Breakfast of Heroes

I purse my lips together as I pour coffee from the French press into the thick ceramic mug. The smell of dill spice and scrambled eggs rises from the stove behind me, orange peels sitting on the wood board on the counter in front of me.

Soft music plays from my Bluetooth speaker, filling the tiny kitchen of our apartment. Mari is still asleep, at least I hope so. I don't want her breakfast in bed to be ruined.

I pour coconut milk and ice cubes into the blender with the oranges and blend it all together, cringing at the volume of it. Although, this noise sounds dull and muted to me now, my ears probably damaged from all the explosions I've been in this past week.

A sharp ache pierces my arm as I raise it to get a mason jar from the cabinet. The frothy, pale orange inside the blender looks back at me bright, bubbly, and happy, the citrus smell immediately making me think of her and bringing a smile to my face.

I pour the smoothie into the jar and stick a lilac striped straw in it, adding an extra orange slice on the edge of the jar. I chuckle. It's too pretty and perfect compared to the tasteless energy bars and drinks we've been living off of for the last month. Oh, it's good to be home.

Passing traffic and city noises float through the friendly little window over the sink. A little jar of daisies Mari must have picked last night stand by the sink.

The eggs smell about done, so I serve them up on a light blue plate with a piece of toast. I think for a second, then add a couple strawberries and blueberries to the plate. I set the plate on a tray along with her coffee, black as night just the way she likes it, and the smoothie.

"Perfect." I place a fork and knife on the tray, completing the arrangement. The bright colors and vibrant scents remind me of her.

I take a sip of my own coffee, heavily doused with half and half to make it an elegant beige. My fingers gripped around the handle are bandaged and covered in cuts. I smile at the pineapple tattoo on my wrist, still not scarred by luck, destiny, whatever you want to call it. Mari's got a strawberry on her wrist.

The dangling crystals by the window cast little rainbows all over the refrigerator, splashing color on the photos covering every inch of it. My eyes trace over pictures of me and Mari at the beach, at Disneyland, at prom, before we got our powers, on our first mission, in the hospital together, laughing, going on roller-coasters, and everything in between. Our lives have been a vibrant and wonderful mess so far, and our friendship has never been shaken. I'm 27 now, she's 26, and we've both got a ways to go in the business of saving the world. I mean, what else would you do when you have pyrokinesis, and your best friend has hydrokinesis?

It's a wonder the US government has allowed us to have our own apartment and not live in the superhuman facility they keep most of us in, but we've proven ourselves responsible enough to be left alone. Mari and I act more as vigilantes now than agents, although we do still receive our missions from them.

We got back from our latest mission last night. Mari got a bullet in her stomach which she's still recovering from. She wants to get right back on her feet again, but I will make her rest.

I pick up the tray and head through our tiny, cozy apartment towards our bedroom. Light strings cover the walls and squashy beanbags and blankets cover the floor. Weapons, gear, and other equipment is randomly scattered all over the place as well. It's fine; we can properly settle in again later.

I gently push the door open, creaking my way across the old wooden floorboards to the bed with sunflower printed covers.

"Mariiii." I sit down on the edge of the bed. "Good morning child."

"Hello child," she says smilingly, rubbing her eyes and emerging from her comfy hiding place. Her blond bob is a tangled mess, and her face bruised all over, but her vibrant blue gray eyes give her the liveliness of summer sunshine and daisies.

"I brought you some breakfast." I put the tray over her lap.

"Reese, you shouldn't have, I'm fine!" she protests, but winces as she raises her voice. I raise an eyebrow at her. "Oh... alright. Thank you."

She takes a sip of her smoothie and smiles. I get up and open the curtains, letting the sunlight pour in.

"Do you want to go out today? Get some ice cream, maybe?" Mari asks in between a bite of eggs and a sip of coffee.

I laugh and shake my head at her. "Maybe another time. You need to rest."

She grumbles playfully. "We should do something together like we used to."

The back of my eyes sting a little. "You mean like... write together?"

"Yeah!" Her whole face lights up the way I know so well. "We should write a novel together."

The word stings a little, but my heart soars at the same time. I remember when we used to write novels together in high school, always pushing each other to keep going and aspiring to be New York Times Bestsellers. That was before we became heroes, but the writer side of me is still there.

Even then, she was a hero to me. There were so many times that I would've quit, not just with writing, but with everything in my life, if it hadn't been for her. I had sometimes felt like I was walking in her shadow, but she always believed that I could accomplish whatever I put my mind to do.

"Yeah, we should. What should it about?" I giggle and bounce back onto the bed, hours of story mapping over the phone coming back.

"How about two best friends who go to a superhero academy," she says, musing at the ceiling, "that would do anything for each other, no matter the cost? Of course we've gotta throw in some torture for them."

"Obviously." I snort. "I like it. Getting a bit of deja vu from it, though."

We exchange a stare, our lips twitching, and soon enough she bursts out into her signature honk laugh.

"Fine, it'll be a memoir then," she says. "About our lives."

"It'll be one hell of a ride."