'stead Fag Blues
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"Two, one two three four…"

Common knowledge said Landon Grayson shouldn't put his favorite song as his alarm. Common knowledge said he should wake up to something he hates, something like what Ella used to put on after she hooked up with Ben. Common knowledge could go fuck itself.

Landon sat up from his futon, stretched, grinned at the sunlight seeping in through the new window. His muscles ached and his stomach was growling, which meant jacks for breakfast. Taking a breath of the stale squat air, Landon rolled out of bed and threw on the absolute tackiest binder in his drawer — nobody would see it under his work clothes, but he'd know. Button-up, slacks, docs for the irony.

He'd thought freedom would lose its luster after the first month. What was the word for the opposite of naivety?

Allison and Jason were already at the table as Landon slunk into the kitchen, the former already starting on breakfast. There, illuminated by god rays from the window, standing over that janky stove in shorts and a tank, was the most beautiful woman Landon had ever seen.

He came up behind her, hugging her waist and standing on tip-toes to kiss her neck. "Morning, faggot."

Allison giggled — fucking giggled, the nerve of this squatter goddess — and just continued frying her, one sec, her potato scramble. "Morning, boy wonder." She nudged back into him, and he knew that he and Sabian were the luckiest men in the world. "A little cooking room?"

Sure, okay. Landon could wait; hell, he could prep while he waits. Scrambles don't take much longer than jack mix, anyways.

Fuck. He'd never been happier to cook breakfast.

Allison stepped away from the stove, and Jason whistled. "We ♫ downloading porn with Davo ♫ today?"

"I mean, I did kinda go from dead to gay." Landon chuckled, making sure to get a quick but good look. "Either of you two want jacks?

"Hey, we're six weeks from owning this place. I can do whatever I want." Allison scooped her scramble onto her and Jason's plates, before taking an ostentatious seat at the table. "Those the vegan pancakes? God, I hate those." She smiles. "There's better ways to get protein."

"Yeah?" He tore his gaze away to focus on the pancakes. They'd be enough to tide him over through work; he still needed to lose some belly fat if he wanted that Dick Grayson bod.

God. Could you even call it "work"?


Johnny Tso looked like a Cantonese J. Jonah Jameson, a fact that came with a surprising amount of gender euphoria. It helped that the Metropolitan's offices looked like the Daily Bugle if it was stuffed to the brim with cramped machinery.

"I really like that kid!"

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THERESA PETRUCCI: ONE YEAR SOBER!


"Red beans?"

"Hey, not my fault I'm friends with posers." Veronica snickered. "I'll give you an extra helping of the lasagna if you don't tell 'em I said that."

"I don't knoooooow." Landon snorts. "Pretty sure my brain'd break around Jack and Mips."

"Yeah, you and every tranny in the city." True to their word, Veronica scooped a single serving of Lasagna onto Landon's plate. "You know how many people ask if I can set them up? Fuckin' a." She snickerd. "We've got a house show Sunday, if you really wanna subject yourself to those two."

"Fuck. I was hoping to work on the exposé that day." He paused. "Maybe some steamed veggies to round things out?

Veronica nodded, and scooped them onto his plate. Landon turned towards the bench — and in the corner of his eye, he swore he saw her smile drop.

***

"Let me… lemme say it like this:" Veronica took a sharp inhale. "Whoever owns the property is six weeks away from losing it."

"Look." She rested her hands on the table. "I used to be 19 and unhoused. Unlike you, I didn't have the benefit of the BackDoor behind me. No Weilstedt, . I fucked men I hated, yuppies, cheaters, my borderline serial killer music professor, for a few nights under a roof. And I'd fuck 'em all again, because there's nothing worse than seein' your friend OD in the next bunk over."


In the light she was beautiful, a painting come to life. In the dim, she was a mannequin, a sculpture that had stepped down from her pedestal and taken residence in the dark where she did not belong.

"… you've wronged someone terrible." Hannah turned, and it struck Landon that her eyes, dull brown, did not belong in her head. "And with that, you have wronged something terrible.


Her eyes stayed with him on the way to the house show. Landon could see them in every LED headlight, every two windows with the lights on, every pair of eyes looking out of those windows. Every man, every robot, every abomination peeking out the hole of its shell, all of them were colored by that same dull brown. There was no doubt in his mind: Hannah O'Hara could leave the city, take every assistant and superior with her, and her eyes would never leave Landon.

Single Ladies started playing in his head. He wanted a smoke, or a drink. An empanadilla, like…

No, Mr. Duddle's…" Ashton pulled something out of their pocket, some kind of rectangular thing that they put up to their mouth and…

…right. A vape.

Landon nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Landon smiled, and most of his brain went to mush.

The man was tall, toned, wore a pair of tight black denim shorts, fishnet tights, yellow-laced docs, and not a whole lot else. It suited him nicely — the top scars went well with his four pack and the sailor tattoos. Best of all: his eyes were a deep brown, almost enough to drown out the dull.

"Nero -Velasquez." He gestured to the heavy-set man beside him. "And this is Pozzed Mike."

"I'm friends with some… fuck-off programmer, and she's got an 18th-floor place in the downtown. Was planning on bringing, what, four or five tboys there after the party?" Nero grinned. "But I can make that five or six."


Here we are.

The illusion breaks down.

Landon is not safe. Landon was never safe.

And in that moment, he feels like Cora Romero all over again.

The last thing he sees when he looks back is a blaze of violet, and the shadow of a dangerously-thin woman.





Happy first article since my bipolar diagnosis. Things are awful! Thought I'd channel my rage into something halfway productive, rip to the Landon/Happiness fandom tho.

Credit to DjoricDjoric for Mr. Duddle.

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