This story is for mature audiences and contains graphic sexual themes, language, drinking, and violence. Reader discretion is advised.

"Don't you hate how Batman gets all that attention?" Porter asked after taking another sip of his Modelo. His eyes stayed on the city lights of Gotham, which were the closest thing to the stars he could see at that moment. "I mean, the guy has comic books about him! And what do we get?" His hands gestured at the sky with a frustrated passion. "Cops on our ass, that's what we get," he grumbled before gulping his beer.

Marshal rolled his eyes at Porter's usual complaints. Porter had always been sour about being hunted vigilantes. The police force had accepted Batman, but that doesn't mean that all vigilantes can be trusted. 

"Dude, the police don't like masked citizens with weapons," Marshal countered. "Doesn't mean we can't do our job." He used his hands as a pillow while his body comfortably slid down further into the lawn chair they'd placed on the roof of the Gotham bank months before. This was their "hangout" where they patrolled Gotham. The bank seemed like the best place to keep posted with equipped crimefighters.

"Yeah, whatever," Porter mumbled, knowing his complaints were pointless. His scowl faltered when he remembered something Marshal had told him when they were patrolling this same spot last week. "Hey, when are you supposed to move in with that one dude?" He snapped his fingers as he tried to remember the name Marshal had told him. "Ryker, right?"

"Yeah, Ryker. He's already moved into the new apartment. I'm waiting for a free day to be...a normal person, I guess. Not a vigilante." Marshal looked down at the beer in his hands, resting the bottle on his suit.

Naturally, a vigilante's suit was homemade. Marshal's took on an army theme, embracing his unique name. The first layer consisted of camo fabric, which didn't provide much protection, but the chest and more exposed areas were draped in black-stained kevlar, a bullet-proof material that cost him a few months' salary at his previous job as a waiter. His mask was just a painted gasmask he got at a Halloween store with metal studs glued in various places. His suit had a hood that usually shadowed his eyes, but that wasn't the most reliable identity-hider in a fight. He was always trying to update his suit, especially when it came to the importance of hiding his face, but there wasn't exactly a manual for all this. Besides, without a current job, the improvements he wanted to make were limited.

Porter scoffed at Marshal's excuse. "Go right now. If someone were to commit a crime that needed both of us, it would've happened by now. It's almost 5:00." 

Marshal grumbled in response. He kept his eyes on the roof he sat on, occasionally glancing at his beer. He wanted a drink but his mood wouldn't let his stomach settle. He breathed in the night air, but the city breeze wasn't the most refreshing.

Porter lifted a brow at Marshal, getting a quick read on his friend. "Don't tell me you're nervous," he finally said with a mixture of a scoff and a laugh.

"Screw off," Marshal snapped back. "I'm not nervous. I'm just..." he hesitated, failing to find the right word.

"Nervous," Porter finished his friend's sentence. He sat up to better view Marshal, whose face had grown almost sickly. "How long have you known this guy?"

Marshal took a second to recall when they had met. It was back in sixth grade. He was surprised the friendship lasted past middle school, let alone--- "Ten years," Marshal replied to his pestering friend. 

Porter's jaw dropped. "Ten years? Holy shit, dude. Why the hell are you nervous, then?" 

Marshal stayed quiet, but his silence made something click in Porter's head. "You're into him?" he asked Marshal with surprise as if he'd come out and said it. 

"Dude, shut the hell up," Marshal demanded, turning his head away from his friend. 

Bingo. "You are!" Porter laughed. He took another drink of his beer and shook his head with a smile plastered on his smug face. "Funny shit."

"It doesn't matter, anyway. The guy is straight," Marshal grumbled, rubbing his eyes with frustration. "And insanely hot," he added, in a much quieter voice.

"Got a picture?" Porter asked with intrigue. 

Marshal scowled at the grin on his friend's face. "Why would I have a pic---oh, wait!" Marshal dug through the unnecessarily large pockets of his suit in search of his phone.

"Yeah, you've known the dude for ten years. You should have a picture of---" Porter's sentence was cut off when a picture of Ryker was suddenly in front of him. His eyes didn't leave Marshal's phone for a good ten seconds before he grabbed it. 

Shown to him was a selfie of Marshal and Ryker from a year ago. Marshal still looked the same, so Ryker was probably still as attractive as Porter suddenly found him to be. The man had snakebite piercings, a silver chain necklace as well as a black cross one, looked about 5'11 in height, and had the most desired features a guy could ask for. His tongue was out, and he was showing the camera his middle finger while his arm was wrapped around Marshal's shoulder. His other arm was extended out, taking the picture with Marshal's phone, and Porter had to admire his bicep.

"Damn," was all Porter could say until he finally ripped his gaze away from the phone to hand it back to Marshal. "I say this in the straightest way possible: he is hot as fuck."

"Exactly," Marshal said, finally cracking a smile. "I've got no chance with him."

"You're gonna live with him, Marsh. You've got a better chance than anyone to make him like you." Porter got comfortable in his seat, sighing as he searched his mind for any more encouraging words for his friend. "But, still, don't look at him as someone that's out of your league. He's still your best friend or whatever, right?"

"Yeah, of course," Marshal said as he anxiously scratched the back of his neck. "I just don't want to say something dumb and ruin the friendship, since we'll be living together."