Chapter 220: The Pink Storm

NOAH

The impact was less of a greeting and more of a structural collision. Cyan didn’t just find me; he annexed me.

One second I was drowning in the cold, oily depth of Nick’s condescension, and the next, the world was nothing but neon pink and the crushing, rib-cracking pressure of two arms locked around my middle.

He screeched my name… a high, joyous sound that probably shattered windows three blocks away… and then I was airless.

My feet dangled. My brain, already frayed from a weekend of silence and ten minutes of psychological warfare, simply stalled out.

I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I didn’t know how to process being held with this much unconditional, unbridled enthusiasm.

It was a physical wall of warmth that didn’t ask for a reason to exist.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my GOD—”

Cyan pulled back just far enough to grab my face. His palms were warm and smelled faintly of something expensive and floral. He squeezed my cheeks together, forcing my mouth into a startled ’O’ shape.

“I missed your squishy little face SO much,” he squealed, squeezing harder until my eyes started to water. My face felt like it was being remodeled by a very excited sculptor, but for the first time in an hour, I wasn’t thinking about the panic sitting behind my ribs.

He didn’t let go. He held my head like it was a fragile glass ornament, tilting it left, then right, his purple eyes darting across my features with the intense focus of a diamond appraiser.

“Are you okay? You look tired. Are you eating? Do you feel weird? You’re definitely not sleeping enough, I can see it right here,” he poked the skin under my eye, “and here. You look like a very stressed owl, Noah.”

I tried to get a word out—a “hi” or a “Cyan”—but he was already moving. Before I could object to being handled like a toddler, he pressed his cheek against mine, hard.

“My cutie,” he cooed into my ear. “My little cutie.”

Then came the kisses. They were rapid-fire, loud, and wet… one on my forehead, one on each cheek, one on the very top of my forehead and a final, lingering one on my lips.

It was the kind of affection people usually reserve for golden retriever puppies or beloved nephews.

It was, quite literally, the most warmth I had received from another human being since the last time I’d seen him.

I felt a lump form in my throat, a thick, aching thing I refused to examine because if I looked at it, I’d start crying right there on the sidewalk in front of my brother.

Finally, he leaned back, his hands still anchored firmly to my shoulders. He was beaming, his smile so large it seemed to take over his entire face, pushing his cheeks up into happy crescents.

“Cyan,” I finally managed, my voice sounding shaky and small. “What—how are you even here? I thought you were still away.”

I finally really looked at him. He was exactly as advertised, a walking, breathing riot of color that made the gray concrete of the business district look like a mistake.

His hair was an even more vibrant, aggressive pink than I remembered, half of it twisted into some sort of architectural knot on top of his head while the rest flowed down his back.

Pink-tinted sunglasses were pushed up onto his head, and he was wearing a pantsuit in a shade of electric chartreuse that should have been illegal. On anyone else, It would have been a disaster. On Cyan, it looked like a statement of war against boredom.

Then I saw his arms. Both of them.

“Your arms—” I breathed, my eyes widening.

“FINALLY,” he shouted, throwing both arms wide and nearly taking out a passing businessman.

He did a series of enthusiastic, windmill-like motions to demonstrate his range of movement.

“They took the cast off last week and I have been completely liberated! It was such a nuisance, Noah, you have no idea. I couldn’t drive properly, I couldn’t do my eyeliner without looking like a raccoon, and I couldn’t even—well, anyway! I’m back!”

He grabbed my face again, his rings cold against my skin. “How are YOU? Has Cassian been taking care of you? Is he being horrible? He’s probably being horrible. Tell me everything.”

A laugh bubbled up in my chest, a real, genuine laugh that I hadn’t authorized. It felt strange in my throat, like a muscle I’d forgotten how to use.

“I can’t—you’re—Cyan. It’s really good to see you.”

The smile stayed on my face, even as the small, familiar ache of the weekend resurfaced. Cassian hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t mentioned Cyan was coming back. He hadn’t mentioned anything.

“Cassian didn’t say you were coming back,” I said, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice.

Cyan gave a delighted, dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, I didn’t tell him! I wanted to surprise you both. Reginald drove me straight here from the airport. Don’t I look amazing? I’ve been planning this outfit since Tuesday.”

“I wasn’t aware the building had a dress code that low.”

The voice arrived like a bucket of ice water. The warmth of the last five minutes evaporated instantly, replaced by that sharp, familiar chill. I’d forgotten Nick was there. I’d actually managed to forget he existed for three beautiful minutes.

“Or rather, I must’ve missed the memo that this place doubles as a clown convention.”

I felt my stomach drop into my shoes.

Nick was standing there, his arms crossed over his pristine shirt, looking at Cyan with the polished, effortless disdain he usually reserved for people who asked for more than five minutes of his time.

He looked at the pink hair, the makeup, and the chartreuse suit as if he were observing a particularly unsightly stain on a rug.

“Is there a parade I wasn’t informed about?” Nick asked, his voice low and smooth. He didn’t have to raise it to be cruel. He just let the contempt sit there, heavy and undeniable.

Cyan paused. He didn’t flinch. He just turned slowly, pulling his sunglasses down from his head and onto his nose. He looked Nick up and down with a quiet, curious intensity.

“Oh,” Cyan said mildly. “Who is this, Noah? Is this a friend?”

Before I could even open my mouth to explain, Cyan tilted his head. It was the head tilt of a predator who had just spotted something moving in the grass. He leaned slightly forward, his purple eyes narrowing behind the pink lenses.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” He looked at Nick, then back at me, then back at Nick. “You two look—oh my god. Is that your BROTHER?”

I let out a nervous, jagged laugh. “Yeah. That’s my twin.”

“Your TWIN,” Cyan repeated, his voice climbing an octave. He adjusted his glasses, his face twisting in genuine, observational confusion. “You don’t look identical at all. Not even a little bit.”

Nick’s correction was sharp, immediate. “Fraternal twins, idiot. Do you not know what that is?”

Cyan considered this for a second, his finger tapping against his chin. “Fraternal. Hm. No, I don’t think I’ve heard that one. Is it a medical thing or a vibes thing?”

He said it without a shred of embarrassment. He didn’t care that Nick was talking down to him. He was just being honest.

I stepped forward, my hands shaking. “It just means we’re—”

“It means we share a birthday, not a tax bracket,” Nick interrupted, his eyes flicking to me. “Fraternal. As opposed to identical. Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect someone who looks like a neon highlighter to understand basic biology.”

Nick pivoted toward me then, the real target.

He didn’t even look at Cyan anymore; he just used him as a jumping-off point. “The company you keep, Noah. It really does explain everything, doesn’t it? The reason you’ve spent your life at the bottom.”

The smirk on his face widened.

“You surround yourself with spectacles and failures because they make you feel competent by comparison. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Playing dress-up in a lobby because you can’t actually do the work. I have to say, father would be even more disappointed.. that is… if he even has any expectations left of you.”

I felt the words landing, each one a thin, surgical cut. My hands were balled into fists at my sides. I opened my mouth to say something… anything… to make him stop.

I was past the edge. I was ready to scream, to shove him, to do something that would probably get me fired and arrested.

But I didn’t have to.

Cyan’s arm moved. It didn’t move with the frantic energy he usually had; it moved with a terrifying, practiced efficiency.

It was a clean, straight line of motion, the movement of someone who had learned how to fight in places where the lights didn’t stay on.

Before Nick could even finish his sentence, Cyan’s fist connected with his face.

There was a sickening, meaty thwack.

Nick didn’t just stumble; he went down hard. His head snapped back and his feet went out from under him, the pristine concrete meeting him with a dull, heavy thud. He didn’t make a sound except for the air leaving his lungs.

Silence fell over the street. It was absolute. The revolving doors stopped turning. A few people stopped on the sidewalk, their mouths hanging open. The security guard inside the lobby froze.

I stared. I couldn’t move. My eyes went from Nick, who was sprawled on the ground clutching his jaw, to Cyan’s fist, and then to Cyan himself.

Cyan was calmly examining his knuckles, his head tilted to the side with the mild interest of someone who had just swatted a fly. He blew a stray strand of pink hair out of his face and looked down at Nick with a look of profound boredom.

“Eh?”

“Ah— my bad.” Cyan said, his voice light and airy. “He was talking too much. My ears were starting to hurt.”

Nick was still on the ground, his eyes wide and disoriented. He looked like he was trying to remember how gravity worked.

He stared up at Cyan, then at me, the shock on his face so profound it was almost comical.

He had never been hit in his life. He was a surgeon; people were careful with his hands. He lived in a world where words were the only weapons used.

Cyan looked at me and winked, his purple glasses sliding down his nose. “He’s not very sturdy, is he? Are you sure you’re related?”

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