the final idea. "I am," he said. "And her dad's a total asshole. She hates him, and she wants his campaign to fail. Trust me, it benefits us all that we do this."

"Does she know who you are?" The Inferno demanded, also rising onto his feet. "Your true identity — has she seen you without a mask?"

"Of course not." The lie came with ease. "I'd never risk SuperHQ that way. Iris has no idea who I am — and she never will. She's fine with it."

"She's using you, then." One of the Taffy Twins was laughing, while the other smirked — the one who he presumed had been the one to speak.

"My relationship is none of your business, Tillie."

"Tiffany," she corrected.

He waved a dismissive hand in her direction. "She's not using me any more than I'm using her. And as her boyfriend, I should probably go check up on her. See what she has to say about her father's public slander."

Before further protest could follow, Wesley was pressing out of the Common Area and into the hallway. No one stopped him, only burned holes into his back from their harsh gazes until he was shutting the door, sealing the rest of the Villains away from him.

Then, he ran all the way to his bedroom, locking the door behind him and leaping onto his bed. Tapping his phone screen until Iris's instagram contact was pulled up — he still didn't have her number — he sent a quick 'you okay?' message.

She didn't respond. Didn't even read it.

After five minutes of waiting, he sent her another.

'Iris?'

When another five agonizing minutes of silence went by, he bit the bullet and placed his finger atop the video call button.

This time, she did answer, though it was just before the call would run out. Face coming into view, her hair was hung over her eyes and an odd, clear liquid was situated at the corner of her lip. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Are you—"

"I was asleep, dumbass." Cutting off his professed concern, she reached up and wiped her mouth with her wrist — drool, he realized with a contained laugh.

"It's like, noon."

Bringing her hair out of her eyes, she glared into the screen. "Yeah? I was tired." She yawned. "Stupid family time will do that."

"With your brother, right?" Wesley recalled the night prior, and how they'd assumed the poor guy had been a home invader, and threatened him with the Phantom appearance. In hindsight, it'd been a bit extreme, but Iris's fear had been so prominent at the time, he'd have done anything to dampen it.

She groaned, the only response given. Turning her head to the side, she buried her face in her white pillowcase, and murmuring "I don't want to talk about it."

"Iris."

She didn't move — though that was perhaps for the best. He didn't know what to say.

She was clearly unaware of what her father had said — he doubted if she had an inkling of the public smear to her name, she'd be half as calm as she currently was.

Meaning it was up to Wesley to tell her.

He cleared his throat, saying her name again, louder this time.

"I'm tired," she groaned. "Just let me sleep."

He almost felt tempted to let her. She did look exhausted, after all, but snapped himself out of it. "This is important."

"I'm not sending nudes."

"What?"

She peered out from beneath the pillow. "I said, I'm not sending you nudes. You're not actually my boyfriend, Moron, you don't get nudes."

"I'm not gonna ask you for nudes."

Her brows furrowed. "Oh."

"Did Brayden do that?" Regret panged in him the moment he blurted the question. Not sure he wanted to know the answer, he was pretty sure he already did.

Swapping out her confusion for irritation, she rolled her eyes, as if this hadn't been highly personal of him to ask. "He was my boyfriend, of course he did."

His hand on the phone tightened. Every day, Wesley's respect for the Bravin' Raven dwindled from the little he'd ever possessed in the first place. Soon enough, he'd be going into the negatives.

When he didn't form a response in time, Iris asked, "Can I go back to sleep, or...?"

How, Wesley thought, was he meant to break the news to Iris over a call? What if she was actually mentally ill — and what if she took what her dad did the wrong way? What if she did something stupid, and her dad was too busy yapping to reporters with Jessica Taylor to be there in time?

Iris didn't strike him as someone suicidal, but it wasn't like suicidal people went around with a tattoo on their forehead indicating they wanted to die.

Wesley wasn't about to take that risk.

Besides, there was a strong possibility she was fine — but when she found out, she'd be sad. And being sad alone sucked.

Even if you were Iris Crawford.

"Can I come over?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋆ wesley is very much teen boy trying to understand mental health and not quite getting it but HES TRYING okay