MAKE ME A PRETTY PERSON, MAKE ME FEEL LIKE I BELONG

　It was an average afternoon in Wily Fortress where the Second Numbers had once again been left with nothing to do. The Doctor himself was nowhere to be found, surely off scheming at another one of his hideouts or otherwise occupied with his other inventions. By now, the first set of Wily originals had long grown used to this hands-off type of treatment.

　The deepest, most protected inner sanctum of the stronghold was where Wily performed research and repairs, but spending so much time there had naturally necessitated the inclusion of some sort of living quarters as well. He was only human. The meager set of rooms was only ever meant for Wily’s use, but over time he had begrudgingly expanded them in order to accommodate his creations' desire to play house.

　Quickman and Crashman share the sofa in one such common area. Seated snugly in Quick's lap, Crash stares transfixed at the television as the older robot plays through a certain video game for him— One of their calmer preferred pastimes when left unattended.

　"Wait, go back." Crash pipes up.

　"What?"

　"Go back up there, you need the gold card."

　"What does that do?"

　"You need them all or you can't get the good ending."

　"That's stupid. How’re you supposed to know that?"

　"Well, I just told you..."

　Quick sighs as he collects the all-important item.

　"I wish we could just do multiplayer." He knows it's out of the question; He wouldn't be the one playing if Crashman could hold a controller in the first place.

　Crash feels a customary twinge of annoyance— Quick had to have known exactly what he was implying with such a statement. It was punishment enough for the younger robot to only be able to experience video games by proxy— Even more so that he couldn’t properly play them together with his brother. He's well aware he's being a nuisance, using up Quickman's time; There was no need to rub salt in the wound.

　"Too bad." He looks up at Quickman from over his shoulder. "Come on. I wanna see how fast you can beat it all..."

　All the same, he has no shame about being a bit selfish.

　Seeing the way Crash's eyes shone with curiosity, the gaze fixed on him that seemed to entreat him "please"— How could Quickman refuse such a simple, innocent request?

　"I mean, If you put it that way... Maybe this could be kinda interesting." Quick averts his eyes from Crash almost shyly, returning his attention to the television. That kind of challenge didn't sound half bad after all— And it's always fun to show off a bit for Crash, who never failed to be impressed.

　The pair weren't alone in the room; Flashman sat a few feet behind them at a table, hunched over his laptop. He isn’t doing anything particularly important, just checking his conversations, trawling through the usual websites for any articles of interest while he nurses his second cup of coffee of the day. Still, Quick and Crash’s chatter from the sofa is so distracting. Flash finds himself glancing at the television, the colorful video game’s premise impenetrable to him even with the constant commentary from the other two. Squinting in an attempt to make out the blurry picture, he catches a glimpse of a simplistically rendered explosion, and Crashman cheers— That’s probably why he seems to like this game so much.

　“Could you two keep it down? I’m trying to work.”

　“Are you?” Crashman asks, turning to look over the back of the couch.

　“No one’s making you sit there.” Quick only bothers to glance over his shoulder.

　“It’s the living room, it’s not your little playplace.”

　“When’d you get to be such a stick in the mud? No one else is even in here, you’re the one harshing our vibe.”

　“Yeah, you could just leave.”

　“Yeah you’d like that, wouldn’t you...” Flashman clicks his tongue and mutters under his breath.

　Sulking, he gives up and goes back to typing away. Trying to get them to do anything was futile— Flash didn’t really care anyway, he could tune them out if he tried. His brothers were such children .

　Brothers— None of the Wily Numbers had a proper frame of reference for the concept, but what other word could be used to describe them? “Friends” or “allies” fell short of capturing the kind of bond that bound the eight of them together. They were united through something more than just an obligation towards their master, though sharing a creator certainly had something to do with the sentiment. As much as they stepped on each other’s toes, as much as they pushed and shoved and treated each other as punching bags, the home they shared in Wily Fortress was the only one they had. No matter their differences, their endless disagreements, all of the Seconds were well aware that in the end, they had no choice but to rely on and look out for one another.

　Being the large group of eight they are, though, they had formed their own little cliques; The three eldest, the youngest two, and the three in the middle.

　And yet, Flashman almost felt he and his two older brothers lived in different worlds. Being built after them, he was technically younger, but Crashman was a child and Quickman so often behaved like one— He considered himself the most mature, refined of the three, and by a large margin. They were just so... juvenile. Their interests, their mannerisms, the way they constantly failed to express themselves or control their emotions... Neither of them were the sharpest tools in Wily's shed, either, and they needed reigning in. Though he was the youngest of the three, Flash proved to be the most responsible; On top of his tasks overseeing Wily's grunt forces and gathering intel, he was the one to always pick up after one of Crash's indiscriminate rampages or to draw up an itinerary with clear instructions to keep Quick on track. The fact that the two consistently failed to show him any appreciation only added to his endless frustration with them.

　Flashman knows the truth is that he's simply envious— Deeply, maddeningly envious. It was plain as day to anyone who knew them that Quick and Crash shared a special bond— It was most of all apparent to Flash, who spent more time around them than anyone else. They were on some sort of shared wavelength that no one else seemed to be able to match; An intrinsic understanding of each other, even if their communication was almost always clumsy. That perfect, effortless connection was something Flashman felt he sorely lacked— He had spent countless hours searching for something akin to it in chat rooms and message boards, in bars and art galleries and museums... At best he had managed to form a few shallow friendships, but he had a bad habit of driving things to disastrous ends. He should’ve at least been able to find something more meaningful among his own “family” members, then, but his two closest brothers were too obsessed with each other, bound too tightly to make enough room to accommodate him. Quick and Crash were already joined at the hip before Flashman ever existed— How could he possibly hope to compete with that? It so often seemed like a pointless endeavor, but Flash was nothing if not persistent.

　Quickman and Crashman always seemed to be having so much fun , too... It took so little to entertain them, it was so simple to make them happy. Video games, cartoons, model cars... everything his brothers spent their free time on was so childish. It was beneath him. Even if he had no interest in their hobbies, though, Flash still felt the nagging desire to be included. He’d stand by the couch and make snide commentary on whatever they were watching, but stay until it was over. He’d eventually pick up the second controller, even if he kept complaining about being dragged into it all the while. Ultimately, there was nothing stopping Flash from joining in on their fun except his own idea of dignity.

　Flashman glances over at the pair seated on the sofa, glimpsing Crash wiggling restlessly in Quick’s lap as he gives directions. Lucky bastard, taking it for granted... The overtly physical nature of his brothers' relationship was another sore spot. Crash was always climbing all over Quick, and Quick just couldn't keep his hands to himself— It so often seemed like they were totally unaware that anyone might be watching. The two didn't mind his company, but it was clear they didn't like Flash the same way they liked each other— And though he may be included in more mundane moments from day to day, he was not permitted to participate in this particular aspect. Flashman was forbidden from trying his luck with Crash under threat of a sound beating— Still, it was impossible for Quickman to be around to keep watch at every waking moment, and there was always the Time Stopper... Not to mention, Crashman didn't outright reject his "younger" brother's advances, sometimes even seeking him out— Though of course, only ever as a substitute, and without sharing Flash's impure intentions. Flashman had gotten away with a grab here, a caress there, though he had learned the hard way to not get greedy. Quickman, too, found himself frequently punished for pushing the envelope, but Crash had far less patience for the same sort of behavior when it came from Flash. He couldn’t understand what was so different. What did Quick have that he didn’t? What made him so special?

　Maybe trying to win Crashman over wasn't an effective approach. Crash apparently liked him well enough already— As always, it was Quickman who stood in his way as an obstacle. Flash knew, as much as he'd love to, it wouldn't be as simple as removing his hated rival from the picture; The consequences for destroying one of the doctor's greatest feats of engineering, one of the most useful tools in his arsenal, would be dire... And Crashman would never forgive him. He couldn’t have that. That's alright— "Simple" wasn't Flashman's style, anyhow. He wasn't built for brute force. Antagonizing Quickman was clearly not working in his favor; Though Crash may be receptive in part, he put up walls for the sake of “protecting” Quick. As long as both of them felt threatened, put on the defensive, Flashman wouldn't make any progress.

　Perhaps then, the smarter course of action would be to form a temporary truce with Quickman, even if it was dishonest, if only for his own personal gain. If he got into his good graces, Flashman might receive Quick's implicit permission to play with Crash; Then, Crashman wouldn't have to see him as his beloved big brother’s enemy. Maybe, this way, Flash could finally get his foot in the door— He could finally start driving a wedge, allowing him to squeeze himself in and— perhaps— ultimately take Crashman all for himself...

　“Is this about work?” Quickman’s eyes dart around the corners of Flash’s darkened room.

　His suspicion was only natural— Flashman asking to see him was utterly out of the ordinary, and Quick knows it could only spell trouble. The “younger” robot had nothing but animosity for him, and was only interested in interactions where he could antagonize him— Not to say Quickman was a saint, either, but he wasn’t keen to be the one being bullied.

　“No, it’s more... personal.” Flash says, turning in his padded office chair to face his fellow Number.

　“I don’t like the sound of that. Spit it out already.”

　“How should I put this...” Flashman pauses, pretending to gather his thoughts. “Would it kill you to stop having sex in the living room?”

　“ Excuse me? ” Quickman’s eyes go so wide they just about pop out of his skull— He can’t believe what he’s hearing.

　“Sorry, did I stutter? You could at least have the common decency to take it to your room, or—”

　“How did you— Why do you know about that?!” Caught completely off guard, Quick is immediately frazzled.

　“Well, the living room isn't exactly the most private spot...”

　“No, but— We were always careful about not getting caught—”

　"You do know this place is covered in security cameras, right?” Flash raises his brow. “Do you seriously think the Doc just leaves us completely unattended?"

　“Uh... huh...”

　“And whose job do you think it is to keep an eye on all that footage?”

　Quickman blinks, the mortifying implications dawning on him.

　"Oh, no ..."

　“Uh-huh."

　“You gotta be kidding me...!” Quick cringes back, shielding his reddened, grimacing face with one hand. “You're sick in the head!”

　“Hey, I'm not the one bending my little brother over the couch—”

　“Oh god— Stop it!” Quickman waves his hands in front of him frantically. “Shut up!”

　Quick wants to curl up into a ball and roll away. How utterly humiliating it was that Flashman had been the one to catch him red-handed, in such a vulnerable state— Worse by far, he had seen Crashman that way, too. Though Flash is fond of feigning disinterest, Quick has seen the way he tries pursuing Crash, knows how he looks at Crash with lustful eyes. He didn’t deserve to see Crashman like that; Even if Flashman wasn’t such a callous, conniving bastard, incapable of putting his own desires aside to truly care for him, Crashman belonged to Quick and only Quick.

　Quickman further dreads the thought that Flash might’ve shown the footage to the others, or god forbid the Doctor. Even Flashman wouldn't stoop so low, would he? Upon further consideration, he wouldn't put it past him.

　“Oh, relax! Christ, you're such a drama queen. It's not like I didn't already know. Everyone knows. You and Crash aren't exactly subtle.”

　“Okay but knowing and watching are two very different things.”

　“I'm not trying to blackmail you, if that's what you're worried about.”

　Quickman isn't convinced.

　“So what, then, you've been using it as jack off material or something? Wishing you were the one fucking him?” He tries needling Flashman's insecurities, but he makes his own skin crawl with the idea he presents.

　“As if! Even if the quality on those things wasn't so mediocre, you'd still be in the way. ...And all you two ever do is dry hump like a couple of teenagers.” Flash goes quiet for a moment. “...You can’t tell me you’re actually satisfied with that.”

　“Uh, newsflash, genius, but our options are kind of limited. Did you watch so much porn you forgot we’re not human?” Quickman taps his finger to his forehead as if telling his brother to “think”. “It's none of your business, anyway. We’re fine.”

　Flash’s expression sours, unamused. Rising from his seat, his disdainful gaze lingers on Quickman for a moment longer as he approaches a chest of drawers against one of the walls. He slides open its topmost compartment, the contents producing a dull rattling sound— He turns his back to start rummaging through it. After a brief moment he produces a device with an elongated handle and a rounded top.

　“...What’s that supposed to be?”

　“It’s a vibrator, you moron.” Flash slides a switch on the side of the instrument with his thumb, and it comes to life with a low hum.

　Using context clues, Quickman surmises the application of the unfamiliar device. He grimaces again, hoping his brother hasn’t already used the thing on some poor woman, or even worse, himself.

　“And you’re showing me this because...”

　“I can’t believe you’re this dense.” Flash waggles the vibrator in the air as if to regain Quick’s attention. “I’m saying you can use this kind of thing, too, y’know? If you're gonna mess around, you might as well do it right..."

　He half-shrugs, trying to come off as uninvested.

　"For Crash's sake, at least."

　For Crash's sake? Quickman feels a sudden sharp prickling of indignation. The implication that he wasn’t doing enough to keep Crash pleased, that something was missing... What the hell did Flashman know? Their relationship had nothing to do with him. Where does he get off sticking his nose where it so obviously doesn’t belong?

　"I don't need your help." Quick's tone grows cold and spiteful in an instant.

　"Is that how you're gonna be? And here I was actually trying to look out for you for once..."

　"Yeah, right." Even Quickman can see through a statement so demonstrably false.

　"I'm serious. I'll lend it to you if you want."

　"Dude, enough , take a hint!"

　"Oh, please. Where's your curiosity?" Flash's eyes narrow. "...Don't you want to see how he'd react if you used this on him?"

　Admittedly, the idea had started taking shape in the back of Quick's mind once he had realized what Flashman’s toy was used for— But his stubbornness wouldn't allow him to accept a favor from his rival so graciously.

　"I bet his expression would be priceless ..." A smirk spreads across Flash's face as he holds the vibrator out to his brother, daring him to take it. "Come on, what's the harm in giving it a try? Or are you going to turn down some fun with your precious Crash just 'cause you don't like me?"

　Quickman frowns hard, brow knitted as he tries to swallow even the tiniest bit of his pride. Why does something as trivial as borrowing something from Flash have to feel like conceding a loss? Not wanting to seem too eager, Quick finally, hesitantly reaches out to take the thing— But the other robot suddenly snatches his arm away.

　"Ah-ah. I'll let you borrow it, but ..." An enormous amount of emphasis is placed on the conditional word. "I get to be in the room."

　And there it was— The catch. Flashman never could do anything out of the kindness of his own heart. It was obviously out of the question. Quick was uncomfortable enough realizing that his least favorite linemate had been secretly watching him in his most intimate moments— Now Flash had the gall to try and directly insert himself into the situation.

　"Oh, get real! How do you expect me to stay in the mood with your ugly mug staring me down?" Quickman spits an insult to shoot him down as if it’s second nature.

　"You're not easy on the eyes either, y'know." Flashman strains through gritted teeth. "But I can ignore you if you can ignore me. I want to see what Crash'll do."

　"So that's what this is about? You wanna play pretend?"

　"I just like to watch."

　"Ugh, you give me the creeps." Quickman recoils from his frankness. "You don't have to be in the room, do you? Since you've been spying on us through your cameras anyway."

　"I'm letting you borrow my property, I need to make sure you don't misuse it." Flash points the tool at Quick, almost accusatory. "Either I'm there or I'm taking back my offer."

　Quick heaves the most theatrical sigh he can muster.

　" Fine. " He gives in, his curiosity about a new way to tease and torment Crash outweighing his distaste for Flashman. "But you don't get to touch him. And if you touch me , I'll freaking kill you."

　"Figured you'd say as much. I'm fine just getting to look at him..." Flash trails off as if already picturing it, making Quick immediately wonder how well he’ll keep his word.

　"...So?" Quick holds his palm out expectantly.

　"If I just give it to you, you'll run off and do it without me."

　Quickman clicks his tongue and crosses his arms. Guess that won't work.

　"I have a plan." Flashman wears a devious expression, his intentions crystal clear. "How about we give him a little surprise?"

　Quickman practically has to push Crash into Flashman’s room as the door slides open, the younger Number’s legs locked stiff as he drags his feet. Though Quick had explained that Flash wanted to see Crashman, the willingness to indulge him just wasn’t normal for Quick. Whatever their “younger” brother had to show him must be something really special.

　“Just the bots I wanted to see!” Flashman greets the two with outstretched arms and affected enthusiasm. “...Well, one of you, at least.”

　“Ha-ha.” Quickman forces a sarcastic laugh. “Be nice, you’re lucky I actually brought him over.”

　Quick gives the little robot a light push, making him stumble a step further into the room. Crashman can sense something is off; If they’re exchanging banter like this, it can’t be leading anywhere good.

　"...What did you want to show me?" He asks flatly; He'll cut to the chase if the other two won’t.

　"Hey now, what's the hurry? You just got here!” Wearing a sly and playful smile, Flashman cocks his head in Quickman's direction. “Man, you're spending too much time with him— He's rubbing off on you."

　Crashman doesn't find it funny. He steps back, closer to Quickman again.

　“I’m joking. Look, I just had a good idea...” Flash gets back on track. It’s disadvantageous if he causes Crash to feel backed into a corner. “Something all three of us could do together.”

　"We do stuff together all the time..."

　“I suppose so, but...” Flashman twirls his wrist in a circular gesture. “Games and kids’ books, and those dumb shows you guys watch... Eh... You know I’m not a fan.”

　Crash doesn't understand his angle. It's true that Flashman always pretends as if he's too good to have fun with them, but it's obvious to Crash by the way he always butts in that he really wants to be included, and they do include him, sometimes. It's fine that way— Flash can complain and put up an act if it makes him feel better. Crashman knows he gets lonely, wants attention— specifically his— and he doesn’t usually mind the extra company when playing games or watching things. But Flash doesn't like Quick, can't stand him. If this is a scheme he’s come up with to spend time with Crash, wouldn't he rather them be alone together? Why invite someone he hates...?

　“I mean I found something we’ll all like.” Flash clarifies. “Quickman’s on board.”

　Somehow Crash doubts that, although nothing about this situation was making much sense to begin with.

　“You’re the only one with a problem...” Crash mumbles to himself, looking down at his feet.

　Flashman pretends not to hear and picks something up from the desk beside him.

　"What is that?" Crash lifts his head again to scrutinize the unknown object.

　"A massager." Flashman tells a half truth. If Quick hadn't known what the device was, there was no way Crash could've. “Wanna give it a try?”

　Oh, so that's it. Crashman recognizes this is all an elaborate excuse to touch him. His brothers were surely plotting something, reaching a temporary truce for the sake of tormenting him. The two larger robots had gone about this in a roundabout way in an attempt to trick him, but Crash already sees right through it. They must think he's stupid.

　“...You guys are gonna do something weird...” He begins backing away, but bumps into Quickman who blocks his escape.

　“No we’re not!” Quick’s hands wrap around Crash’s arms above his elbows. “C’mon, you’ll like it, let’s sit down.”

　“Ughh, Qui—ck...” Crashman whines in protest as the pair sink down to the floor.

　It isn't the sort of room you sit on the floor of, not like Quick's. The dark room is only dimly illuminated by the blue light from multiple monitors, and the hard floor is cool and uncovered, not even by an area rug— One corner of the room stores softboxes, tripods, all the accoutrements, with a large white cloth serving as a backdrop. Between the makeshift studio, his computer setup, and all sorts of storage, there’s hardly room for Flash to have a bed. Crashman would much rather sit there, but he’s certain it wouldn't hold all three of them. With unfamiliar human faces staring unblinking at him from the polaroids tacked up on the walls, though, it’s hard to imagine feeling comfortable no matter where he sat.

　“Don’t be such a baby, what’d'ya think we’re gonna do, torture you?” Quick laughs at his little brother’s fussing.

　Crashman frowns hard. He trusts Quick, but is also familiar with Flashman’s tendency to bring out the absolute worst in him. He can’t say for sure what they might do.

　“Try it and I blow you both up.” He warns, deadly serious.

　“Woah, alright, alright, no explosions, not in my room!” Flash’s nerves flare up at the mere mention. “We’re not here to pick on you. This time at least.”

　Crash huffs and shuffles until he lies on his back, Quickman holding him in his arms. It won’t hurt to see where they’re going with this; He always has an easy out if he doesn’t like it, after all. He’s at least happy his brothers want to spend time with him... Maybe this could be fun?

　Flashman kneels, joining the other two on the floor with a grunt of effort.

　“Alrighty... Shall we?” He guides the massager slowly towards the smallest robot of the three.

　“Just do it already...” Crash mutters.

　Quickman hesitates for a moment, however, shooting Flash a confused look.

　“Uh? Are you gonna give me the thing, or...?”

　“You don’t even know how to use it.” Flashman rebuffs him. “I’ll show you what to do, and then you can try.”

　“Please, how hard could it be?” Quick insists. “And that’s not what we talked about.”

　“It’s my room and it’s my massager. You’re free to leave if you don’t like it.”

　“Yeah, sure.” As if Quickman would leave Crash alone with Flash in his bedroom, of all places. “Fine, get to it.”

　Crashman was growing a bit impatient as well, but he wouldn’t have to wait a moment longer. Flash draws closer with the magic wand, at last touching it to the underside of Crashman’s foot. The round tip fits nicely into the divot in the center, and he shifts slightly in Quick's grasp in response to the soft vibration against his booster.

　"That tickle?" Flash asks.

　"Kinda..."

　"Just relax. See? I'm not gonna hurt you..."

　Easier said than done. The sensation wasn't particularly unpleasant, but Crash's nervousness was beginning to build nonetheless. He couldn't know for sure whether his brothers really only wanted to pamper him, or if they were planning on pulling some kind of cruel trick after all. It never was good news for him when the two managed to put their differences aside and their heads together.

　Flashman glides the wand over the sole of Crash's boot, causing his leg to twitch involuntarily. Quick shoots him an annoyed glance, urging him to hurry things up— But Flash is too busy marveling at how even Crash's feet are sensitive to pay it any mind. This was the reason he had to be the one to guide Crash through this new way of playing; Quick would rush to the very last step— And how could he properly savor the experience that way? Flashman would take his sweet time, making Crash's anticipation grow little by little, so that the payoff would be all the more worth it...

　Flash finds himself thinking how wasted Crashman is on their older brother, how much better he could treat him— But he pushes the thought to the back of his mind for now. This was his opportunity to prove exactly that, and he ought to focus on what was right in front of him. Flash slowly trails the buzzing wand up past Crash's ankle and along his calf, while Crashman watches with both curiosity and apprehension. Flash struggles to suppress a smirk— He knows Crash is no stranger to these kinds of games, but his little brother still looks so innocent, so unaware of what's to come...

　Passing over his kneepad and onto his thigh, the massager at last comes into contact with the soft, white material of Crash's "pants"— Though it gives the illusion, it isn't clothing at all, but the only layer protecting his internal components where he wasn't clad in armor. Flashman pushes a little harder against Crash's slender leg now, starting the massage proper.

　"Ah..." Crash's intonation is flat enough that the noise only sounds like one of acknowledgement.

　"You feel that?" asks Flashman.

　"'Course..."

　"Well... We don't have muscles exactly, not like humans..." Flash begins an explanation, knowing that the details of form and function may pique Crash's interest. "But our softer parts imitate them. Arms and legs especially... So it's good to do this kinda thing once in a while."

　"That's the same reason you see me doing stretches, too." Quick chimes in, looking down at Crash. He's not content to let Flashman do all the talking. "Helps with flexibility, keeps you from getting too stiff."

　"Right. Just think of this as a little extra maintenance."

　"Okay..." Crashman would love to hear more about the science behind caring for his synthetic muscles, but it's difficult to focus with the pressure and vibration creeping up his thigh.

　"Of course you can't really do this on your own..." Flash's eyes fall on the bulky, clumsy drills resting on the floor at Crash's sides. "But we'll be glad to take care of it for you."

　" I'll do it for you next time, Crash." Holding Crashman tighter, Quick's possessiveness makes itself apparent.

　"Hey, it's always up to you." Flashman tries to dismiss Quick's assertion with a shrug of his shoulders. He doesn't really care about giving Crash any agency, unless it's for the sake of allowing him to choose him over Quickman. "Anyway... You want me to do the other one?"

　With a nod, Crashman gives him the go-ahead. Being introduced to yet another thing he can't do for himself is a little disheartening, but being resigned to his own helplessness for so long dulls the disappointment. Besides, his brothers were ultimately looking out for him with the suggestion, and being taken care of by them like this didn't feel bad at all...

　Flashman transfers the end of the massager to Crash's other leg, starting just below his hip this time. He draws a slow, straight line down the appendage, drifting towards Crashman's inner thigh... Breathless, both of the larger robots watch for his reactions intently. Crash stirs ever so slightly, keeping quiet as he continues to observe. The tension in his mind and body had gradually faded away— Being held close by Quickman while Flashman performed the careful massage was proving to be really quite relaxing. Safe and calm, Crash nuzzles his head into the crook of Quick's elbow and rests it there, allowing his eyes to fall shut.

　It was rare to see the younger Number so completely at ease. Crash's serene expression was so sweet that Quickman considered calling the whole thing off so as not to disturb his moment of peace. Looking as if he were about to drift off into a dream at any moment, it was hard to imagine that he was the same robot whose mood swings and hair-trigger temper often left whole rooms in ruin and his brothers laid up for repairs.

　He certainly was precious like this, but Flashman's aim wasn't to put Crash down for a nap. It was about time for the real fun to start...

　Flash applies the instrument to Crashman's abdomen, right below the orange border that marks the end of his inner layer of armor. Crash lazily opens his eyes, squinting skeptically at his successor.

　"Don't fall asleep on me now, Crash." Flashman teases.

　"I'm not..."

　The flimsy pretense of this being a mere massage was quickly slipping. Crashman can tell where this was heading— It was Flash he was dealing with, after all. Out of the trio he was always the most interested in this sort of thing, for whatever reason that might be. Crash doesn’t protest, instead looking up at Quickman for reassurance; The older robot smiles down at him, mischief in his eyes confirming Crash's suspicions. Well, it's felt good so far... If his brothers planned on playing this nice, he could find no real reason to object. Receiving what seems to be Quick's blessing, Crash is content to lie back and let it happen.

　The magic wand is switched to its lowest setting, but Crashman still flinches as Flash places it between his legs. The faint vibration is ticklish and strange against his sensors, almost akin to pins and needles...

　"Mnn..." Drawing up his knees, he makes an uncertain little noise.

　"Don't like that?" Quickman checks up on him.

　Crash is frowning hard with his eyes squinted shut— A common expression he wears when being touched this way. He has the same strained reactions when he's enjoying himself as he does when he's uncomfortable. It can be hard to tell, so it's safer to ask.

　Crash shakes his head "no" — Very unhelpful. Is that "no, I don’t like it" or "no, it's okay"?

　Flashman doesn't seem to care either way, using his buster arm to nudge one of Crash's legs further apart again; He can't get a proper angle with Crashman clamming up like that. The vibration is a little less foreign-feeling the second time. Crash stays surprisingly still, letting this new sensation wash over him. He processes the information slowly, analyzing, appearing deep in thought. It's... different. It was too soon to say whether it was better or worse than what he's used to, or more or less the same, but it was most assuredly different. The stimulation was constant, uninterrupted— When Quick used his hands, it came in intervals. The sort of itching, aching felt in his abdomen was familiar to him, but the continuous hum of the toy against him added a distracting numbing element.

　Growing accustomed to the new sort of stimulus, Crashman's body slowly slackens in Quickman's hold. The little robot breathes a pleasured sigh, his cheeks warmed by blush— Not only his face, but his entire body was growing hotter, restless, wanting. His increasing arousal is obvious to Flashman, who grinds the end of the vibrator in slow, tight circles against Crash's smooth, featureless groin in order to push him further along. He doesn't know where Crash's limits lie, and he's more than willing to test the waters, but it wouldn't do to send him over the edge too soon. Flash drinks in the image of Crash's flushed face, his lips parted and eyelids heavy; A response to the pleasure he was providing, a response to his affections... Crash's big green eyes catch his own for a split second and something tightens in Flashman's gut, like the compressing of a spring.

　Quickman finds himself completely absorbed in observing the details of Crash's reactions; How he tosses his head aside against the arms that hold him, how he readjusts his footing, every soft, reserved sound he fails to contain... Crashman was unbearably adorable, his tough, unflappable exterior melting away to reveal just how simple, innocent, defenseless he was at his core. Who could ever blame Quick for loving him? The red-clad robot traces a single digit slowly around the ring of his little brother's ear, the fingers on his other hand drumming a lazy rhythm against the green gem at the center of Crash's chestplate. He meant these gestures to be soothing, but it was more likely that they were only contributing to the younger Number's escalating excitement.

　Quick can't resist any longer. He leans down, gazing into Crash's misty eyes. Their lips brush before meeting, deep and sweet. The pair must have shared this kind of kiss hundreds, thousands of times before, but still, butterflies flutter in Crash's stomach. Again and again Quickman kisses him— Brief pecks that leave Crash longing. Even the milliseconds between them is too long. Quickman teases something more, flicking his tongue over Crash's lips, then gently pulling them with his teeth. He won't force it yet; He wants Crash to admit defeat, to accept what he wants and chase after it of his own volition...

　Flashman gets the distinct impression that he's being ignored. None too pleased, he raises the intensity of the vibration and pushes in hard in a bid to recapture some of Crash's attention. The little robot gasps, groans, breaking away from the kiss he shared with his older brother.

　"Ah, Flash—" His waist rises from the floor as he calls his other sibling's name in surprise.

　Just when he had almost forgotten about Flashman entirely, Quickman is forcibly pulled back down to the harsh reality of the situation. His mouth twitches into a frown for a second— Hearing Crashman call Flash's name instead of his own causes Quick to feel a sudden spike of hot-cold agitation and unease. It may have only been an exclamation of alarm, but Quickman can't bear Crash giving his rival even that much acknowledgement.

　His hand snaking beneath Crash's jawline, Quick tilts the boy's head to meet him in a forceful, open-mouth kiss. Quickman is through with teasing; Crash seems to need a gentle reminder of who his one and only is. Flashman may as well be as much of a prop as the magic wand in this scenario, unworthy of even a fraction Crash's attention. More than that, Flash's love for Crash was only skin-deep, shallow, selfish— Crashman should just ignore him outright, and look only at Quick, think only of Quick, who does everything he asks and more, who is the only one who really loves him... Quickman's hands pin his little brother's arms to the floor as he presses their tongues together. It's a pointless, paper-thin gesture of asserting control; Crash could easily escape with his superior strength if he so desired. But, he doesn't make any attempt to free himself, instead trying in earnest to return his brother's affections...

　Hateful envy wraps its claws around Flashman's heart. Quick having something Flash didn't was irksome no matter what the thing in question was, but when it came to the love of their brother... How he wished he could kiss Crash like that, and for Crash to accept it, to kiss him back in that moment... But even now Quickman guarded him fiercely. Why should he get to keep him all to himself? It’s always like this. It’s so unfair . He grits his teeth. Letting jealousy consume him wouldn't do him any good; Crashman had so graciously allowed him to go this far, and he reminds himself to be thankful for that. It has to mean something, doesn't it? Though Quick being folded over and obscuring Flash's view of the object of his affection puts a damper on his ability to remain positive. If only he wasn’t around...

　He won't be outdone so easily. Flash pushes harder against the white fabric of Crash's crotch, using the massager to draw short lines from top to bottom, bottom to top... Crashman had been almost motionless at the beginning, but now he can hardly keep still— He squirms beneath his brothers' relentless touch, whimpering all the while. Instinctively chasing release, Crash lifts his hips and rolls them against Flash's toy. Behind lips curled into a smug smile, Flashman runs his tongue over sharp canine teeth.

　Crash can hardly think, only able to focus on the physical inputs inundating his systems. It's hot, unbearably hot, as internal processes struggle trying to interpret so much sensory information. The tightening, funny feeling in his abdomen has been building to a peak, and the little robot knows he can't take much more of this before he bursts. Utterly overwhelmed, Crashman whines pathetically into Quickman's mouth— And Quick seems to take mercy on him, at long last breaking the smothering kiss they shared.

　Even when Quickman sits upright again, Crash's eyes remain closed. The black void behind his eyelids was somehow calming, quiet. Seeing what was being done to him would be too embarrassing, too intense— Feeling it was more than enough. He imagines Quickman gazing down at him, blue eyes equal parts loving and cruel... And tries to banish the thought of Flash's toothy grin from his imagination.

　Starting at his midriff, Quickman's palm smooths down the front of Crash's body, stopping over his groin— His middle and forefinger spread apart in a "V" formation, the tip of the vibrator resting between them. Flashman casts a quizzical look at the robot in red, as if to ask him what he was doing— Quick glances back for only a moment, his eyes cold and severe.

　Quickman's fingers curl inward, digging into the padding between Crash's thighs.

　"Augh—!" The smaller robot can't help but cry out.

　He's panting hard now, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to hold out any longer. His brothers aren't causing him any pain, but the sheer intensity of the signals being sent through his circuitry is nevertheless agonizing; It's far too much information. Crash feels as if his mind is melting from the searing heat of it all, and his body along with it.

　"I— Cccan't—..." He groans.

　"You're fine." Quickman assures him in hushed tones. "Go ahead."

　Quick's hand cups Crash's cheek, softly stroking the synthetic skin with his thumb. His fingers inch toward Crash's lips before slipping past them, grazing against his small, sharp incisor, warning him of potential danger... Quick worries he may end up losing the digit, but the idea only intensifies his urge to explore his little brother's mouth.

　With only a bit more coaxing— a push from Flash's wand, Quick's fingers pulling harshly towards him— The tension accumulated within Crashman snaps, breaks in two like a rubber band.

　"Auh... Ggh–!" Crash's cries are muddled by Quick's invading hand.

　His body jolts and shivers, circuits singing with electric pleasure as his mind goes blank. His molars clamp down on the fingers in his mouth, earning a soft "ouch" from Quickman, though he doesn't take them away. Crash feels at risk of overheating, his heavy, broken breaths not doing enough to keep his components cool... But the warmth that floods through him feels too good to worry. The hand Quickman had held between his legs glides back up, resting splayed out on Crash's flat stomach as it rises and falls. Flash turns the vibrator back down again, letting Crashman catch his breath a bit, but still prolonging the pleasant feeling for as long as he can.

　"Wow..." Flashman remarks without meaning to.

　He's fascinated by Crash's response, watching tiny tremors wrack the little robot's body as he rides out his climax. The two had never taken things far enough for Flashman to be familiar with this sight. He never expected to see Crash so vulnerable, so open... Fondness and resentment grow in equal measure.

　Crash's jaw relaxes, easing the grip on Quickman's fingers as he starts to softly, idly suck them instead. Doing so relaxes him almost immediately, and his eyelids fall closed once more as Quick's free hand rests atop his helmet and pets him affectionately. At the same time, what he can only assume is his brother in blue's hand gingerly strokes his side in an uncommonly tender gesture— Quickman must not be keeping an eye on Flash enough to tell him off. He was too completely focused on Crashman at the moment, both of the larger Numbers were. Good. Being at the center of their attention, lavished in affection from two directions... There’s an almost smug satisfaction in being so spoiled, in his brothers competing for his favor. Crashman feels wanted, special, like he has the both of them wrapped around fingers he doesn’t have— And Quick and Flash don’t even realize it. They might think they've hatched some brilliant scheme, teaming up to do as they like to him, but the truth is they've given Crash exactly what he wants. There had been some slight discomfort in getting him to this point, but that was unavoidable when it came to this sort of thing. Right now, his body loose and heavy in his brothers’ embrace, Crash is in a state of contented bliss.

　"Goo—d job!" Drawing out the vowels, Flashman's praise oozes condescension— The tone one uses when congratulating a child for doing nothing particularly impressive.

　He's finally taken the vibrator away, turning it off and setting it aside.

　"'Good job'?" Quickman scoffs, genuinely amused. "He didn't do anything."

　"He gave us quite the little show, though, didn't he?"

　"I guess..."

　Quick removes his hand from Crash's mouth, holding it protectively over his chest instead.

　"But I've made him come harder." He glares across at Flashman, a warning not to get too comfortable, a reminder of who was superior.

　Flash's mouth falls into a hard, flat line.

　"Right?" Quick sounds cheerful again, tilting his head as he seeks Crash's confirmation.

　The smaller robot rolls onto his side with a deliberate-sounding sigh.

　“Mn.” A noncommittal little noise is the only response he gives.

　It's absolutely true, but Crash isn't interested in making comparisons at the moment; Still only half-present, all he wants is to stay basking in the calm of the afterglow a while longer. Quickman ought to already know how Crash vastly prefers him, anyway. Why bother saying it aloud? He knows Quick doesn't need it confirmed for him; all the red robot really wants is for Crash to help him further twist the knife into Flashman.

　“Right.” Quick interprets Crash's mumbling in his favor. “...I bet that did feel nice, though, huh?”

　“Mm-hmm.”

　Crashman may have reached his climax, but a palpable tension still lingers in the air. Their little brother's pleasure was its own reward to be sure, but neither of the larger Wily bots were quite satisfied with that alone...

　“ Great. ” Flashman sounds pleased with himself, but the word comes out somewhat strained. “Then you won't mind if I just...”

　In a motion that proves more laborious than expected, Flash flips Crashman over onto his stomach— He always forgets how heavy Crash is, despite his small stature. Quick reaches out to steady Crash, who stumbles onto unsteady knees with a shout. Flash snickers at his awkward movements, like a baby deer unsteady on its gangling legs.

　“You can go a little longer, can't you?” He asks. “At least until I've had my fun.”

　A yellow-gloved hand traces down Crash's spine, coming to rest on the small of his back. Flashman takes in just how tiny Crash is compared to him; One hand could almost wrap around the boy's entire midsection. His slight frame is put in such stark contrast with Flash's own, tall and stocky, armor providing the illusion of defined musculature. The subtle curve from Crash's torso to his hips looks almost girlish, even— Though perhaps looking at it that way was merely an excuse to make his attraction to his linemate more palatable for Flash. He liked women, not boys , but what he felt for Crashman was something else entirely, anyway. Human females are fun for a while, but they admittedly make for easy prey; There isn't much they can do to resist the Robot Master's strength or intellect, let alone his special weapon. He can’t play rough with them or they break too quickly, too easily... And there's not much fun to be found in that. Flash never expects, never wants their love, and has given up on even hoping for it. But Flash is starved for Crashman's affection, so secretly desperate to impress him, to command his respect that it's shameful. Human girls were disposable. There was an endless supply of them found crawling through every pristine, shining city he ventured into in his free time, like ants encased in a glass farm. But there was only one Crash, and he was more than just something to be chewed up and spat out, more than just another frivolous conquest to sate Flashman's cruel urges... A far greater, more precious prize than any girl.

　Though that isn't to say Flash doesn't want to conquer him. Sometimes he wonders if it's his only choice.

　The larger robot's hand caresses Crash's rear before suddenly gripping it with unexpected force.

　"S— Stop that...!" Crashman hisses, his face flushed red as he glares back at the offender.

　"Aww, embarrassed, are we?" Flash tilts his head in false concern, his tone mocking.

　He strokes Crash's backside, stopping to press his palm flat against it, teasing the little robot with his middle and ring fingers slipping between his parted thighs. Slowly, deliberately, he rubs the blank but sensitive spot back and forth...

　"No need to be shy, Crash. I mean I already made you come once." For a moment Flashman's voice is almost reassuring, almost gentle, but selfish desire bubbling just beneath the surface betrays him. "And I think I'll do it again..."

　He tightens his grip, all five fingers digging into the softest place on Crash's body; Crashman yelps at the feeling that shoots up through his core, and wraps his arms around Quick's waist for support. Hugging his big brother tight and hiding his face in his lap, he looks almost afraid. Flashman's mouth warps into a twisted grin— Seeing the boy cower a bit from the special treatment he’s receiving excites the sadist in him.

　Quickman is not quite as thrilled. This kind of reaction from Crash was cute— excitingly, sickeningly cute— but he couldn’t stand Flashman being the one to elicit it from him. The entire situation has quickly become unbearably aggravating. He should be the only one who gets to see Crashman like this, who gets to touch him like this, to hear him make such sweet sounds. Flash had barged in on their shared secret, sullying their intimate moment with his presence. Quickman mentally kicks himself over and over; He never should've agreed to this, he could've gotten his hands on his own toys, played with Crash in his own way— Instead, impatience and impulsivity had come back to bite him yet again.

　He wants to reach over and throttle Flashman, rip his head off like a ragdoll, wires hanging from the severed stump of his neck... The angry impulse is unusual for Quick, who usually keeps his cool, never taking anything too much to heart. But things were different when it came to Crashman, and Flash had long since crossed a line. Flashman hadn't even tried to keep his word, putting his filthy hands all over Crash however he pleased. He was using every possible opportunity to try and show Quickman up in front of Crash, to undermine him, to make him feel like a fool for thinking he would ever listen to what he asked of him.

　Jealousy churns inside him like boiling magma, but Quick miraculously maintains his self-control. He is painfully aware of the tacit tactical advantage his rival holds over him— If he gave Flash the incentive to activate Time Stopper, Crash would be utterly at his mercy and Quickman powerless to stop him; The absolute worst-case scenario imaginable.

　"Then use the toy, not your hands, baldy." Quick’s tone is warning Flashman not to get carried away any more than he already had.

　"Name calling, very mature." Rolling his eyes, Flash pretends to let the rude nickname roll right off of him. "But, you're right."

　Flashman picks the vibrator back up from where it lays on the floor, switching it on once again.

　"I mean, that was the whole point of this..."

　“Yeah, and that's what we agreed on.”

　Eyeing Flash warily, Quickman wraps his arms protectively around Crashman's shoulders. His backplate is uncomfortably hot to the touch, almost burning, the whirring vent even hotter as Quick gently runs his fingers over the lime green slats.

　"I got you." Quick reassures his little brother. "You're gonna feel real good again soon."

　Crash's miserable whine is muffled in Quickman's lap. That wasn’t the issue; It didn’t feel bad, not physically, but he feels a bit guilty letting Flashman be the one to pleasure him when Quick seemed so unhappy with it. Crashman isn't opposed to Flash toying with him, or vice-versa, once in a while... But was that being too greedy? Was it his own self-centered acceptance of both of their affections that was making Quickman so upset? He may like Flashman, in his own way, but Quick was the only one he loved — Surely Quick was aware of that? Perhaps allowing Flash to go this far was just too much after all. Crash feels suddenly ashamed of himself, though he can't fully figure out if he's done something wrong. He just doesn't want Quick to be angry, or to misunderstand. It might be best to just push Flashman away outright, as Crash often did when the larger robot pushed him farther than he could tolerate... But if Quick really took issue with what was happening, shouldn't he be the one to stop Flash himself? They had been working together to trap Crashman, hadn't they? If that was the case, shouldn’t it be up to Quick to have the final say...?

　Rather than interrupt Flashman, Crash decides to do something to ease Quickman's worries instead. Luckily, he's already in the perfect position to do so; Shifting forward slightly, he presses his face into Quick's groin. Quickman doesn't react until Crash's tongue traces a vertical line along the seam down the center of his “pants”.

　“Ah— Crash?!” The sudden sensation catches Quick off guard, causing him to jump slightly.

　Flashman resumes his work, reapplying the magic wand to Crash's upturned pelvis. The smaller Number groans, the sound reverberating against Quickman's body— Quick shifts in place, holding onto Crash's shoulders for support. Crash takes to mimicking Flash's movements with his tongue, pushing into the smooth black fabric in front of him.

　“Nnh— Hey, wait...” Quickman objects, though he can't ignore the pleasure he's feeling.

　This is getting weird. Not in front of Flashman , he wants to protest— Is Crash trying to humiliate him? Obscured by his visor, Quick can't see his little brother's face, leaving him uncertain about his intentions. Was this one of his little grabs for power? Or was it just his naivete shining through...? Regardless of the motivation behind it, Crashman's warm, wet little tongue lapping against him, trying in earnest to please him, sends a shiver up Quickman's spine. It feels undeniably good... In an awkward attempt to hide himself, Quick turns his head aside, against his own shoulder, and exhales through his nose.

　Flashman isn't looking, anyway. He gets nothing from Quickman's enjoyment except a sting of annoyance; Putting together what his brothers are doing on their own, he realizes he's being ignored again. This wasn't going as he had hoped. How could he have a vibrator pressed against Crashman's most precious place and still be pushed to the sidelines?

　Crash feels the warmth of hard, flat metal against his backside. Flashman looms over him— His fingers press into Crashman's belly in a spot that only aggravates the ache deep inside him. Hearing Flash exhale above him, he realizes it's his brother's plated crotch flush with his own— What had happened to the massager? And how far was this going to go...?

　"What do you think you're doing?" Quickman questions, bewildered.

　"Oh, what now ? Why do you two get to have all the fun?” Flashman sneers. “Do I need your permission to get off, too?"

　"Don’t act like you’ve been on your best behavior! Didn’t I just tell you to stop that?”

　"Come on, can't I—"

　"Stop manhandling my brother."

　"He's our brother."

　"Yeah, but he's mine ."

　Crashman has been growing increasingly irritated by his brothers’ back-and-forth. He doesn't mind the two of them playing a bit of tug-of-war over him, but their bickering had started to divert the focus away from him; If they were going to treat him like their plaything, the least they could do was pay him their undivided attention. He can sense how frustrated, how furious Quickman was becoming as well. Even Flashman was obviously unsatisfied, not getting to do as he pleased.

　It's upsetting. Playtime isn't meant to feel this way. It was fine before, when they weren't ignoring him, when he hadn’t felt like they were only using him as a metric for their stupid pissing contest. They always do this when they fight. They get so caught up in their pointless arguing they forget he’s even there. Wasn't this supposed to be all about him? Weren't they meant to be spoiling their favorite linemate? Crashman fights the urge to kick and scream and cry, to throw his brothers off of him and storm out of the room and hide. Whatever fun he was having earlier had been ruined.

　“Stop it...” He mutters.

　Quick and Flash exchange more petty insults, paying him no mind as their grips on him hold firm.

　“I said stop it !”

　Crash makes a display of frightening strength, swinging his heavy arm in an upward arc like a blunt weapon as he twists his body free. As he teeters to his feet, Quickman sits there frozen, taken aback by his sudden change in mood, while Flashman stumbles backwards onto the floor. The latter shields himself instinctively, though his arms would do little to protect him if Crashman went on the attack.

　“Wh... What’s the matter?” Flashman knows even asking could be dangerous, but the question slips out regardless due to nerves. His lips curl into a smile that’s more akin to an animal's anxious grimace.

　“If— If you’re gonna be like this —” Crash can barely compose himself enough to offer any explanation for his outburst. Internal fans struggle, the loud, piping sound of their spinning coming in time with the heaving breaths he draws. “Then I don’t want to play anymore!”

　It’s unclear whether his anger is directed at one brother more than the other, and the two are left without an answer as the smallest of the three rushes out through the sliding door.

　Crashman counts the passing seconds in his head in an attempt to ground himself. It's all he can do to keep an outburst at bay, his anger a hot, numb pressure building behind his face. He should’ve known that those two couldn't be trusted to play nice for long, not even if it was for his sake, and now it was ruined for everyone. Crash feels used-up, filthy— The most special, intimate act, spoiled. This little playdate had never been about him, had it? All his brothers cared about was finding a way to one-up each other, and they knew using him would be the most impactful means of doing it. Who cared about how weaponizing him would make him feel! Selfish jerks. Stupid. Idiots. Crash berates them in his mind, but his insults soon turn inwards for allowing himself to be treated this way. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot! He squints hard, trapping the bitter teardrops that threaten to fall.

　It's no trouble at all for Quickman to catch up to the younger Number halfway down the hall.

　“Hey—!” Quick calls out as he approaches him from behind. “Hey, where're you going?”

　“Away—!”

　“‘Away’? What do you mean ‘a—’” With a shake of the head, he interrupts himself and circles around side of Crash. “C’mon, don't be like that. You wanna go in my room to cool off instead?”

　Quickman understands the risk posed by the proposal; If he didn't choose his words and actions carefully, Crash could very well wreck the entire bedroom, destroying priceless trophies and all the things of interest he had collected, his only place he feels comfortable enough to really rest... But Quick gets the sense that his little brother is more sad than he is angry, so an explosion isn't as likely. It's a much safer state of mind, though he isn't content leaving him alone like that either.

　Crash stands still, neither allowing his eyes to meet Quick's, nor dignifying him with a response.

　“You'd rather talk in there than stand out here, right?” Quickman places his hand on Crash's shoulder and leans down to get a better look at him.

　Finally, Crash nods in wordless agreement, and his older brother gently ushers him towards his bedroom.

　The familiarity of Quickman's room provides some slight comfort to Crashman. His eyes are drawn to belongings of his that Quickman had been kind enough to hold onto for safekeeping; The plastic dinosaurs, the encyclopedias and illustrated guides to animals are stacked half-neatly beside the bookcase that held Quick’s own collection of minicars and memorabilia. He knows the layout of this room almost as closely as its owner— The glass cabinet displaying too many accolades to count, the racing pennants pinned up on the walls, the old box TV with VHS tapes and games filed away beneath it... and of course the bright red racecar bed. Crash had spent more nights sleeping here than his own room right next door, left objectively barren due to his habit of eventually destroying any furniture placed in it. He’d been softly-but-sternly chided by Metalman for not properly hooking himself up to charge overnight more times than he cared to recall— But no amount of scolding could deter Crash from spending his nights at Quickman’s side.

　Quick guides Crashman to the bed, and the smaller robot takes a seat at its edge.

　“So.” Quickman gets down on one knee in front of Crash to meet him at eye level. “What's the matter? Why'd you flip out?”

　“I didn't flip out ...” Crash stresses. His linemate should know every well by now what “flipping out” looks like for him.

　“I mean— What made you all upset?” Quick adjusts his wording.

　“ You did, idiot!” His eyes meet Quickman’s, anger starting to simmer again. “You and him! You were— You’d rather argue with each other than pay attention to me!”

　Quickman blinks, confusion apparent on his face.

　“Crash, I wasn’t trying to ignore you or anything, I—” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger. Crashman isn’t the only one left feeling worse for wear from the little experiment in Flashman’s room. “I couldn’t just let him do whatever he wants to you.”

　“Then why did we even go see him?! So you could use me to make him mad?!” Crashman snaps at his brother, baring his teeth.

　“What? No! Why would I do something like that? I wasn’t trying to— I just wanted to try that stuff with you, and it was his idea and he—”

　“Why didn’t you tell him ‘no’? Are you that scared?!”

　“I’m not scared of him!” Growing exasperated, Quickman insists with upturned palms. “I thought he was just gonna sit there while we... I don’t know, look, I know I messed up, okay? I dunno why I trusted him even for a second. It was a bad idea, I wasn’t thinking straight...”

　“Stupid... You’re so stupid...! I hate you...!”

　“Don’t say that, Crash...” He knows he doesn't mean it, but the words still sting.

　He pauses to gather his thoughts, unsure of what else he can say to clear things up and calm Crash down. The insinuation that he would use him just to get under Flashman's skin had wounded him. Did Crashman really think so little of him? Didn't he understand how much he loved him? It was true Quickman enjoyed making Flash miserable; The jealousy Flash had towards his brothers’ relationship was an amusing bonus, but furthering their unfriendly sibling rivalry hadn't at all been Quick's motivation. He would never choose that over what he had with Crashman.

　Crash was always convincing himself of these ideas that failed to connect correctly, that didn't reflect reality, making himself upset through misunderstandings. Once he had one in his head, it could be difficult to explain the truth to him, but...

　“...Oh man, are you crying?” Quickman at last notices the tracks of tears rolling down his little brother's cheeks.

　“I’m upset !”

　“I can see that...”

　“You're supposed to... take care of me... You’re supposed to protect me... So why...” Crash's speech is broken by hiccuping sobs. “How could you do something so mean...”

　“Hey, shh, come on...” Quickman quiets him. “It's okay. Do you really think I'd just use you to get back at him?”

　“I don't know... I don’t get it...”

　“Have a little more faith in me, man. Thinking about you so much was the only reason I got suckered into this dumb plan...”

　“Stupid...”

　“Heard ya the first time. You're special to me, okay? Only you. I wouldn’t treat you like that on purpose.”

　“Really...?” Green eyes peering at his older brother from beneath his visor, Crashman's demeanor seems to soften somewhat.

　“Really, I mean it. Promise. Me getting pissed at him was me trying to protect you, you big dummy...”

　Though Quickman is being as honest as can be, he imagines how awkward he must sound trying to come across as caring. Even after all the time he's spent with Crashman, he's still not confident in his ability to convey his feelings through words. It should be simple, easy, second nature, to say the words that would do the most to comfort Crash— “ I love you ” — It repeats in his mind again and again, begging to be spoken aloud, but it refuses to come out. Perhaps Quick's hands, holding Crash's arms and slowly stroking them with his thumbs, aid in getting the message across...

　“...’Cause I'm the only one who gets to touch you like that. You’re mine.” He avoids Crashman’s gaze as something dark and selfish colors his tone, instead staring down at the boy’s knees. “I won’t let him try and get between us again.”

　His fingers curl around Crash’s thin arms, wrinkling the white fabric as his grip tightens. He knows he shouldn’t blame him, and he doesn’t, not entirely— Things wouldn’t’ve gone the way they had if Flash had listened to Quick for once in his life, showed him a shred of respect or goodwill... But at the same time, he wishes Crash wouldn’t be so permissive of Flash’s bad behavior. He can’t wrap his head around it. Crash shouldn’t need any extra affection, Quickman did more than enough for him. He was practically at his little brother’s beck and call, spending every waking moment he could spare with him, showering him in love, even if that love came out wrong— So why ... Quick is too proud to plainly express just how jealous it makes him. It’s uncool, ugly, unsightly— He can hardly admit to himself how he was made to feel threatened by Flashman; How could he be expected to explain that to Crash, who looks up to him so much...?

　Maybe he only has himself to blame after all. For being fooled, for going along with Flashman in the moment, for not putting a stop to things sooner— But, then, no, Flash is still the one at fault for tricking him, for lying in the first place, isn’t he?

　Crashman doesn’t need Quick to verbalize his frustration; It’s more than apparent through the taut atmosphere between the two. He knows Quick is mad at Flashman, mad at himself, but can’t help but feel he’s done something to upset his brother, too. Quick wouldn’t feel jealous if Crash hadn’t given a reason, after all. The first dull pins of anxiety start to tingle in Crashman’s limbs– He wants to reassure Quickman of his love, to prove it, but he needs assurance in turn, to be told Quick isn’t angry with him...

　“Quick...” He tries to say something, anything.

　“Sorry.” Quickman raises his head and smiles half-heartedly up at Crash. “I’ll just give baldy a piece of my mind later. That way we’ll all’ve learned our lesson the hard way, yeah?”

　Crashman nods. With how angry he’s made Quick, Flashman would be lucky if all he does is dismember him. Maybe he’ll watch from a safe distance, or maybe not.

　“ Any way...” Quick stands up from the floor, then joins Crash on the bed beside him. “We kinda left on a cliffhanger back there, didn’t we?

　“Eh... un...” Crash mumbles, subtly shrinking back.

　He’s glad Quickman seems himself again, but the mood to do that sort of thing had long since dissipated. Crash is tired, left drained and dizzy after both his and Quick’s emotions had run all over the place. Right now, he’d rather just sit quietly, or be held, or...

　Quickman leans forward, half over him, and pulls the magic wand out of nowhere. Crash eyes it apprehensively, making a face as if he's smelled something sour.

　“When'd you...”

　“Grabbed it while he wasn’t looking after you got outta there. Pretty slick, huh?” Quick wears a mischievous smirk, proud of his own deftness.

　“...Don't wanna.” Crash scoots a few inches away.

　The object is tainted, at least temporarily, by the conflicting, uncomfortable emotions still fresh in Crash's mind. He knows this is Quickman’s way of trying to smooth things over, but he isn’t inclined to let him use that thing as his method of doing so.

　Quick tilts his head, his smile faltering and becoming awkward; He genuinely hadn’t expected Crashman to reject his offer outright.

　“Huh? C’mon, I bet I can do it twice as good as he—”

　“That’s not it, I just don’t want to...”

　“Why not? You still mad at me? What’s the issue?”

　The anger that had previously abated came surging back like a flood— Crash didn’t blame Quickman for what had happened earlier anymore, he just wanted to relax, to be comforted now, but Quick wasn’t listening . He claims to care about Crashman’s feelings, but he’s so thickheaded, he won’t listen to what he wants, can’t understand where his pain is coming from—

　Crash tackles the larger robot, knocking him over and pinning him to the bed on his back. Thrown off guard, Quickman allows the stolen toy to fall from his hand, and it rolls onto the floor with a thud. Crashman’s drills stab through the comforter on either side of Quick’s head— There goes the mattress, Quickman thinks. It was far from the first time.

　“ Listen to me...!” Crashman growls through gritted teeth, glaring down at his older brother trapped beneath him.

　“I’m listening, you just won’t tell me anything!” There’s no fear in Quickman’s voice, but obvious vexation.

　The pair had been dancing around, avoiding finding the words to express what it really was that was bothering them for too long; It leading to another outburst was all but inevitable.

　Crash’s face grows hot, stinging, his thoughts muddling further as logic is driven out by the pressure growing in his head. Why is he expected to use his words when Quick refuses to? How is that any fair? Crash can tell something is still troubling Quick even if he won’t say what it is— Does Quickman think he doesn’t notice? That he can just ignore it, bury it until it slips away, unaddressed? It’s true Crashman could simply ask , but it’s so often a struggle to speak even under ordinary circumstances. His words get caught in his throat with his emotions in the way— And whose fault is it that he’s gotten so upset again? It forms a closed loop, driving Crash up a wall with worry— Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me? If you’re not, then say something— Why? Why, why, why...—?!

　Wincing, Quick feels hot tears splash against his face. Great . This is the second time today he’s made his poor baby brother cry. It feels awful— Why is he so terrible at this? Crash’s expression is almost unreadable above him, his eyes wide and breathing heavy as he stares down... It’s as if he doesn’t even realize he’s crying, as if he isn’t seeing what’s directly in front of him. A mix of confusion, anger, fear... Quick isn’t sure of which emotion outweighs the others, but he can tell Crashman is hurting, and Quick’s own clumsiness is the culprit. He puts his hands on Crashman’s bulky, armored forearms, holding him firm in some vague attempt to anchor him to his surroundings, not the feelings surely threatening to overtake his senses.

　“Crash, hey...” He speaks, almost a whisper.

　Finally, Crash breaks from his stupor, almost lunging forward for Quickman’s neck, and Quick gasps in sharp surprise at the other Robot Master’s sudden attack.

　Crashman closes his teeth around Quick’s throat with crushing pressure. He clamps down in an earnest attempt, tubes and wires shifting under the black fabric "flesh" between his jaws. His tongue touches Quick's neck only out of necessity. This isn't a kiss, but a threat, a message... Though Crash isn't sure what he wants is being conveyed. There’s no risk of suffocation, of course, but the assault is still painful— Incredibly painful, a sharp, burning tightness that clouds Quickman's mind.

　“Cr— ash—...” Quick chokes out, his voice distorted with cracks and pops.

　He tries grabbing onto Crash’s arms, but he finds little purchase, his knuckles futilely bending against the heavy, rigid metal. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut tight in response to the throbbing, strangling pain from Crashman’s pointed canines digging into his throat. Was this a punishment? He probably deserved it after betraying Crash’s trust the way he had. For doing such a horrible job as his big brother, as his keeper. Quickman resigns himself to suffering a bit for Crash’s sake, allowing himself to be used as an outlet for his aggression; He lowers his arms, letting them lie limp atop the sheets at his sides.

　Almost as soon as he had done this, the pressure gradually began to subside— Crash’s teeth had released him, though the pain still remains, warm and lingering as an itch. He hears a shuddering breath over him— Crashman has pulled his drills free from the bedding and curled inwards, making himself small, resting atop his brother’s broad chest. His crying face is hidden, buried in it, tears pooling in the golden chevron adorning it.

　“Crash...” Quickman tries again, though his throat is still sore.

　“I’m... sorry...” Crashman stammers. “A... And I don’t know what I did, but...”

　His body shakes as he sniffles and sobs; It takes everything he has to maintain enough composure to articulate himself, to finally speak his mind.

　“But I don’t want that... I don’t want that thing , and— And I don’t want him ...”

　He rests his drills, as lightly as he can, on Quickman’s shoulders. He wants to touch him the way Quick always touched him, to hold him tight and squeeze and cling to him, but he can’t , not the way he wants to, not with these stupid things he has instead. A fresh wave of aching sadness, of helplessness washes over him— He has to use the cumbersome things to awkwardly wipe away his tears, too.

　“I just want you ... To... To hold me and play with me like always, and...”

　Look at me , he wants to beg Quickman, even if it's pathetic. Pay attention to me. Me, only me...

　“Aw, Crash, don't be sorry...” Quick is ashamed of himself for thinking to blame him in the slightest, even if he had only done so in his mind. “You didn't do anything...”

　He wraps Crashman in his embrace, holding him closer still against his armored chest. He's such a good kid, if a bit too obedient for his own sake; He had only been so accepting of Flash's actions because he assumed Quick had wanted him to be, that's all. The way Crash admires him and seeks his approval, the way he trusts him so completely... It's so sweet and innocent, so earnest. Even if his approach could be misguided, even if he misunderstood, Quickman couldn't find fault with him for long— Not when it was so clear Crash's head was filled only with thoughts of him.

　“And I'm not mad at you, okay?”

　Quick strokes Crash's backplate, tracing the edge along the vent, his fingers brushing over the screws. He still feels half-foiled, left hanging, but they can always make up for it later— Though sharing the bed like this and holding his little brother tight to console him did feel fulfilling in its own way.

　“Okay...” Crashman mumbles his response.

　Signals of unease still course through his circuitry, but his mind, at least, is calm again. That was all he had needed to hear.

　“...Do you want me to put something on the TV?” Quick breaks the silence after a few long moments.

　Playing one of his favorite tapes could help to raise his spirits again— That long documentary recreating the lives of the dinosaurs, or maybe Quick could find a new show to introduce to him...

　Crashman shakes his head slowly, his helmet scraping awkwardly against the plating that covers Quickman's chest.

　“Not right now... Can we stay like this a little longer?” He asks.

　“I dunno, you’re pretty heavy...”

　“Jerk...”

　Flashman sinks into his leather chair, plastic frame creaking under his weight. His elbow resting on his computer desk, he keeps his head propped up against his buster and scowls. That hadn’t gone at all according to plan.

　Crashman had left him high and dry after abruptly absconding like he had— A fish wriggling from the net, with Quickman following suit to snatch up the catch that had escaped. Flash was left all on his lonesome, any tension and excitement having fizzled out instead of exploding as anticipated. Annoyance and disappointment subdue the desire to finish what he had started, so to speak. Instead, he launches the chat client on his desktop in a bid to distract himself, white light barely brightening the room as the window pops open. The conversations displayed by the program scroll by, only skimmed. Whatever sort of social solace he seeks is nowhere to be found. The words on the screen all seem so uninteresting— Flashman struggles more than ever to imagine the people typing on the other side.

　What was he even trying to accomplish, really? Maybe he just wants what he can’t have, or maybe he just loves the chase, maybe he wants to steal something away from Quickman out of spite. Those things are certainly factors that motivate him, but is that all there is to it? He isn’t sure, but he so desperately wants Crash to love him, needs him to— If Crash would only let him, Flash is sure he could come to love him wholeheartedly, too... At least, he hopes. He has so little patience for Crash's mood swings, for his spoiled demands, his helplessness... They have nothing in common, not their interests or their personalities, nevermind the fact Crashman is a little boy — So what about the capricious little brat had caused Flashman to become so captivated by him? Why him, why not anyone else?

　It's frightening. What Flash feels for Crashman is so different from all the fleeting flings he's had— But he can't be sure if it’s love. Wanting to touch someone, to have them all to yourself, to be relied on and desired in turn... Is that “love”? What makes it different from the shallow “want” he's used to? Love ought to be selfless, but Flashman can't stop himself from taking and taking... He doesn't know anything else. He has nothing to give. It only makes sense; The Second Numbers may have had their intended mission placed on the backburner, but it didn't change the original purpose of their construction. A combat robot has no need for any emotions, let alone love... But for better or for worse, the Doctor had programmed him in such a way that he did feel things. What was wrong, then? Why did his brothers seem perfectly capable of love, or at least a close enough facsimile? More than ever, it makes him afraid he might be incapable of it himself, that there's something missing, or broken... but he doesn't want to believe there's an emptiness inside him too deep and vast to fill.

　Sliding his keyboard out of the way, he puts his head down on the desk and sighs deeply. Navel-gazing alone in his room is exceptionally pathetic, but he's always been prone to it. There's no point in letting himself be discouraged by the way things had played out this time. He's more than likely in for a beatdown from Quickman later, and Crash is going to act even cagier than usual, but neither of them will care about Flash's little stunt within the week. They're accustomed to his antics; Quickman might have come to mirror Flash's hatred, but he and Crashman don't tend to hold one thing against him more than any other. Those two are fickle like that, and simple.

　Perhaps Flashman being their “younger” brother is the reason they can be so forgiving. They both ought to despise him outright for his constant transgressions, and yet, they still humor him, giving him unspoken second chances time after time. It should make Flash happy, but it doesn't. He can't make sense of it. His utter loathing for Quickman couldn't be more obvious, and the pitying scraps of fondness Crash spared only made him all the more ravenous. Flashman doesn't want pity, or kindness, or grudging acceptance. The only thing that could hope to satisfy him is if Crashman were to reciprocate his feelings. Even the “older” Number hating him would be preferable to being left to languish in a grey area, cruelly strung along by a thread of hope.

　In any case, Flash would have to change tactics. The idea to make an alliance with Quick had taken him farther than he expected— Until it all fell apart, but that had been his own fault. He had admittedly gotten a bit ahead of himself. It would be wise to dial it back a bit, to practice restraint instead of being so forceful... It could work, though, if he were to be more cautious. Today hadn't been a complete failure, after all.

　Flash is bound to be on his brothers’ bad side for at least a little while, though. He'll give them as much space as they need to cool their heads, and in the meantime, rethink his approach. Quickman is gullible, strangely naive, but he's not a complete idiot; The same trick isn't going to fool him twice, at least not if it's presented in the same way. Extending the olive branch to the person he despises more than anything feels like pulling teeth, but it had yielded the best results of anything Flash has tried thus far. It had to be the avenue most worth pursuing. Who knows— Maybe it could lead to a genuine agreement, some sort of compromise. Maybe the two larger Wily robots could learn to share.

　Yeah, right. Fat chance. Flashman knows it's nothing more than a fantasy. Quickman is far too possessive to even consider it, and the idea of only being “the second choice”, a side-dish, just doesn't sit right with Flash. Only Crashman would benefit from such an arrangement, with the two men who are so madly in love with him waiting on him hand and foot. It's nice to imagine Crash happy, but Flashman isn't willing to sacrifice his pride for that.

　The three will simply never see eye-to-eye; They're all too jealous, too prideful, too selfish or stubborn or immature or volatile... So all Flash can do is to keep prying and pushing until a crack opens in Crashman's heart.

　Something's got to give eventually.