Chapter Text
You’ve always made jokes about what a sweet relief death would be, but now that you’re huddling behind a store counter with your hand pressed hard over some random kid’s mouth...you’re definitely rethinking a few things. Your heart is beating hard against your ribs, thundering with desperation to stay functioning, pumping your blood as though you’re running a marathon and making your breath come out a little ragged and vision blur vaguely around the edges. This isn’t really how you wanted to die, being slaughtered at the grocery store by some villain that’s after Creati, of all heroes.
‘Of all heroes,’ isn’t entirely fair, you think as the kid you’re squeezing begins to quake in your arms. There’s a small part of you that realizes you’re not thinking clearly, that you’re focusing entirely too much on the fact that of course you’re going to die because some nut job has the hots for Tits McGee Creati. Of course boobs are going to be the reason your gay ass dies just as you can legally drink. You haven’t even had a cool peak in your life. Hell, you were in the store looking for a freaking cheesecloth when the villain attacked. Making cold brew from home while being too cheap for the actual machine is not the last goal you want to have before you die.
“Aren’t you going to squeam?” the villain hisses from a few aisles over.
You’re not sure if he followed you or what, why he singled you out from the whole four other guests at the store tonight. The villain looked like a lunatic, dressed somewhere between a samurai and an actual party clown with a fucking lisp. Now, after having scared everyone out of the store but you and the kid, the villain is apparently wandering the store casually, seeking you out.
“See loves it when you pretty boys squeam.”
And a part of you wants to. You’d love to scream, but you’re also battling that ever-familiar freeze in your chest, those racing thoughts that don’t pertain to the situation at hand, that infuriating dissociation that does exactly nothing for you. You’d love to scream, but you can’t.
The villain’s face peeks around the shelf to your left, and his wide, manic eyes make you want to throw up all over his jester’s shoes.
Ice infiltrates the air abruptly, cutting through the atmosphere in weirdly metaphorical ways you’re trying to form into symbolism for reasons that are entirely beyond you. It’s freezing, sparking goosebumps along your entire body, but it’s not enough to keep you from picking the kid up like some giant stuffed animal and trying to make a break for it. You slip a little on the floor - the kid’s heavier than you expected - but you manage a few steps before something hard slams against the back of your head. It propels you forward, crashing you to the ground with the kid partially under you. Your hands move to cushion his head, but you’re really bad at games that require fast reflexes, so you’re mostly praying to invisible gods that you didn’t just crush some poor child’s skull beneath you.
A warm hand touches your shoulder. You look up and it’s fucking Shouto.
He’s easily a thousand times more intimidating in person, something akin to a legend both literally and figuratively. You had a friend in grade school that had heterochromatic eyes, but they were almost unnoticeable unless you were really looking. Shouto’s eyes are startlingly distinct, just as vivid from one another as his hair colors and the skin of his scar from the rest of his face. After everything you’ve seen of him from his fame and time at UA, it’d be impossible to miss him even if his trademark looks didn’t give him away. He’s one of the few up and coming heroes expected to reach the top ten within a few short years. He’s one of the few people who could save your sorry ass against a villain that literally monologued about skinning you alive five minutes ago.
Instead of being relieved, you shove the kid at him.
“I’ll follow,” you say, just like the idiot you are.
Shouto takes the kid, the kid probably not even four or five, against his chest and hesitates. Only for a second, seemingly to look you over and assess how long you’ll last once he’s gone. Whatever conclusion he draws, he keeps to himself, and in a blink, Shouto disappears.
You don’t follow him.
Not because you don’t want to, though. The second you stand to make a run for it, something warm and slimy and wet and horrid wraps around your middle, trapping your arms against your sides, halting you. You’re jerked backward, chin slamming into your chest and feet coming out from beneath you in the surge.
“You couldn’t jus squeam for me? Call my seet for me?” the villain asks, and you feel two hands grab at your shoulders from behind. The hands feel extra spindly, extra bony, extra long, extra gross, but you can’t process it too much before you’re being forcefully turned to face your death like you’re something remotely as brave as a hero.
The villain reeks like a middle school locker room. Despite yourself, you gag, coughing on the obscene amount of body odor.
“Wait,” the villain says, and he stoops closer, his horrid breath coating your face like a plume of toxic gas. You just barely see the six-inch blade of a knife in his hand rise toward your face. “Wait, you’re...not a pretty boy. You’re...”
Ah shit, here it comes.
“...you’re a fucking fag, aren’t you?”
Well, pounding heart, weirdly dissociated head, and panicking body aside, you’re still a mess at the core. You laugh without meaning to and accept that this dumb coping mechanism will be your final act.
Your rescue is bathed in flame.
A lot of it is lost to you. There’s an unhealthy amount of fire in the small grocery store, setting ablaze to all the products. You’re distressed over the wrong things, wondering who in the world will pay for all the ruined food, who will have to sweep up the charred remains of hundreds of thousands of yen worth of groceries and throw it directly into the dumpster. Would the popcorn bags pop in this heat? Is all the chicken and beef safe to eat over in the meat department?
You’re brought back to earth when a hand as wide as your entire bicep wraps around your arm and lifts you like a rag doll. You’re almost as limp as one, too, but when you see who it is that’s trying to set you back on your feet, you snap to attention.
Endeavor. Easily the single most terrifying public figure in all Japan.
“What happened.” It’s not a demand, but a command. You’re pretty sure he’s trying to be...personable, but it’s so far from it that you’re just staring at him for several seconds too long before you actually answer him.
“T-the guy showed up and knocked a shelf over,” you say, eyes drifting as you notice firefighters putting out the blaze around you. “Said he needed...me, something about bait for Creati.” The fact makes you feel weird, like you’re just a little sardine for a more beautiful fish. “Then-”
Endeavor groans, just barely noticeable because of how close you are to him. “Quirk?”
“Uh...I don’t know? The guy-”
“Not the villain, boy. You.”
Your face flushes. Although you’ve had plenty of years for the fact to sting less and less each time it arises, it definitely feels like you’re five years old again when you have to tell the number one hero, “Oh. Uh, none, sir.”
His sigh makes you feel even smaller. “I saw you give the kid to Shouto,” he says, and though the words sound like the beginnings of praise, Endeavor’s tone makes your chest sink in with dread. He’s speaking softly, too quiet for anyone to hear over the dying of the fire and shouts of emergency workers. “Don’t try to be something you’re not. The heart of a hero is worth nothing when you can’t actually do anything.”
And what can you really say to that? Your eyes drop, and your jaw clenches, fury and humiliation flooding you all at once. But it’s not you who replies to Endeavor.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Shouto hisses. He’s right next to you and you jump at his voice so close. “Stop talking to victims if you can’t handle it, you old man.”
“Just passing on some words of advice for the real world,” Endeavor says evenly. “That Deku’s made you soft. I made you the hero you are today, and I didn’t do it by padding your feelings against the truth.”
Now the hurt really hits you, a spike through the raw frustration that’s paralyzing you.
Endeavor points. “An ambulance is just outside for him,” he says to Shouto. “Don’t waste time.” And he walks away without another word. Easy as that.
For several seconds, you just stand there. You could argue that you’re just so hurt that you cannot move, that your emotions are so strong they override your ability to control your legs. But in reality, you just didn’t see which way Endeavor was pointing when he mentioned the ambulance. Not only are you quirkless, you’re stupid.
“Hey,” Shouto says.
“What’s up?” you reply, and you’re dully proud that you don’t sound as rattled as you are.
A hand, freezing compared to the smoking heat of the store around you, lands on your shoulder, and you look over to see Shouto frowning at you. “He’s wrong, you know.”
“I’m not too worried about becoming a hero right now, to be honest.”
“I meant...” Shouto searches for words, looking between your eyes. You remember reading an article a couple years back about the UA graduating students from that year that actually turned pro. There was a short paragraph about each of the new heroes, and you recall a few bits and pieces, one of which being that Shouto is supposedly actually really awkward.
Awesome, you think sarcastically. “You don’t have to make me feel better,” you say out loud, and you attempt a smile.
“I’m not. He’s just actually wrong.”
“Ah,” you say, eloquent as ever. “Yes, good.”
And then, impossibly, bizarrely, Shouto lifts both of his hands to cup your face, turning you to face him fully as he takes a step in front of you. His hands are both colder than the room around you, but one is definitely colder than the other. You look up and meet his eyes, and you flinch. He’s like...three inches from your face.
“Sorry,” he says, flinching back himself. “But you’re blinking out of sync. Your pupils aren’t dilating right, I don’t think.”
“Isn’t there a...” The word eludes you, the hospital on wheels. It seems like the chaos of what happened is rushing up on you, all your adrenaline ruining you in one go as tingling races up the back of your skull and the Shouto you’re staring at suddenly turns hazy.
The last thing you remember before darkness overtakes you is a strong arm wrapping around your back as your legs totally give out from under you.