Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t think much of it when he finds it. She’s at the age where K-Pop, heroes, and tv show figures are available on clothing and who’s he to deny her something she’s passionate about? So when the shirt appears in his hands halfway through sorting clean laundry he folds it and puts it in her pile to put away later.

But before he can get further Zenko is there, half throwing clothing out of the laundry bag. “Did you clean it, onii-chan?”

“Hey, hey, hey, stop that!” He shoos her off before giving her a reproachful eye that he likes to think other parents only dream they could manage. “Clean what?”

“My Mumen Rider shirt!” That receives a blank stare. “You know, Mumen Rider?” Another stare. “Onii-chan, he’s only one of the most popular heroes ever!”

Which immediately has his lips puckering. “Who?” Because he’s waiting for his A-Class #10 license in the mail, literally, and already the rank there is obsolete. (They’re calling him a natural, a wonder, a phenomenon. They don’t ask what he calls himself.)

Zenko rolls her eyes in a way that makes current Badd feel pity for future Badd and the ensuing teenage angst. “Mumen Rider, onii-chan. He’s courageous and daring and Mariko met him once and said he’s the nicest guy there is.” Laundry bag in disarray she turns to her stack. “I hope I get to meet him someday.”

With a triumphant cry she finds the mystery shirt from earlier and shoves it in Badd’s face. Goggles, helmet, a thumbs up - it’s a caricature of a disappointingly normal man, considering the build up.

He tsks. “What’s the guy even do?”

It’s as if he’s called Tama ugly. “Onii-chan!”

He holds his hands up to stymy the lecture. “What? Just asked what he does!”

“He’s a hero, just like you.” He won’t admit to that still feeling good, even as she struggles to pull the shirt on over her dress. “And I’m going to be late.”

It’s not that he’s annoyed that the shirt is going with her. But… “Going where?”

“Mariko’s.”

“Why?”

“For club.”

“Club?”

The sigh Zenko gives is worthy of a daytime award. “Mumen Rider Club.” He does his best to not narrow his eyes. “Mariko’s vice president. We’re gonna make signs for Hero Day.” Despite his apparent failings she gives him a brief hug before picking up her book bag.

No matter how he feels about that shirt, there are some things he absolutely can’t help. He’s with her as she crosses the threshold and off down the hallway, calling after her, “Hey, you be back for dinner, ya? And be careful walking over there! Text me when you get there.”

“Cross my heart,” she promises. She waves, then she’s off down the stairs and the two blocks away. He knows she’ll get there fine and in ten minutes her text will confirm that.

But that doesn’t stop him from glancing in the hallway mirror and scowling at himself. It’s ridiculous, being this jealous over one piece of mass produced merchandise. A shirt. A phase. He’s seen Zenko blow through pop band crazes like quarters at the arcade. This can’t be that different, he assures himself.

“Mumen Rider,” he mutters to himself with a snort. Adjusting his hair even as he tries not to compare. (Or rather compare Mumen to him, because if they’re honest the guy’s color scheme is dated and attire pedestrian. No flair, no style.) “Tch. Can’t be that impressive.”

Three days later he’s still convinced of that fact as he watches from the back of a park bench as what’s best described as a walking fruit basket attempt to terrorize a corner store. Attempt, as the amalgamous of melons that make up the thing are more of an absurd oddity than anything related to horror. A fact the thing - he’s calling him Fruit Mascot Man - is only just now figuring out.

Fruit Mascot Man attempts what should be a threatening swipe. It ends with a melon hand cracking, dripping juice all over the sidewalk to the screaming laughter of two curious kids. In some way, Badd feels that he understands.

It’s just not their day.

He sighs, bored. It’s the fifth Wolf Class threat he’s answered with no success. Sure, he can stop the thing with one swing of the bat currently on his back. But that’s not the point here.

The point is that extensive trawling of online message boards has hinted that X-City was Mumen Rider’s stomping ground today and so far? So far he has nothing more than a throbbing stubbed toe from not-even-monster #4 and the title of ‘most bags of chips’ eaten in one three hour shift. No Mumen Rider and even less self-pride than when he’d started.

If it weren’t for the Hero’s Association profile, he’d be skeptical as to the existence of Mumen Rider at all.

A water pipe breaks thanks to a lucky punch, spraying the sidewalk in fruit juice and rapidly expanding water. Screaming erupts which is his cue. Brushing chips from his fingers, he straightens, letting the bag fall in favor of curling around his bat. Right, another no-

“Justice Crash!”

He barely hears it over the din, though he does see it in action. Up close and personal even. A pedal nearly grazes his face as it flies by, hitting Fruit Mascot Man’s side with a loud THWOK that sends it into the gutter.

Nose burning from the near-miss, he turns. Mumen Rider is there then, sun glinting off familiar green goggles. Mumen Rider’s shorter than Badd’s mind had made him, slim too for someone who can (supposedly) throw a bike from a several meters away. Despite his disappointingly accurate to photo looks, Mumen Rider is already in position, stance wide, arms up, fists ready.

It’s the picture of a fighter, a man ready for anything with confidence apparent enough for Badd’s hand to loosen on his bat.

Fighting spirit.

There’s a brief few minutes he’s tense, breath held, as he waits for Mumen Rider’s punch to be let out.

Instead, Fruit Mascot Man wheezes, and falls into a million ruined melon pieces. He just stares. As does Mumen Rider, until a melon hits his riding boot and he moves forward to warily rescue the bike from a now sticky sidewalk.

Just like that, three days of work is done and he doesn’t even know what to say to that. A bike crash. That was it. No punch, no kick, no kung fu, no super strength, no super speed. Nothing. Nothing except a move that could be classified as an accidental action. (Or convenient timing during a short lived and less than memorable career of terror.)

This was the guy Zenko wanted to meet?

As if knowing, Mumen Rider looks up and meets his eye. For a moment they stare at each other across the rapidly growing crowd of onlookers. He doesn’t want to say he’s star struck. He isn’t. Why should he be? Anyone could do what this guy did with less intention and just as much vigor. And yet he locks eyes with him and there’s a second there where he realizes a horrible truth: he’s goddamned curious now.

While he ponders this sudden epiphany, he realizes Mumen is frowning. Making a motion with his hand. Down?

He looks down to find his abandoned chip bag crinkling under his toe. Oh. Fishing it off the ground, when he meets Mumen’s eyes again the man has the audacity to smile. Then flash him a thumbs up.

Seriously?

The bag squeals in his hand as he crunches it, watching Mumen take a call and turn away. Within moments Mumen’s pushing off, cycling with purpose down the road. He turns, done here as well, even if his mind lingers on the encounter long after he takes his own call for a Demon Level threat in J-City.

Later that night, over a meal of take out sushi that he’s regretting, he realizes the wasabi mound he’s poking at is shaped suspiciously like a helmet. He groans, causing Zenko to look up.

“Onii-chan? What’s wrong?”

He’s not sure how to explain ‘creepy fascination with a c-class hero’ so he goes with, “Too much of this. Don’t know why they always give us half a dam-ng bottle.” The wasabi is not too delicately deposited back in the take-out trash. In his hurry a chopstick goes with, leaving him to fish it out from amongst dirty napkins and spilled rice.

Naturally, Zenko sees right through him. “You like wasabi.”

Chopstick rescued, he wipes it off and shrugs. “Not tonight.” She watches him even as a piece of tuna slips off out of her grip to drown in soy sauce. He clears his throat. “So, how was club?”

She hums. “Good! We made signs for Hero Day and we wanna get there early. We can go early, right?”

How can he say no to that? Even if she will be holding a banner for fucking Mumen Rider. “Of course. Gotta get a good seat for the parade, right?”

Zenko grins. “Yeah!”

He nudges a piece of sushi around. “So, Mumen Rider, huh?” Super subtle. “What should I know about him?” Zenko just squints at him. “Just sayin’, if I’m goin’ to Hero Day with you I should probably know who you’re holding signs for, yeah?”

“You’re gonna hold signs with us?”

He’s not ready to commit that far to this. “Was thinking a t-shirt.”

Zenko’s face lights up. “Really?” He makes an noncommittal click with his tongue, which she accepts with a wider grin. “Ok!”

“So, Mumen Rider?”

But it is too late to redirect the topic to anything fruitful. “You should come to our next meeting! You can sit with me and we can go for ramen afterward then to the park.”

“Hey now, I just agreed to a shirt.” She was giving him that look though, hands folded over her chopsticks, and he sighs. “Ok, ok.”

You don’t argue with Zenko. You just don’t.

Chapter Text

It’s hot and humid the next night, a fact not helped by the surprising number of people he finds himself at the Mumen Rider Fan Club (K-City District Chapter). He knows it’s going to be a long night. He’s onto his fifth juice packet and they won’t talk about the fact he’s bored-eating his eight cookie. The agenda, so far, has consisted of recent sightings, compared stories, fanart of ‘alternative’ costume ideas, all devolving into gossip and general hero chatter. He hasn’t learned anything beyond the fact Mumen Rider’s favorite food is udon (unconfirmed), he used to be an A-Class hero until he got injured (unconfirmed?), his mother is a wind spirit (definitely unconfirmed), and that Yuki and Takeshi are #2 cutest couple in the club (confirmed - Freddy and Chika are definitely more adorable). Part of him considers leaving to go stalk the man instead. It had to be more informational than...this. The implications though of that...stalking? Fact finding? Could you call it fact finding when you already had a healthy paragraph or two of information via the free Association pamphlets and an internal database with the basics? Not that he’d looked at the later already. (It just opened on its own on his computer…)

Instead, he gets up for another cookie as the group breaks apart, again, to compare posters and redo their main banner. He gives a nod to the janitor, who gives him a bespectacled nod back before disappearing down the hall, as if commiserating his situation. If he’s honest, he’d hoped to quell that curiosity all together here. But the lack of real information was only fanning the damn flame.

(Not that it was that kind of flame, of course not.)

A tug to his sleeve drags him out of his thoughts and he looks to find Jiro staring up at him through messy black hair. “Are you Zenko’s dad?”

It’s a common question, not helped by the mothers who line the back, twittering with each glance he catches them in. He sighs. “Do I look like I’m old enough to be her dad?” At the child’s blank stare he realizes he doesn’t really want to know. “What’d’ya want?”

“Can you help me?” Jiro holds out a glue stick, other hand clutching paper letters that Badd would bet spell some variation of Mumen.

With a small sigh he takes the glue stick and tugs. Surprised when it doesn’t give on the first try. Jiro watches him as he struggles for a moment and since they’ve got time, “Hey, Jiro?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever met this guy? Mumen Rider.”

“Yeah.”

Again, why did he come here? He yanks on the glue stick, top popping off and nearly hitting himself in the eye. A few moms twitter as he grits his teeth. Takes a breath in, lets it out. “What’d you think?”

“Think of what?”

“Mumen Rider.”

Jiro takes the glue stick back though he doesn’t run off. Instead, he twists the glue cap, thinking. He’s about to tell the kid never mind when he speaks, suddenly. “He saved my family. From a fire.” Which has Badd’s attention. “There was a monster, and it was really big, and it destroyed Ryuu’s apartment and made ours catch on fire and Mumen Rider came and helped us get out before the fireman could get there.”

It’s hard not to be affected by that, considering his and Zenko’s own experiences, considering the Hero’s Association is the whole reason for stories like this. He knows what the papers say about heroes; he’s followed most of them and has read more than a half dozen to watch his own name rise. The stories he’s in are always quick to point out power, promise, passion. A fighter of evil, they say. There’s even an entire expose on his namesake. Hell, his lawyer’s in talks with a sporting good company over licensing replicas, when he makes S-class.

But can he really say that his fans have stories to tell about him? ( Him him, not his bat, not his clothes, not his hair.) When was the last time the monster wasn’t the focus of a call out?

The fact that he can’t answer that has his stomach twisting. Jiro watches him, as if sending the turmoil, and offers him a now sticky hand. “Help me with my poster?”

He ends up covered in glue and with bits of purple and green construction paper stuck to his cheeks. But Jiro skips off, happy, and at the end of the day even he has to admit that the posters look good.

For a few days the posters and Mumen Rider take a back seat in his mind as life continues on. There’s piano lessons, school, homework, and a baseball game to attend. Becoming a hero doesn’t mean life slows down, it just means having less time to deal with the challenges of the normal days.

By the time he thinks about those posters again he’s running toward a Demon Level threat and to be fair the only reason memories of glue sticks and construction paper come back is because Mumen Rider is there. Badd skids to a halt, shocked, dust swirling around him in an effort to catch up.

Mumen Rider stands in front of a wall of dust and smoke, teeth grit to a defiant scowl, fists up in a boxer’s stance. His goggles are cracked and both dirt and blood smear his face. Parts of his under armor are ripped and there’s more than one gash staining the edges of fabric. His bike lays off to the side, half buried under the rubble of a ruined apartment building, bent spokes of the front wheel just visible.

“I won’t let you pass!” shouts Mumen.

The Demon Level monster shifts, and only then does Badd realize the dust is literally the creature. “Step aside, you silly thing. You’re not worth three particles of my finger.”

“I won’t let you pass!” Mumen digs his feet in, determined, and he has to give the guy that; he’s not backing down. “I don’t care what you think of me. I’m right here, right now, ready to do everything to stop you from destroying the rest of this city!”

The monster hisses and it sends every hair on Badd’s arms on end. “You have nothing that could stop me, Whirling Sand Typhoon! Now step aside or I’ll make sure you don’t get up this time.”

He moves even as Mumen does, the latter letting out a battle cry that is cut off when a solidified hand slams into him. Mumen goes flying by him even as he steps in, bat rising up for a powerful downward swing. It dings off the vanishing hand, causing a scream.

Part of him wants to check on Mumen, but the man is right. There are apartment buildings here. Hundreds of people, of people’s homes, people’s lives. If this thing, Whirling Sand Typhoon, gets any further… He doesn’t want to see the rating go up anymore than it is.

“Hurt, didn’t it?” he smirks, bat twirling in his fingers. “But you know that already. Just like you know you ain’t gettin’ a step further.”

The dust shifts and two eyes appear deeper within. “Are you another of him?” Badd’s eyes slide over to Mumen, who hasn’t moved.

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “And you’re gone, so start sayin’ good bye to yourself. All whatever million of you there is.”

“Ignorant fool-"

He’s been called fool enough to know nothing important follows it, so he charges, aiming for the eyes. It’s as he suspected. His bat slices through dust with no effect, but dings off the rapidly disintegrating left eye. So that’s the trick. Huh.

“Whirling Tornado Fist!”

A large fist hits him in the side and there’s the downside to figuring it out; lost time. He grunts as he’s flung sideways, though once his feet hit the ground his heels dig in, slowing him down. He’s moving forward, but rather than waste energy stopping completely he uses it to leverage himself off what’s left of the building and spring back toward the action.

This time he sees the fist coming; dirty bastard was trying to get him in the back. (Then again, when do monsters fight fair?) His bat comes up and the impact of connecting makes his bones shake. The sound is a crack that temporarily deafens him and rings off the high rises.

The trick here is he has to get close enough as Whirling Sand Typhoon attacks to get at the solidified limbs.

Fortunately, there isn’t just one tornado here.

“How you gonna hold me off if you can’t even handle a tap?” Knees bend as he winds up, blood running hot enough to burn. “Savage Tornado!”

He expects a defense. What he gets is so much so that there’s suddenly nothing to hit. Dust stings his eyes and his bat finds nothing as he chases literal dust. He swears the thing is laughing, a rasping sound, and when he finally stops those infernal eyes are staring at him, yellow and unblinking.

“Is that all you’ve got?” It’s the last thing he hears for a solid thirty seconds as dust swirls around him, scratching his face, his ears, his hands.

His ears are ringing and his face stings when he swings, a blind gamble that almost pays off. His bat scrapes and the whirling intensifies. Even as the wind increases his grip on his bat does as well, fingers cutting into leather and joints shifting under pressure.

“You’re countin’ me out too early! See, thing is, that ain’t all I’ve got. In fact, you’re just seein’ a bit of it. But since you’re asking so nicely…” His stance tightens. “Dragon Thrashi-!”

When he comes to he feels as if he’s swallowed a beach, chest heavy as if what he didn’t swallow landed there. He’s being crushed and his bat is a fingertip away. It would be so easy to go limp, to say he’s done. But that’s not in his name, in his style, in his spirit. So he strains, harder and harder, until he feels it, his bat, just-

“Hey!”

The pressure abates, just for a moment, and that moment is long enough for him to find an extra inch and curl his fingers around his bat. Something hits the creature, hard, and it squeals, and suddenly the pressure is gone.

Perfect.

He stands then, sees Thrashing Dust Typhoon’s face impaled with a dark green helmet and he swings one handed so hard his shoulder threatens to pop.

CRACK!

Dust explodes with a screech and he has to squeeze his eyes closed against the ensuing mess. When he does open them, the air is hazy and he’s standing in at least an inch worth of dust. But the Whirling Dust Typhoon is no more and the area is quiet of rasping, scratching, and screaming.

His shoulders loosen, grip lightens. The rush is edging toward fading, Fighting Spirit dying to be resurrected next time. He did good, that he knows, though there’s that tiny part of him that bemoans how the fight was so easy in the end. There’s something to be said for a challenge.

Mumen Rider.

He turns quickly and his bat nearly bangs into the other hero. They both freeze, staring at each other, until Mumen Rider carefully wipes off his glasses with a thumb. “You ok?”

In truth he feels he should be asking that question of Mumen. But he can’t get words out. Not quite. His tongue is thick and there’s an odd sense of awe for the fact that Mumen’s nose just stopped bleeding and here he is asking if Badd is ok.

Before he can say anything, Mumen says, gently, “Thanks. That was pretty amazing, what you did. You really saved my rear out there.” He offers a hand. “And the city’s.”

He’s not the shaking hands type, no matter the warm smile on Mumen’s face. “Tch, was nothin’.” There’s a helmet by his shoe, however, which he scoops up to hold out. “Had a pretty good assistant.” Then, like his foot isn’t already in his mouth. “Not that I couldn’t have taken it.”

Idiot.

Mumen, however, takes the helmet and just gives him a grateful smile. “I know. Figured it was better to end it early than to drag it out.” Mumen runs a hand through his hair. (Badd won’t admit to that old curiosity squeezing his chest.) “But you’re ok?”

They end up staring awkwardly at the other for a few seconds, because he still doesn’t know how to answer that question. Mumen’s smile dims a bit, sweat rolling down his temple.

“Er, yeah, fine.” Badd rubs his neck. “Your bike ain’t though.”

Idiot.

Mumen glances at the bike tire, now nearly obscured in dust. “Might need some cleaning. We should probably see if anyone is left in these apartment buildings though.”

Which is a solid plan, particularly as it means Badd won’t have any more opportunities to look like a fucking idiot in front of this guy. So he nods, “I’ll take the east side.”

They split up, but even as he knocks on doors and helps families get out of now destroyed rooms he thinks about Mumen across the way. Calm, collected, accepting Mumen Rider, unphased by just about everything it seems. There’s no push for fight rights or claims to the deed. No posturing or threatening he clearly remembers from the Tank Top crew. It’s, oddly refreshing?

(And also why the guy won’t ever get above C-Class, the snide voice in his head says.)

Still, there’s a tenacity there in the way he watches Mumen fight and in the way he moves afterward. Obviously sore but still carrying a backpack full of...cats? The press arrives just in time to miss that shot, but get the one of Badd emerging with a single mom’s sick daughter, which is of course the shot that makes the news the next day.

It’s not enough of a fight to get him promoted, but it’s enough for him to get noticed, proof arriving in his inbox even before the construction crew can show up at the apartment complexes. He reads it in the cab back from the store, black text stark and to the point. A form letter but nonetheless a good indication that, come the next fight, he’ll find himself higher up in A-Class before the day ends. It’s good news. It should be good news.

Instead, all he can wonder is if Mumen Rider has a similar letter in his email.

Chapter Text

His phone weighs heavy in his pocket as he stares out the window the next morning, city blurring by. Arms folded and foot bumping against the week’s supply of fruit from the market, meal planning already lost in his mind. A harried bicycle messenger goes by, glasses pushed up as he wipes his forehead on a faded uniform with unraveling hems, and it only deepens the unease in Badd’s stomach. It follows him like the creak of his shoulders, persistent and deep. He’s not known for having the friendliest of dispositions, but even so there’s a wider berth than usual around him in the locker room the next day.

All except-

SLAM!

Metal rattles and his grip loosens enough for the back of his head to meet the back of his locker door.

“Fuck!” It’s met with a short laugh - definitely at, not with - and the shake of the locker next to him being unlocked. He growls as he rubs his head, ensuring his best glare is spared for what passes for his best friend. “Seriously?”

Even through the slits in the door he can see the shark toothed grin of Tanaka. “Happened, didn’t it?” Tape catches on Badd’s hair as he rubs the new sore spot. Tanaka kindly gets to the point. “What’s got you in a funk?”

“Not in a funk until now.”

“Bullshit.”

“As shit as your sport is.” Tanaka’s straight mouth and slow death glare around his door warns perhaps Badd might be wrong in this. “Just thinkin’.”

“Know that’s hard for you.”

That gets a baseball sock thrown at the second-year and forty-two seconds later they’re both out of socks and Tanaka has his head under his arm, knuckles relentlessly drilling his pompadour down. “You got a head under all this?!”

“Not my fault you passed on it!”

Tanaka lets him go after a deft flick of a finger to his forehead. It stings, but he finds himself smiling in between breaths. He gets one in return. “Seriously, though, what is this?”

He wants to say it’s nothing. But they’ve passed notes through the slats in their lockers and more than once he’s worn navy socks to practice when a mending job didn’t hold up. So he sighs as a hand idly fixes the damage done. “You ever get the idea you’re in it for the wrong reasons?”

“Baseball?”

“Sure.”

They both know that’s not really it, but Tanaka is kind enough to give him the privacy of keeping it to himself. “No.” Tanaka shrugs. “Not really.” For a moment, he disappears into his locker. “You like it, right?”

“Yeah…”

“You in it for the money?”

“Wouldn’t say no to a scholarship,” he has to snort.

“Who would?” Tanaka emerges with knee pads, letting the locker bang shut. “Point is, though, what are you in it for?”

Badd has to think for a moment. “I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He likes the adrenaline. He likes the rush. He likes the pay. He likes his name in the paper. But most of all, he likes watching the ceiling at night and knowing it won’t be crashing in. Not for him, not for Zenko, not for anyone.

When he looks up, realizing there was a pause, Tanaka is giving him a grin that has first years skirting them. “Exactly.” Tanaka stands, fingers twisting in his gym bag though they stay right as they curl around nylon handles. “Look, Badd. Everyone second guesses things. Even…” A hand gestures to Badd. “Baseball. Fact is, though, you’re doing it. And hell, man,the only kind of people who question doing...baseball like you are the kind who are doing it for all the right reasons. The people who aren’t get as far as they do because they crackin' their skulls would reveal too much, you know?”

Tanaka hoists his bag up with a huff. “Don’t know what’s got you dragging, but it sure as hell isn’t the wrong reasons. Know that for sure.” The canines are back in Tanaka’s smile now. “Though might want to lighten up on the hair gel. Could help with that whole ‘drooping’ thing you’re perfecting.”

Badd rolls his eyes and flips him the bird. Tanaka cackles and turns, unphased, waving his hand. “Hey, Tanaka?” When Tanaka glances over his shoulder he knows he should say thank you. “Lemme know what the trash heap tastes like, yeah?”

“I’ve eaten your cooking; you already know.”

He’s proud of the fact that he manages to launch his last dirty sock right into the back of Tanaka’s head.

Baseball gives him a reason to put aside Tanaka’s words and his own unease, however, and focus on his number two love in the world. It’s a satisfying strain, a sign that he’s not just a prodigy rising quickly. More than a poster child of succes. An in the flesh high school student with perhaps slightly more calloused than normal hands, a competitive streak with eyes on that national title, and dreams of maybe, just maybe, being the one Tanaka and Ennoshita catch in the locker room after hours.

The crack of a wood bat sustains him through the evening, long after Tama has left for the night through Zenko’s window, howl of a tom beckoning, and the apartment is quiet. Thunder rolls in the distance but echo as it may if it makes it past the mountains he’ll be surprised.

The sheets whisper as he rolls over, sofa creaking. As tired as his limbs are, he finds himself still staring at his clothing covering the floor and he knows he’s avoiding something when he reaches a hand out, considering folding a shirt.

His hand falls and he huffs at himself. He’s ridiculous. There’s no way he’s getting cleaning done without waking Zenko and there’s no way the sudden concern for his own clothes is at all born of actual regard for their well-being.

Even worse, he even knows why he’s still up.

His fingertips brush paper. For a moment he reconsiders going down this route. But thunder echoes and a foot finds cold air and fuck it all. The paper’s in front of his face even before he can resettle on the throw pillow that still smells of soy sauce even three weeks later.

‘PURI-PURI GIVES FIRST INTERVIEW FROM JAIL!’ ‘BLIZZARD GROUP INDUCTS NEW MEMBER.’ ‘JUST WHO IS BLAST?’

There’s no mention of him, but more importantly there’s no mention of Mumen Rider. It shouldn’t give him the satisfaction it does, but he can’t help it. His shoulders sag and his head rests heavily against the sofa arm. No mention means no comparison and maybe just maybe there’s long term credence to Tanaka’s assertions.

Pathetic, get yer’self together, man. But it doesn’t make him any less relieved. Though it makes him wonder, as he does his best to not tear our Puri-Puri’s picture and chuck it in the trash, what was Mumen Rider in it for?

There was really only one way to answer that question.

Just like that, he finds himself waking up three hours earlier to trace the foggy park of City R, the stained canals in City M, the suburbs of outer City J. Never has he been logged into the forums more, and if Zenko notices his sly questions regarding her current favorite hero obsession she says nothing.

Mumen Rider has a route, he figures out. A looping, ambitious route that follows a predictable pattern of deviations. It’s far more area than any one man should be able to manage, but the guy does.

He watches from a bench as Mumen stops a purse thief, throwing himself off his bike and plowing into both thief and a rather full trash can. Mumen is unwavering in his arrest, even with over ripe peach oozing down his goggles. It’s only when the overenthusiastic purse owner thanks him that Mumen looks flustered and downright embarrassed. Blushing behind his goggles and stammering over his words.

It never makes the papers, but it sticks with Badd.

He also realizes it’s a pattern. A pattern he can’t talk to anyone about as he isn’t ready to admit he may or may not be following the rather reclusive hero. For a week he questions his judgement regarding his fascination. There’s a thousand excuses he could uses, does use. He’s clearing mysterious beings. He’s asserting his rank. He’s trying to do good.

But in the end it’s curiosity getting the better of him and he knows it. It’s a deep born fascination that has him watching as Mumen Rider gets to a call late (monster steaming in the street, B-Class hero doing an interview) and helps a family stop the water flooding their home. Mumen Rider even stays to help mop up the sidewalk.

He’s rooted to the spot as Mumen breaks up a fight. It’s late enough for street lights, not late enough for the bar to be closed. Colors clash as spectacularly as the teams playing that night. The argument is heated enough to spill onto the street.

It’s late and Zenko’s been home for hours now, as Badd should be. But Badd stands and watches as Mumen steps right in between both men and ignores the bottle that breaks over his helmet with little more than a wince. Glass glints in Mumen Rider’s hair, glinting in the street lights as he’s screamed at three inches from his face, spit flecking his goggles.

It’s not the first time Badd wants to step in. And he almost does, until a man to his right sitting patiently for the bus shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “That boy.”

And Badd stops mid-fist clench. “Huh?”

The older man looks over at him, tipping his hat respectfully. “That boy, the hero.”

“Mumen Rider.” He can’t believe he’s just corrected him, but it’s already done.

“Mumen Rider,” the older man repeats. “I’ve seen him before you know. Do this.” He gestures at the bicyclist, stalwart and steadfast in the face of disorderly conduct. “Remarkable.”

And it comes out before he can help himself. (He’ll claim later it was denial at the fact he was even there.) “‘s just breakin’ up a bar fight.”

The old man gives him a look, hands adjusting on the top of his polished cane. “And yet there are ten others who could have easily done so, and where are they?” Badd follows the gesture of the old man’s hand and counts twelve bystanders watching on. “Anyone could do what Mumen Rider does. What makes him a hero is that he actually does so.”

He wants to pop his lips but stops his tongue against the back of his teeth. All he manages is a huff of air that perhaps skirts the line of proper. Yet he knows the old man is right. “Seen bigger monsters.”

The old man laughs. Just one laugh that has Badd’s gut twisting because he knows what that is. “Yes, well. Haven’t we all. Thank god we have heroes for both occasions, eh?”

The wink and once over the old man gives him isn’t subtle and his ears burn. But he returns the nod with a bow this time. The bus comes with the screech of worn down tires, cane tapping on the steps and just like that Badd’s alone once more.

He turns back to Mumen Rider to find the cyclist steadying one of the brawlers, walking him carefully to a bench as the other is escorted away by friends. It’s over in a blink, with little more than an empty bottle and a few bruises blossoming on the over zealous to show for it. Mumen Rider looks no worse for the wear, though as he sits Badd swears he can see (even from his vantage point across the street) shoulders threatening to hunch and the stiff extension of a leg that’s been peddling for too long.

Go home, Badd. But he’s never been one to listen, not even to himself.

So he stands there in the cold, watching, waiting. And nothing happens. Not really. The brawler gingerly touches his new black eye. Mumen disappears for a moment only to come back with a bag of ice that he offers the grateful man. The two talk, sort of. One of Mumen’s hands rests on the brawler’s shoulder to keep him from falling forward. And in one instance he hears a soft chuckle. From Mumen, he can only assume.

The entire thing is completely...normal. Mumen’s padding is the only heroic thing about it all, and even then he maintains one could argue it looks like a bad Halloween costume. Yet that matters less than the fact that the clock reads late and Mumen surely, surely must have other things to do tomorrow. A life of some kind.

Who did Mumen Rider go home to at night? They all had to have someone. Right?

(Was it bad if he sort of, maybe, selfishly hopes that Mumen Rider doesn’t?)

His fingers are numb even in his jacket pockets by the time a taxi pulls up. Mumen stands to help the now dozing brawler into the car. It’s only after the taxi pulls away, and only then, that Mumen rubs his shoulder. Badd misses seeing just what is under those goggles, as Mumen turns away to run his fingers over his face. (It’s an action Badd also knows well. He’s certain most heroes do and the ones who don’t learn fast.)

By the time Mumen’s bike is disappearing around a corner, reflectors bouncing back quick flashes, it’s long past when Badd should have been home. It’s a school night. Zenko’s been alone long enough.

But he stands there and watches as Mumen Rider stops at a four-way stop, despite the lack of traffic, despite the hour, looking both ways before signaling to turn and disappearing. The last late bus passes Badd by as he watches the city move on.

Chapter Text

When he wakes the next morning it’s to a shirt in his face and Zenko’s third sternest look. “Onii-chan! You’re going to make me late!”

He yawns as he manages to sit up, using the shirt to wipe his face. “It’s not that late…” His phone buzzes and sure enough, it is that late. His eyes bug. He trips over the sheets on his way to standing. “Aw shi-” Zenko’s giving him a glare. “-ttake mushrooms. You eaten yet? Got your homework? Is your music packed?!”

A curse is bitten off as his zipper catches the side of his finger. When he looks up, hair mussed, finger in his mouth, pants mostly zipped, he realizes Zenko is standing there with her uniform neatly pressed and bag already on her shoulders.

She hands him one of his protein drinks from the fridge. “Hero Day is in three days, onii-chan! We’re not going to be late, right?”

“Cross my heart,” he promises, taking the drink. “Lemme find a shirt an’ I’ll walk you to the bus, ok?”

It’s as he’s digging through yet another accumulation of clothing on the living room floor that Zenko asks, “You’re still going to wear it for Hero Day, right?”

“It?”

“The shirt!”

“What shirt?” He asks, absently.

“Baddo!”

He straightens at that and looks at her, lost. She points and it’s then he remembers she handed him a shirt.That he’s still holding. Setting down his still unopened drink he unfurls the shirt.

I <3 MUMEN RIDER stares back at him in bright green and yellow.

He’s pretty sure the sparkle were added afterward, considering the way they’re ensuring his hands will have bling for the rest of the day. “Uh…” But when he looks up he sees the look on Zenko’s face and glitterfied or not he can’t go back on his word. “Yeah, of course. Promise.”

The smile he gets is worth the shit Tanaka is going to give him.

It ends up being Tajima who calls him on it, giving his hands a look out of the corner of his eyes. They’re at the batting cages in upper K-City, the ones with the new machines that have three settings and reinforced cage wire after at least two run-ins with mysterious beings.

Badd rolls his eyes at Tajima’s look. “My sister.”

CRACK!

“Uh-huh.”

CRACK!

“For Hero Day.”

CRACK!

“Uh-huh.”

CRACK!

Round over he puts down his bat to give Tajima a look. “From a shirt.”

Tajima just smiles, which manages to make him look half a foot shorter. How that happens, Badd has given up on figuring out. “You busy afterward?”

Badd’s nose wrinkles. “After when?”

Tajima’s face will probably freeze in an eyeroll someday. “Hero Day.”

“Takin’ Zenko to the parade.”

“I mean after that, dumbo.” Tajima pauses as the attendant appears with a new basket of baseballs, giving a respectful nod to the man, before turning back to Badd. “After the parade an’ all that.”

He has to think, rolling the borrowed bat in his palm. “Maybe.” There’s a question coming and he’s not about to commit. Particularly given how he has yet to actually ask what Zenko has planned. “Why?”

A proud smile splits Tajima’s face. “Goin’ to a party at Haninozuka’s.”

“Huh?”

“Third year?” It’s still not ringing a bell, no matter how much Tajima gestures with his hands. “Private academy up the street, big yellow-brown eyes, small-?”

“The Cookie Mascot?” He pops his lip. “You sure he’s a third year?”

The attendant slips out with little more than a flash of his glasses and a respectful bow, closing the door behind them. Badd loosens his collar, sweat pooling at the base of his neck from the encroaching summer warmth.

Tajima just shrugs. “Who knows. Anyway, you in? Bunch of us are going.” It’s when Badd hesitates that Tajima tacks on. “Supposed to be catered, super fancy house, private school girls…”

It’s almost too late that he realizes that he should be more excited about that than he is. Perhaps a few months ago, maybe? His preferences aren’t exactly secret among his close circle (Tanaka included, and by extension Ennoshita). Though he’s never exactly been one to turn down similar invitations. Reputation, after all, was everything.

They both talk at the same time. “Sure./Guys?”

There’s an awkward silence where Tajima brushes his hair back and Badd rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

Badd shakes his head and waves it off. “It’s cool.”

And it is, even if it’s started a cog going. Pieces lodging themselves into a thought, making him well aware of just what his late nights and early mornings have added up to. It’s almost an earthly miracle that Zenko hasn’t caught on. It’s definitely a god-level act of intervention that he’s realizing it now.

Fuck.

Tajima notices even as he picks a bat, swinging it once before deciding it’s good enough. “What’s up with you, man? You’ve been acting...” The batter trails, waving his hand with a loose swivel of his wrist.

“Yeah, just.” He finds himself swallowing, not sure he’s ready to share his revelation with the class. “Been a long week, you know?”

“You failing writing again?”

Which, god bless Tajima, is just the out he needs. “Yeah, you know how it is. No way they even read it all either.” Tajima huffs in agreement and takes a swing. CRACK! A perfect hit to hide Badd’s annoyance and second-hand embarrassment at himself. He clears his throat even as the batting machine spits out another. “So what time?”

When he goes home that night he has more than enough to ruminate on and not enough time to do it. By the time dinner and dishes are done, Zenko’s homework is double checked and the apartment is swept even the clock seems tired, faded green numbers blinking in and out. His own homework lays strewn on the growing mountain of clothes. Try as he might, however, the only thing done is his name on the assignment.

The pencil he should be using to finish an analysis of the night’s reading sits between his teeth, new canine marks in the wood. Enamel grinding away as he simultaneously hates himself for at least two different reasons.

First off, the... crush. He nearly bites through his pencil. The last time that concept applied in his life things ended in a fight that lost the team three bats at the next day’s practice. He’d hated feeling splintered. Fractured like the barrel of his once-favorite practice bat.

(Coincidentally, that’d been the first time he’d picked up a metal bat, but that’s not the point here.)

Would he say swearing off it all was dramatic? Perhaps. But it’d grown from childish melodrama to practicality. Between Zenko and school and work there’d been little room for anything else. Squeezing in another person became a chore quickly and if the lack of socks on his feet was any indication it was that he had enough of those he couldn’t keep up on. Few understood his dilemma. In the end, it was easier to save his nerves and spare someone else’s feelings than expect understanding.

It’s not that he’s inexperienced, he muses. He has...enough to know what he likes. He’s always had a certain jaded charm, a rebel with a cause attitude that draws in a certain type. With fame came the privilege (some would say responsibility) of desire. And he was young and, if he was honest, lonely. It was easy to say yes in the moment knowing there wasn’t going to be a next year.

Which, he liked. Right? Lead taints his tongue and he sinks lower on the sofa.

Easy didn’t always mean preferred. If that was the case Zenko would play something portable and cheap. Like the flute. Or, hell, he’d take a violin at this point. Flings were just that though. Less commitment, less chance of heartbreak, and easier to break away from without investing parts of himself he just couldn’t afford to be left hanging without. Not that he wants that. Wanted that. But it’s been so long since can became should that he isn’t sure he’d even want something that was more anymore.

He doesn’t like to think about just how misshapen that makes him.

Yet even with the one bedroom apartment over his head and Zenko’s well-stocked backpack sitting by the door as a reminder, he still feels as if there could be...more. Which is reason number two: that idealism.

It pops up like a tenacious spring dandelion. Stubborn and insistent. A fighting spirit Badd can admire until it’s standing in the way of accepting what should be an easy existence. Fights, piano recitals, a piping hot dish of revenge. It’s all he wants in life, or rather should be.

Until fucking Mumen Rider.

Mumen Rider, the hero stuck at Class C - Rank 1 permanently. Mumen Rider, the idiot on a bike breaking up bar brawls and B-list villains (and that’s being generous). Mumen Rider, the hero with abysmal stats and yet a universal appeal that suprasses his own. Mumen Rider, the man with…

He falters.

That’s the problem. He doesn’t know about the man. Mumen Rider the hero? Yes. Mumen Rider the H.A. member? Enough. But Mumen Rider the man? Not even the forums can help him there, and he’s tried at least four times with different searches.

Which, come to think of it, is...odd. Even his own high school is listed on the internet. It hasn’t resulted in a rapid increase of recognition, though the further in rank he climbs the more whispers he hears in the hall. It’s not a secret, by any means, but heroes are a dime a dozen, if not less for the high turnover rate the business has these days.

His teeth bite through the last shreds of cheap wood and he curses at the splinter in his tongue.

Shit. That was it. Mumen Rider the hero was just that. A hero. The man beneath the goggles, for all he knows, is boring. Plain. Fucking Haruna for all he truly knew. What happens as a hero wasn’t always a translation to what happens when the mask was off. (He’s never forgotten meeting Sweet Mask for the first time. He likely never will.)

He spits slivers of wood from his mouth. All you’ve got to do is go out with him. Just once. You’ll see. It ain’t gonna work out.

Just one date. He’s always been a decent enough judge of character. One date and he’ll know if it’s going to be something worth the eventual, enveloping reminder later on down the line. Sound logic. He can live with this decision. And with a ‘fuck you’ to schoolwork his eyes slide closed… Only to fly open again ten seconds later.

How the fuck is he going to ask the guy out?

By the time Zenko’s dragging him off the bus for the parade he still doesn’t have an answer. The street is busy with the sounds of bands, noodles frying. Confectionaries that layer the smell of sweet upon sweet. Heroes mingle, some behind booths to promote themselves, others attempting a less overt form of marketing. Cameras ensure encounters are recorded. He can spot at least four Hero Association press people attempting to be sly about their photos. Colorful strings of lights sway in the late spring breeze.

It’s A-City at its finest, but of course it would be. The Association is big on looks. True to form there isn’t even gum on the streets.

“Baddo, come on! ” Zenko is pulling his hand. How she got a schedule already he doesn’t know. Her smile is bright though and he can see her best friend waving by the shaved ice cart. “Mina is already here!”

He lets himself be dragged, shifting in his jacket. His own hero duds may be at home, but his bat sits straight and strong against his spine. Just in case. “A’right, a’right, I’m comin’!”

She lets go of his hand in favor of Mina’s, leaving him to shove his fingers into his pockets and chaperone from a distance, lest he be accused of hovering. (He would never.) Two things of candy floss, three bags of popcorn, and a paper cone of soy wasabi almonds later they head off to find seats for the parade. He ignores the looks he gets. He’s used to the coy glance overs and second sneak peeks.

“Hey, Zenko, hold on!” She’s running ahead of him, the bright strains of parade music drifting over the crowd. Did they start early? He loses her quickly in the crowd, leaving him carrying a half empty bag of soy wasabi almonds. He dusts his fingers off on his shirt, adding green glitter to the mix. Two seconds and he's lost her, god damn it. “Can’t see ya…”

“Need some help?”

He’d been reaching for his phone, but that all goes out the window as his body freezes. Fuck. When he turns the phone’s long since out of his mind.

Mumen Rider is straddling his bike, one foot keeping him upright, another poised on a peddle. There’s a few new scratches on his goggles. Badd swears he can see the glint of glass embedded in the rider’s helmet. None of those details he knows he really should know, but there you go.

“Uh…” Score one for not his pride.

Badd knows they aren’t alone, but it feels like it. A part of his brain recognizes parade music, the screaming of a megaphone, the shriek of the crowd. They’ve got Sweet Mask headlining this year with a rare appearance by Tornado and Blizzard together (for the last time if tabloids are to be trusted). A thousand things to look and see and do.

Mumen’s head tilts a bit, enough so that Badd notices then hates himself for cementing in his memory. “Nice shirt.”

It takes Badd a moment to process that. When he looks down, dumbly, it hits and he feels ready to sink into the concrete. Fuck fuck fuck. How bad does it look? Does it make my arms look small? Is my hair ok? His hand goes up to check for fly away hairs. Almonds go flying.

“It’s not like I l-like you or anything.” Fuck. “My sis’ bought if for me.” God damn it, stop talking. “It’s laundry day.”

By now his mind has stopped trying and he’s pretty sure his heart is going to fall into his stomach and dissolve in acid. It would probably be a kinder fate than the slow descent into agonizing mortification happening right now.

To his credit, Mumen Rider doesn’t laugh. “I like the glitter. Green’s my favorite color.” And the man actually gives a smile.

It does nothing to help Badd not stare. “Makes sense. You know.” He waves a vague hand at all of Mumen Rider.

Of course he’d know, why wouldn’t he know?

Mumen Rider’s hands tighten a bit on the handlebars. “Yeah. Listen…” There’s an awkward pause and Badd has to stop himself from biting a nail. “I know you’ve been following me for awhile.”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

“I was just wondering if there was a reason?” Mumen Rider is calm through it all, not even raising his voice.

Metal Bat - master of the fighting spirit, hero A-Class 21, the comeback kid, 10th district’s finest flirt and best chance of getting into the championships - would later recount exactly twelve things he could have said that he probably should have said.

Instead, he says in a mad rush of syllables, “You wanna go out sometime?”

Immediately he feels his face go red, though in the delusional state that he’s in he swears Mumen’s pinkens as well. There’s the muddy warble of a tuba blaring that seems to fit Badd’s general state of mind. Really all he needs is a meteorite or a god-level disaster to strike to finish him off.

Thank god Mumen takes away the question of who’s supposed to speak next. “Look, you seem like a nice guy.” Mumen shifts. “And I’m flattered-”

Badd knows where this is going. He’s given this speech himself and he can’t say it’s any easier to be the one hearing it. Every almond he’s eaten sits like a rock in his stomach. “But what? I’m not your type?”

“You were kind of stalking me,” Mumen says with a frown.

Badd notes he didn’t answer his question. “Followin’. Not stalkin’.” Because only weirdos did that.

“Because you heart me?” There’s a twitch of Mumen’s lip and Badd finds himself reddening again. “I’m flattered, truly. Your work is impressive. You’ve got a passion for hero work, Metal Bat-san, and an inspiring gift.” And if that doesn’t immediately plaster itself to the inside of Badd’s rib cage he doesn’t know if anything ever will.

But this is still a rejection and no matter how he feels about praise there’s still the end of that sentence to get to. He tries not to let his disappointment show. “But ya ain’t interested. I get it.” He shrugs, trying to keep the roll slow. A hand sweeps his hair, leaving soy wasabi powder. “Not your thing." And he gives him a look. "You're not one of those pro-family people, right?"

Mumen's hands go up. Fast. "NO. No. Gods, no. Just..."

So it's him then. "Right. Forget I said anythin’, ya?”

He’s ready to bail on this conversation entirely so he can go lick his wounded pride in the anonymity of the crowd.

But Mumen isn’t moving. “It’s…” Aside from in front of a camera, it’s the first time he’s seen Mumen flustered. “Not that.” (It’s a confession drawn out, rusty in use.) Mumen has a hand at his neck now, fingers curling. A deep breath in. “You’re just a kid.”

And Badd stops short of saying anything at all. “Huh?” Because if there’s any word he’d use to describe himself it’s never kid. It hasn’t been for nearly ten years. It’s a title that has his hands suddenly making fists and a defensive wall a mile long springing up.

Mumen bites his lower lip just enough for Badd to hate that he notices. “You’re, what, sixteen?” Badd refuses to give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer. “You’re too young.”

“Too young for what? ‘Love?’” He hates himself for actually doing the air quotes. “A relationship? Think I don’t know what I want? I ain’t that young, you know, and I don’t need the likes of you assuming that just because I’ve got a few less years that you’ve got this better idea about what I ‘need’ to be.”

“It’s not…” Mumen starts, trailing helplessly. “You dropped that.”

Which has Badd confused until Mumen points to the ground. The rest of Zenko’s soy wasabi almonds litter the ground, wax paper flapping in the breeze. Mumen is staring at him and he stares back, not sure if he heard that right. “Excuse me?”

“You dropped that. And the cleaning crew worked through the night to make sure the streets were clean for today.”

He’s incredulous, until he remembers the first time they locked eyes and the four way intersection and the intricacies of justice displayed in the way Mumen Rider considers himself very much a part of. It’s part of the charm that has Badd even here to begin with, wearing this shirt, even asking this stupid question. Which means that...

Oh .

“You’re not just givin’ me a brush off, right?” Mumen actually looks a bit hurt so Badd clears his throat. “So when ya say I’m too young…”

“Right now.” Mumen licks his lips. “You’re too young for me right now.” Justice rests against Mumen’s hips as he holds his hands up, anticipating a comment. “Come back when you make S-Class and we can talk then.”

A tick then two goes by as Badd processes this. “I might never make S-Class.”

Mumen just smiles a bit. “Not sure that many papers and that many people could be wrong.”

Which is also true. He’s already in A-Class, and there are betting pools regarding if he’ll be one of the few heroes to make S-Class in less than a year of hero work. “All right. When I hit S-Class then.”

Mumen Rider’s shoulders slump a bit in relief. “Could you do me a favor until then?”

“Depends on the favor.”

“Would you stop following me? It gives the wrong impression.”

Badd can’t help himself. “In case you haven’t heard, I’m king of makin’ impressions.”

“Doesn’t saying that negate the validity of that claim?”

“Ain’t a claim, it’s fact.”

Mumen huffs lightly. Badd swears there’s a smile in there. “Either way…”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Badd waves off the conversation, wrist settling on his hip. “Could take a lesson from me, though, ya know.”

Mumen’s other foot stops idly moving on the pedal. “Is that right? And what would you teach me, Metal Bat-san?”

Badd’s grin is toothy. “Lotsa things. But mostly on makin’ a splash. You’re a hard guy to find.”

Which he feels like Mumen does know, from the single shoulder shrug that gets. “Seems a made an impession on someone." Badd can feel his face reddening as Mumen glances at his shirt. "But you're right. I don’t really like the publicity. There are others more deserving.” Badd frowns a bit, but Mumen’s phone buzzes and the cyclist fishes it out to flip it open with a thumb. “I’ve got to go.”

That also surprises him, considering his own phone didn’t ring. It couldn’t be the Association. Yet another question to add to his growing list.

“Yeah, sure.” Not that Mumen needs his permission to go. Mumen gives him a polite nod and pushes off. He watches, then calls after him, “You’re gonna say yes, right?”

Mumen just looks over his shoulder and gives him a thumbs up, making him wonder if the cyclist even heard him at all.

Wax paper crumples under his foot as he turns. Lifting his shoe, he scoops it up and turns it in his fingers. All he’s got to do is make it to S-Class. It can’t be that hard. Right?

As the paper finds a bin and almond dust is wiped off on his jacket, he hears his name being called.

“Badd! Badd!”

Looking up he finds Zenko making her way toward him, Hero’s Guide in hand. “You’ll never believe who I got!”

“Probably will,” he quips, bending his knees so he can look over Zenko’s shoulder and properly admire each new signature in her Hero’s Guide.

By the time he’s replaced the lost almonds, listened to three speeches by various Association officials, and stood in line to get Child Emperor’s signature, he’s had enough of Hero’s Day. His skin itches and he's restless. Zenko, however, is ecstatic and that's enough to curb his complaining.

The mood comes back, however, hours later at the promised party. True to reputation, the Mitsukuni Mansion is a study in grandeur. A sweeping front drive, finely manicured lawn, and butler at the door are certainly nothing Badd’s every grown accustomed to. The grandiose chandelier of the foyer and elegant stemware serving sparkling apple juice, it’s a surrounding that should be utterly and absolutely captivating.

All he can think about is Mumen Rider.

The party goes on behind him, a string quartet (a fucking string quartet ) providing the night’s entertainment, and honestly if he’d known it was going to be this kind of a party he wouldn’t have come. Even his hero gear feels out of place. A bright smear of red against the elegance of black and white and pastels.

Dancing isn’t normally his thing, much less ballroom, much less being served on literal silver platters. Which is how he finds himself on the overlook, sipping sparkling juice and watching the influx of even more fashionably late individuals flood up the front stairs.

Watch all ya want, it ain’t gonna be him. The juice is overly sweet and his nose tingles from the carbonation. It just makes him all the more restless.

Tajima chooses that moment to make his entrance, arguing, loudly, with Izumi, Mihashi in tow. “I’m just saying, what’s the point of a chocolate fountain if you’re not allowed to dip stuff in it?”

Izumi wrinkles his nose and yanks Tajima’s drink away. “Just because they say finger food doesn’t mean your actual fingers.”

Mihashi, brave soul he occasionally is, attempts to step in. “You can’t deny, having those guys do it for you seems kind of excessive.”

Tajima rolls his eyes, dramatically, then catches Badd’s eyes and grins. “Heeeeeey, Badd! This is where you disappeared to! Thought you’d be schmoozing all those ladies in there!”

It’s obvious the drinking has gone beyond cider. His first thought is who’s going to get Tajima home. His second thought is, “You got any left?”

“Any what?” Even buzzed Tajima’s got his senses.

Badd laughs even as Izumi shoots Mihashi a clear look. “We don’t have anything…”

Mihashi looks nervous now (not that he doesn’t usually). Badd takes it upon himself to slap a supporting hand on the kid’s shoulder lest he vibrate out of his skin. “C’mon, Iz, you an’ I both know this party fucking needs it.”

Izumi looks between the three of them, Tajima wiggling his nose, and Mihashi rubbing the back of his neck,. He sighs deeply. “Seriously, it wasn’t from me, ok?” The flask comes out and the drinks suddenly become something far more tolerable. “Why am I always bringing the alcohol? When you gonna chip in, Badd?”

He takes a generous sip of his own drink. “When I ain’t got your butts to save.”

Mihashi stares at his glass, both hands clasping the stem as if it were a lifeline. “Are you sure we should be doing this? It isn’t our house, and if we’re caught Momoe will…”

“We’re fine, we’ll be fine,” Tajima says, draping an arm over Mihashi and leaning in. “Party’s too fancy anyway. Needs something more exciting than a chocolate fountain. Which why are they called that anyway? Not like they want you drinking the chocolate either.”

“Pretty sure they don’t want ya drinkin’ out of the normal fountains either,” Badd points out.

“That is not what you said that time at-”

“Hey, we said we’d never talk ‘bout that again!” A quick flick of Tajima’s nose stops the story - no one needs to relive that, least of all people not there - but has them devolving into a face making competition that ends with Izumi snorting into his glass and Mihashi laughing.

It’s easy, easy to be here giving a fuck all to the noise behind them. To pretend like it’s another party, another night, another remarkably normal moment where the metal bat on his back isn’t the definition of his existence.

“You’re in a better mood,” Tajima says to him, low, as Izumi and Mihashi compare game scores on their phones. They’ve switched now to leaning by the entrance to the house, watching the dancers go by, the music faster though no less foreign. Waiters scurry by, giving them the odd look. “Find someone?”

Badd snorts and finishes his drink. His tongue burns now and he’ll have to walk it off before he gets home. “Said it yourself. All these people here ain’t in my league.”

“You've met all of them? ”

“Don't need to.”

Tajima hums. “Got high standards there.”

“The highest.” He doesn’t really, but even now there’s a part of him that isn’t sure how to turn Metal Bat off.

“Know what they say about standards…”

He snorts. “They were meant to be broken?”

It’s not really funny, but Tajima laughs anyway. “You, my friend, break everything.”

Which earns the baseball player a wicked grin. “Haven’t broken you yet.”

“Only because you said I haven’t got a brain to break.” Tajima slugs him in the arm before finishing his own drink, smacking his lips. “Still, those “standards” of yours? Gonna leave you high and dry.”

Perhaps maybe Tajima’s right, a part of his brain suggests. But it’s not an issue, says his heart, because there’s that hazy promise of a date. Just as soon as he makes S-Class. He can wait that long, right?

“Doesn’t matter if it does,” he shrugs.

Tajima squints at him. “So there is someone.”

“Never said that.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“Ain’t bullshitting if I’m not saying anything.”

Tajima watches him for a long moment before looking back to the sea of people. Servers duck and dodge in white and red, obvious among the soft ball gowns and silk collars. Badd can’t deny there are several beautiful people there. But the glasses are stylish and elegant, hair neatly kept.

He hums. “Already know what I want.” He gestures with the now empty glass toward the ballroom of people. “And trust me, it ain’t anyone you see in this joke.”

They’re interrupted by the clatter of a tray. (Turns out, silver sounds just as loud as iron.) Badd moves to grab the serving platter as it rolls by, smooth even with the warm burn in his chest. He’s conscious of all eyes on them as he holds the tray out to the server scrambling to pick up glass.

The server takes it, head down, messy brown hair hiding what his glasses don’t. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t watch where I was stepping.”

“Yeah, ya didn’t.” Zenko would be disappointed in him and he screws his mouth up a bit, ready to attempt something less in your face. He stops at the red tinge across the server’s cheeks, suddenly tongue-tied in an uncharacteristic stab of uncertainty.

“Hey, no worries…” Tajima starts, but the server is already on the floor, sweeping up broken glass with his hands. Another server is already moving in with a cloth. Tajima glances at him and shrugs. “So when do I get to meet her?” At silence Tajima adds, “Him?”

There’s no chance of his answering that. Mihashi saves the day, however, with a particularly awful rendition of the latest K-Pop ballad. It's a less than subtle sign that they’re actually there for anything but the food. It gets them ‘escorted’ out, with more apologies than he’s heard in awhile. They’re not the only ones leaving, as a bicyclist speeds down the drive ahead of them. Though it’s tempting to think of earlier that day Badd instead wrestles the flask from Izumi and the rest of the evening they spend at the school track finishing the flask under the bleachers.

Chapter Text

The next morning he wakes on the sofa with a bottle of aspirin halfway to open in his hand and a drool soaked pillow under his head. Bones creak as he wakes, falling off the sofa in his haste to stretch.

Zenko passes by with her breakfast dishes, shaking her head at him. “Onii-chan, be careful!”

He winces at the sound. “Ugh…”

She clatters the dishes, he suspects on purpose. “Your phone rang.”

Which has him shooting for the phone, which is somehow halfway under the sofa. “Why didn’t you wake me?!”

Zenko’s already disappearing into her room, book bag in tow. “Because they said you could call back!”

Badd just lets his head drop, groaning. It means an evaluation of some kind from the Association, the school’s dean, or any number of friends who are going to give him shit about the fact Zenko’s had to answer his phone for him. Again. There’s a part of him that knows he should feel same. He’s sure future Badd will. But right now he twists open the aspirin and debates getting up for water.

The call turns out to be Tanaka who, predictably, gives him complete shit for being shit faced. “Dumbass.”

“Yeah, yeah, stop shouting.” His fingers rub his forehead. Maybe he should get the ice from the fridge. “What’d’ya want?”

“Ennoshita and I are hitting the beach. You and Zenko in?”

“Ain’t it early for the beach?”

Tanaka huffs. “Quitter talk.”

“Fuck you.”

Tanaka just laughs and covers the phone as he shouts at Ennoshita. Badd feels a pang of jealousy that has him grinding his teeth.

“Come on, Badd, Zenko will love it.”

“Zenko has school work. And I have a-”

Like she was summoned, Zenko appears at the doorway to her room. “I don’t have that much.”

Which is how they find themselves in Ennoshita’s parent’s car, boogie boards and basket of snacks nestled between Zenko and Badd in the back. It’s warm enough for a t-shirt and boardshorts that come to the top of his knees. (Never mind they’re the only clean clothes he has right now.) Ennoshita is asking Zenko about school as Tanaka breezes through radio stations like tourists through film.

Water bottle in hand, he’s watching out the window as the beach draws near. A group of cyclists pass and it’s funny how he notices now. Every bike that passes, every ding of a bell. It’s like his mind is fine tuned to it and he’s not sure how to shut it off. It makes him wonder all the more just what Mumen Rider looks like when not Mumen Rider.

He’s brought out of his thoughts by Tanaka, who’s staring at him in the mirror. “Earth to Badd, you in there?”

Zenko’s poking his shoulder as he gives her a playful swat. “Naw, just us-”

Tanaka slams on the brakes so hard Badd’s nose hits the headrest in front of him. The airbags deploy with a loud POP and gunpowder fills his nose as they hit the car in front of them with a metallic crunch. His hand immediately goes out to find Zenko, even as his eyes water. “What the fuck, Enno-”

The screams are answer enough. Out the front window a monster rises from the ocean; a pale white thing with red eyes and more tentacles than any creature has a right to. Badd’s stomach drops as people begin to abandon cars. He glances over at Zenko, who’s rubbing her forehead and staring out the window in the beginning stages of fear.

Ennoshita groans, nose bleeding, and Tanaka is already reaching over to unbuckle his belt for him. Tanaka and his eyes meet. “What are you waiting for, hero? I’ve got this.”

He hesitates, because he trusts Tanaka, he does. But he made a promise to Zenko a long time ago, when he first took up the bat. As if knowing, she looks at him then at his bat on the floor. “Go on, onii-chan. People need you.”

With that blessing he’s squeezing her arm. “Straight home, Zenko.” A nod to Tanaka and Ennoshita and he’s off, bat in hand, sandals flip-flopping against the hot asphalt. He nearly loses a shoe as he draws out his bat, considering his position.

The beach is cluttered and the highway crowded. He’s long since learned to tune out non-emergency screaming The monster is headed for the pier, steps cracking wood and sending shock waves even out to where he is now. If he’s honest, he’s already written the pier off. The people on it, however, are another matter entirely.

His phone is buzzing even as he makes the leap from highway to beach, bones creaking as he lands in a built up sand drift. Fingers fish out the phone from his pocket. “Yeah?”

The background clack of computers is just confirmation of who he already knows is on the other end. “We’ve got a demon level disturbance at-”

“Metal Bat here, I’m on it.”

“Wait for back-”

He hangs up because he doesn’t have time for this shit. If they truly know something they’ll keep calling back. Right now, however, he can hear it roaring… “I AM RIP TIDE, LORD OF THE SURF, TERROR OF THE UNDER CURRENT! I SHALL WASH YOU ALL OUT TO THE KING!”

Personally, that sounds like reinforcements, which means it’s going to be a ‘get-it-gone-asap’ kind of attack. Fortunately, he knows more than a few way to start those and they usually involve the brave and the bold and the slightly stupid. Good thing he’s all three.

People part as they see him coming and the ones that don’t he dodges. A girl trips and falls who he jumps over, landing on a table. Steadying himself, regardless of his foot in someone’s abandoned fries, he motions with his free hand. “Get out! Everyone out! Help her up and GET OUTTA HERE!”

The pier’s nearly empty, which is good as the monster is starting to move inland. Wood cracks and splinters away like nothing as it hits the creature’s scaly hide and it’s frightening how the thing doesn’t even notice. The smell hits him hard: rotting fish, sea water, candy floss, ketchup, and pure unadulterated brine. The hand covering his nose does nothing to stop him from gagging.

But even that falls away when eyes fall on him. Big, deep eyes that feel like drowning. Panic twines around the knot in his stomach. There’s a force that hits him and if it weren’t for his indomitable will he’d have staggered.

“It’s Metal Bat!”

“Save us, Metal Bat!”

“He can’t take that on, wait for the S-Class heroes!”

His phone is buzzing again but he already knows: this is a dragon class. And if it isn’t now it will be shortly as it slams a fist down in deceptive slow motion. The shock wave and crash send Badd flying and for a moment his head rings white.

Fuck.

Groans assault his ears as he sits up, bat just out of reach and rolling with a clatter across what’s left of the pier. People scream. In the distance helicopters thump. The creature roars “I AM RIP TIDE, GUARDIAN OF THE SHORE, YOU TOO SHALL FEAR ME!”

He sees out of the corner of his eyes people’s expressions change. No longer are they looking at him but at the monster, eyes wide, grips white. A family runs, child holding half a stuffed bear, screaming. And for just a moment, just one, his chest caves in and it feels like there’s dust in his eyes all over...

NO.

He stands, uneasy as his ears ring. A stumble has him on a knee, but his bat is in his hands and the groove from his fingers welcomes him. Blood courses through him as the carousel to his right dies with a musical decrescendo, slipping sideways and off into the encroaching shoreline. A lone snack shack remains, heat rising from unattended fry oil. He scales it all the same, losing a flip flop to the oil bins and shaking the other off. There’s no point.

“You want a fight?!” He shouts, hearing only half his own words. The creature blinks, surprised, and glances down. He’s pretty sure seagulls are circling the thing’s head it’s so high up. “You got a fight, you bastard! Don’t care what ya are, you’re goin’ down all the same!”

The creature bends down and there’s a sound like the tide rushing. It’s laughing, Badd realizes. Laughing. “YOU CHALLENGE ME, FRAGILE ONE? YOU DARE-”

CRACK!

His bat meets the things face the minute it’s close enough. He may not be a veteran yet, but he knows enough that a monologue is nothing but an opportunity to take advantage of. When it comes to monsters, fair fight never turns out fair for everyone.

The recoil is intense and he feels it in his shoulders. But with it comes the adrenaline of battle, his fighting spirit kicks in and it’s that very thing that has him pushing off on his toes and right into the heart of it all with a battle cry that would wake the dead. His feet land again on the scales of the thing’s hand and like that he’s off running and thank god for the years of bare feet on sand and dirt because the creature’s scales are sharp edged and slick. He nearly slips as the behemoth moves but he doesn’t fall.

He can see the ground disappear from the corner of his eye. The devastation is staggering. Minus the jagged bits the pier is gone, the snack shack the only thing standing at the edge of broken planks. Rubble piles slip and slide into the ocean and if there are people there he isn’t sure they’re living anymore. (He tries not to think about what this would be like if he were faster.)

The creature bellows. “YOU ARE NO MATCH FOR RIP TIDE, RULER OF THE SHORELINE, TAKER OF LIVES!” It starts to move. “HAND OF DEEP-SEA DEATH!”

It makes his ears ring and there’s a tiny hum he knows will linger for days. He can feel the shift though and sure enough by the time the creature’s other hand attempts to swat him he’s read to side step and swing. “So far, I ain’t impressed!”

CRACK!

He hears the bone crack, even with his ears, and a triumphant smile breaks out even as he swings again.

CRACK!

A faint memory triggers at the roar and for a moment he tastes carrots and brick. It makes him swing again in a blind fog of black.

CRACK!

Three fingers are bent at the wrong angle as he takes his lead and jumps from bicep to shoulder. His hand grabs a scale and blood runs down his forearm as the keratin slices his palm. It surprises him for a second at how warm it is. When did his own skin get so cold?

Shaking its head, the creature screams and just like that things change.

Scales pop up, first one or three then all of them at once. He ends up with sliced clothes and a precarious balance on a few choice scales, one hand holding his bat, the other holding a scale. If it was cold then it’s cold now as the creature shakes.

“I WILL DRAG YOU BELOW AND WATCH YOU SCREAM, OH FRAGILE THING! AND THEN I WILL LET THE FISH HAVE YOUR FLESH AND USE YOUR BONES TO PICK MY TEETH!” It’s enormous lips snarl, sending a wave of briny breath over him. “UNDER SEA HORRIFIC DREAM!”

He hangs on, head sheltered in his elbow, teeth chattering as sea air sticks to his skin. For a moment he almost loses his grip, nails scraping scale away and it’s then he realizes it’s there. A sinking feeling, a despairing panic that whispers letgoletgoletgo. His breath catches and he feels small, so small, reaching, reaching, reaching and it’s so cold in the ruins…

Blood drips on his cheek and suddenly he smells fried dough, just for a second. It’s enough for him to realize there’s something more than strength playing here.

“L-Lotsa p-p-promises!” He yells, teeth chattering. “B-B-But w-we all know y-ya g-g-gotta deliver if y-ya wanna i-i-impress!”

There’s so much at stake. He can feel the power beneath scaly arms and it’s terrifying. The whole thing is terrifying. Whatever it can do, wherever it came from, it can’t be allowed to go past the shore line. That much he knows. Especially with how he can feel it at the back of his mind, lapping at his concentration.

He can’t even entertain the idea of Zenko reliving it.

So he pulls himself up with a yell, ducks at the clumsy fumble of a giant hand, and digs in even as scales split his palms. The creature roars in frustration, but it never had much of a chance against him. By the time he pulls himself up to the creature’s collar he doesn’t feel the cold anymore. His face is splattered with blood.

“Fight me!” He screams, both hands gripping his bat. “DRAGON THRASHING!”

And when the creature turns to face him he charges with a war cry. The bat hits the thing’s chin and it reverberates through them both. He doesn’t stop, won’t stop as each hit connects again and again and again. Scales fly; one slices his cheek. And still he continues with every ounce of his being.

It’s suffocating if he thinks about it, dirt in his nose, brick in his mouth, screams and crunching of bone…

Bone cracks as a tooth is sent flying from the thing’s mouth, a serrated canine plunging into the sand. He grins, a smug grin, because he’s A-10 and he’s going to win against a fucking dragon level threat-

“IAI OF CERTAIN KILL!”

His bat hits the blade of an all too familiar katana and suddenly he’s falling down, down, down. On the way he passes a very, very surprised face, eyes locking with his from beneath the cut out of a metal helmet.

S-Class 17.

When he wakes seconds later it’s to a view of the sky, clouds drifting past. It’s...his brain struggles to put a word to it. Peaceful. A light wind blows, the roar of the ocean, the smell of salt and dough-

Fuck.

It smashes into him at once. The pain in his spine, arms wet with blood, numbness in his toes. For a brief moment he panics that he can’t move. But his fingers shift and he realizes his bat is right there against his thumb and like hell he’s going to let a fucking katana outdo what he should, by all rights, be ending.

The effort it takes to stand is Herculean. But he manages and like the Titans of old he rises from the pit, hand curled around his bat as his feet find purchase.

Iaian is nothing more than a flash of silver, nearly lost against the creature’s iridescent hide. Occasionally there’s the sound of what Badd can only describe as thunder. It follows every slash of the bright blade. And if it were any other situation he’d probably appreciate just how easily the man handles himself and his blade.

Instead, his hand curls around his bat and he lets irritation and anger and pain take over. He charges with a cry as the creature steps, and with six whacks of his bat all three web toes are taken out and a knee starts to buckle.

“Get him down!” Badd yells, perhaps unnecessarily, hoping Iaian catches on.

Fortunately, the man does. A katana slice joins his bat swings. “Stand down, Metal Bat! Help’s on the way.”

“Ain’t gotta - ” He has to dodge as a hand swipes dangerously close. Overhead the creature bellows. “Do shit. We can take him.”

“You’re injured - ” They both dive as the being stumbles again. “And going to get yourself killed! Let S-Class heroes handle this!” Eyes flash at him under metal and he thinks Iaian probably wears the helmet to save himself from allied punches.

“Shut the fuck up and swing your damn knife!”

Which he knows doesn’t make him any friends. But it gets Iaian focused on the creature and not him and between them they bring the thing to a knee.

This time, however, he knows what that particular bellow is. Scales start to pop and he turns to Iaian to warn him. “It’s gonna-”

But it hits before he can say it and he doubles over, bat tip hitting the sand. His throat hurts from coughing and logically a small part of him knows it isn’t there, there’s nothing there. But every part of him freezes and he tastes carrots and brick and his fingers bleed from moving brick to find them to find her to find anyone-

His bat comes up and hits his forehead with a bang. The pain shakes his skull, but he’s back to salt and the sea lapping at his feet. The sun is hot on his shoulder and it’s enough for him to know he needs to move now .

Sand stings the cuts in his feet as he leaps sideways, crashing into Iaian. The S-Class is clutching his sheathed katana, sweat on his forehead, half-doubled over and eyes glassy. They fall into the sand and Badd pins him down to avoid the hand that fumbles for them. It tries, but the fingers leave empty.

“YOU WILL BOTH FEEL THE GNASH OF MY TEETH, YOUR BONES WILL BREAK IN MY HANDS-”

Badd leans in, checking Iaian’s pulse. It’s strong, erratic, but there. “C’mon c’mon c’MON.” He shakes the man, but it only gets a partial response. “Shit. Sorry ‘bout this…” Grabbing Iaian, he rolls to avoid the creature’s hand again. They tumble. And when he sits up again, hair covered in sand, he slaps Iaian with a loud crack.

Iaian bolts up at that, hard breath rattling his teeth. “Gods…”

“Not quite.” Badd grins and is up, bat in hand as he considers the creature. It’s no longer just about people, about the pier. It’s fucking personal now because no one, not even himself, get to use that against him. He grabs Iaian’s lapels and pulls him out of a spray of sand. “Come on, kid, snap outta it!”

They’re not so lucky at the next strike. He loses his grip on Iaian and finds himself flying, landing heavily against the side of the snack shack. His shoulders ache beneath the fire of his blood...but he has an idea.

“Metal Bat…” Iaian has a hand on his katana, finally back in the game.

He rises, slowly, though from the look on Iaian’s face he can only imagine what his grin looks like. Canines sharp, blood from a split lip on his chin. He pounds his bat into his hands. “Distract him.”

Iaian nods, awed, and turns. “IAI OF CERTAIN KILL!”

As Iaian’s katana flashes Badd turns to wind a towel around his hand. He watches as Iaian fights, waiting until just the right moment when… There. With a yank a container of super heated frying oil comes with him and he shouts, “Hey! Fish face!”

And when the creature turns he throws and swings. The oil flies with the perfect arc, a hint of a backspin, just like he’s been taught and practiced so many times. He knows it will hit which is why he rushes the creature’s knee. “FIGHTING SPIRIT!”

The minute the oil hits the creature’s eye it screams in agony, thrashing, scales flapping up and down. This time they’re prepared, though, both of them. Iaian goes left, he goes right. And when Iaian goes down, taking a whole hand with him, Metal bat is there.

“SAVAGE DRAGON THRASHING!”

It’s over in a few seconds. But to Badd it’s drawn out in a glorious cacophony of metallic notes. Each quieter than the next. Eventually he’s left with nothing but a slow motion portrait of his progress. He smiles, even laughs. Fighting Spirit has never failed him, never let him down. That indomitable will to stay on his feet, regardless of the sand in his cuts and salt on his wounds. Next week they’ll sit here on the beach and remember this. Him and Zenko. Tanaka and Ennoshita.

But right now? He does this for himself. Let’s himself have a moment to breath and laugh and let loose the anger fear leaves behind in a way that enough of them can agree is beneficial.

When he stops, shoulders hunched, bat still up, he can hear the creature wheeze. It tries to say something. Instead, scales rain down on Badd’s head, off his bat, onto the sand with light pings.

The behemoth falls. The shock wave sends the snack shack over the inevitable edge to die in one last blurp of oil and dough. Sand erupts into waves and sea water crashes in a near-never ending cascade. It stings his cuts, but the creature doesn’t stir from where it fell.

And for the first time since this started the only noise in his ears is a tinny ringing.

It’s over.

His bat lowers with a soft thump into the sand and his grip loosens. Feeling floods into the scrapes and cuts on his feet and floods up to his brain, raising goosebumps on his arms. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers discomfort.

But it’s over.

A hand rests on his shoulder he looks up, blinking away adrenaline. Iaian stares at him. For a moment he wonders if the man is still shell-shocked. (Later he’ll realize it’s awe.) “Are you all-right?”

He straightens, pops his lips as he pops a shoulder. “Eh, never better.”

Iaian just stares. “You’re bleeding.”

Badd looks over his shoulder, bat sitting on the other. “Yeah, and? Gonna look for survivors or not?”

It gets Iaian to stiffen and nod, duty on the mind once more. Sirens wail and the chopper overhead grows louder as it dares to come closer. The clean up crew will be here soon, ambulances and fire trucks in tow. For now he squats - just for a minute he tells himself - and wipes the blood from his chin on his arm.

His phone is in his hand and hitting speed dial before he knows it. As it rings he rests his forehead on the knuckles holding his bat. When it clicks, he waits.

“Baddo?”

He smiles. “Hey, Zenko, ‘m ok.”

When he sees her next it’s in a hospital room in L-City. He’s drowsy and his skin feels gummy from the salve separating scrapes from bandages. But he’s never been out of it enough to recognize Zenko and he’s not about to start now. So when the door opens he sits up a bit and smiles.

Immediately she wraps her arms around his neck for a tight hug, bed be damned. “Onii-chan!”

He hisses. “Careful now!” But he wraps his arms around her likewise. “How’d you get all the way out here?”

“Tanaka,” she says, not ready to pull away. He doesn’t make her. “We took the bus. He’s signing us in.” He’ll have to thank Tanaka later. “Onii-chan, you have to be more careful!”

“Got the job done an’ I’m still in one piece,” he says. “Besides, someone had to get in there.”

“You could have waited!”

He buries his nose in her hair, barrette digging into the side of his nose. “Not lettin’ anything like that get one step closer to you ever again.”

“You can’t be my onii-chan if you die.” It’s less insistent, however, as they reach a familiar stalemate. He knows to be careful, just as she knows he’ll rush in. It’s a argument with no end and likely always will be.

“Want my jello?” He always saves her his jello. Always. Particularly when it’s lime. “Fresh outta the cup.”

She takes it, though before she can pull the lid off there’s a knock and Tanaka’s there, jacket still halfway zipped. “Still alive?”

He may be drugged but he still manages to throw Tanaka the finger. It gets him a glare from Zenko. “Baddo!”

“I was kiddin’, I was kiddin’!” He throws his hands up and gives Tanaka a pleading look.

Tanaka, the jackass, just laughs. “Ran into that one.”

He’d swear him out but Zenko is watching so he takes it with a snort and crosses his arms. “No one’s ever on my side.”

“Because your side sucks.” It’s honestly no surprise Tanaka and Zenko say that in unison. Badd makes a face at them both, mouth twisted, tongue out, and eyelid pulled up.

Which is how the Hero’s Association people walk in on him.

“Mr. Metal Bat?”

Jello blops off of Zenko’s spoon as Badd splutters. “Uh…”

He’s seen these two once before. When he was promoted from B to A. They’d been behind the screen committee before, however, and not in the field. Certainly not with a clipboard in hand. It’s was why he finds himself sitting up a bit straighter.

As if sensing the change, Tanaka clears his throat and zips up his coat once more. “Gonna go get some coffee…” He disappears out the door with a last look over his shoulder at Badd.

“That was some fight, Mr. Metal Bat.” Badd just nods. He doesn’t remember this sandy haired agent’s name. Sato? “Impressive, if not a bit foolhardy.”

Which is how he finds himself frowning. “Finished it off, didn’t I?”

“Safety protocols state a demon level should have a minimum of two A-Class heroes.” Badd remembers this one’s voice, as well as the round glasses. Iwate. “This isn’t the first fight you’ve ignored protocols on.”

Badd shrugs, even if he wants to punch someone’s face. Hard. “Wasn’t about to let more people get hurt ‘cause someone’s gotta tie their shoes still.”

Agent Sato’s lips purse. “Neverthless, it’s dangerous, ill-advised, and potentially life threatening-”

“And yet I did it anyway, so what are ya gonna do about it?” His arms are crossed and he’s not about to back down on this decision. If he wasn’t to Zenko then definitely not to these two, official agents or not.

“You did,” says Agent Iwate, straightening his tie. “And you easily landed not just one or two blows on that thing but the finishing volley as well. With impressive accuracy. You also saved an S-Class level hero from severe injury, if not doom. And reduced the potential destruction down by over 90%.”

“That is why,” continues Agent Sato. “You are being considered from a promotion.”

He’s confused. It’s a lot of hullabaloo for a promotion. “All this for A-11?”

Iwate and Sato look at each other, as if debating who says it. Finally, Sato shakes his head. “No, Mr. Metal Bat. We’re talking higher. Much higher.”

“S-Class higher,” finishes Iwate.

It takes him a long moment to process that. With S-Class comes a bigger paycheck, larger pension, more press, the legendary status that only comes with widespread adulation. It’s (partly) what he’s wanted since he started all of this. Zenko is staring wide-eyed and honestly he can’t say his expression isn’t less comical.

Still, he finds himself asking, “What about Iaian?”

Sato and Iwate look at each other. “This is the hero game, after all.” As if decades of service don’t matter. “These things happen.”

Iwate takes out his phone and taps the screen a few times. “You’ll have to attend a preliminary hearing at HQ. You’ll also need to complete a psych evaluation and physical evaluation as well.”

“He already went through tests…” Zenko says slowly.

“Yes, but these are just to make sure your brother is in tip top shape,” Agent Sato says.

Zenko narrows her eyes at the tone. “He’s in the hospital. He puts himself here every other time he goes out. What more do you want to know?”

Sato closes his mouth and Iwate clears his throat. “It’s just a formality. It means nothing.”

“Then why do it?”

“Miss…”

He pops his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle. Passed all your other ‘formalities’ so might as well knock these ones outta the park, eh, Zenko?” The wink he gives her does little to soften her scowl, but her irritation is worth the larger room he’s already picturing.

“We’ll call you, Mr. Metal Bat,” Sato promises, and his phone beeps as if recording it. “For now, we extend our thanks on behalf of all of us at the Association.”

The two agents bow respectfully, though the speed with which they leave has less to do with Sato’s phone ringing and more to do with the look Zenko gives them even as the door shuts. “I don’t trust them.”

He sighs, closing his eyes and letting his head fall against the pillows. “They ain’t that bad.”

“Why do you have to do more tests?”

He shrugs, then hisses. (The aftermath of adrenaline is rarely kind.) “Dunno.”

Small hands are suddenly on one of his, however, and when he peeks open an eye he finds Zenko at the edge of his bed, head down as she holds his hand in her two. A small thumb traces the bandages on his knuckle.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching over with his other hand to tilt her chin up. “It’s gonna be ok, yeah?”

“I just worry, onii-chan,” Zenko admits slowly.

“You don’t gotta worry about anything.” Perhaps an overstatement, but if there’s one thing he can’t stand it’s seeing Zenko upset. “They’re just gonna ask me some questions, make me do some push ups. No biggie. I’ll be in and outta there in an hour.”

Zenko’s nose wrinkles, but he knows the minute she relents because she squeezes his hand. “Be careful.”

Which is an odd thing to say, considering the true threat lies dead on the beach. But he doesn’t argue, instead just giving her a smile. “Only for you.”

“For me?” Tanaka’s voice has Zenko dropping his hand even as the door opens. The smell of coffee is almost as welcome as the distraction. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Only thing I’ve got for you is a foot to the ass if one of those ain’t for me.” He ignores the rolling of Zenko’s eyes.

Tanaka’s eyebrows wiggle. “Kinky.” Even as he hands off a cup to Zenko. “Hot chocolate for the lady.”

Zenko snags Tanaka’s coffee with ease and the look on Tanaka’s face is worth fighting off pain killers to laugh at for awhile. It also serves to make Zenko laugh as well and they don’t talk about the Heroes Association again.

The hardest part of hero work, however, remains the night after. It’s a fact he’s grown accustomed to over the years, though familiarity has yet to breed comfort. The television does little to replace Zenko or Tanaka, no matter how many channels he switches between, yet the relative silence of the hospital invites too many second guesses for it to stay off.

What would have happened if he hadn’t managed to take it down? What would have happened if he’d lost his grip? Where would Zenko go if…?

“The clean up of the L-City pier goes on tonight as crews continue to remove-”

He has to click back two channels to catch the rest. Behind the perky, petite newswoman the pier still looks like a disaster, the bloated body of the monster grossly distended in the background. Large lights illuminate construction workers as they move. In the background he swears that flash of light is…

“Local heroes remain on the scene to assist in the clean-up efforts.” The camera zooms and the familiar lenses of Mumen Rider reflect the brilliant light. It distracts from the dust on Mumen’s gloves and the grey pallor of a concrete dusted lips set in a determined line.

His own cuts sting in the background of his mind, but despite that his fingers tighten on the remote. The I.V. line feels heavy in his arm. He shifts as the bed presses hard into his back. It’s nearly 1am and despite a promotion waiting and an interview scheduled for tomorrow it doesn’t help with the fact that there’s someone else out there cleaning up his mess.

That should be him out there, helping Stinger, helping Pineapple-What’s-His-Name. Shifting through the mess with Mumen Rider. If there’s anyone who knows first hand that a few minutes can make all the difference...

The TV powers off with a click of his thumb and he can’t decide if that makes him smart or scared.

They release him the next morning, the waning effect of hospital grade painkillers leaving him with an emotion Zenko politely describes as touchy. Policy dictates a wheelchair to the lobby at least, one which he obeys only for Zenko’s sake.

As Zenko arduously goes through each and every care point on the discharge list (suggestions, he says) he fidgets and watches the shadows beyond the double doors. He knows they’re waiting out there. News reporters, cameras, bloggers. Sometimes he almost wonders if they’re scarier than the monsters he fights.

He’s never really been a words person, so he tries - at Zenko’s suggestion - to pre-plan his answers to the obvious. What were you thinking? Were you scared? Did you have a strategy?

Naturally, it all goes out the window when the doors open and a paramedic team rushes in with a bed. There’s talking and shouting and the boop-beep of machines, but what he focuses on is less the bloody face on the stretcher and more the five o’clock shadow by the door.

Stinger is already moving back out, off duty from the way his spear is already being folded and put away (how he manages that with the tip Badd still doesn’t know). But Mumen has already caught his eye and has frozen by the door with an odd curl of his fingers.

For a moment, Badd holds his breath, thumbs digging into the rubber wheels. Then, at almost the same time, they both say, “Hey.”

Mumen recovers faster than he does. “How are you feeling?”

It flares in him, that refusal to actually state that his ass feels kicked three ways to Sunday. “Eh.” He shrugs and pretends that’s not a shiver of pain up his spine. “Could go another round or two.”

That gets a smile from Mumen. “Yeah? Bet you could.” Badd pretends that doesn’t please him as much as it does. “Especially since it missed a few spots.” For a hot second Badd thinks Mumen may reach out and touch his cheek. Instead, Mumen’s hand does an awkward mid-air change to thumb at his own cheek. The action leaves a jarring smudge of even darker dust over stubble.

Badd snorts. “Yeah, well, can’t have it knockin’ up the goods too much, you know? Trading cards wouldn’t sell as well.”

“I highly doubt that,” Mumen says, though it’s almost lost in the crackle of the PA. It’s still enough for Badd to rub the back of his neck, hide the one-two step in his chest. Mumen coughs into glove. “I, uh, glad to see you’re ok. It was some fight.”

After the previous comment it’s almost disappointing how the conversation veers back into something so sedate, so...safe.

“Yeah, well, fighting’s my middle name.” It absolutely isn’t but it gets a bit of a smile out of Mumen, which is more than enough reason for Badd to keep going. “Fact, pretty sure the first thing I did when I came out into this world was pick a fight with the doc for slappin’ me.”

Mumen is shaking his head now, fist to his mouth to (badly) hide the chuckle. Badd is caught for a  moment at the dazzle of white teeth against dust covered cheeks. “That’s quite the impression to start out with.”

“Well, I like to be memorable.”

His heart falls when Mumen looks away at that, answering after a stilted moment with, “I’m fairly certain your latest fight will be remembered for quite awhile.” The crestfallen pit of his stomach must have showed on his face, as Mumen’s hand fell away with apologetic quickness. “You do good work, Metal Bat-san. Good work is always remembered in the hearts of those that matter.”

He can’t help it. It’s out of his mouth with the quirk of an eyebrow before his brain can argue the logic of not saying anything at all, “Like you?”

Badd could swear a blush happens and happens hard over Mumen’s cheeks. “Like those waiting to hear from the hero of L-City.”

It’s delivered calmly, but Badd knows enough about making people uncomfortable to know that shift of stance well enough. The sudden, inevitable media storm suddenly seems very far away and like the pop of a cork he suddenly remembers the letter coming soon to his mail box. One he opens his mouth to mention, when-

“Badd?” Tanaka has never had the best of timing. “Hey man, you ready?”

When he looks over his shoulder Zenko is staring hard around the stars in her eyes at Mumen Rider, Tanaka glancing between them both with a tilt of his head like he doesn’t quite get it but isn’t sure there’s anything to get. (Not that there is.)

Badd’s almost ashamed for the way he snaps, “Was fucking ready an hour ago.”

By the time he turns back to Mumen the man’s already all-business again, giving a short bow to Zenko and Tanaka (or is it to him?, he can’t tell). “Thank you again, Metal Bat-san.”

And like that Mumen’s off, striding past to talk in soft tones to the nurse at the desk. Tanaka’s hands are already gripping his wheelchair and the look Badd knows he’s getting is enough for him to groan and close his eyes. “Shut it.”

“Whatever you say, Metal Bat-san.”

He smacks Tanaka a good one even as Zenko gives them both disapproving looks. The media is already pouring in, however, and in what turns out to be a blessing the crowd is large enough that an HQ representative is waiting with a company car to take them home, negating the need to talk about any of it at all.

Chapter Text

Three days later, however, he’s still thinking about that exchange and how he probably should have talked to Tanaka about it. Because fuck, what are you supposed to do when you flirt like that?

Was it even flirting at all?

It sure as fuck feels like it was, even as he stuffs floral bedding into the basement washer. If the washer lid shudders when he slams it shut it’s absolutely not because he doesn’t have an answer to that question.

“Did you forget your detergent again, dearie?”

He startles and looks up to find Mrs. Togashi, calmly folding her delicates while watching him with her one eye. “Uh…no. Just, stains, ya know?”

Mrs. Togashi huffs. “Mmm, peroxide for blood. Dish soap for grease. Vinegar for mud.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He moves to go, getting so far as the steps to the door when Mrs. Togashi calls out, “Something on your mind, dear?”

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Togashi.” Because it really is nothing. (Or is it something?)

“It must be something. You’ve gone and put everything in the broken washer.”

He facepalms himself, reigning in a deep sigh and the groan that goes with. “Shit.” Which gets him a disapproving look that has him hunching as he switches units, avoiding contact with that far too intrusive eye.

As he attempts to shove everything from one machine into another in one go (and fails) Mrs. Togashi hums, which has him already prepared for the inevitable, “It’s a girl, isn’t it? Are you dating that shrine girl again?”

He really wishes he knew how everyone knew that. “No…”

“It must be someone, then, because you’re unusually moody, even for a young man like yourself.”

Whatever has him radiating desperation he needs to find and stop, he tells himself as he dumps far more fabric softener than needed into the machine. “It’s nothing, Mrs. Togashi. Just beat up a huge monster a few days ago, if you didn’t hear. Kind of saved all of L-City.”

“I saw. You certainly don’t look as if you’ve been in a fight.”

“Yeah, well, I heal fast.” Which is besides the point, and also not relevant to the whole goal of let’s-not-talk-about-my-love-life.

Predictably, it doesn’t work. “So, this girl. Is she pretty?”

He tries to tell himself that his skin feeling prickly is a result of the fading scabs on his arms, not the predictability of and assumption behind the question. “Yeah, sure. Like Amaterasu herself.”

The speed with which Mrs. Togashi managed to fold larger than life, lacey things was impressive. “It doesn’t sound like she’s the one.”

There’s a lot he wants to say. Like ‘no shit’ and ‘you don’t say’ and ‘that’s because it’s not a she’ but instead he catches his detergent just before it goes upended into his laundry basket. “And why do you say that? Maybe I proposed to her already. Maybe we’re already promised.”

Mrs. Togashi gives him a look that isn’t entirely unlike Zenko’s ‘that’s bullshit’ expression. Badd’s pretty sure, at this point, that this particular version of the look is universal among women and saved for those special instances where men say something dumb in the hopes they don’t call them out on it.

“So she’s not the one.”

Badd knows agreeing is easier than fighting, but he can't help it. “You don't know that.”

“You fight too much. Spend too much time worrying about saving everyone and being a big shot. Heroes like you forget you’re human, too!” She says even as she gives his mostly-healed cuts a dubious look. “You need to find yourself someone that reminds you of that.”

There’s a point in there, perhaps, though the heart of it be clouded in far too much meddling for Badd’s taste. He’s not ready to agree; not ready to give in to a standard. But he does sigh, loudly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You should let me introduce you to my niece.” And there it was; five minutes. A new record. “She’s your age, very smart. She has a full ride to university in two years. She’s going to be a doctor someday, you know.”

“I’ll let you know if I’m ever available,” he says even as he vows never to be that available. (Not that she wasn’t nice. He was sure she was.)

Mrs. Togashi just huffs and Badd isn’t sorry to be leaving the conversation. Yet as he turns away she adds, “The mailman was looking for you, by the way. Said a letter came. Very fancy, looked important.”

“Why couldn’t you lead with that?!” He doubts she heard, though, as he’s already running, laundry basket forgotten near the basement stairs.

The postman being four building down does nothing against the promise of Association stationery and precise blue cursive. He stares at the envelope, embossed HQ symbol in the corner, edges cutting into his fingertips. It’s got a weight to it that inspires a weight in his stomach and he stands there long enough for his neck in the sun.

He startles when his phone beeps and it’s a juggling act for a moment to handle both the letter and his phone. Finally, the screen flips and with a curse he makes it home just in time to find Zenko taking her shoes off.

She greets him with a smile and a piece of paper flung in his face. “Onii-chan, Onii-chan! I had the best score in music theory! I…” Zenko trails even as he takes the paper, blinking away earlier apprehension. “Is that?”

The HQ letter leaves his hand to be turned over twice in Zenko’s, smaller fingers running the sealed flap and gently tracing the wax of the seal. Her eyes are as big as his when she looks up. “Are you going to open it?”

“Well, yeah. Was just waitin’ for you.” He smiles then, hand on her shoulder, and she smiles up at him in a way that makes his heart tighten.

“Come on!” And she’s running off down the hall now to the kitchen.

He’s not far behind, feeling eight himself and like that one light-tinged Christmas morning he remembers from years and years and years ago. (He doesn’t remember what was in the green ribboned package today.) Zenko stands on a chair as he leans over her shoulder to watch as the knife neatly slides through the top of the letter.

For a moment they pause in an eerie synchronization that Badd doesn’t know how to describe. Zenko’s fingers don’t go beyond the neat tear, pink nails bright against the paper. Neither breathe.

Then Zenko, bless her, catches her breath and coaxes the letter out. It’s heavy and printed in thin black ink. A blue scrawl of a beautiful signature sprawls along the lower left. Gold glints from the seal and the whole thing stinks of a level of fineness their apartment has (and never will) see.

He can’t focus on the words beyond the sentence: “ We, the Heroes Association, would like to welcome you to Rank S-Class 18.”

Vaguely he’s aware of Zenko laughing and crying as she turns to fling herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck. He sits down in a trance, missing the chair by a half inch and ending up on the floor with Zenko half screaming, half laughing.

“S-Class, Baddo! S-Class!”

There’s the stain under the table they can’t quite get out and from here he can see the fridge leaking again. But Zenko is hugging his neck and laughing into his temple. And the hole in his sock suddenly seems a lot less important than hugging her back and burying his nose into her hair.

“This is it, Zenko, this is it for us. Gonna lead the good life, get you the best music lessons, the best tutors, the best apartment.”

He feels her arms loosen as he talks and moments later her hands are cupping his face until their noses are millimeters apart. She squints at him. “Baddo, I don’t need the best. I just need you.” He wants to say something but she’s not done, so he waits. “You’ve got to promise me, onii-chan. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

His sigh is soft as he puts a hand over hers. “Ya know I can’t promise that, Zenko. Not all the time.” She gives him the courtesy of a few moments to put his thoughts together. (Admittedly, they want to stray to just how life is going to change for her. For them. He feels he can’t be blamed.) “Look.I’ll promise ya again what I promised ya when I started all this. I’m never gonna fight when you’re there, ok? I’m never gonna make you watch that. Promise.”

For a moment she considers the sincerity in that. Just as it did before, so it passes now. “Cross your heart?”

“You know I don’t hope to die.”

The nose wrinkle that comes with that giggle is worth the playful smack. “No, cause I won’t let you.”

He slides his hand away to reach for her sides and seriousness dissolves into breathless giggles and laughs on stained linoleum. They end up on their backs, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling. A piece falls onto Badd’s face, covering his nose in white.

Zenko tries to laugh but can’t, wheezing instead. Badd flicks it away and sighs, happily. “Ain’t gonna have to deal with that soon.”

“We’re really moving?”

“Well, yeah. You wanna stay here with…” He gestures up at the ceiling.

“But I’m close to Mina here.”

“We’ll make it work.” He grabs her hand to squeeze it. His eyes close. “Promise.”

The hum she makes is convinced enough for the topic to be dropped. And after a moment, she asks, “Celebratory ramen?”

Predictable. And still charming. He laughs. “Yeah. The best there is. Extra konshu all around.”

They’re out late enough that the street lights have been on for some time on their way home. Zenko talks about the new room she’s been promised - she wants to paint it pink, no, purple, no, blue - and he listens, toothpick in his teeth, feet up on the bus seats as he watches a cyclist go by.

Plans are well and good, but before he can break the news to the landlord he has to pass his evaluation. It’s a formality, the letter says. Nothing more. But he notices they haven’t changed his rank online or announced it in the paper and the night before his appointment at HQ he counts fourteen cracks in the ceiling and traces three vaguely looking sheep outlines with his eyes.

It’s not just his own pride that is restless. He can hear Zenko in the other room, tossing and turning.

And beyond that…

He swears he can hear bicycle bells at will now. Not a day goes by he doesn’t notice bicycles, bicyclists, fucking bicycle stands. It’s ridiculous and he’s told himself to stop. But even when it’s his own advice he’s not good at taking it, hence why he worries a corner of his blanket with his fingers, fiber worn almost threadbare from years of comfort taken.

Foolish, he tells himself, counting so heavily on this. They have a good life. Food, a roof, music lessons for Zenko. It’s a few years too early to be thinking about college (for Zenko, not him - he’s given up on that). If they never left here he could say he was doing ok. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He’s never wanted to be just ok.

Once upon another life perhaps he’d have been ok with normal. But that other him didn’t have monsters and a little sister that depends on him and twin tablets by the door to remind him every day that extraordinary was out there. If he didn’t want to lose to it, he had to become extraordinary too.

It’s not even that extraordinary has to include ‘someone else’. But if it were - and if he’s honest with himself, he’d like it too - he can’t see himself with anyone who doesn’t have an ounce of Fighting Spirit within them. And only the most extraordinary of people have that spark, he’s been finding.

Three turns later and he gives up against the spring, rising to make tea that he sips long into the hours of the morning.

Promising to text Zenko after it’s over, he finds himself stepping off the shinkansen in City-A, Hero's Association HQ rising in front of him like a monolithic inkblot against a grey sky. It gives him goosebumps every time, standing before it in person like he is now. His fingers flex and the letter crinkles inside his shirt. He’d slick his hair back and give himself a moment but whispers are already floating around and he can’t afford to appear ruffled now.

So he flashes a grin and a wink at a nearby woman (she swoons) and strides in like his name is already on a plaque in there.

The main hall is empty, stairs spiraling up and away. Black stone echoes with his footsteps and when he calls out he hears himself call four times before it fades. He scratches the back of his neck, squinting, when he feels it. A minute pressure on the back of his neck as his hairs stand on end. Turning would indicate surprise so he closes his eyes and breathes in.

“Metal Bat-kun, you’re late.”

He’s pretty sure he isn’t, but he shrugs all the same. “Took the train. Saved a tree. Ain’t that our job?”

When he turns he’s not surprised to see Bang. He’s never known the hero in any other form as he is now; hunched over and silver haired. There’s an instinctual part of him to comment on that. It’s the part of him with some modicum of self-preservation that keeps it at bay.

Bang just huffs. “Smartass.”

Present.” And he grins, getting a look he suspects is the polite version of an eye roll.

Bang motions him to follow and he does (who wouldn’t?) with a spring of confidence born of familiarity. HQ seems even bigger on the inside, though the room he’s led to he knows is not the largest. It makes it that much more intimidating in the way he suddenly is reminded that nothing is official. Yet. With a grunt that could either be good luck or good riddance, Bang’s eyes stay on him until the door closes with a soft thud.

The conference room is mostly table, a holographic model he’s only seen once at the Association building in his district. Twelve chairs fit easily around the table, though only the five at the far end are filled with suits he knows just with a glance are more than he’s spent on food in the past six months.

Perfect.

It’s familiar. And it’s a familiar he knows how to handle.

He sits, unbidden, and props a foot up on the edge of the table. His bat goes across his lap and he tilts his head just enough to affect boredom. “So, we gonna be done by lunch? Cause I had a light breakfast and I’ve got plans.”

He knows the suit to the right (Agent Osako) but the others are new to him. The head agent is unphased, however, which offsets him a bit. Usually someone’s uneasy.

“Metal Bat, it is good to meet you in person.” The head agent looks down at a folder (definitely his) and hums. “My name is Arakida Tenoh. I am in charge of reviewing your promotion to ensure Hero Association standards are and will be upheld.”

“Standards?” His eyes narrow a bit. “There some other standard besides saving people I should know about?”

“It’s just a formality,” Osako assures, placating hand out that just annoys Badd.

“Something everyone has had to go through,” the agent in the subtle pinstripes on the left says.

The other two nod and Badd doesn’t feel particularly assured. But he’s not exactly in a position to say so, which leaves him with the only option of prolonging an uncomfortable silence.

Arakida pretends not to notice. “This is an entrance interview into S-Class for the hero known as Metal Bat. Let the record show as such.”

His skin prickles at that and he straightens a bit, hand resting on the leather of his bat’s handle. “This being recorded, or…?”

Glasses flash as Arakida looks over the rims. It sends a pit into Badd’s stomach, though he doesn’t know why exactly. “It is, for posterity.”

“Uh-huh. And if I don’t agree to it?”

“Then the interview is over and you’ll remain A-Class.”

Silence stretches for a beat or two. Rather than admit the fact that he wants this (needs it) he just huffs and shrugs. “Ain’t like i haven’t been recorded before.”

But the goosebumps remain and Zenko’s words of warning suddenly don’t seem quite as unjustified. Arakida makes a notation Badd can’t see, glances at the woman to his left, then back to Badd. “Mr. Metal Bat, we’re just going to go over a few things…”

They definitely have different definitions of a few.

An hour later it feels like they’ve gone through the handbook twice. Questions he’s answered before asked twice over in different ways. It’s tedious, though not painful. Just boring. And by the time Arakida’s closing his folder Badd feels rung out.

It’s not a feeling he likes and when Arakida asks him about his plans as S-Class he snaps. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m gonna fight things. I’m gonna save people. I’m gonna do everythin’ I can to make sure people aren’t afraid to leave their fuckin’ houses. If there’s somethin’ more I’m supposed to be promising then it’s new.”

“Metal Bat-san-”

“Don’t you Metal Bat-san me, Osako.” Osako stops at Badd’s eyes allowing his attention to refocus. His hand grips his bat. “Now we done here?”

Arakida just readjusts his glasses, despite the freeze in everyone else’s shoulders, and pushes a button to his left. A hologram of the creature from the pier pops up. “Almost. Now let’s go over the incident in L-City one more time-”

He stands and swings before he knows it. The table shakes, a crack forming where his bat meets electronics. There’s a crackle of scattering electronics and the hologram fritzs out. The other agents, wisely, stand to back away.

Arakida, however, does not, and Badd feels his blood rise even as he takes in a few deep breaths. “We’re done. I don’t know what more you want, but I’ve already answered all possible questions you could have for me.”

It’s a test of something as Arakida watches him and as he watches Arakida. Then, Arakida stands and smiles. “All right, Mr. Metal Bat. We’re done here.”

Just like that, the tension drains from the other agents. But Badd can still feel goosebumps on his arms and the hair on the back of his neck is on end. He’s riled up and his grip on the bat doesn’t lessen. “Are we?”

“We are.”

There’s a push there that has Badd, reluctantly, relenting. First his thumb, then pointer, then the rest loosen just enough for the knuckles to go red again. “Ok.” The bat is swung over his shoulder, comforting in its weight. “So, what’s the verdict?”

Just like that it’s over. His arms remain prickly under his shirt as Arakida gives him a short, respectful bow, copied by the other agents. But whatever has his hairs on end is gone, he thinks, and the rational part of him begs to remember what this interview is really about. It was nothing. An overreaction. The bow he gives back lies stiff in his neck even as he exits, bat sliding with a harder than usual shove into its holster.

Eyes follow and when he turns he’s honestly surprised to find Bang still there. He scowls a bit. “You walkin’ me out too?”

Bang, however, just stares for a long while. “You felt it?”

“Felt what?”

But Bang just huffs and turns to disappear down the hallway in the opposite direction, hands clasped behind his back. It makes Badd pause and roll up a sleeve to see if the goosebumps are truly still there.

He tries not to think about why they are the entire cab ride home.

Three days later the announcement appears in the paper. Celebrating is regulated to their apartment, as the press conference leaves Badd trailed by enough reporters that even hours later the after flashes spring across his vision. Zenko doesn’t mind. The promise of painted walls and a larger window have her carefully writing down apartment options they’re browsing on a borrowed laptop.

The option of his own bed and his own room should be exciting, however his chopsticks continue to pick at the pickled radish in his take out.

“Is something wrong with your arms?” When he looks up Zenko is watching him over her phone. “You keep look at them.”

That makes him glance at them again before shoving radish into his mouth. “‘U’thi’g.” She gives him a look and he swallows. “Nothing. Just itchy.”

It’s an easy lie he feels only slightly guilty over. She huffs. “There’s lotion in the bathroom.” He just grunts, not that committed to it, which of course she notices. “Is everything ok?”

“Everything’s fine, except for this idiot who wants this much for a one bedroom.” He snaps his chopsticks before scrolling down with his thumb. “Seriously, what does he think it is, The Starwood in A-City?” He pops his lips.

Zenko just picks at her noodles, thoughtfully. “Did everything go ok at the Hero’s Association?”

She’s not letting up and he doesn’t want to lie to her. “It went fine, Zenko.”

“But you’re upset, Baddo.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like bein’ chased outta a restaurant. Especially when I’m tryin’ to celebrate with my favorite person.” When Zenko gives him an unsure glance he turns the screen toward her. “Look, this one lets you have two pets.”

Tama looks up at that and Zenko’s more than enough distracted for him to avoid attempting to put words to why his arms still prickled at the thought of the board room.

Chapter Text

Twenty-two listings, fourteen visitations, and a two bedroom, two bathroom, real hardwood flooring listing later the truck was on its way to K-City with Zenko and Tama overseeing it all. And himself? He was already in K-City, seeing to another kind of business entirely.

When he’d been promoted he hadn’t exactly expected a surge in monster activity. Like the newspapers broadcasting his new rank, they came boldly and in stunning force. Suddenly, there isn’t time to think of bicycles or paint colors or even time for the homework he’s had to turn in with more drool marks than actual answers

It’s his golden age and he feels like he doesn’t have time to bask in it.

Bat leather bites into chapped hands even as the ground settles. The monster - big, scaley, bad odor - was no match for his Fighting Spirit (they never are). It’s eyes are rolled back in its head as its pec muscles spasm like the twitch of Tama’s tail when string is involved. People are already coming out of hiding, gravel from the half-crushed high rise adding to the irritation prickling up right into the space in between his eyes.

The spot in between his shoulders hurts no matter how much he rolls his shoulders and he just wants to go home. If he leaves now he can get there in time to help the moving truck unload the sofa in the new apartment. He could be there, instead of out here trying not to focus on the cracked skin of his knuckles.

He hears something skid behind him and he turns, bat swinging over his shoulder, ready with a smart ass remark about what took the Association so long to promote him. It dies with a curl of his lip and a strangled, guttural noise not too far removed from a cave man.

Mumen Rider just watches him, glancing from bat to Badd’s face. “You all right?”

The four failed attempts to answer get a slight frown from Mumen that he finds himself struggling even more in an attempt to abate. “I, uh...er…”

One of Mumen’s hands creeps up to scratch the back of his neck. “I’d like to buy a consonant, if possible.”

He hides the pink of his cheeks by looking down and checking his hair with a hand. (The hair is fine. His stomach? Not so much.) “Sure you can afford that?”

Mumen bites his lower lip and sucks in a breath. “Oh.” For a moment Badd regrets saying it at all. “Well, I’ve got four Jolly Ranchers. Do you like grape or cherry?”

That makes him laugh a bit. “Seriously?” And when Mumen gives him a small, embarrassed smile, he shifts to steady his bat with his wrist. “Favorite’s the sour apple ones.”

“That’s everyone’s favorite.” But Mumen gives him a smile. “I’ll remember for next time.”

He means to play it cool but his smile ends up larger than he wants it to. “You know, you do owe me though.”

“I owe you…?”

He might be biased, but confusion seems to only increase the butterflies in his stomach. “A date.” The confusion doesn’t leave. “S-Class, remember? You said not till I got to S-Class.” And at this point he’s in for a pound, so to say. He spreads his free arm to gesture at himself. “S-Class, Rank 18.”

“Oh.”

Which was...not the reaction he was expecting.

Mumen shifts on his feet, though as much as he tries to hide it there’s a deep red spreading over his face. “I didn’t think…”

It’s starting to sound like the original conversation and since he doesn’t do nervous he jumps right to defensive. “Think what, I could do it?”

“No, no.” Mumen’s holding up his hands. “I never said that! It’s just...you’re young.”

“Hey, I ain’t Child Emperor young.” Mumen wrinkles his nose at that and Badd laughs, “I’m just sayin’, my birthday’s in a few months.” Mumen hesitates and his heart falls. “It’s just a date. Dinner. Lunch? Fuck, what’s a normal date these days anyway?” How long has it even been since he was on one? “Just one date. Won’t even take that long; you can go back to bike ridin’ right after. You can take a break from that, right?”

Mumen bites his lower lip. “I don’t know.”

“You promised.” In a way. He sighs, tugging at the corner of his jacket. “Just, wanna get to know ya a little bit, you know?” And then it spills out. “My little sister’s really into ya.” If he died then maybe he could still be buried with a shred of his dignity.

For a moment Mumen just stares. Then he chuckles a bit, covering it with his fist and looking away. It’s demure and ridiculous. Badd finds himself smiling anyway.

“Oh, well, if it’s for your little sister…”

Yup. Never living that down. “So is that a yes?”

Mumen glances around, bike tires crunching softly as he absently pushes his bike back and forth. “Really? Here and now?”

Badd wrinkles his nose. “Well, was figuring something more...datey.”

There are people talking and it’s as if the whispers get louder as the sound of a helicopter intrudes on the moment. Mumen looks up, then around. “All right, all right.”

And he might be selfish, just a bit, when he asks, “What was that?”

Mumen facepalms, pink cheeks beneath his fingers. “Thursday, 8pm. Dinner.” He can see Mumen glance to the side as gravel crunches. “I believe that marks off all the traditional ‘date’ boxes.”

He’s far more smug when he finally says, “Ok.” And his stomach is still trying to catch up, head light-headed when he realizes that it’s happening. Really happening. Suddenly, his knuckles don’t hurt quite as much anymore as he watches the spokes of Mumen’s bike speed up and ride away.

Naturally, it hits him just as the press appears. “Shit, where we meeting??” And he calls after him, “Toriko’s??”

Originally, he intends to tell Zenko. But the promise of eight o’clock feels like a bubble; momentary and fragile. So he keeps the news inside to himself and hides it in the convenience of new paint, new rooms, new apartment. Zenko’s still debating between ‘dove grey’ and ‘lilting lilac’ while he’s spending his time debating just what he’s going to say to Mumen when 8pm rolls around.

He’s working it out at the batting cages, where he maintains he does some of his best thinking. He’s two buckets in when the cage behind him rattles and he isn’t surprised to find Tajima there, hands through the chain link, picking at a cuticle and toothpick between his molars.

“Gonna assume my invite got lost in the mail.” The toothpick is spit onto the gum pocked ground. “Move over.”

Automatically he huffs. “Get lost. I’mma finishin’ this bucket off myself.”

The gate clangs anyway as Tajima worms his way in and he’s not about to send him off. So he hits the next eight with increasing force, until the netting threatens to give way with the snap of a tied corner.

Tajima whistles. “Was gonna ask how you are, but I’m thinking you’re in a mood.”

“Oh gee, what gave it away?” He rolls his eyes and all but slams the button by the door for another round. “Wanna read my palm too and tell me the future, while you’re at it?”

Tajima snorts. “Sorry, only read tea leaves.” Tajima takes up a bat however. Gives it a few practice swings that Badd can’t find in himself to criticize. “So. Out with it. What’s got your hair deflating? And don’t tell me the heat.”

He looks at his healed knuckles, flexing his fingers around his bat. He really needed to replace the leather. “Ain’t nothin’.”

“You realize you just said-”

“You know what I meant!”

“I do and I don’t.” Which gets Tajima a strong side eye that has the other shrugging, twirling his bat idly.  “Just know you’re actin’ like when she left you.”

To his credit he doesn’t growl. A lot. “Shut. Up.”

Tajima rolls his eyes and swings his bat, going wide and hitting the cage right by the ball boy’s head. Badd likes to think it’s the less than perfect aim that has the ball boy flinching enough to lose his glasses.

He finishes the bucket, denying Tajima’s definitely-not-accurate summarization of this late night excursion as the other jogs over with an apologetic look. When the machine puffs air he’s puffing a bit as well with the air trapped in unspoken denial.

Bless his soul, Tajima has another bucket in hand. “I’m just sayin’, man.”

His shoulders tighten as his eyes close. “It’s…” The sigh that comes physically hurts with the weight of it. “Not been in the game much.”

It takes Tajima a moment. “I fucking knew it.” The glare he gives has Tajima holding the bucket up; a peace offering. “Sorry, sorry!”

The machine’s loaded and they’ve both hit a handful before Tajima speaks again. “It’s not much of an excuse, you know.”

Badd huffs. “What ain’t?”

“Not bein’ in.” Tajima groans as a ball goes wide and shakes the cages. “For stayin’ out, I mean.”

He’s not sure he quite gets it, so he huffs again and doesn’t bother to add syllables to the sound. To be fair, he’s not sure he could manage to perfectly describe the clusterfuck that has him here.

Tajima sighs and wipes his forehead. “It’s hot. Can I blame that for sucking this bad?” The short laugh manages to do more for Badd’s shoulders than an hour and a half of batting. “Look, man, just...go for it? I know, I know, cliche. But new place, new promotion, new…”

“You got a point?”

The finger in his side gets a swat and four balls narrowly miss Badd’s head before Tajima is holding his hands up in surrender. “Point is, it’s done! Go out there, get yourself back in! It’s time for somethin’ new in your life!”

For a second he picks at the leather on his bat. The huff of the batting machine suddenly seems less critical to his well-being. “Not sure they’re as confident.”

Tajima slowly lowers his hands. “Seriously?” Badd can’t bring himself to nod, much less acknowledge beyond a shrug that he even admitted that. “Badd, c’mon, it’s you .”

He looks up when Tajima throws an arm around him and scowls. “And?”

Tajima, the jerk, flicks his nose. “You’re Metal Bat. When have you not had enough confidence for ten of us?”

It’s the closest he’s come to a bashful smile in a long time. (And even then he feels like there’s too much teeth in it. Though he’s not sure he can safely say any smile of his isn’t toothy these days.) He counters it with a hard poke to Tajima’s side that, thankfully, Tajima takes with the grace of an eight year old.

But the sentiment and confidence boost propels him through to Thursday, 7:55pm.

Toriko’s is young, hip, and if he’s really being honest hipster. It’s new to town and the draw is huge, with crowds milling and the noise level rising by the hour. The maitre'd s laugh can be heard across the room and it’s featured, every time, with a toss of the large man’s blue hair. The atmosphere is vibrant and joyous.

Perfect to counter the fact he’s blown through a stack of napkins and crushed the basket of complimentary shrimp chips into panko in the ten minutes he’s been waiting. His knee bounces, knock lost in the conversation of the less hormonally confused.

It’s a mistake. All of this. Everything.

He’s never been one to listen to much of anyone. And even when he hears himself saying it under his breath it’s hard to get himself to buy it completely. Fake it till you make it has become so automated he finds himself grinning at himself in an empty water glass and pretending it’s just to check his hair (and not double check he isn’t shaking).

A glance at the wall shows: 7:56pm.

He won’t make it. He just knows he won’t. A hand runs through his hair and he curses at himself when it comes away sticky with remnants of gel. Fuck this. He might be a hot mess but there was no way in hell his hair was going to be.

Standing, he checks the clock one more time: 7:57pm. He could make it. Totally. And be back with minutes to spare.

He bumps into a nervous looking man hovering by the bathroom door and for a second he sympathizes with the way the guy adjusts and readjusts his glasses. It’s just not our night, pal.

To his credit, he doesn’t lose it in the bathroom. Turns out, his hair is still put together, though he can’t say the same for his nerves. A splash of water lessens the sting of a bitten lower lip but he knows that look in his own eyes.

“Breath, ya idiot,” he mutters, drawing a look from the sink to his right. “You got this.”

The dazzling smile he gives himself doesn’t look as convincing as it does in the newspapers. Frustrated, he scowls instead, and at least then he feels a bit more like himself.

Which is why, just when he’s feeling more confident about all of this that he realizes the time: 8:06pm.

“Fuck!”

He barely notices the stares as he bursts through the doors. The restaurant suddenly seems more crowded and he feels like he’s drowning as he wades through the crush of bodies and laughter. It’s only when he gets to his table that he realizes half the noise is his own pulse in his ears.

It’s also when he notices that the table is still empty.

For a moment he’s still. And then he sits, heavily, breath swelling in his throat. His fingers fist his second best pair of jeans and he closes his eyes and rolls through the excuses he’ll give Zenko for getting home late tonight. (Or tomorrow morning, if he and that bottle of sake at Tajima’s house are honest.)

Across from him he senses someone sit and part of him recognizes that they don’t really deserve the tone that bubbles up. “Table’s occupied, so why get lost.” When they don’t he opens his eyes, grateful in a way for something to project on. “You deaf, pa…l.”

He trails when he finds his own eyes reflecting back. It takes him a moment to realize why. Mousy brown hair and glasses miraculously still, it’s the man from the bathroom looking as if he’s stuffed a rod down his back.

An eyebrow raises. “Listen, if you’re after an autograph, you can write in to the Association like everyone else.”

The man’s cheeks color and a hand creeps up to, predictably, adjust his glasses. Instead, his fingers slip behind his head to scratch at the short hairs on his neck. “I’m…”

“You’re what?” He can practically taste his own anger, bitter and uncomfortably empty. “Sittin’ in my seat? Tryin’ to get a story worth braggin’ about to your friends? Lookin’ for two seconds of fame? Cause you’ve caught me on a bad night, pal, and you’ve got two seconds to get yer scrawny ass up and away from me before I give ya a five pointer story you can carry ‘round with ya for a week.”

There’s more he’s ready to say, to spit, hand ready to slam on the table in an attempt to keep the illusion going that this - what was supposed to be - was going to work. But through the noise he hears a crinkle and it throws him long enough for the man to slide something across the table at him. He’s ready with a contemptuous look he really likes to think rivals King’s.

Instead, his mouth falls open at the sour apple Jolly Ranchers winking at him in the low light.

Candy. Fucking candy.

For a moment, he’s not sure what to do. For a moment, he’s not sure what to say. And then, after a long, long moment that Badd will later wish he could give his soul to redo, he vaguely remembers just why candy is significant and looks up.

“It’s, uh, popular. Sorry. That flavor is. It’s why I don’t have more of them…” The man trails and smiles, just a little. Mechanical in how smoothly he does it. (Badd doesn’t know how he’s perfected that art when he’s sitting here like a fish out of water.) When Badd says nothing, he stands. “We’ll just call it a night then, ok? No hard feelings.”

The warm smile almost makes Badd feel worse than the fact Mumen Rider holds his hand out for a handshake. A fucking handshake.

The speed with which he stands results in crushed crisps launching all over not only his pants but Mumen’s. “No, no!” He didn’t think he could sink lower, though Mumen’s small frown does nothing to reassure him of that fact. “Just...shit.”

People are staring and they both realize it at the same time. Feeling his own cheeks coloring, he takes Mumen’s hand in a strong handshake. “Tastin’ rubber here, cause pretty sure I’ve got the world’s biggest shoe in my mouth.” The chuckle is weaker than drugstore miso. “Do over? Please?”

For a moment he thinks Mumen might actually leave and if he’s honest he couldn’t blame him. There’s no inch of him that’s proud and his shoulders hurt from the way they’re attempting to remedy the person anger incites him to be.

When Mumen sits he finds his head hitting the back of the privacy wall so hard Mumen startles a bit. It startles him too, the attention, and he glances across the restaurant. “Need a waiter over here…”

For a long moment he makes a poor attempt at getting them service. He watches from the corner of his eye as Mumen takes turns adjusting his glasses and adjusting the sleeves of the worn, knit sweater draped loosely over his shoulders.

He wants to say something. Anything that isn’t spit and vile and indifferent. Instead, he flags down a waiter and stutters through an order for water that shouldn’t be as hard as it is.

When the waiter is finally disappearing, Mumen, to his credit, has seemingly composed himself enough to look at a menu. “I’ve never been here.”

It’s an easy into conversation that Badd takes. “It’s new. Only been here for a few weeks.”

“So I see.” Mumen murmurs. “So if I asked you what’s good…”

“Wouldn’t know,” he confesses, feeling his feet settle back onto his heels. “Can’t go wrong with noodles I guess?”

“At least we have our back up of sour apple.”

When he finally looks up at Mumen he finds the other man smiling, uncertain almost. Admittedly, it takes Badd a moment to figure out why it’s funny, but when he does he laughs and bites his lower lip. “My favorite.”

“So you said.”

Just like that, he feels as if there’s a small bit of tension broken. A way in between the near wreckage of what was supposed to be the start of a new opportunity. If he’s honest, he’s not sure if that’s still there anymore. But when Mumen smiles he feels giddy, as if he’s won a small battle in a war.

It’s cliche, and it’s gross, and yet he isn’t moving away. “What’s your favorite?”

The way Mumen looks up, chin popping up over the menu has Badd’s fingers tightening. “Sorry?”

“Candy flavor.”

Mumen’s brows furrow and his nose wrinkles. Badd feels as if a ‘really?’ is coming but for whatever reason it doesn’t. “Grape.”

Badd just stares. “Seriously?”

Mumen shifts and shrugs. “Y-es?” It doesn’t take a genius to realize that dip of the head is self-consciousness raising it’s ugly head. “I don’t know, I like most of them.”

“Ok.” Grape. Huh. “Which one don’t you like then?” When he gets a look he takes a page from Mumen’s book and shrugs, menu forgotten. “You said most of them, so there has to be one you don’t like.”

The answer takes longer to come. Badd wonders if that’s because he’s the first to ask it. “Lemon. I don’t really know why they made a lemon flavor, you know? It’s not particularly a fun sour like apple is.” There’s an indent on Mumen’s cheek as Mumen bites the corner of his mouth. “Anyway…”

There’s a long moment as Badd picks up his menu and Mumen hides behind his. But he’s suddenly lost interest in what’s good and what isn’t. “So, why candy?”

“Sorry?”

“Why candy? Don’t see anyone else doin’ it, and not like it’s part of your stick…”

Mumen smiles, raising an eyebrow. “You know my stick?”

Badd blushes a bit and he could slap himself when he says, “My sister’s a big fan.”

“Right. Your sister.” Thank god Mumen’s smile doesn’t diminish. He doesn’t know what he’d do if it did. “It was just something that started, you know? I had them in my pocket one time and word spread. Now kids just kind of...expect it? So I keep it up.”

It’s almost surprising how normal that story is, though Badd’s not sure he could say just what he was expecting. “Huh.”

(Part of him knows it’s really not that interesting of an answer. But there’s a part of him that feels like it’s a secret, and they all know secrets are the most valuable currency on earth.)

They’re saved from small talk by the waiter coming back, bearing water and a pad to take down their order. It’s at that point he realizes he doesn’t even know what they serve here. When Mumen defers for a moment, however, he finds himself leaning back and giving the waiter a wink. “Gimme whatever’s most popular.”

There’s a part of him that winces at himself. Particularly as Mumen blushes. “Noodles, please.”

Silence stretches long after the waiter has disappeared to put in their order. Mumen picks at a snarl in his sweater while Badd flicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. He doesn’t want to admit he’s at a loss for words, but his drumming fingers are confession enough.

Part of him feels like he’s watching down at a facsimile of himself because this just wasn’t how he pictured this going. He can do better. He knows he can. Or he likes to think he can.

With a sharp inhale, he speaks just as Mumen does. “So what/how-”

They both stop immediately and Badd wishes he could hunker down further in his seat. Mumen, however, chuckles. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Yeah? Well, guess I’m not this time either.” Which is not easy to admit to.

Mumen laughs, just a little. (He wonders what a full one sounds like.) “You’d think this would be easier, considering we’ve both got files on each other.”

It hits Badd, then. A zing of inspiration that has him nearly upending the table as he stands. “Hell, you’re right.” Hand held out, Badd waits for Mumen to take it with a look bordering dumbfounded confusion. “Hi. My name’s Badd.”

Slowly, Mumen smiles a bit. “Hi. I’m Mumen.”

He doesn’t need to admit to being surprised as he’s sure his face does it for him. “Mumen?”

Mumen’s smile is sheepish. “It’s a long story.”

Which Badd already knows he wants to hear. (It’s not like he doesn’t know Mumen’s name, but they’re trying something here. And he’s not about to be the one to lose the unspoken game first.) “All right then, Mumen. So you’re a hero for hire, got that. But what else do you do when you ain’t savin’ the world?”

He leans forward, chin in his hand, and already he feels less like a spectator watching a disaster and more like himself.

Mumen rubs the back of his neck, but his fingers stop picking at the sleeve of his sweater. “I, uh, work?” That’s met with a blank stare. “I mean, I work in a lot of different places…” Mumen clears his throat. “What do you do when you aren’t saving the world, Metal-” It’s adorable, the way Mumen’s nose wrinkles as he corrects himself. “Badd-san.”

“School, mostly.” He waves off that, though, because who really cares? “I play on the school’s team.”

“Really?” Mumen raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess - first base?”

He’s smug. “Right fielder.” And Mumen honestly looks surprised when he says that. It makes a triumphant curl of smugness form in his stomach. “Gotta watch my throws, but what can I say? They know what I’m best at and they like what they’ve got. Not often they get someone of my caliber.”

Mumen huffs, gently. (Badd’s realizing quickly that he has yet to see Mumen do a harsh thing.) “So you’re telling me if you couldn’t play right field you wouldn’t play baseball at all?”

Badd’s silence has Mumen grinning, a full grin, and he finds he can’t even be upset for Mumen calling his bluff. “It’d have to be a world without baseball to get me to stop playing. And even then pretty sure I’d invent it.”

“Considering you’ve turned swinging a bat into an art form, you may have an argument for re-inventing it.” Mumen tilts his head just a bit. “Or aspects of it, at least.”

He can’t say he isn’t charmed. Flattery will get you pretty damn far. (Or is this flirting?) “And here you were pokin’ fun for talking about your stick.”

Mumen blushes. “I mean, uh, you…” He pushes his glasses up and it’s then that Badd realizes there’s tape holding them together.

“What happened?” He gestures to Mumen’s face and he realizes almost too late what that looks like. “Your glasses.” If something protective rears its head in his chest he doesn’t voice it, though squashing the recommendations for eyewear boutiques is harder squashed than he would like.

“Oh.” Mumen’s face falls a bit. “I broke them. At work.” Sensitive subject. It makes Badd falter a bit. Fortunately, Mumen clears his throat. “You know, I used to cycle in school.”

“In school or to?”

Mumen chuckles. “You got me - both.”

“How’d your team do?”

“It was more of an after school club than a team. So no championship trophies for me.” Mumen doesn’t seem sorry about it, however, so Badd doesn’t argue the lost chance. “But you play for 502, right?”

And the talk veers a hard curve into sports. Mumen listens raptly, not that Badd needs a lot of encouragement to talk about one of the loves of his life. He’s not even through half of the story about last year’s championships when the food arrives.

He did mean to keep telling the story. But the slimy, blue thing on the end of his chopstick doesn’t look like anything of this earth. “What the…” He grabs for the waiter’s sleeve. “This is the most popular thing on the menu?!”

The waiter shirks a bit. “Yes sir, that’s our Dragon Level Creature From the Blue Lagoon Heart Fruit special.”

Badd’s too busy watching in horror as a chopstick gets sucked into the goop to truly appreciate the waiter’s straight face. The constant buzz about this place suddenly makes sense.

“Um, I’m sorry, but...I’m not sure these are...noodles?” When Badd looks up Mumen is delicately holding a single, long, rope-like noodle in his chopsticks. The fact it was the only thing in a bowl of dirty broth? He didn’t exactly blame Mumen’s hesitancy.

“It’s the house noodles, sir,” the waiter says and there’s definitely a distinct sigh in that tone.

“Oh. All right.” The noodle slithers out of Mumen’s grasp and splatters his glasses with broth.

The waiter skitters away into the crowd and Badd isn’t really sure what to say as his last chopstick sinks into the blue depths. Mumen delicately attempts to take a bite of his noodle. It ends just like the first attempt did. They both end up chopstick less, staring at their bowls.

“It smells good…” Bless Mumen’s soul for his optimism.

“Doesn’t mean nothin’ if you can’t eat it.” Some date this was turning into. When he pokes at the blue goop with his other chopstick he finds it yanked from his hand, following it’s sibling into the depths.

Nope.

He stands, reaching into his back pocket to count off a few bills. Mumen blinks owlishly at him, noodle sliding once more in a third and final failed attempt. “Everything all right?”

“We’re goin’ somewhere else.”

“But we just got our food…”

“Yeah, well, food’s somethin’ you can eat. And this?” The glop gives off a gurgle as if to emphasize his point. “Not happenin’.”

Mumen looks conflicted, though he stands as he swipes a sleeve across his glasses. “I’m sure they’re just working out the kinks.”

Badd clicks his tongue. “Then we’ll be back, eh? Now come on. I’m starvin’.”

He ignores the stares as he leaves, though he hears his name mentioned once or twice. It makes him puff up a bit, enough to throw a look over his shoulder to match the cocky strut that comes with. When he gets outside he realizes Mumen isn’t there and for a moment he falters. Panics until he sees the flash of lenses as Mumen slides through the throng with some difficulty.

“Sorry.” A small smile and Badd really hates how that’s grown on him. “So, now what?”

Truth be told, he hadn’t thought that far. “Um…” His hands find his pockets by default. “You still hungry?”

“I could eat.” Which is a polite yes, Badd’s not that dumb.

The problem is, Badd is blanking on where to take Mumen. This had been his wow factor choice. The impress option he’d hoped would ensure the date would go well. (Really, he probably should have expected this.)

“Do you like -” He doesn’t finish as an all too familiar ringtone breaks the moment. His blood freezes as his eyes dart down.

Fuck .

The Association’s number reads clear on the screen. He could ignore. His thumb hovers over the flip phone’s screen, frown heavy on his face. There’s a part of him that mourns the Badd of a moment ago. (The other part remembers that there’s always a price to pay for success.)

“You should get that.” When he looks up he realizes Mumen has his hands in his pockets. “It’s kind of what you do.”

“But I promised ya dinner.” And he promised himself a chance.

“Next time.”

And that has his heart skipping a beat. Next time. “That a promise?”

Mumen hesitates for a moment, as if he’s caught in a lie. Badd fears the worst. He hadn’t meant it, he’d lied just to get Badd to leave, he wasn’t interested after all. Then, Mumen has a pen in his hand and has Badd’s hand in his calloused ones. He feels rather than watches Mumen write his number on his wrist. Instead, he watches Mumen suck in his lower lip and tries to ignore just how that makes himself feel.

“Call me.” Mumen smiles and the pen disappears in a pocket almost as quickly as it appeared.

He’s not sure what to say. The numbers feel almost branded in his skin. When he looks down he’s almost afraid they won’t be there, yet there they are. Black and stark against the tan of his skin. He wiggles his fingers and grins, triumphant and on the side of goofy.

When he realizes just how goofy, he looks up, embarrassed. But Mumen is already gone, which way Badd doesn’t know.

He wants to moon over the small victories of the night. Instead, his phone starts to ring again and with a sigh he answers it. “What’d’ya want?”

Chapter Text

When he wakes up the next morning he’s made it home and managed to make it to the sofa. Some day, he vows, he’ll make it to the brand new bed he has yet to make. (Western style, even, because he's always wanted one and no time like the present, right?) For now, the familiar broken board beneath him inspires a twinge in his back.

Also familiar is the shadow of Zenko standing over him, staring down.

He groans and closes his eyes. “It’s too early for this.”

“It’s almost 7:45.”

“ Shit .” He sits up, sending a pillow flying and Zenko leaning back to avoid collision. “Did you eat breakfast? Got your homework? Is Tama in or out?”

Zenko face palms as he trips over the one shoe that didn’t make it to bed with him. With a practiced hand she grabs his wrist, slowing him down. “Onii-chan, I packed your lunch for you and fed Tama.”

“Onigiri?” He asks, hopeful, even through the pang of guilt over the fact that the number of times Zenko’s had to pack lately is nearing an all-new high.

“Maybe, though if we’re late I’m taking your garlic pork one.”

That’s enough to at least get him to start shaping his hair back into place. He nearly trips over Tama, who jumps onto the windowsill to glare threats at the back of his head. His mind isn’t here and he’s trying to drag it back into the groove of the every day. Because did last night actually happen? It feels like the remnants of a dream that if he doesn’t think about will trickle away to where memories go.

Zenko watches by the door, hand curled around the strap of her backpack. He knows she’s watching his move, looking for odd pops of joints or telling twitches. There’s a different guilt there, though it rarely outweighs the resolve. Better him than her, everyday of the week. As he picks up a shirt from the living room floor, she tsks. “Really, Baddo?”

“I can dress myself,” he grumbles, even as he shrugs on the new shirt and ignores the way his back muscles twinge.

“There’s tylenol in the bathroom.” Which answers if she saw that or not. (Though he’s not convinced Zenko doesn’t have telepathic powers.)

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” But when he turns around she’s there, tylenol in hand and he sighs. Holds out his hand and takes the two pills she shakes into it. It’s unnecessary, he knows she knows. Yet when they land in his palm he swallows them dry. “Ya know it won’t be there by the end of the day.”

Humoring Zenko is worth it for the smile on her face. Her hand reaches for his elbow, squeezing. And he can’t help it. He kneels down and he’s not sure who hugs who tighter.

“I know,” Zenko says into his ear. And he knows what she means. “You always take care of me, onii-chan. I just want to make sure you’re ok too.”

He sighs and lets her go so he can meet her eyes. “Knowin’ you’re happy and healthy is enough for me, imoto-chan. Besides, don’t trust anyone else to look after you.”

Zenko wrinkles her nose. “What happens when I get a boyfriend, Baddo?”

Which has him freezing. “You have a boyfriend? Who is it?? How do you know this boy??? Why haven’t I met him???”

He doesn’t need to see Zenko’s face to know she’s rolling her eyes. “Onii-chan, I don’t have a boyfriend yet! And you aren’t allowed to be like that when I do get one!” When she glances over her shoulder, it’s not his face she stares at but his feet. “Besides, you’ve got other things to worry about.”

He follows her gaze and realizes his dirty socks from last night are staring up at him. “Right. Socks.”

“And shoes,” Zenko offers helpfully. He gives her a sideways look and she grins. As he groans to a stand she turns. “You should wash your arms off too, onii-chan. I think one of your pens exploded again.”

Bad blinks once, twice, then looks down at his arm. Sure enough, black ink is smeared all over his skin. Right where- “GOD DAMN IT!”

He’s still bristling when he gets to school, managing to scare a group of elementary students trying to cross the road. School may be an escape for some but he feels far more irritated and uncomfortable sitting behind a desk. As the test wanes on (he knows enough to answer, but can’t bring himself to write an essay about it) he watches as gym class stretches in the quad.

It’s hard to put a word on a night like last night. Disappointing? That doesn’t feel right. He’s embarrassed enough to know that if roles had reversed, he’s not sure he would have been as understanding.

But how was he supposed to know that was what Mumen looked like? It’s not like he’s stalked the man that much. Nor like Mumen is that forthcoming with personal details. (Come to think of it, how much did he actually learn about Mumen last night?)

His pencil tapping earns him a SHUSH! that he returns with a glare and a curl of his lip. Wisely, his classmate returns to their test.

It’s just...what if it all turns out to be for nothing? His pencil’s eraser taps his teeth as he thinks that through. It’s not like he and Mumen have a ton in common. (Does he really know that though?) And it’s not as if they share many of the same tendencies. He’s loud. Mumen’s quiet. He’s impatient. He’s not sure if Mumen even has a breaking point. There’s that argument that opposites attract, but in his experience? That saying has yet to hold its weight against time and tendencies.

With a groan he buries his head in his arms. Maybe he shouldn’t have started down this road at all. New apartment, new job, new life - perhaps he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

You fucking scaredy-cat .

Another groan summons a host of SHUSH!’s and there isn’t enough time to glare them all down. He does half-heartedly fill out a few more answers before he finds himself stuck on the topic at hand on the next math question: If Miko has to travel five kilometers by bike at a speed of…

“Of fucking course,” he mutters, earning a side eye from the classmate to his right.

Still...reservations aside...he mourns the lost dinner. Opposites they may be (maybe?), but there was a fascination there he’s not sure he can justify beyond it is what it is.

Did it make him a bad person to be attracted to someone so...boring?

He groans and is spared exasperated looks by the bell.

When he finally does manage to leave for the day (he doesn’t know how he still has his ears, though he’s ready to not hear that lecture again), he’s anxious to get to practice. It’s something to do that ensures his mind stays busy. His fingers ache for the feel of leather in his hands and the stiffness of a bat in his hands.

Life, however, seems to have other plans for him these days.

That familiar tone vibrates from his pocket and he pauses outside the locker room. “I’m busy here.”

“Metal Bat, we need you in K City.” Why they called him now makes sense.

Still. “Can’t someone else do it?”

There’s a pause on the other end, as if the dispatcher is taken aback being talked to like that. (Badd’s not sure why they would be. He speaks like this most of the time to them.) “You’re the closest, Metal Bat. This is a demon level threat and falls under your jurisdic-”

“Let a few B-levels get it. Gotta give them a chance once in awhile, eh?” He still feels the soreness from last time, deep under his skin. Threatening to bloom into bone should he try to pull off the same again.

If disapproval were a sound it would be the sound at the other end of the phone. The silence that stretches with the low murmur in the background. He knows he’s stepped over some line of expected behavior but he likes to think they knew what they were getting into when promoting him. It’s not like he’s ever presented himself as anything but himself.

“I-I don’t-” The thought is never finished. There’s a rustle and he knows he’s been handed off. He knows the voice this time.

“This is a demon level threat, Metal Bat. You’re our closest S-Level hero.” He can practically see Iwate’s composed stare through the phone. “There are a lot of lives at stake.”

And he’s right. That’s what hurts most of all. Mumen Rider wouldn’t have thought twice about this . Shame bubbles up in his stomach and he nearly chokes on it.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.” He shuts the phone before he gets himself into more trouble.

Still, he pauses, staring at the stress lines of the leather wrapped neck. He can hear chatter in the locker room behind him as others pull on cleats. They’ll be taking the field in ten minutes to run warm up laps, start catch drills, and discuss the school gossip. He can practically taste dust from the mound on the corner of his lips. If he doesn’t think about it too hard he can feel his cleats on his feet. He knows they understand what comes first; there will be knowing looks between them all. It’s fine, he tells himself.

But he spares himself from looking out at the field as he leaves. It would just make his stomach hurt more than it already does.

It is indeed a demon level when he gets there, which is odd. They haven’t had this caliber since the beach. (He spares a thought for Iaian and wonders if he should have reached out.)

The creature appears to be an oversized wasp with armor plating, delicate wings half broken from what looks like a failed flight attempt if the littered street is any indication. There’s a helmet of some kind on the thing’s head, a crest of antennae spiking out down it’s actual antennae, one eye glowing red. Buildings are half crumbled as the thing screeches, legs tearing into the roof of a mini-mall.

Badd’s not at all surprised it’s a jewelry store, though what a insect wants with that many jewels is beyond him. “Hey! Bird brain!”

When it looks over it’s game on. He feels the adrenaline take over and he’s rushing in with a savage grin that has his canines biting into his lower lip.

Halfway through a flurry of spindly legs, feelers, and a ripped shirt that even Tama isn’t going to want for her bed, he realizes this may not be a normal monster. If he had to pinpoint a reason for the suspicion, it would be when the thing opens what passes for a mouth and screeches, “ALL HAIL THE HOUSE-!”

He never finds out what House is or is part of, because the wasp suddenly shakes as if electrocuted. When he pauses, bat raised to deal a blow that is begging to be let loose, he finds not bird but Child Emperor there, blandly looking up as he plays with a joystick in his hands. “That should ground him.”

If it’s a joke he doesn’t get it. “Who sent you?”

Child Emperor slides his eyes over and yeah, ok, they get it. Bored. (He thought that was his stick.) “Santa.”

Badd rolls his eyes, winds up, and the minute the affront to bee-kind attempts to rise up - he swears there’s smoke rising from it’s head - he swings and hears metal bat connect alongside metal legs.

BANG!

When it goes down it lands with a THUD! Badd can feel his teeth rattle from the proximity, though to his credit not even his knees wobble as the heron’s head lands to his right. A foot nudges the beak, though he doesn’t need that to know it’s gone. The one real eye is already lifeless.

Over his shoulder, Child Emperor hovers and Badd, for the first time today, feels a shiver go up his spine. “Picture would last longer.”

“Clever.” The servos on Child Emperor’s bag whirr as the mechanical legs step OVER Badd. “It appears to be a cyborg of sorts…”

The wasp’s eye short circuits then and there. Badd pops his lip. “What clued you in?” He nudges a dislodged antennae with his bat.

Child Emperor doesn’t bother answering, however, and he turns away to survey the scene. Overall, the carnage is on the low end of the disaster scale. But while the body count is single digits, if that, the physical damage is by far and away what made this a demon level. The mini-mall is destroyed, windows burst and clothes every where from what was either a tourist shop or a dry cleaners. Yet...

He frowns a bit. “Why’d they call demon level on this?”

“Hm?”

Normally, he’d be annoyed that Child Emperor doesn’t bother to look back at him. His ego, however, is less in focus than the fact that, “The damage. It ain’t demon level. Not yet, at least. Would-a called this one a tiger level. ‘Specially since it ain’t even touched anything besides here.”

A chill goes up his spine, but this time there’s no creepy-smart child to blame it on. Child Emperor glances at him, though before the conversation continues the HQ vans catch up and suddenly the clean up crew is here.

He sees Iwate stepping out of a van and sighs. Hefting his bat over his shoulder, he pulls a Child Emperor and watches the agent approach.

“Good job, Metal Bat.” Iwate is nothing if not a professional.

Badd clicks his tongue. “Wasn’t that hard.”

“Most of us would disagree.”

“That’s why I’m the one with the rank then, eh?”

Iwate hums, not disagreeing, and clicks on his phone. “Your speediness in taking it down was, nevertheless, appreciated. This one certainly had the potential to do more damage than it did.”

“Yeah, about that…” He hesitates, just for a minute, if only because he doesn’t know if he can trust Iwate. “This wasn’t demon level.”

Iwate adjusts his glasses. “I’m sorry?”

“It wasn’t demon level.” He gestures at the lack of destruction. (Relatively speaking.) “This ain’t demon level.”

Iwate stares at him for a long moment, squinting almost (if the man can even make any other facial expression). “We classified it demon level based on our usual criteria. Trust us, Metal Bat, we have this system down.”

“But it barely looked at anythin’ other than-”

“Metal Bat.” The hand on his shoulder is jarring. How the hell did Iwate get that close so fast? “What’s done is done. Trust us. Without you here, this would have been far worse than it was.” A cool smile that only makes him feel marginally better. “You did good work here today. Thank you. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

And just like that Iwate’s hand is gone, as is the agent. Phone already to his ear as he walks off to the clean up crew.

Badd watches him go, feeling not...convinced. But...calm? He frowns and turns away, trying to quench the pins and needles threatening under his arms.

The crowds are starting to form and he’s anxious to leave before the requests for autographs come. So with a few side steps he ducks into an alley and breaths a sigh out. It’s too late to catch the end of practice. But if he hurries, perhaps he can meet up with Tanaka after volleyball lets out.

Footsteps bounce off the buildings and he doesn’t look up from his phone to say, “Listen, I ain’t-”

“Signing autographs right now.” Badd’s head whips up, squinting, to find a familiar pair of glasses to go with that familiar voice. Mumen, smiling sheepishly, ducks his head a bit as his hands dive into the green apron he’s wearing over khakis. “H-Hi.”

“Hey.” He could kick himself. “Shit, I mean…” And he sees Mumen’s smile fold just a bit which makes him nearly jerk forward in a vain attempt to make that sound less disinterested. “I never called.”

“It’s all right.” When Mumen says it he could believe it. “I was just in the neighborhood and, well, figured I’d say hi?”

It takes Badd a moment to decipher that as an apology. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” He reaches behind him to feel his bat. Relaxing when he does. “Nice to see a familiar face.”

Which makes Mumen’s smile come back. “That was some fight.”

Badd shrugs a bit. “Wasn’t anythin’.” He straightens a bit, gives Mumen an obvious once over. “You had lunch?”

Mumen hums thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder. Crowds cover the scene now, rubble practically replaced by onlookers. Mumen’s hands carefully take off his apron and fold it over twice, neatly. “I could eat.”

They walk in silence for longer than is comfortable. Without his bat to distract him Badd’s hands have found his pockets, turning a five yen piece over and over in his fingers. When he glances sideways out of the corner of his eyes he notes the way Mumen’s back is slouched, head down a bit. He’s hugging the apron to his chest, fingers playing with a stray tie dangling.

He should say something, he concludes internally. Ask how his day was. Compliment his hair. Instead, he asks, “So what’s with the apron?”

(It’s not the worst he can ask, right?)

Mumen glances at him, almost startled. “Huh? Oh.” He looks down at the apron. “It’s, uh...was my work uniform.”

Badd stops so suddenly it takes Mumen a few steps to realize Badd isn’t keeping up. “ Was your work uniform?”

“Yes?” Mumen shifts, shoulders bouncing. “I was delivering dry cleaning for the store back there today. I don’t think they’ll be needing me anymore for awhile, though.” He glances over his shoulder, teeth digging into his lower lip. “Maybe I should see if they need help…”

Badd doesn’t even know where to start with deciphering that sentence. But he does know that his lunch/dinner date is in jeopardy if he doesn’t act in the next four seconds. So with a stunning amount of self-confidence he knows he definitely is faking he strides forward and links an arm with Mumen’s. “Clean-up crew’s got ‘em. Besides, the Association’s gettin’ paid to do this stuff.”

Convinced or not, Badd can’t tell, but he counts it as a victory when Mumen doesn’t pull away. “Right…”

“So you work around here?” The anger of missing practiced seems far away as he realizes Mumen’s arm is still linked to his. “Then ya gotta know somewhere good to eat.”

Mumen hesitates. “I don’t…”

“What, eat?” He leans in a bit, non-pulsed when Mumen blushes and leans back. “C’mon, pick anywhere. My treat.”

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.” And he gives the biggest of smug grins with every intention of making it the biggest, most impressive meal he can manage.

He doesn’t expect them to end up at the street market, standing just to the side of the smoke billowing from an kare-pan stand. He blinks a few times as Mumen considers the offerings, wondering what there’s even to look over. (It’s not like there’s more than one or two choices.)

“Are you vegetarian?”

Badd blinks at the question. “Huh? Oh, uh, no.” Mumen nods, solemn, and goes back to considering. Badd clears his throat. “This, uh, your favorite?”

“I don’t really have a favorite,” Mumen confesses as he finally points at a few choices.

“You don’t have a favorite food?”

“No, I do.” It takes Mumen a good two minutes and - finally - a selection to get the point. “Oh. Oh . Uh, korokke.”

Badd’s sensing a pattern here even as he digs out his wallet. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Yeah.” Mumen shoves an kare-pan at him. “They, uh, there’s this cart that makes these cheese ones out in R-City. They sprinkle them with paprika. It’s really good.”

“Paprika?” This conversation isn’t doing much for his ego, but that’s ok considering they’re actually  holding edible, recognizable , food in their hands this time.

He’s following Mumen now, kare-pan warming the foil in his hands, feeling very much like a child. He doesn’t know this part of the city that well and he definitely doesn’t know Mumen at all, as he’s rapidly finding out.

“It’s really good…” Mumen’s murmur almost sounds apologetic, which makes no sense to Badd. What’s there to apologize for?

He still doesn’t know what paprika is, but he decides eating the food in front of him is better than questioning. So when they find a bench he sits. It’s not a lie when he admits to being disappointed in the space left between them. But it’s a feeling mostly forgiven when he watches Mumen bite into his food. Happiness for him is a bowl of ramen with Zenko; apparently, for Mumen, it’s kare-pan.

Excited, he bites into his own. And stops chewing.

“It’s good,” Mumen says, pleased, ripping foil off to get at another mouthful.

“It’s, uh, somethin’.” When Mumen glances at him he takes a big bite and gives a thumbs up. He might die inside a little.

It tastes...like almost nothing. Salt and paste squeak in his teeth and if he really concentrates there’s the faint flavor of pepper and meat. But while he can see colors he can’t taste them. All in all it’s pretty damn disappointing. Even by street food standards. Especially by street food standards.

Yet Mumen is tearing into it like it’s a five star meal and he can’t bring himself to make a comment. So he takes another bite and swallows, hoping the fact that Mumen isn’t what he thought he was goes down with it.

(He’d just thought the man would have...better taste, is all. Is that really such a bad thing to assume?)

As he picks at the bread, he’s suddenly not sure what to say. Something that’s been happening far too often when he’s around Mumen. It makes him wonder if maybe he had jumped into this too quickly.

When he glances over Mumen’s staring at the last few bites of his chosen dinner. Lost in thought as well. It makes Badd huff, “Ain’t we a pair of talkative Tatsus.”

Mumen smiles, chuckling once. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been described as talkative.”

He grins, automatic. “Fortunately for you, I’ve gotten called it enough for the both of us.”

“You sure that wasn’t mouthy?”

It takes Badd a moment to realize Mumen has thrown shade back. He blinks as Mumen blushes and stuffs the last three bites into his mouth at once. All it does is make Badd laugh, which in turn causes Mumen’s pink cheeks to go red.

“I’m mouthy all right, though demonstratin’ how so ain’t somethin’ I can do in public.” The wink he gives is definitely not subtle nor demure.

But it does make Mumen swipe a hand over his face in what could be a facepalm (though Badd suspects it’s a cover up). There’s a smile peeking out between Mumen’s fingers, though, that only fuels Badd’s.

“You’re incorrigble.”

“It’s cause I’m encourageable.” Mumen laughs then, just once before slapping a hand over his mouth and glancing at him in apology. Badd just grins; it’s a fucking victory for him. “So what are you gonna do now that you ain’t workin’ for the dry cleaners?”

Meal long since gone, Mumen crinkles the foil into a loose ball. “I’ll find something else. Fortunately, someone always needs a hand with something.”

Badd frowns a bit. “Doesn’t the association pay you to do that?”

Mumen shrugs, thumbing a stray piece of foil. “C-Level is different from S, or even A and B.” But when he looks over he smiles, gently, as if Badd is the one who needs the encouragement. “There’s always something out there.”

Call it the fact he skipped C and B-Level entirely, but he doesn’t get why there’s even a need for a job at all. It just sounds exhausting to him and he has school to contend with. He and Zenko had managed just fine when he was A-Level. But perhaps it really was as Mumen said; different.

“Doesn’t that get exhausting?” He crumples the disappointing kare-pan in one hand when Mumen isn’t looking, satisfied when his throw results in a two-point shot at the nearest garbage can.

“Sometimes.” Mumen ducks his head to scratch the back of his neck.

Badd is pretty sure there’s more than one word there in answer to that question. Admittedly he’s not the smartest of S-Levels out there (or even A-Level heroes, if he’s honest), but there’s a deep familiarity those in his line of work have with exhaustion. There are nights he comes home and doesn’t remember he has a bed (something he’s wanted for years and just has never been able to justify).

So he gets it. He does. To a degree. But he’s got Fighting Spirit that keeps him going. What does Mumen have?

It reminds him of their first attempted date. “You never did tell me what you do for fun.”

Mumen is silent for a moment. “I...work.”

Badd clicks his tongue. “Tch. Ain’t got a job no more.” Mumen looks unsure so he presses. “What would you do if I weren’t here?”

The look Mumen gives him is akin to when Association interns approach him for the first time. “...probably go home and sleep.” At Badd’s groan he holds up his hands. “Go for a ride?”

Badd tries very hard not to make his facepalm obvious. “Seriously?”

Mumen blushes. “I do rounds and I work.” And after a beat, he laughs. “I’m not very exciting, am I?”

He knows he shouldn’t answer that. But it’s coming out before he can stop himself. “Ya think?” With a shake of his head he rests an elbow on the bus bench. “Ok, let’s say - hypothetically - you didn’t have to work and ya didn’t have to go on rounds and, I dunno, you were sick of bike riding for some reason. What would you do for fun ? Ya know, fun?”

There’s a moment where he really has to wonder if he’s going to have to spell the definition out for Mumen. Finally, Mumen huffs a laugh and ducks his head to adjust his glasses. “There’s an exhibit at the modern art museum in L-City. It’s only here for another two weeks. Or when the museum gets destroyed. Either way…”

The small shrug Mumen follows that with is deceptively easy to interpret as placating. But Badd likes to think there’s some truth to an answer practically pried from the cyclist’s teeth.

So he grins. “All right then. Same time next week?” And he leans in, almost daring to close the distance because that would be what he’d normally do. But he doesn’t and he couldn’t say why. “Can take the train in.”

Mumen smiles, kindly, and thumbs at the foil in his hands. “That would be nice.”

He gets the hint and leans back, feeling a bit put out (and a bit more invigorated to try again). “Just nice?” Perhaps he’s selfish in wanting affirmation, but god damn it, Mumen may be a solid presence when on his bike but in person he feels like he’s grasping at something he’s realizing he hasn’t even started to understand.

Mumen bites his lower lip to keep in a smile. “Do I need to assign an enjoyment level, or would you accept ‘I look forward to it’ as an adequate substitute?”

It takes Badd a second to realize that an honest to god joke came out of Mumen’s mouth before he laughs. “All right, all right. But I expect a scale next time.”

“Of course.” There’s a curl to Mumen’s smile this time that makes Badd’s own relax into something with less bite.

A beat goes by. Then two. The 4:30 bus screeches by with the howl of an unkempt brake line. A helicopter thumps overhead, only adding to the hot afternoon breeze. For those seconds, nearly minutes, he feels like this isn’t weird. This could work. There is something underneath the title of Mumen Rider (that he wants to know all the more for its mysteriousness).

And then Mumen’s phone rings and suddenly the sun glare from Mumen’s glasses hurts his eyes as the stench of exhaust fills his nose.

Mumen brings out his phone then shoots him a doe eyed look. “I’m so sorry…”

He sighs, but waves his hand magnanimously. “‘s fine.”

With a nod Mumen rises, face schooling itself into something blank before flipping it open. “My apologies for the wait, how can I help you?”

It’s a funny way to talk to the Association, but he’s not about to judge on that. To each their own. Instead he stretches and turns his back to give Mumen that little bit extra of privacy. He should call Zenko, or text, but his hand stays in his pocket curled around his phone.

“I’m so sorry, Metal Bat-san.” He’s not at all surprised to find Mumen bowing when he turns around. “I need to go.”

An eyebrow raises. “Where?” He regrets the voiced curiosity at the uncomfortable shift in Mumen’s shoulders. “Thought yer job was gone.”

Mumen’s untying the apron around his neck, ducking his head in what Badd suspects is a poor excuse to not meet his look. “Well, that one is, yes.”

“...That one?”

Oh.

“Hai.”

“As in, more than one?” Why did he have an uneasy feeling in his stomach?

“I really have to go…” And if that isn’t outright unease then Badd needed a slap in the face. Mumen shifts again, bow shallow and stiff. “Next week, Ueno Station? 2pm?”

There’s a part of Badd that wants to push, that has pushed, that knows it will push about this because it just seems...weird? Not wrong, he supposes. Foreign. He’s had his fair share of odd jobs, but not since hero work, school, and raising Zenko (not in the that order) became his primary vocations.

Mumen’s back is already to him by the time his nose unwrinkles. He shouts after him, “Fine. But I still expect a scale next week!” The look Mumen shoots him over his shoulder eases his mind a little.

It’s only after Mumen has disappeared that he realizes he’s still missing something. “Wait! What’s your phone number again???”

He doesn’t get Mumen’s number nor does that nagging in his chest leave, even as he works on homework at the table. Zenko’s new piano is part early birthday gift, part late move-in present. It’s like everything else in their apartment; shiny and unchipped, in-tune and starting to become a permanent fixture in their lives.

Zenko plays beautifully on it - not that she didn’t even when the black keys were two steps out of tune. She’s practicing for the summer recital; the calendar reminds Badd auditions are next week. There’s so much red on there these days he almost, almost forgets but it’s comforting, in a way, to see the days filled. They can afford to be busy with things that they want, rather than things that they need.

Still, his pencil can’t seem to form the essay he’s working on. Stalled on the now-gone character for iron, and why he even needed it he can’t remember.

What he does remember is job. And bike. And fuck, if that doesn’t just lend itself to what’s becoming a rapidly natural progression. He’s frustrated all over again just thinking on how that came to be.

His pencil taps on the table. Each jab of the eraser practically chanting Mum-en Mum-en Mum-en. It’s ridiculous. And yet he wonders just why the hell this isn’t easy. It feels - felt - like it should have been over and done with by now. He’s had dates that lasted longer some of his conversations with Mumen and relationships that have ended faster. Perhaps he was prone to quick judgements, but he was alive and his enemies weren’t so there couldn’t be all evil in that approach, right?

( Then again, he helpfully reminds himself, You’re still forever alone. )

A part of him wanted this to be done. It would have been easier on everyone. There’s a recital coming up (because there’s no way Zenko isn’t going to get in), a qualifying game, exams, tests, Tajima's summer pool party. So many ways to keep disappointment at bay and to remind himself that there really doesn’t need to be anyone else in his world.

And still…

He realizes too late that Zenko’s tapping his shoulder. The pencil fragments in his hand. “Huh?”

Zenko purses her lips. “You weren’t even listening.”

Caught red handed. “Was too!” She’s giving him a Look. “Brahms?”

“Liszt.”

Fuck. “It was real nice…”

Zenko glances at his homework, then up at him, and pulls up a chair. It’s suddenly her sighing and Badd feels his toes curl in his socks. “Do you need help, onii-chan?”

Writing has never been his strong point; only Zenko’s allowed to see that for herself. Still, that’s not what’s wrong tonight though he doesn’t know how to word his frustrations. There’s no good name for it.

( Except maybe blue balls. )

“Tch, on this ol’ thing? I’ll be fine. Just savin’ my genius for the test.”

“You spelled ‘there’ wrong.”

“Just testin’ the teacher.”

“Baddo!”

Badd rolls his eyes, but dutifully picks up the now-stubby eraser to fix it. That’s easy at least. Unlike a certain C-Class hero. Eraser bits litter the paper, but his hand stalls in sweeping them away.

“Eh, Zenko?”

“Yeah?” She’s watching him now, foot still against the chair leg, hands gripping the kitchen table as if braced for impact.

“You’re happy, right?”

It’s more complicated than that. But it feels like the best he can ask right now without giving up something he’s not sure is even worth handing out. It’s too...new, still. Too uncertain to truly add to what they have here. He won’t risk what they’ve worked to build.

Zenko squints at him. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head, onii-chan?”

He makes a face at her, which she returns. “Ain’t nothin’ left in there to hurt even if I did!”

“Baddo!” He laughs as the bit of pencil she throws pings off his head. “You’re acting weird!” The ugly face he makes in return to that earns him an eyeroll. “Weirder than usual.” But she considers him for a moment with a depth Badd knows didn’t come from the genes they share. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I’m happy.” And she moves then with a quickness that still catches him off guard, arms tightening around his waist. “I wish you were too.”

“I am,” he insists. But as she hugs him he’s not as convinced as he knows he can sound. He clears his throat as he stands. “C’mon, play it again for me. This Lips guy.”

“ Liszt. ”

She obliges him, though. Tama sneaks in and settles on his lap during the prelude. And he knows the topic isn’t done but he’s grateful for the distraction and the reminder of how some things are and forever will be certain in his life.

Chapter Text

The upcoming date looms in his mind, however, and it’s like the universe knows in the way he hones in on the relative ease of everyone else around him. He counts no less than fifteen couples in the first three days of the week and by the fourth he’s frustrated enough to roll his eyes at Ennoshita and Tanaka’s subtle flirting.

He feels bad almost immediately; it’s not their fault he’s awful at dating. But it’s too late to take it back when Ennoshita raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you dating Rei again?”

He’s less sorry for the look considering the name dropping. “ I broke up with her. ”

Tanaka snorts and forms a vice-like claw with a hand to pinch at him. “Craaaaaabby.”

Badd’s sure he could bring glowering back in again. “I ain’t datin’ anyone.” Which was, mostly true. It’s not like they’d made it official. One date didn’t count as anything these days.

“Wish you would. Maybe you’d stop bein’ such a drag.” Tanaka’s knuckles wrap his head with a smart tap.

Badd swats at the offending fingers. “Yer a drag.”

“Ball buster.”

“Nut bumper.”

“Dick stick.”

Ennoshita rolls his eyes as his palms separate their faces from each other, a fake yawn splitting his face. “You both need new material.”

Tanaka smirks at Ennoshita, puffing air in his ear. Ennoshita recoils, though the irritation displayed is as much for show as the swat is. “Do I really?” As Ennoshita wrinkles his nose, Badd turning to politely ignore the blush there, Tanaka rests a hand on his hip and looks to Badd. “Seriously, though.”

He hesitates. “How d’ya make it look so easy?”

Tanaka and Ennoshita blink at each other. “Huh?”

It feels like an admission of defeat to clarify. “You.” He motions between them. “That.”

Not surprisingly, Ennoshita’s the one who figures it out. His mouth forms a silent oh. “Well…” Brown and blue eyes meet and Badd can practically see the two get on the same page. “It’s not easy.”

“It’s not that hard…” Tanaka trails at the look Ennoshita gives him.

“Relationships are complicated, Badd. There are some parts that are easy and some that are hard.” Badd’s look expresses just how much that isn’t rocket science. Ennoshita holds up his hands. “Look, Tanaka and I danced around it for months before we managed a first date. And actually dating?” The wing spiker chuckles. “There’s always a learning curve. We’re still figuring it out. You want my advice, Badd?” And when Badd nods, Ennoshita continues. “Just be yourself.”

Tanaka snorts. “Maybe with less...you.” He ducks the sock Badd launches at his face and sticks his tongue out.

Ennoshita’s look is tempered with fondness. “Trust me, it’s better to be upfront.”

Which...isn’t exactly his problem. “This IS me we’re talkin’ about here.”

“And be patient.” Ennoshita’s sleepy look is anything but. “This IS you we’re talking about here. These things take time. Not everyone is as quick to decide as you, Badd.”

Badd opened his mouth to argue that, but at the look he was getting from both Ennoshita and Tanaka, he clicked his tongue instead. “Tch.”

Tanaka clapped his shoulder, grinning. “So...is it Rei?”

Badd was just getting in a good whip to Tanaka’s ass with his sock, Ennoshita laughing, when the beep-beep of his phone echoed off the lockers. Startled, his sock fell out of his hand as others in the locker room glanced over.

Wrinkling his nose, he checks the I.D. and groans. “Yeah?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tanaka and Ennoshita exchange a glance. “Now? Seriously? How high of priority? Can’t you-” He scowls because of course the answer is no. He sits heavily with a sigh and rips off a cleat. “Yeah, I’ll be there in ten. That’s the best I can do, ‘k?”

The phone’s lucky it doesn’t bounce off the cement floors. Instead, he curls a hand around it and press his fist to his forehead. Lockers start to shut around him, voices whispering.

“The Association?” The guess is hesitant, if only for the look on Badd’s face. Ennoshita has always been careful, but right now Badd doesn’t know if he appreciates it or is irritated by it.

“Yeah, fuck.”

Tanaka clears his throat. “It’s only a week to the first play-offs.”

Badd spares Tanaka a glare. “You don’t think I know that?”

Always the peacemaker, Ennoshita grabs his knee pads and Tanaka’s hand. “It’ll be alright. It’s just one practice. And we all know we’ve got the best right fielder around.”

Badd decides he’s definitely irritated, even if his ego does swell the tiniest of bit. “Damn right.” A breath in and his other cleat is off, stripping back down out of his uniform. It feels like a part of himself being stripped away. (It scares him a little, even if he tells himself it’s just one time.)

“Good luck out there.” Ennoshita’s smile is genuine in the very least, as it always is. In some ways, it reminds Badd of Mumen. (Still not obsessed.)

Tanaka is quick to give him a grin around the spiker’s arm. “Details, man!” And as Ennoshita drags him off to practice he yells back, “I want details about the not-dating-thing!”

If he had another sock and the time, he’d chuck it after the cackling spiker. He doesn’t, though he leaves a kneepad balled up in his locker for later.

In the end, he wishes he’d taken it if only to throw in Iwate’s smug face. That priority assignment? Escorting a CEO and his daughter to dinner. Each minute that ticks by as salarymen laugh at bad jokes feels like a gut punch. Practice has long ended by the time the CEO’s daughter decides to go home, and even then the 45 minute drive back to their exorbitantly huge mansion in City A is highlighted by the daughter’s doe-eyed winking across the bench seats.

If there is a lower level of hell, Badd needs to see it to believe it.

By the time he gets home Zenko has long since gone to bed, phone open to the text messages they’d been exchanging in between courses. Badd thanks the neighbor profusely; a college student Zenko sometimes asks for math help from. She smiles, bashful, and Badd just doesn’t have the heart to outright reject yet another (at least better intentioned) move tonight.

It’s late, so late, and there’s homework to be done. His phone has messages from Tajima, Tanaka, Izumi, four teammates, and three notifications from the H.A. boards. The phone feels heavy in his hand and he can’t be bothered right then and there.

The shower feels great, but it does little for his mood. A bad date, a bad practice (or rather no practice), and a bad day take their toll in his hands. Fingers curl against the cold shower walls.

“Fuck me,” he says as hot water runs down his back.

As if in answer, the hot water sputters to an end and Tama goes running at his muted swearing.

Between a wave of monsters, extra practices, and homework he nearly forgets the date by the time next week rolls arounds. It’s only when Zenko forgets her sheet music and he has to run it to her that he gets a look at the calendar and remembers what day it is. His heart leaps in his chest and he almost needs a minute, except for the fact that Zenko is calling and if he can’t be a hero to his sister then who is he kidding himself?

School ticks by abnormally slowly. Obsessively he checks his phone, remembering embarrassingly late that he doesn’t actually have Mumen’s number. He should change that. Also, why didn’t he do that first again? He’s just going to blame it on the noodles.

Practice proves to be a well enough distraction, even if the bat is a far lower grade alloy than he’s used to and he has to take care lest it break by his grip alone.

He’s doing well, he thinks, as he strips off a sock. It’s nearly 4:30pm, and if he’s fast (which he is) and efficient (definitely so) and smart (...mostly) he can make it to the station before their meeting time. His leather jacket is hanging in his locker, waiting to make  an impression. It’s as he’s reaching for it that his heart nearly falls out of his chest.

His phone vibrates once. Then twice. Then again. When he glances over, it’s a familiar acronym on the Caller I.D. and his heart sinks into his stomach.

For a moment, he considers not answering it. What’s the worst that could happen? Even as he asks himself that, though, he thinks of rubble falling in and screams and realizes that his phone is already in his hand. Still, he hesitates for a moment longer, because what if…

“What?” He’s not sorry for the harshness there as the phone presses into his shoulder, balanced next to his ear. He’s already getting his Metal Bat gear out. “Yeah, actually, I do have better things to do. But since ya got me…”

He tries not to bring that bitterness with him to the fight, but it’s hard not to slide to a stop with his bat out, leather creaking in his hands. Anger is easy to use and Fighting Spirit relies heavily on just that.

“Hey, asshole!” The creature turns and yeah, he’s pretty sure the universe is just laughing at him at this point.

The monster’s face is elongated, with too many buck teeth gnarled up and out. Hulking in body, with too short legs and arms, it’s a travesty of with scales and a thick tail. What has Badd narrowing his eyes, however, is the distinct human aspect to the thing’s green eyes: fucking glasses.

He points his bat at the...whatever it is. “You fucking ruined date night!”

Too late he realizes Stinger is there, staring at him incredulously. “Metal Bat?”

It’s not that he dislikes his A-Rank friend, but right now? He could have used free reign to just rid C-City of this creature without worrying about stepping on toes. “Stinger.” Baadd turns his attention away for another once over the creature. “You can’t handle this yourself?”

He can practically feel Stinger’s eyes bore into his head.

The ground rumbles then and as the Lizard(?) creature laughs the manhole covers fly off with a hiss. Smaller heads poke out and it’s then he recognizes caiman. Their jaws open in a hiss before they pour out in urban legend numbers.

Right. There was the catch.

Badd’s hand tightens on his bat. “All right then.” With a crack of his neck, he rolls his shoulders. “So, you want the little ones or the-.”

“I got this.” The shortness from Stinger surprises him.

“Do you really?” It’s meant to be playful, but there’s a tension to Stinger’s shoulders that wasn’t there when he was quite a few ranks above.

“I AM CAI-MAN! I AAAAAAM THE FUTUUUURE!”

The roar rings in his ear, muddled by a slur and the angry chirps of the smaller ones emerging. One nearly bites through his shoe and he kicks, not bothering to watch it fly off. “Dunno about you, Stinger, but I’m-” He never gets to finish.

With a yell, Stinger is moving. “GIGANTIC DRILL STINGER!”

Badd’s seen that move nearly a hundred times, yet it never seems to be less impressive. The bamboo shaft of the spear sways. Stinger’s hands are perfectly lined up for a hard grip, always in control. With a roar the stinger at the end spins. Tiny caiman spray into the air as the spear sends shockwaves through the air. He knows how this ends.

Which is why he’s not sure who’s more shocked, him or Stinger, with Cai-Man catches it with his bare hands.

Claws screech as they’re filed into further points by the drill. Stinger, shocked, just stares. Badd likely would do the same if six sharp points in his foot didn’t remind him that there was more than just one to deal with. “Get off! ”

A kick sends five caiman squealing into the air. Four fly over a rooftop and beyond. The fifth manages to hit Stinger in the side of the head with a THWACK!

“Shit, sorry!”

Stinger is moving though, whipping his spear up and out of Cai-Man’s hands. There’s at least that trade off; speed for power. Badd swings his bat with one hand, clearing the path in front of him of snapping jaws. With heavy steps, he bounces off a few jaws as he moves.

“Stinger! Go left!”

“You go left!”

Stinger cuts in front of him and he scowls, having to swerve a swing and finding himself caught off balance as a result. He skids and tries not to cry out too much when a set of teeth clamp onto his calf.

It’s a tiny, tiny consolation that Stinger’s efforts are about as successful. A thrust catches Cai-Man under the chin, but even as the monster roars in pain his tail swings around and Stinger is no match for 800 pounds of pure muscles force.

Unfortunately, neither is Badd.

The concrete wall behind them cracks as they impact. Turns out, the building was a convenience store, complete with clerk still cowering behind the counter. Badd gets up, rubbing his head and spitting a mouthful of blood to his right. As he motions for the clerk to stay down, he glances over.

Stinger is sitting up, almost favoring his left arm. Badd offers out a hand. “Ain’t even a tingle for us, eh?”

But Stinger stands on his own, pushing past without meeting his eyes. “Just get swinging, Metal Bat-san.”

He narrows his eyes at the disappearing back of what he thought was a friend. They’d certainly pierced and bludgeoned their fair share of monsters in the name of friendly competition. Yet a roar outside reminds him that there’s time later for contemplation. And as caiman begin to flood in he starts to clear a path for himself.

Ahead, Stinger sidesteps through snapping teeth and tails. He follows behind, catching up without a thought and dodging the large tail that comes this time. A loud CRUNCH! is the alert they get that something big is coming. He jumps to the left as a roof barrels between them, tiles sending up spark.

He knows now why he was called. It’s the beach all over again, though this time there’s no Level S backup. Not that he needs it.

(He likes to think he can still count on Stinger.)

“Wrong sport, pal!” He turns into the swing at the last minute. The POP! CRACK! of impact with Cai-Man’s knee is worth the recoil in his shoulders.

Cai-Man roars in pain and Badd’s done this enough to know that while the bone isn’t broken it’s bruised. Another hit will do it. He has to abandon his wind-up, however, when a buzz irritates his ears.

The spear misses him by inches, nearly tearing his gakuran. “Warn me next time, damn it!”

This close he can hear the bamboo creak as Stinger twists. “TWISTING SHOOT SPIRAL!”

That’s a new one. (Once upon a time he’d have laughed about getting it in there.) Fortunately, it furthers Badd’s work and brings Cai-Man to a knee. The monster roars, “TAIL SMASH QUAKE!”

The attack name needs work. The effect, however? Badd has to give it a B+, as the ground sends him teetering into Stinger’s spear. Both of them off balance leaves them at the mercy of the ground, where half a million caiman wait eagerly. Pain blossoms on his neck and arms as jaws clamp.

“Stinger!” He gropes, blindly, biting as a caiman tries something funny. It’s how he ends up with a tail in his mouth and the iron taste of blood on his chin. A shake of his head gets the rest off just as his hand finds another human one.

With a roar of his own he launches up, squashing more than one reptilian body. It’s anger in his veins, at the hand he’s holding and at the coughing/roaring he hears around him that he deduces is likely laughter. “C’mon, man, get yer feet under you and FIGHT!”

There’s suddenly hot air around them. Fishy, swampy hot air and he swings just in time.

Teeth break as his bat connects with Cai-Man’s lower jaw. The force is enough to send Cai-Man tilting to the left. Badd has just enough time to pull Stinger with him before the shocks start up from impact. He can feel Stinger’s hand tighten on his and just like that the A-Class hero has a grip on his spear again.

“ONE-HANDED SPIRAL!”

The force reverberates through them both. It’s not Fighting Spirit. But it’s close and he grins as Cai-Man is pushed further through the caiman littered ground. “All bark and no bite, typical!”

Stinger gives him a Look. “That was BAD.”

And for a second it’s like four months ago. He grins. “Good thing I got bad in my name already!”

They both dodge the tail this time with ease. Caiman’s snap, but he’s got a system down now. A twirl to both sides and a high step and he’s raising his bat. Behind him, he hears a warning howl, “QUADRUPLE THRUST!”

He ducks this time as the spear howls overhead. And while he doesn’t see it he hears it. As the first hit strikes true with an accompanying roar, he winds up, “SAVAGE TORNADO!”

Adrenaline is an old friend. It sings in his arms and he feels euphoria practically sigh. For a moment, it feels right. Like this is nothing but what he does; an extension of power so intrinsic that it feels wrong to have not let it out sooner. When he shouts it’s not anger but joy as his bat connects again and again and again. He’s satisfied. Completely.

(And part of him worries about how easy it is to get lost in his rage.)

It’s not the feel of a body going limp that draws him out so much as it is Metal Knight shouting, “ENOUGH!”

Something clamps around his middle and squeezes hard. He’s pulled back, metal bat cracking one final tooth, and flung with a dizzying speed. When he hits the wall it’s not quite with the force from before, but it’s only because a part of him knows Metal Knight wasn’t trying.

His head is clearing as he stands, refusing to teeter. It takes him a second to realize the metal scrape is his bat, not Metal Knight’s armor coming back.

Why had he done that?

“Hey! What’s the big idea?! Stinger ‘n I had ‘im!” A part of his head is still swirling, but he can see well enough to watch Metal Knight draw an arm back. He swears there was a syringe on the end. Either way, Cai-Man goes still with a weak gasp.

Which reminds him… He looks around to find Stinger. The A-Class hero isn’t far, though is gingerly standing, spear loose in his hand. It just makes him mad.

Metal Knight is unphased. “Your services are no longer required here, Metal Bat.”

Badd glances over at Stinger. “We had it on the ropes!”

“It was needed alive.”

“So you had to throw me into a building?!”

“Are you hurt?”

“I coulda been! Then what would’ja have done?”

Metal Knight ignores him which makes Badd suspect it’s an answer he’d like even less than the one he already knows. “And you never said who fucking wants this alive!”

“We do.” The voice sends chills up his spine and Badd turns to find Agent Iwate adjusting his glasses. Behind him, the clean up crew is emptying a van. How they got here so fast Badd doesn’t know. “Thank you, Metal Bat-san, Stinger-san. The damages could have been worse if it were not for your speedy responses.”

The hairs on Badd’s neck have yet to go down, though as Iwate talks he feels the buzz of irritation grow into unease. He’s not sure what to do or what to say. “Yeah, well, when that thing wakes up it ain’t gonna be happy.”

“We have it under control.”

“You fuckin’ do NOW.”

There’s more he wants to say, but Iwate is already swiping on his phone and the crunch of gravel reminds him they aren’t alone. Iwate doesn’t look up from his screen. “You’ll both be receiving commendations.”

“For that?” It doesn’t feel like they did much of anything. He glances at Stinger. “What the hell is-”

“Forgive me, I have a crocodile to transport.” Iwate nods to them both, but it’s an afterthought as the Agent is already moving between them.

Badd watches him go, squinting. “Fuck that guy.” He realizes, however, that Stinger is glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”

Stinger finally meets his eyes. “I could have taken it you know.” Badd huffs, but Stinger beats him to words. “But thanks. I guess.”

He didn’t need the clarification at the end to hear the reluctance. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Ya sure? Cause your actin’ like you do.”

“I don’t have a problem.” Van doors slam and they both look up. News cameras pour out and Badd maybe, maybe can figure out what the issue is. “Media’s here.”

“Yup.” He clicks his tongue and searches in a pocket for a toothpick. It’s a strange comfort in his mouth, if only because he’s never been good at not biting back. He gets it, he does. But it’s not something, he’s finding out, that he was ready to deal with. “All yours.”

Stinger follows him as he turns. “What? But you’re-”

He just shrugs and throws a look over his shoulder. “Got better things to do. Date night, ya know.” When his foot crunches on something he lifts it up to find a giant pair of glasses. And then he remembers. “ Shit. ”

There’s a road behind him that maybe, maybe if he books it will get him back before the last train. His sprint sends caiman flying into the air, much to the distress of the clean up crew, and he almost misses the flash of another, more reasonable sized, pair of glasses. He stops so hard grooves form in the street. Perhaps pin wheeling isn’t the most dignified of ways to slow down, but it works.

When he turns, Mumen Rider is watching him, a bit breathless. “Well, that was a snappy conclusion.”

He tries really hard to not be self-conscious of the sweat sagging his pompadour. “It wasn’t noth-” He stops and narrows his eyes at the cyclist. “That was awful.”

Mumen Rider just grins, apologetic. “I’ve had it in my head since F-City.”

“You rode here from F-City?” His ego drops a bit; so much for that breathtaking after battle pose. “Are you nuts?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Mumen is leaning forward a bit though and Badd can’t tell but he gets the idea there’s squinting happening behind those goggles. “Are you all right? You should really see a medic.”

It’s then that Badd remembers the bites. Flaring up as if by command with that sticky, oozing, burning sensation that comes with post-battle. A finger traces one on his neck. “Oh, right.” He shrugs. “Tch. Ain’t nothin’.”

Mumen’s eyebrow just rises. “I believe you just described a Demon Level threat as ‘nothing.’”

Badd swings his bat over his shoulder and just grins. “Same difference.”

He can’t tell if Mumen’s smile is placating or amused. “You really should at least put something on those. Infections sneak up quickly.”

And before Badd can wave the concern off Mumen’s rooting around in his basket. Fascinated, he watches as Mumen pulls the bottom from the wicker basket. A med kit stares up at them both. “You just carry that around?”

“Most days.” Mumen seems to know exactly where and what he’s looking for is. Sure enough, a tube of ointment is offered to Badd within seconds. “Here, you can keep it. I have more.”

Badd doesn’t doubt that. “Thanks…” He takes it, though doesn’t uncap it. “What are you even doing here?” And because he apparently can’t keep his mouth shut, “This was Demon Level.”

The answer seems far too natural to be real. “I try to show up to the bigger ones, when I can.”

“Why? That thing woulda crushed your bike in seconds.”

“Oh.” Mumen’s hands come up. “I just try to keep things clear. Help where I can. I’m here to help the cleaning crew.”

Badd really shouldn’t be surprised. “So you’re gonna…” He yelps as teeth attach to his foot. When he looks down, a particularly large caiman has his toes. “God damn it!” The dance he does to fling it off is undignified, but the sucker goes flying with only the top layer of his skin and the tip of his shoe.

“Help pick up.”

He’d almost forgotten he’d asked Mumen anything. “Pick up those things?!”

“I like animals.” A caiman snaps at Badd’s bat with an audible snap. “I might see if they have an extra pair of gloves first,” Mumen mutters as he considers the multitude of teeth still scurrying around.

Badd gives him a look. Ya think? Then remembers why the pit of stomach feels like it flew off with that kicked caiman. “So, uh, don’t suppose that exhibit is still open?”

It takes Mumen a moment as well. His smile is apologetic. “I think I’m going to have my hands full here.” And before Badd can think on what to say to that, Mumen continues, “I’m not sure we would have made it either way. A Wolf Level threat took out the green line two hours ago.”

“It did?” At Mumen’s nod Badd wrinkles his nose. “We’re kinda strikin’ out on this whole dating thing, aren’t we?”

“To be fair, we’ve made several good attempts.”

Which almost sounds like… “You callin’ it quits?”

For a hot second something flashes over Mumen’s face. Whatever it is, even the echo is gone in the space it takes Badd to blink. “Hard to call it quits when there’s barely a call.”

Badd is pretty sure he deserves that. It’s not exactly Mumen’s fault they didn’t have much of a chance at all. Badd clears his throat. “Ink ‘n all, you know, sweat a lot…”

Mumen’s mouth forms an unsaid ‘oh.’ But he smiles and Badd can’t tell why but he’s charmed all the same. “Well, then you should probably have this. Again” Mumen reaches into his pocket and brings out a pen. Fingers fish around for paper, the tip of his tongue caught in his teeth as he looks.

It’s ridiculously endearing. Badd swallows, hard. “Here,” and holds out his sleeve. Mumen is hesitant until he jabs him in the chest. “C’mon, not like some ink’s gonna ruin it for life.” And at Mumen’s additional, near-Look, he adds gently, “I’ll take care of it this time. Promise.”

The pen tickles as it pokes through his shirt, not that Badd is going to admit that. Mumen gives him a look, he thinks. “No, I suppose not.”

When he clicks his pen Badd inspects his arm. The ink spreads as it cools. Blue numbers stand out, fuzzy around the edges as they sink into cotton, and he’s never felt so outrageously protective of something so fleeting. “Huh.”

Mumen quirks a brow. “Did I write it all right? I’m so sorry, my handwriting is not the best.”

Badd shrugs, jamming his hand in his pocket and around his phone. “I got it.” It’s all he can do to not pull out his phone right then and there.

A helicopter thumps overhead, distracting them both. Mumen’s hand drifts to a handlebar. “I should go.”

And for a second Badd feels a stab of guilt. The rubble seems vast, now that he has a minute to focus. Caiman begin to slow, finding the last stabs of sun on newly formed rock piles. Dust is settling and the street, in places, is unrecognizable. It’s partly his fault. It should be him picking up the teethy bastards.

“I think the news is coming this way.”

It’s gentle, breaking Badd from his thoughts. When he looks over, he can see Mumen is right. He does give an accusing glance at Mumen, however. Teases (mostly), “What, ashamed to be seen with me?”

Mumen gives a gentle chuckle that Badd is almost ashamed to admit eases the edges of his ego. Maybe this whole...thing isn’t futile after all.

“Metal Bat-san, there are very few things I’m ashamed of and knowing you is not among them.” With little effort Mumen kicks up his kickstand and swings onto the seat. Badd’s still dissecting that previous statement as Mumen passes when he hears, “See you later, alligator!”

He facepalms, groaning, “Get outta here!”

But even as he turns he takes his phone out and punches in the memorized number. Typing out a quick text: In awhile crocodile.

The distant ding he hears is accompanied by a laugh that is quickly becoming familiar. It’s a laugh that follows him home. Staying curled in his stomach even as Zenko fusses, rubbing the ointment Mumen gave him into the bites on his arms. “Baddo, you gotta be more careful!”

He’s still grinning. “Yeah, yeah.”

She gives him a look, then glances at the tube in her hand. “Next time you should see a medic. I mean it, onii-chan!”

He promises, and tries not to think about just what he’d want that medic to look like.

When he wakes the next morning it’s past his alarm and he doesn’t remember the phone number on his shirt until he’s banging on a vending machine. Change rattles, finally, and the energy drink drops with a thud. He doesn’t move for it, importance forgotten.

He should text...right?

The last (and only) text he sent sits there on the chat screen. Physical proof it was sent and received. Mumen’s laugh echoes in his ears and that grin from last night reappears.

He should definitely text.

Unless that makes him desperate.

Does texting first make him desperate?

It makes him desperate doesn’t it?

Shit.

“Hey! You gonna choose?!”

He spins, evil eye in full force. It sends the first-year cowering backward, bowing and apologizing. “Badd-sama! I didn’t know it was you! My apologies; of course, take your time!” The litany continues even as the poor kid trips and scrambles off on his ass.

Satisfying, but it still makes him late to class. And it doesn’t solve his dilemma. He’s still staring at his phone in thought when lunch rolls around, bento unwrapped and untouched on a knee.

The phone nearly flies into his salted eel when Tanaka flops down next to him. Fingers are already poking at his lunch. “Ohhh unagi! Wanna trade?”

“Get yer own lunch, ya leech!” It’s not the lunch he’s clutching though.

Tanaka squints at him. “What’s that?” At no answer he sniffs. “Oh. My. God. You’re dating again aren’t you.”

Badd scowls. “I am not!”

Tanaka’s own lunch is already being crammed into his face at high speed. Rice threatens to spray out of his mouth. “Did you send a dick pic again?”

He swears he isn’t blushing. “SHHH! It wasn’t a dick! How many times do I have to say it?”

Badd’s pretty sure Tanaka’s expression will be the one he dies with. “Uh-huh.” At least the rice gets swallowed. “So…?”

He avoids answering the question by breaking his chopsticks. “Keep staring like that and I’m gonna charge ya for a photo.”

“Don’t need a photo, already see your ugly mug in my nightmares.”

“Surprised you can see it past your ass.” Tanaka attempts a kick, but even sitting Badd’s got at least an inch and super reflexes on him. He blocks with an elbow, grinning. “Idiot.”

“Jackass.” They eat for a quiet minute before Tanaka tries again. “So, who is it?”

“No one you know.” Personally, at least.

“Ok. You waitin’ on a text then?”

“Eh…” He’s not sure how to answer that. “Sorta.” At Tanaka’s raised eyebrow he gives. Just a bit. “We mighta exchanged numbers.”

“And?” Badd shrugs and Tanaka groans. “Oh my GOD. You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m just playin’ it cool!”

Tanaka pokes his chopsticks at him. “You fight monsters but can’t even send a text? Dumbass!”

Badd can feel himself going red in the face. “I’ll text when I’m damn well ready!”

“I dare you. Double dare ya.” When he just scowls Tanaka sticks out his tongue. “TRIPLE dare ya!”

“You can’t triple dare me!”

“I just did.” And Tanaka shoves the last of his rice in his mouth, chewing smugly.

With a growl he flips open his phone and stares at Mumen’s number. It can’t hurt, right? With a breath he furiously types out: So did you lose all your fingers or just forget to text me good night?

“There.” He snaps his phone shut, glaring at Tanaka. And out of pure spite he shoves all of his eel in his mouth at once. “Happy?”

“Immensely.” Tanaka laughs.

Badd nearly chokes when his phone rings seconds later. As Tanaka wipes eel off his face, less than amused, he flips open his phone. A response is there. Waiting to be tapped on and read. His thumb hovers before just punching it hard.

My apologies. I’ll remember to say good night today.

Badd snorts. Gonna hold you to that. When he glances up he sees Tanaka, staring intently at him. So, exhibit?

There’s no immediate response to that. He feels let down, before the bell rings and he remembers that it’s midday. Not everyone has infinite amounts of time. Including himself. As he stands, bento box snapped shut, Tanaka throws an arm over his shoulders.

“Proud of you.” Tanaka’s finger drives into his cheek until he bats it away. “What did you say her name was again?” At a Look Tanaka’s eyes widen. “HIS name?”

“I didn’t!” And they end up smacking each other until the warning bell has them sprinting for class.

By the time he gets a text back it’s nearly bed time. Zenko’s finishing the last of her packing for the morning (a habit Badd taught but can’t emulate) and Badd’s attempting to make the garbage last for another night.

“Just take it out, onii-chan!”

“It’s fine!”

“You’re getting it everywhere!”

There’s some debate as to just who’s turn it really is to take out the garbage. But Badd’s phone dings and for a moment they both hold their breath as he looks at the screen. His shoulders relax. “Fine.”

And he hoists the trash out with one hand. Zenko gives him a look, but Tama chooses that moment to come in as Badd leaves, providing a useful cover.

I’m so sorry! Work was crazy. I would still very much like to go to the exhibit with you.

Badd has to think about that. More crocodiles?

This time he gets a response back almost immediately. Surprisingly, that would have been easier. A party was double booked and both sides were a bit...enthusiastic in their reactions.

It takes Badd a moment on that one. So they broke shit?

It was an exercise in patience.

Badd's pretty sure that means yes. He leans against the far end of the hallway, trash forgotten at his feet as he texts back, I can think of better ways to exercise.

Maybe you can tell me...after your birthday.

Only a few months away you know.

The exhibit’s not open that long.

It was worth a shot. Yeah, yeah. What is this exhibit again?

An art show for Zoo-Men.

Badd squints at the name and makes a mental note to look it up later. Sounds good. And when he gets no immediate response he starts to type a follow up.

His phone dings before he can finish but Zenko pokes her head out then, pajamas on and Tama in her arms. She’s as surprised to see him as he is to see her. “Onii-chan! It’s late!”

Phone clicking shut he grabs the trash and jams the button for the elevator. “Just waitin’ on this stupid thing!” He huffs. “Forget it, gonna take the stairs.”

He can feel Zenko’s eyes following him as he takes the stairs two at a time. Only when he’s at the bottom floor does he glance around and open his phone.

I didn’t know you were a fan!

Fan? Ah well, whatever. He’s already agreed. Huge. So, Saturday at 2pm?

And his phone dings seconds later. Does Red Monkey like banana pudding? Badd doesn’t get the reference. Fortunately, Mumen sends another text shortly after that one: Meet you at the Ueno Station at 11am.

Badd leans against the wall, phone clutched to his chest like an idiot. He has a date. With fucking Mumen Rider. It’s almost unreal in his mind and he has to read the text once, twice, three times just to cement it in there. A date. The garbage bag crunches as he shifts and reluctantly he reaches for it. Even chores, however, can’t quite break the magic his phone currently holds.

When he finally locks the apartment for the night he realizes, in between shouting goodnight to Zenko and bemoaning the amount of Tama butt on his pillow, he’s gotten a new text. When he flips it open, he has to smile.

Mumen’s name blinks softly. Good night, Metal Bat-san.

Chapter Text

The next day at practice he absolutely kills a practice swing. The ball goes flying, over the field, over the gym building. The team watches, slack-jawed. And all he can do is grin.

When he tells Tajima the clean-up hitter huffs, “You’re gonna be the youngest guy to make pros at this rate. Unless you dent that skull of yours huntin’ monsters.”

“Dent my bat before dentin’ my skull.”

“Pretty sure Zenko would kill you if you didn’t promise that.” But Tajima bumps shoulders with him and he gets the message either way.

Zenko notices the smile as well and pokes him with her foot under the dinner table. “You’re in a good mood.”

He doesn’t feel like explaining. “Eh, I guess.” But he does feel like sharing the experience. “Know what that means?”

“Ramen? Another cat?” He gives her one more guess. “Shopping?”

At his grin the subject is dropped and while he may be stuck carrying the shopping bags he at least gets to share in the public joy Zenko very much has for finding that perfect fashion piece. They go home with all of the best finds. He’s not sorry.

He’s wearing one of said finds that Saturday. The black bomber jacket is still stiff, new. The embroidery of dual dragons fighting (red and green) is still vibrant and, even better, matches his garukan. Bat slung over his back, he feels like a bancho. The looks he’s getting as he waits say he’s not too far off on his self-assessment.

Every thirty seconds he glances at his phone. True to his word, Mumen has texted good night every night. Sometimes late, sometimes early. He can't get a grasp on Mumen’s schedule and he doesn’t know what to make of that inconsistency in the world’s most consistent hero.

He just hopes that schedule includes being on time. It has to, right? This is Mumen Rider they’re talking about.

His stomach gurgles, though. Goosebumps rise under his jacket and if the bubbling in his stomach isn’t a sign of nerves then Badd’s prepared to give up his bat now. He tries to tell himself it’s just a date. Just an outing. With a person that he perhaps maybe sort of likes in ways that aren’t how he likes Tanaka or Tajima or Zenko.

He feels like he might puke. Or take down a dragon level by himself. Whichever shows itself first.

Just as he’s considering where the trash is, he hears it. “Metal Bat-san?”

He blinks as Mumen’s there, out of the crowd and suddenly in front of him. Mumen looks...vastly different. Loafers, dark jeans, oatmeal cable knit sweater - the only thing that screams Mumen Rider is the biking gloves still on the man’s hands.

He could say he looks nice (because he does) or that he smells good (because he does). Instead, Badd finds something else flying out of his mouth. “What happened to your glasses?”

Mumen touches the rims of said glasses, biting his lower lip. “Oh. Work, unfortunately.” Badd just stares. The tape holding those frames together matches the bandaid on Mumen’s chin. “There was a double booking, and-”

“They trashed the place. Right.” Badd wrinkles his nose. “Ya’d think people would leave that to monsters.”

The smile he gets from Mumen isn’t one he recognizes. “It was two birthday parties. They were upset. Rude, but upset, and most people never deal well when emotions are high.”

Badd just stares. “I woulda just punched them.”

That gets Mumen to laugh. “Then it’s a good thing you weren’t there, huh?” Badd just pops his lips and Mumen uses his thumb knuckle to adjust his glasses at the broken bridge. “So, should we get tickets?”

“A-City, right?”

They buy their tickets in companionable silence. He sneaks glances at Mumen out of the corner of his eyes and tries not to let anger bubble at the bandage glaringly obvious on the guy’s chin. It’s not like he has room to talk.

A fact Mumen brings up as they wait. “How is your foot?”

“My what?”

“Your foot. You know, from when that caiman tried to take a souvenir?”

“Oh.” He’d gotten flack from Tanaka for the bites on his body. Even Ennoshita had gotten a crack in. “Eh. Takes a lot more than one to get me down.” And he throws a rackish grin at Mumen. “Less, of course, I wanna go.”

Mumen rolls his eyes. But there’s the tug of a smile on his lips as he adjusts his glasses again. “Metal Bat-san, you keep going on like that and I’m going to start thinking they may need to rethink naming you after your bat.”

Which brings up a good point. “Unless you’re gonna be pullin’ out an autograph book, think you should probably call me Badd.” Mumen gives him a glance. “ Just, Badd.”

Badd refuses to admit the way Mumen dips his head affects him. “I suppose I can manage that.”

It also begs the question, “So, you’re name-”

“It’s complicated.” Mumen pauses. “And weird. I don’t really know what my parents were thinking, but it is what it is, you know?” Badd just nods as Mumen shoves his hands in his pockets. “Just Mumen is ok. If that’s ok with you?”

Badd raises an eyebrow. “You’re askin’ me what I want to call you?”

The question brings out a blush of pink across Mumen’s cheeks. “It’s just Mumen.”

The train comes then and they crowd in. Badd leans against the door until Mumen gives him a look. His hand slips, reluctantly, into an overhead handrail. “Fun police.”

Mumen just smiles. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“...it was mostly fun police.”

And Badd gives out a snort of laughter. “Nerd.” He freezes for a second after it’s out. But if Mumen’s bothered he doesn’t show it. “Lemme guess: hall monitor?”

Mumen shakes his head. “Student Safety Commission. Specifically Commuters.”

A bark of laughter. “Super nerd.”

There are still bubbles in his stomach. But it’s less churning sea and more like swallowing a soda can. It feels deceptive, it being this easy. Part of him is waiting for the tab to be popped.

“We all have our vices.”

“Don’t think I’d call safety a vice.” Badd narrowly avoids banging into the door as the train stops.

Mumen arches an eyebrow. “Coming from the guy who makes a living from joining a fray?”

Which is a fair point that he’s not going to address in favor of getting off the train. “So, where was this gallery?”

He doesn’t know if it’s the lingering mid-day heat or walking elbow to elbow with Mumen that has his neck burning. For once he’s glad to follow, pretending it’s a need to shed his jacket that has him a half-step behind. It seems obvious why he’s red. But when Mumen glances back it’s only to comment, “Warm, eh?”

He just pops his lip and shrugs. “Seen warmer.”

Mumen just smiles a little. “Last summer was pretty bad.”

Weather is one of those things he listens to old acquaintances rehash upon a chance meeting. It’s not what he wants this to be. “Eh, guess it was. Don’t really remember.” Not that he’s able to think of how to steer the conversation away. Other than with, “Aren’t you hot now?”

Mumen looks down at his sweater. “A little?” But he doesn’t move to tug the sweater off. “My grandmother always said I ran a bit cold.”

Which has Badd snorting. “Takin’ cool-headed literally there.”

“I suppose.” Mumen is rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not sure if anyone has ever referred to me as that.”

“What, cool-headed?”

“Hai.”

It’s Badd’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “If not that then what?”

He never finds out as Mumen perks up. “We’re here!” And like that Mumen’s looking up, adjusting his glasses.

Badd follow’s his gaze and has to blink. Once. Then twice. Because when Mumen said Zoo-Men he hadn’t really given much thought to what that meant. It’d been more of an opportunity for a date and less of a chance to experience some art. But while this was definitely the former, whether they were here to see the later was put entirely into question by the kaleidoscope staring at him of colors and...animals?

“What the-”

“It’s the original logo!” Badd had never been happier to be cut off. When he glances over it’s to find Mumen’s attention squarely on the logo for what looks like a kid’s show. “Remember how they changed it after only one season?”

He does not. But he does remember that he’s supposed to be a fan of this. So he does what anyone else in his shoes would do. “Yeah, right, they made it…”

“Edgier. Which worked in gaining viewers with older audiences. But I felt that the original logo was more in-tune with the inherent joy the show displayed and the better embraced the cheesy aspects of the show. You know?”

Badd doesn’t know. But he does know that the smile Mumen gives him makes him want to maybe watch whatever the hell this is. “Yeah.”

For a moment it seems like Mumen is going to reach for his hand. Instead, Mumen pats his shoulder in some kind of aborted attempt at connection. “Come on, let’s get tickets!”

Surprisingly, there’s a line. Unsurprisingly, Badd feels as if there’s eyes on him. This time, however, when the whispers starts he knows that part is at least true. He can feel his cheeks redden and he checks his phone in an excuse to not catch any of the looks being cast his way.

“We can’t take pictures inside.” The fact Mumen seems disappointed shouldn’t surprise Badd as much as it does. “But look at the tickets! Each one’s a different Zoo-Man. Who did you get?”

Badd takes the ticket thrust at him and realizes only then that it’s paid for. “I was gonna pay.”

Mumen shrugs. “It was my idea.” And is already more interested in pulling the ticket out from the sleeve it came in. “Oh, Green Fox!” Which is apparently a literal green fox in a green karate/space outfit. With sunglasses. Because why not. “Who did you get?”

Part of him really hopes it’s the same thing if only so he doesn’t have to pretend to know who it is. Turns out, it’s an unfounded worry, as the minute a pink pig with boobs slides into his hands he can guess the name. “Pink Pig?”

Mumen sucks in a breath. “That’s great! She always seemed to be the most popular.” Badd is pretty sure he can guess why. “Nice!”

Though the way the observation is made has Badd guessing, “She wasn’t yours?”

The bob of shoulders that meets the question is enough of an answer, even without the: “I was always into Black Condor.” Badd must have made a face because Mumen laughs. “Yeah, I know. Just something about his calm personality I related to, you know?”

“Yeah…”

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to answer who his favorite is.

“Come on, the exhibit starts here!”

If they’re honest, the exhibit is just about everything Badd hates in a museum. Long paragraphs describe the art process and inspiration behind each character. The drawings lose their meaning when you haven’t seen the show and Badd knows he’s missing the nostalgia factor that each rapt pair of eyes drinks in at each new exhibit. He’s lost for the first room, until Mumen, bless his soul, starts to point out the highlights. Which, if Badd’s honest, is what makes it for him. He’s seen the man get slammed in the head by a bottle and pick up trash off the sidewalk, but it’s distinctly not Mumen Rider explaining how a belt change on an animated hyena is more than an artistic oversight.

It’s charming. Annoyingly (and surprisingly) so.

And he tries hard to be a part of it. Pointing to a staff to comment, “Black Eagle’s got good taste in weapons.”

Mumen just smiles. “Black Condor’s skilled in longer range weapons.”

Right. Because that makes sense. “Yeah, well, Red Ape’s sword is pretty badass too, huh?”

“If you like Red Monkey’s sword you should see the Ultra-Saber he gets in season four!”

It’s an attempt, and the fact that Mumen doesn’t seem to notice the slip ups makes him think maybe he’s got this? He may have Mumen fooled, but there’s definitely a seven-year-old to his right giving him stink eye. His face flushed, he turns and attempts to pretend to text until a security attendant politely reminds him about their no photo policy. Mumen taps his shoulder before he can go red and it’s hard to stay angry when you have a man nearly eight years your senior excited about fucking costumes from a show about transforming animals.

They’re looking at original animation cels when Badd says, “Zenko would really like this.”

“Zenko?”

“My sister.” He’s not sure what to make of the hesitation. “She’s really into that latest show. The one with the idol group, you know?”

Mumen nods. “B-Project: Kodou* Ambitious.”

Which is... right. “I guess? Sounds right.”

There’s a blush on Mumen’s cheeks when he glances over. “I’ve seen most of the latest episodes. It’s not bad. Do you know her favorite character?”

“Uh, blond hair...short…” Mumen just blinks and he clicks his tongue. He’s already lied once today. No need to keep it up. “Honestly? They all look the same.”

That has Mumen laughing. “That’s fair. At least with Zoo-Men, there’s distinct differences.”

Which is definitely true. Even if the pig does have boobs. “You really love this show, huh?”

Mumen’s turned to look at a life-sized replica of Red Monkey’s helmet. (It’s apparently an artistic rendering of said helmet, but Badd’s not 100% sure which is the real versus embellished.) For a long moment, Mumen’s shoulders stay tense. “I have a lot of memories watching it.”

Badd wrinkles his nose. “Good ones?”

That shakes the line from Mumen’s shoulders and his glasses flash. “For the most part.” Mumen stares at his reflection in the glass. “There was this kind of...joy in every episode. It was cheesy and the animations don’t hold up anymore, but when I was young it was encouraging to see the Zoo-Men manage to save the day. Even with their different backgrounds and personalities.” Mumen glances over at him and smiles, bashful. “I guess it just really struck a chord with me. It was worth getting up early for on Saturdays, you know?”

Badd tries not to think how long it’s been since Mumen was in school. And he’s also not sure how to respond to that passion he can see in Muman. “Oh god, don’t tell me you’re a morning person.”

Mumen’s nose wrinkles. “Then I won’t. Now come on, the next gallery are originals done for the 15th Anniversary! I hear Yusuke Murata did a two page spread!”

By the time they’ve made it through the rest of the exhibit they’re being chased by staff closing up for the evening. The sun is setting as the exhibit attendants bow. The gift store is still open, and if this were Zenko they’d be closing that down too. But Mumen is already headed for the exit.

“Ain’t we supposed to exit through there?”

“Seeing the exhibit was gift enough. Besides, we’ve spent long enough here.” He can’t argue with the smile Mumen throws over his shoulder. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Now that Mumen mentions it...Badd’s stomach growls. “I could eat.”

It’s cool enough for his jacket now. They walk in silence as he slips it back on and it’s just enough time for Badd to start sweating again. What is he supposed to say? Maybe he’d be able to talk about cartoon animals if his parents hadn’t-

“Thanks for coming with me.”

Badd almost misses it and nearly trips when he hears it. “N-No, uh, pleasure was all mine.”

Mumen glances over and the smile he has is...fond? “I’m sorry I talked through all of it. I’ve been wanting to see this for weeks and I guess I let my excitement eclipse your own enjoyment.”

Badd’s still trying to figure out what exactly he’s apologizing for. “Look, look, just, stop, yeah?” Only when he’s sure Mumen is listening does he take in a breath. “Do I look like someone who does somethin’ they don’t wanna do?”

He can see the moment the point strikes home with Mumen by the way his laugh creeps up. “You look like a lot of things, Badd-san, and a pushover is not one of them.”

Which has him grinning, “What else do I look like?”

Mumen just gives him a sideways look that surprises Badd nearly as much as the hand on his elbow. “Hungry. Come on, I saw a kuru kuru across the street.”

It’s nothing at all like their first date. Their chopsticks stay in their hands, the table next to them is empty, and the low thrum in the room is attributed more to the conveyor belt than talking. But most importantly, he starts to learn things.

Things like how Mumen’s favorite sushi is unagi. How he prefers nigiri to the newer rolls, decrying the idea that cream cheese can go in a roll and still be called sushi. How Mumen can handle far more wasabi than Badd can and how he never goes for the low sodium soy. How the best sushi Mumen’s had was in a long-forgotten restaurant by the shore, during a trip tinged with wording so careful Badd wonders if the memories are delicate or incomplete.

When Mumen lapses, chopsticks turning a piece of ginger over and over, he asks, “You ain’t mentioned your parents. They didn’t take part in this amazin’ sushi?”

Mumen hums and for a moment Badd wonders if he’s heard him. “They’d been dead for two years.”

And just like that, Badd’s appetite wavers. “Oh. Sorry...”

Mumen just shakes his head, giving him a small smile. “It’s ok. Really. I’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with it.”

Badd notes he doesn’t say at peace. He knows why. “Yeah?”

Mumen nods. “My grandmother raised me after they died. I loved her, dearly. And she did her best. She’s the one who suggested the job on the shore that summer, to give me some distance and to get out. See new things while I was young.”

Badd wrinkles his nose. “Wait, you went out to work?”

“At an inn.” Mumen laughs a bit, setting his chopsticks down. “I was so out of my element, Badd-san. You should have seen me. I think I dropped three carafes of melon juice that day, all before noon. I was so nervous!”

He can picture it, frighteningly easy. Taped glasses on Mumen’s nose as he apologizes profusely, picking up glass shards with quick fingers. If he’s honest, Badd isn’t sure how it makes him feel; conflicted, to say anything at all.

“Was that your first job?” He asks instead of the one he really wants to know. (He doesn’t feel confident enough in what this is to ask that kind of revelation.)

“Second,” Mumen admits. “I used to sweep the local shrine when I was younger, before they had an apprentice.”

Which is not what Badd expected. “Religious?”

Mumen just shrugs, sipping water before meeting his eyes. “Not enough to go beyond sweeping steps. What about you, Badd?”

Badd snorts. “Not at all.”

Mumen grins. “I meant what was your first job.”

Which makes more sense. Badd hides his embarrassment with a bite of sake that ends with him choking on a runaway chef’s idea of a ‘little’ wasabi. Mumen sliding over his glass of water just makes him feel that much smaller. He takes it, nonetheless, appreciating - not for the first time - Mumen’s pointed look at something not him.

“Pigeons,” he manages out, eventually, half of Mumen’s unami later. Mumen is patient, watching him over the rims of his glasses. “I used ta throw rocks at these pigeons, right? They were just sittin’ up on the roof across the way and to be fair they started it by poopin’ on my head first. Happened once and from then on I’d scare ‘em off before walkin’ underneath.” He doesn’t tell Mumen about the laughs that had come before. He’s not entirely sure he needs to. “ Anyway, despite me, these pigeons just kept comin’ and one day they got the shopkeeper right in the face. Open mouth and all. I rush on over there, shoutin’ and throwin’ things and next thing you know? Nothing. Pigeons had flown off. Then and there the shopkeeper promised me a few bucks a week to help him scare ‘em off.”

Mumen bites his lower lip, a finger pressing against his upper lip. “That...is not what I expected.”

“Yeah?” And he’s curious now. “What did ya expect?”

“I’m not sure.” Mumen laughs then, at himself or at Badd, Badd isn’t quite sure. “I suppose...that?” And he leans in then, elbow balanced on the edge of the table, chin in his palm. “I don’t know that much about you, admittedly. You have a sister. You play baseball. You fight monsters. The pigeon AND monstrous variety.”

Badd grins. “Had to start my training young.”

“Well, one can hardly argue with the results.”

“Betchya say that to all the heroes.”

Mumen’s smile isn’t one Badd can place. Charmed? “Only to the ones I like.”

And that makes Badd’s heart want to skip. “There any you don’t like?” He’s fairly certain Mumen could say no right now and the flutter in his stomach would still be there.

But Mumen is wise enough to know a trap of a question when he sees one, or perhaps he really doesn’t have an answer. Badd doesn’t know. Either way, Mumen just moves to set his now empty plate aside.

Emboldened, he presses, “C’mon, there’s got to be at least one.” And when that doesn’t work, “Tell ya what, you tell me then you can ask me anything you want to know about me. Go on!” He leans back, confident in his trade. “Anything. Nothing’s off limit.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“What’s your first memory?”

Badd nearly jerks backward. He’d expected some type of pause at the very least. “Hey, you’re supposed to tell me who ya don’t like first!”

Mumen bites his tongue just so, eyes crinkling. “Consider it a show of good faith.” And at Badd’s scowl, he adds, “You said anything.”

And Badd sighs. “I did.” He has to think, though he’s not sure if it’s because of how long ago it feels or how strong the memory still is. He can feel himself slide down in his seat a bit. “Mah parents, I guess.”

Mumen sits up a bit. “Yeah?”

Badd shrugs, unsure why it feels like he’s prying his chest open. It’s not like it’s a secret. (But he only needs one hand to count how many people know about it.) “Don’t really remember much...” It’s not quite the truth, because to this day smell of cherry blossoms still conjures the feel of wood blocks and the smell of salmon rice balls. “A picnic, I think.” His thumb worries a knuckle under the table. “You don’t really want to hear about that, though.”

When he looks up, he honestly expects Mumen to say he does, though. The man has an earnest - wistful, even - look in his face. And for a long moment there’s that acknowledgement that runs between them of a similarity neither are quite ready to go in depth on. Or, at least, Badd isn’t. Not yet. (Doing so would make this something he’s still not sure it is.)

After a pregnant pause, Mumen simply says, “Peri-Peri’s enthusiasm makes me uncomfortable, sometimes.”

“Huh?” It takes Badd a moment to figure out how that statement fits into their conversation. His nose wrinkles, then he remembers, “So not a Peri-Peri Angel, then?”

Mumen stammers, “No, I...l-looks he’s not a bad guy, you know? I deeply admire his abilities and I’ve really only met him once, so I really shouldn’t say anything because we’ve had very different experiences regarding it, and how he chooses to express himself is fine. I just-”

“He ain’t your type.” Which is perhaps the nice way to acknowledge Mumen’s reluctance to name anyone at all. Badd feels a twinge of regret for forcing the issue. “It’s fine. I get it.”

Grateful, Mumen’s shoulders relax. “I don’t want to seem-”

“You don’t.” He doesn’t know what Mumen means, but he also doesn’t want to dwell on this because it honestly doesn’t matter. He knows how Mumen seems to him and it’s not any fault that the man could possibly see in himself. “And you ain’t gonna convince me otherwise, so why don’t you grab those plates of spicy tuna for us and you tell me about whether or not you spilled that melon juice on some rich old dowager. Cause right now I’m just picturin’ one of ‘em cluthin’ pearls, goin’ ‘Well I never!’…”

Mumen’s grateful smile turns into a laugh at Badd’s impersonation and whatever heaviness was between them dissipates over a plate of spicy tuna rolls.

When they step off the train they’ve run the gamut of impersonations. Badd has always known he does an awful Metal Knight, but Mumen nearly rivals him for the title of worst. They’re both getting looks as they step off, but Badd barely recognizes the harsh whispers over the ache in his stomach at Mumen’s attempt at Drive Knight. He feels a bit like he’s twelve again, ditching school for the first time with Tanaka and giggling at their victory behind a fence.

Mumen wipes his eyes, glasses askew. “Please never let me do that again.”

“I definitely ain’t promisin’ that.” He grins, focused even as the crowds jostle them both. The train pulls away and the platform empties, leaving just them.

“That’s because you’re an awful influence.” The smile on the man’s face gives him away.

“Never claimed to be otherwise.”

Mumen chuckles, but simply shifts. Badd wonders what now. He remembers the handshake from the first date and for a moment he’s scared Mumen is going to offer his hand right now. It’s not to say he necessarily wants a kiss, but at the same time a handshake will do to his ego what his last history test did to his grade point average.

As if on the same page, Mumen shifts, hands finding his pockets. “So…I had a really good time today.”

Badd realizes the onus has passed to him. So he puffs his chest out a bit, leans against a pillar, and smoothes a hand through his hair. “I’m free next week.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And Mumen smiles. “I’ll have to think of something to top today.” He rocks back on his heels and ducks his head, considering. Badd’s heart pounds. “Text me?”

Which, isn’t what Badd wanted. But it’s a promise of another chance. “Gonna have to break my fingers to get me to not.”

That makes Mumen smile. “Does that mean you can text with your toes?”

Badd pops his lips. “Maybe. Might be able to do more, too. But you’re gonna have to wait for my birthday.”

It takes a moment, but Mumen’s laugh comes with a blush and it sends a rush through Badd’s head like a good crack of his bat does. “All right, all right. Until next time then?”

Badd’s not letting Mumen off that easy. “Next week.”

“Next week.”

And they stand there long enough for the next train rolling in to be announced. Finally, finally, Mumen nods, just once, “Have a good rest of the night, Met-” And he stops. “Badd-san.”

Good enough. (For now.) “You too.”

Thankfully, they’re going opposite ways. But Badd can’t resist turning around at the North stairs to watch Mumen disappear South. He watches until he’s gone before turning to go himself, shrugging his coat on against the dying sun. He’s stopped by the ding of his phone. When he opens it, he has to smile.

Good night, Badd.

Chapter Text

Zenko notices his good mood that weekend. She doesn’t have time to question him, however, nor does he have time to explain. Her piano recital, the first of the year, is coming soon and fall regionals are right around the corner. Even multiple trips to the music store for sheet music, however, can’t dampen his mood, and his skin is still humming as he tucks Zenko in to bed Sunday night.

Zenko, still insisting she’s too old to be tucked in, and still not resisting when he does so, peers at him through sleep filled eyes. “I like you happy.”

Badd grins. “Yeah? And here I thought ya liked me no matter what.”

She yawns. “This is my favorite, then.” And she falls asleep before the conversation can be continued.

Zenko isn’t the only one to notice his mood, however. As he talks to Tanaka that night on the phone, comparing history answers, Tanaka interrupts their argument on Edo Age dates to state, “So what’s your secret?”

He swears as he erases. “What do ya mean?”

“We’re fucked on this homework, but you don’t give a damn. So what’s your secret to not fearing summer make-ups?”

Badd fires back immediately, “The thought of you havin’ to be there too. Misery and company and all that.”

Tanaka snorts. “Seein’ my ugly face that important to you? You better let Ennoshita know.” And at Badd’s pause Tanaka clicks his tongue. “You get laid?”

“What the fuck?”

“I’m just askin’!”

“Like I’d be tellin’ you!”

“So it was a date then??”

Badd facepalms. “God, you’re a fuckin’ jackass, you know that?”

“ I’m the jackass? I’m not the one withholding important information!” He can hear Tanaka tapping his pencil over the phone. “Not asking for specifics, just. You know. Did you finally grow balls and go on an honest date?”

Fuck it, if he can’t tell Zenko and Tanaka then who can he tell? “...yeah.”

The holler on the other end of the phone has Badd nearly going deaf. He holds the phone away from his ear, glancing once to see if Zenko’s door opens. It doesn’t.

“Details! Now!”

And perhaps he leaves out a detail or two. But it’s almost affirming to be able to say ‘I had a date and it went well’ and hear someone else be outwardly as excited as he inwardly feels. They talk late into the night, history homework forgotten until the next morning, where they scramble to do it in between classes. Their efforts don’t match their enthusiasm. Tanaka’s fervent grins his direction, however, make the downward leap in grade point average worth it.

They don’t get a chance to talk at lunch. Instead, Badd spends his lunch hour taking down a cactus monster in J-City. By the time he gets back to school classes are over and he’s missed the warm ups for practice.

He gets a few odd looks from the coach and the manager, and the assistant even reaches for him. “Are you all right, Badd?”

The look he gives is icy. “I’ve taken on worse. Put me in.” Even the coach looks hesitant. “The bracket play-offs start soon. Put me in.”

Reluctantly, they do. But even with his stamina and endurance, at the end of the day Badd finds he’s dragging. He collapses on the sofa the minute he gets home, dozing immediately. When he wakes up it’s to Zenko pushing a mug of soup into his hands.

“Onii-chan, dinner.”

He takes a sip, then realizes she’s still watching him. “What?”

Zenko frowns. “Just…”

Worried. “‘m ok, ok?” She doesn’t look convinced. “Promise. Not gonna lie to mah little monster. Just stayed up too late.”

Zenko reaches over and for a moment he thinks she’s going to smack his cheek for the half-lie. Instead, she plucks a spine out. “Just be careful.”

Badd promises, though he feels like no matter how often he promises to do just that there’s only so much he’s ever going to be able to do. He tries not to think about it later that night, as he tries to write a paper and worries his still silent phone in his other hand.

Monsters always seem to come in waves, and the cactus creature is just the start. In the span of three days he handles three more. A fourth comes in on Thursday night, or rather, Friday morning. The sun isn’t even up as he slides to a halt in M-City.

It’s obvious what he’s supposed to be taking down. The broken concrete facing him is practically a landing strip - ‘Monster this way!’ He’s surprised there’s not a neon sign or a yellow brick road. He shouldn’t complain; it makes his job easier. And he is very ready to crawl back into bed and maybe, hopefully, have a chance at staying awake in class tomorrow.

Today/tonight’s monster features feathers, claws, and an overly large pair of wings. The raven(?) is breaking into a large electronics plant half-hidden amongst the outer ring of the city. The roof is creaking under its beak, metal squishing easily between its talons. That in of itself isn’t unnerving. It’s expected from a dragon level threat.

“Hey! Ugly! Gonna have to write you up for disturbin’ the peace!” He has his bat out already, smacking his palm.

What is unexpected is the very human eye that turns to stare at him. Roofing falls from the raven’s beak. When it opens its mouth, Badd’s skin crawls. “GEEEEEET OOOOOOOOOUT!”

He’s seen a lot in his life. But as the raven turns toward him, motions jerky and painful, Badd knows the goosebumps on his arms aren’t out of awe. “Sorry, still got three swings left before that happens!”

Badd moves, memory of his bed already lost to a calculation on just where a jump from an upturned piece of roof will get him. Something tells him that if the thing goes airborn, this entire situation will go downhill fast. He’s definitely not anxious to find out. Which is why when he reaches the roofing upturned in the dirt he pushes off hard, swinging his bat.

“ DRAGON THRASHING !”

He connects hard, bat trying to jump in his hand. The raven’s head is thrown back at an awkward angle with a loud and ungodly CRACK! Badd’s feet meet feathered chest and he pushes, hard. It’s satisfying, feeling his legs work. The raven flies back into an annex, the sickening crunch of bone and metal making Badd hope that maybe, just maybe, this will be over quickly.

Naturally, the raven rises.

It also rises with its head at an unnatural, awkward angle that has Badd taking a step back. “What the fuck…”

The SNAP! that sounds when the raven pops its neck back into place sends a literal chill down Badd’s spine. It isn’t right and it isn’t right. It also isn’t something he’s going to be able to close his eyes without hearing for weeks. He expects to hear some reiteration of get out. He has the come back ready.

Instead, the raven laughs. A hoarse, staccato laugh that isn’t quite all monster.

“I SEEEE YOUUUU MEETAAAAL BAT.”

Which is...not what monsters usually say.

Badd’s grip tightens on his bat. “What the fuck did ya say?”

The raven tilts its head and its green eye blinks at him. “I SEEEEEEE YOU.”

He wants to know what it sees. Why it’s important. And what the hell it plans on doing with whatever it thinks it knows. But he also isn’t sure he wants to give it more time than its already wasted.

“Yeah, well, better keep on lookin’ cause this is the last yer gonna see of anythin’!” And he charges again.

A portion of beak goes flying as Badd’s bat connects. He swings again, rapid fire, faster than the raven’s eye can keep up with. Feathers fall in the air around them as he dodges a talon to swing at what counts for a bird knee. The raven shrieks. He uses those precious seconds to aim for the gut. It’s a flurry of feathers and feet as he kicks and swings.

For a few moments he thinks he’s won. When the raven crashes into the annex once more and stays down he lowers his bat. Sure it can’t survive that.

Then, he hears it. A soft, faint whirr.

The raven stands back up, tilting its head the other way. And Badd sees it then. A red eye watches him from the bird’s right eye. A red, glowing eye that reminds him of only one thing.

Suddenly, he’s even less sure as to what the bird’s previous line statement truly means.

“Who are you?!” It’s worth asking.

Though, predictably, he doesn’t get an answer. The raven screeches, pitched enough to make Badd’s ears ring. His hands go for his ears, a mistake that he instantly regrets. It’s enough of a distraction for the raven to flap its giant wings, once, twice, three times. Dust kicks up and the sudden rush of wind has his coat arms flapping behind him.

Swearing, the moonlight winks out and he doesn’t have to look up to know why. Instead, he dodges left and hears talons scrape dirt where he used to be.

He ducks behind an abandoned forklift, nearly wedged between it and the east concrete wall of what appears to be a storage space. Knuckles grip white as he listens. He can hear the raven as it flies, and if he concentrates carefully the whirr of a mechanical eye. Who the fuck is watching him? Was this a test? And why was he sent-

Talons accompany a screech and an arm saves his face from a vicious slash. The tang of iron fills his nose as he looks over his forearm.

The raven circles overhead, red eye watching. He should have counted on mechanics making hiding spots hard to come by. He’d bet money infrared was involved. He’s hemorrhaging seconds at this rate, precious time he could be using for a swing. A swing that won’t happen while the thing circles up above like that.

Sorry, Zenko.

As the bird turns, flapping once, he steps out. “That all ya got?! Was barely a scratch! Gotta do better than-”

He nearly misses it all. One moment, he has his bat ready, trying to taunt the bird down into a dive. The next the raven’s nearly there. A screech stops his heart. He swings anyway, a reflex at this point.

By all rights he should have an arm lost.

By all luck, he doesn’t.

A long bearded axe cuts so close Badd nearly doesn’t believe the end of his nose isn’t gone. The blade eats greedily into a leg, nearly severing the appendage. Badd takes the seconds bought to dive out of the way.

As he looks up, dirt on his lips, he can’t help but wonder. How the hell did it move that fast?!

A boot appears in his peripherals and he looks up. Dark hair and white skin isn’t hard to place. Contrary to popular rumor, Zombieman does not actually smell like the dead. But his raspy voice certainly doesn’t inspire belief that the man is of the naturally existing.

“It’s coming back around.”

Assist aside, Badd doesn’t understand, “Why are you here?”

Zombieman’s red eyes are nearly as unnerving as the raven’s. “Association wants it alive.”

“Seriously?” The fact he doesn’t get a reply is answer enough, He spits dust onto the ground, bat gripped tight. “Why?”

The raven screeches, however, and they dive in opposite directions to avoid being skewered. He tracks the bird’s ascent, eyes narrowed. He can jump, granted, but that high?

Zombieman huffs deep in his throat. “We need to ground it.” When those red eyes lock with his, Badd can’t deny that his skin crawls just a little. Truth or not to the rumors, there’s a certain horror vibe to the guy that no one can deny.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t disagree. “Don’t think yer gun’s got the power to do that.”

The raven dives again, stalling plans. Badd feels the rush of wind and he strikes blind. His bat dings off a beak reaching for him, sending the bird’s head sideways and buying him time to swing at the already injured leg. He hears a bang and blood splatters his face. When the bird wheels away the human eye is shut tight. It doesn’t settle the hairs on his arms, but it does give Badd an idea on how to ground the oversized crow.

As the raven climbs once more, he rolls his shoulders. “Give me a lift.”

Zombieman tracks the raven, sparing him only the briefest of side-eyes. “What?”

“Gonna take out a wing.” He jab his bat at the raven’s general direction. “But I need a lift.” The raven’s already wheeling and he turns to track it’s spiral. “So if ya can’t, speak now and stand back ‘cause I ain’t go time for it.”

There’s no answer from Zombieman and all he can think is fuck him. He’ll get this stupid thing down himself and maybe conveniently forget the whole ‘alive’ thing. The fact they even sent someone else to help feels less like the Association attempting to alleviate the load and more like they don’t trust him at all. It rankles him just thinking about it. (How much has he done, has he given, has he sacrificed for this cause?) His grip on his bat tightens.

The raven spots him and cackles, that ungodly laugh that has Badd swinging his bat and getting into a stance. “GEEET OOOOUT!”

Zombieman moves. He knows because he sees a shock of white out of the corner of his eyes and, for a brief second, smells gunpowder. The raven dives then, and he moves, trusting that a pair of hands will be there. If not, well, he’s pretty sure Zenko will be able to care for herself as well as he’s done for her.

“ DRAGON THRASHING!”

His foot lands solidly in Zombieman’s braced hands and he’s suddenly moving up, fast and furious and feeling that fighting spirit fill him with fire. He doesn’t feel the cold then. Instead, he feels himself move far slower than he knows he is, arms out stretching to meet the raven’s still half-opened beak with his bat.

CRACK!

SMACK!

CRUNCH!

A chunk of keratin disappears into the night. The monster doesn’t have time to react before Badd’s foot meets what’s left of the thing’s beak. He stomps, hard, and follows that step with another, between the eyes and up the neck until he can spin.

His bat comes down. Hard. Because fuck this, fuck being up, fuck the test he has in the morning. Fuck the eyes on the ground and the hands that sent them. Fuck it all.

And fuck the fact that Mumen hasn’t texted.

Metal meets bone and he feels the bone break from the socket before he hears it. The bird’s body tenses and it’s going to hurt in the morning, Badd knows from experience.

He crows in triumph, “Fuck you!” And then realizes, over the bird’s answering scream, that he can see the whites of Zombieman’s eyes. “Oh, fuck.”

His vision blacks out for a moment as he bounces off dirt, skidding through glass and feeling new shards prick his arms. He hears his bat skitter off across rocks and dust rattles in his ears. He spits a pebble out as he sits up. A section of t-shirt threatens to lose to gravity. But when he stands, he turns and finds that the giant raven does not. Zombieman is already standing over the head by the time he joins him, lit cigarette in his fingers.

Badd crouches to look at the red eye, closed and dull. “It still alive?”

“Enough.”

He still waits a moment until he’s sure the thing’s chest rises and falls. “Don’t look like a normal one,” he finally says.

Zombieman rolls the cigarette in his fingers, though doesn’t raise it to his lips. “Not sure what normal would really be.”

Badd considers that with a sideways glance. “Guess you wouldn’t.”

Zombieman gives him a look then, finally, finally takes a drag. The smoke makes Badd’s toes curl. “You got another one of those?”

For a moment, he knows Zombieman considers it. “How old are you again?”

Badd scowls. “Old enough to take this down practically by myself.”

That gets a scoff. But a cigarette appears in Badd’s face and he takes it, trying not to think of Zenko’s look should she smell it on him. He only needs one click of the lighter to to light his. If Zombieman notices the expertise he says nothing.

The first drag goes down thick and he coughs into his elbow. “Unfiltered?”

Badd doesn’t get an answer, as suddenly the raven’s one good eye shoots open. The cigarette falls to the ground in his haste to aim his bat right at the raven’s cranium. To his left he can hear Zombieman’s Desert Eagle unlock.

“Thought you said it was out!”

Zombieman just rumbles something in his throat and spits his cigarette from his lips. “You hear that?”

It takes Badd a moment, but eventually he does. A low pitched whine, the whirr of a camera focus adjusting, the rasp of breath. The raven struggles for a moment. Zombieman stomps, hard, on the creature’s wing tip and it lurches. Under that, the whine gets louder.

Badd can feel the hair on his arms stand up. “What the hell is it?”

The raven exhales and they hear it then, muted and dying faster than the bird can draw out vowels. “-ooooouse of-luuution shaaaaall reeeeeeign…”

Badd frowns. “What did you say? House of what?”

But the bird just laughs, feathers starting to shed. Pink skin shows through. “...seeeeee youuuuu Meeeeetaal Baaaaaat...”

And the words die into a racking laugh. Badd’s hairs are standing on end and he’s sure his pompadour is two inches taller. When he looks over at Zombieman there’s a quarter inch of ash on the man’s cigarette.

Badd tries to grab the raven. Feathers disintegrate in his fingers and the bird’s head thunks hard against the ground. “House of what?! Who are you?! How do ya know me?!”

But the bird’s red eye is starting to fade and sirens are taking place of the vexatious laughter. Adrenaline is fading and Badd can feel weariness set in. It’s making him cranky, enough so to kick a nearby wing.

“Take it you don’t know this one?”

He’d nearly forgotten Zombieman’s presence. When he turns, the man is fishing a new cigarette from a pack in his jacket. “It look I know it?” Zombieman just huffs. “And what the hell was it sayin’? House of what?” He rubs his face, night cold starting to sting. “Fuck of a night…”

When he opens his eyes a cigarette awaits him. He looks up to find Zombieman watching him, intently. Unnervingly so. But his scowl is only met with a blink. So he takes the cigarette and turns away to take a drag. When the smoke hits his lungs he coughs. (Because of course he does while Zombieman is right fucking there.)

If Zombieman notices, however, he says nothing. Instead, the other S-Class looks over the raven. “They wanted it alive…”

“Yeah, well.” He takes another drag and manages to disguise his cough as a huff. “They’d better hurry then.”

Because he thinks the raven is still alive. Maybe. He’s unsure, considering last time he thought it was down it definitely came back to laugh at their asses. He just wishes he was in on the joke.

Zombieman just mumbles something that Badd misses. A flick of his hand sends ashes into the night breeze. “Do you think it was trying to say revolution?”

“What?” It takes Badd a moment to figure out what Zombieman is referring to. “I guess? Hell if I know.”

The crunch of gravel announces the first wave of first responders. Lights flash and he can already hear walkies crackling updates. A chopper thumps in the distance. His head hurts and already the cigarette is losing its potency. Badd rubs his eyes. His arms feel uncharacteristically heavy and his muscles ache.

“Are you all right?”

The question surprises him almost as much as actually meeting Zombieman’s eyes. “What?” Defensiveness kicks in. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

But Zombieman just stares at him. As the Association rolls up, Zombieman flicks his cigarette away and turns to go. They brush shoulders, but before Badd can tell him off, Zombieman pauses. “Be careful, Metal Bat-kun. Something doesn’t seem right here.”

It’s not much of a warning. But it’s enough of one to have Badd bite back his words. “Like, here here or you mean…” He trails at the look Zombieman gives him. “Right. Yeah. Ok.”

Zombieman doesn’t quite seem to believe him. After a moment, however, he gives a curt nod and moves off the opposite direction of the Association. Too late, Badd realizes that leaves him alone to deal with the HQ agents and he swears that next time he’s going to make Zombieman hand over the entire pack. Particularly when he notices Arakida stepping out of a van.

“Fuck me with a fucking spoon,” he mutters. Still, he flicks the butt of his cigarette toward the raven, steels his shoulders, and doesn’t bother to wait for the greeting. “So ya finally get outta bed.”

Arakida pauses, then gives him a bland smile. “Metal Bat-san, good evening.”

Badd can already feel goosebumps forming on his arms. “Ya mean good morning.”

“My mistake.” Arakida straightens a suit lapel. His eyes flicker over Badd’s shoulder. “I trust it’s alive?”

“I’m fine, thanks for askin’.” He’s not about to play into this today. “So’s Zombieman.”

Arakida frowns. “Where is Zombieman? We-”

“Sent him to babysit.” Did he mention he was still sore about that? “He left.”

“I see.” Arakida takes a clipboard handed over by an aide, giving it a look as a containment unit streams by. The aides don’t look Badd in the eye. “And how would you say this went?”

“What d’ya mean how it went? Thing destroyed shit, so we destroyed it. Enough.” Badd shrugs, sheathing his bat and regretting its heaviness being gone from his hands. “Why’d ya want this one alive anyway?”

Arakida doesn’t look at him. “Just for general study.”

“I ain’t heard of ya doin’ that before.”

“It’s a new program.”

“Yeah? Who’s headin’ it up?”

Arakida still doesn’t look at him, but his eyebrow raises just a bit. As if there’s something funny about all this. Badd’s tired of not being in on the joke. “Me.”

Of course. “Right. So, what are ya studying? Cause the thing seemed to know me.”

And that has Arakida finally meeting his eye. “Oh? What do you mean?” For a brief moment, Badd wonders if maybe he isn’t blowing this out of proportion. He’s tired, he’s hungry, and if he’s honest emotions are still dominating his thought processes. He’s reeling, suddenly, breaths short. A hand on his shoulder nearly has him jolting out of his skin. “Metal Bat-san, we’ve got it from here.”

He realizes then that the raven is already loaded onto a flatbed. When did that happen? (And why didn’t he realize it until just now?)

He jerks away, hard, from Arakida. “Whatever.” The hair on his neck is on end and he feels unsettled. When he sneaks a look back, Arakida is watching him go. It’s all he can do to not smash the windows out of a car.

When he gets home, he can’t sleep. It’s a struggle to stay quiet. Because while Tama may be silent, by nature he is not. Particularly when coming down from a fight. Tama winds between his legs, sending him into the counter, homework spitting onto the floor. He stands in the aftermath and feels the headache setting in.

Too late, he realizes a text has come in. For a long moment he pauses over the screen, considers not answering at all. He has school. He’s tired. He’s had enough of the day.

Curiosity wins out. (Or is it resigned?)

Black text from a non-familiar number blinks at him. Good night, Metal Bat.

His breath catches in his throat and a million questions slam through his head. There’s a part of him that knows he should sleep on his response. Instead, he’s hitting reply on a response: Thought you died.

It seems like it takes forever. If he’s honest, he’d rather face another monster than continue to stare at those three dots on his screen. By the time Mumen replies he’s moved to the sofa, spring digging into his ass.

Not this time. Which makes him pause in his self-righteous snark. I’m sorry for not texting. It’s been a busy week and I’ve been out of it.

Badd squints a bit. Like, literally?

Quite honestly, he’s not surprised when he gets back, I’m ok, I promise. Just tired. But this is my new number!

Badd snorts. Your old phone get tired of you?

It saw an opportunity to try out a new location. Unfortunately, it was in a giant whale’s stomach. I like to believe it lived to tell the tail, but I’m not holding my breath.

When he gets it he laughs. Its loss. And because he still feels sore beyond the muscles in his back, he can’t stop there. Least this one has my number now.

I’m really sorry. Is it funny that he actually believes him? Let me make it up to you? Even as he considers that, the ideas exploding in possibility, he gets another text. Not that.

Badd is definitely not going to admit that his mind definitely went ‘there.’ Don’t even know what I’m thinking! It wasn’t that! What’s that even?

Mumen if believes it he doesn’t say. How about Sunday, 6pm, Ike Station in M-City?

Badd has to glance at the calendar before he can answer. Sure. And just because he’s an ass, and just because he’s not ready to end this line of connection, I’m expecting flowers.

He can practically see the smile on Mumen’s lips, tugging at the corners like it does. (Does it always? He supposes it’s too early to tell though he likes to pretend.) I’ll try to make them red.

The response he has for that, he believes, is beyond measure of true wit. But he’s not sure when his head went so far down on the sofa. The sofa arm feels made for his neck. And his legs, finally not moving, don’t feel like renewing the act of standing. When he wakes up in the morning his poetic answer is nothing but symbols and odd spaces.

But one message does blink slowly. Sleep well, Badd.

He holds onto those three words through the next day, bolstering against the misery of a lecture (he made it in by noon, that’s still commendable, right?) and the failing grade on a pop quiz he only half remembers over his yawns. Before practice, Tanaka gives him the side eye. He knows Tanaka wants to ask, and honestly Tanaka would have told him by now. But Ennoshita gives him a knowing side smile that reminds him so strongly of Mumen his brain futzes and by the time it comes back online Tanaka’s miming him to call him as Ennoshita drags him to practice.

In some ways, he appreciates the space. It gives him a moment to have...whatever this is with Mumen all to himself. A secret untainted by words affirming it (it all goes downhill after you say it out loud, because then everyone has an opinion on it and the world is so fucking cruel). His phone is heavy and cumbersome, filling his hand and his pocket. Weighed down by something he can only call opportunity.

It also scares the hell out of him.

What if it doesn’t become anything else? What if they don’t work out? What if texts stop being exciting? He’s not dramatic enough to think life won’t continue. But he also knows how disappointment crashes in and seeps out drop by drop by drop.

He knows he can live through it again. But knowing you can and wanting to are two entirely different things.

By the time Sunday rolls around his nerves haven’t changed. A weekend of piano recitals, homework, practices, and a call to R-City tempt him to call it off. (He’s tired and even more tired of being tired.)

Yet here he is, standing at the station in his dark jeans and light red sweater that he swears isn’t on his body because last time Mumen had one on. His boots edge the concrete bench seat, back hunched as he lurks on the back. He’s aware of the gargoyle impression he’s making, but he doesn’t care.

This time, he notices when Mumen rides up. He’s wearing a uniform that definitely isn’t for fighting monsters - the navy blue is dull and the cotton would definitely not last even one round against a Wolf Level - and is still unbuckling his helmet when Badd strides over.

But Mumen smiles nonetheless at seeing him. “One minute!”

And Badd stops to wait until Mumen has his goggles off. “Nice uniform.”

Mumen’s brow furrows. “Sorry about it. Work ran a bit late.” Badd raises an eyebrow. “Delivery for a restaurant.” Badd feels like he has opinions on that, but Mumen simply snaps a lock on his bike and hefts his backpack. “Do you mind if I change?”

“Course not.” He gestures away and Mumen flashes him a smile.

“Be right back!”

He’s left with Mumen’s bike - Justice, if he remembers right? - and notes the fresh coat of paint on the frame. On the down tube, two yellow rings stand out, and the initials M.R. By the time Mumen comes back he’s still puzzling out the rings, chewing his upper lip.

“Everything all right?”

Badd spins to hide the jump. “Yeah, yeah! Just, uh, admiring Justice.”

Mumen smiles, warm and fond. For a moment, Badd thinks that might be directed at him. He definitely doesn’t sweat when Mumen puts a hand on Justice’s seat. “She really is great. Just re-painted her, actually.”

“Yeah?” And then Badd remembers. “While you were out of it?” He squints then, giving Mumen an obvious once over. He finally finds it; a bandage peeking out from under Mumen’s knit sweater. “You never really said what happened.”

Mumen reddens and a hand comes up to push his sleeve down. “I, ah, bit off a bit more than I could chew. At least it wasn’t caiman?” Badd just crosses his arms. “I’ve been resting. No hero-work; doctor’s orders.”

When Mumen reaches out, Badd expects a hand on his upper arm, maybe his elbow. He doesn’t expect light fingers on his hand. Squeezing his fingers with a flutter that makes him think of the butterflies Zenko used to catch and study in glass jars.

(She was so strict about letting them go. “Only for a few minutes, Onii-chan, they gotta breath too.”)

“Badd-san?” And he blinks back, realizing his face is hot and he can smell iron. Mumen is squinting at him, glasses flashing, concern written in the way his fingers - formerly on his hand - are now at his chest. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine.” It squeaks and he’s not proud. Damn it. He turns to wipe his nose on his sleeve, shaking his shoulders out. By the time he glances over his shoulder he’s stamped down his embarrassment. “So, I was promised a surprise?”

Mumen lets a breath out. “I’m not sure if I said surprise!”

“But I like surprises!”

“Oh yeah?” And the way Mumen smiles, watching him sideways from behind his glasses thrills Badd enough he has to shift lest it show. “That’s good to know.” With a final pat of a hand on Justice’s handlebar, Mumen nods once then looks to Badd, attention fully on him. “Ready?”

He still doesn’t know what they’re doing. Or where they’re going. If he’s honest, he doesn’t know Mumen that well. It feels like it should be against every nature in him to say what he does. “Yeah.”

The smile Mumen gives him is worth it.

They go past the train station, much to his surprise. A trail is half hidden by the station platform, a small sign pointing the way from behind an overgrown bush: Yorokobi Park. The path is clean, but small, gravel grinding under his sneakers as he ducks under the branch of a plum tree invading the path. Ahead of him, Mumen steps easily. He’s been here before, Badd knows, but his steps make him rethink just how often.

“Didn’t picture you for the nature type,” he says, mostly to make conversation.

Mumen just glances over his shoulder. “I grew up in the mountains.” When he smiles, sun flashes off his glasses. “With my grandmother.”

Which Badd knew. Still. “Yet you live here.”

“I do.” Mumen doesn’t sound upset by that, and Badd doesn’t need to push to realize the guy likes both. “But I like coming here for this…”

When Mumen gestures Badd follows his arm to the small, well-kept pond. It’s not the A-City gardens, nor is it the B-City botanical biosphere. The shore line is dotted with weeds reaching for the water line and the grass, while lush, offers little space for more than a few individuals. The roar of the train shudders through the trees, making immature bamboo shoots slap together in a shh-shh sound.

In short, it’s not much to look at.

But Mumen is kneeling by the pond, hand disappearing into a vast pocket, a smile on his face. “Hey, you.”

“Huh?” It takes Badd a moment to realize Mumen isn’t talking to him. Rather, the ragged head of a blind drake peeks out from the worst of the weeds.

A crinkle draws Badd’s attention back to Mumen. Glasses frame the plastic wrapped onigiri offered out. “Here.”

Badd takes it, dubious. “I’m not really hungry…”

Mumen chuckles. At the look on Badd’s face, Mumen’s smile turns apologetic. “It’s for Yang.”

And this is it, Badd realizes. The surprise. Mumen is sitting on the bank, unwrapping another onigiri with an equally appalling expiration date on it, crumbling the tips carefully in his fingers before casting the grains into the pond. Yang darts forward, splashing water in his haste to get the treats waiting.

It takes him a moment to sit down next to Mumen because it all feels like something he’s watching from the outside. A stranger observing a routine he isn’t quite sure he’s supposed to watch. It’s unnerving. But at the same time he knows the onigiri in his hand is an invitation.

So he finally sits and unwraps the rice in his hand. “Thought ducks liked bread.”

“They do. It’s just not good for them,” Mumen explains. “Bread expands in their stomach and can make them sick. Or worse.”

“Huh.” He knows there’s likely a metaphor there, but he’s not quite ready to explore that just yet. Instead, he breaks off a generous chunk of rice and throws it with precision.

“Nice throw,” Mumen murmurs.

Badd just laughs. “If ya like that, you should come to our game in two weeks. Been hittin’ non-stop outfields.”

“Yeah? I bet you’re excited.”

And he is. But he he could talk about baseball for hours, days, weeks, and here? Here doesn’t seem like the time. So he clears his throat and tosses another bit of rice. “Yeah. Though not as excited as Yang there.” Yang is tearing at the water, decimating the rice chunk and managing to down most of it. “Why Yang?”

“Because his mate is Yin.” Mumen says it so naturally that Badd thinks he’s joking. Until a hen emerges from the far side of the pond, paddling timidly and calling in loud bursts. Mumen doesn’t offer any more explanation and Badd doesn’t ask.

He looks around, the rumble of the train dulled by excited quacks. “How’d you even find this place?”

Mumen scatters rice absently. “You know those flyers by the terminal gates?”

Badd nearly snorts the rice he’d been smelling. (Pork?) “No one ever reads those…” He trails when he realizes that the question inherently has the answer. “Seriously?”

Mumen shrugs. “Someone took the time to write them. And they have some good points sometimes. Like did you know that there’s an entire garden dedicated to faces in rocks in C-City?”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I shit not.”

There’s a pregnant pause as Badd waits for Mumen to realize what he’s said. It doesn’t take too long. (Just a hair longer than it probably should have.) He knows when Mumen realizes, however, because the man’s ears redden.

Badd just laughs. “Faces in rocks, huh?”

Mumen, ears still pink, bites his lower lip. “It really does sound rather interesting.”

Badd’s not sure if he believes that to be true, but he honestly believes that Mumen would indeed find something to be excited about. Logically, he knows Mumen doesn’t have a power set like so many heroes before them both. Yet as he feeds ducks pork rice he realizes he hasn’t even heard the train go by despite their proximity to the shinkansen. And he wonders what you call moments like this. (It feels like a good swing, or when Zenko manages that difficult passage.)

A nudge has him realizing he’d gone silent, rice grains rolled between his finger tips. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mumen smile. “Sen for your thoughts?”

Badd doesn’t know how to say he’s puzzling out Mumen. So he shrugs. “Might get ripped off there. Ain’t much goin’ on in here.” He wraps his knuckles against his forehead, eyes hooded.

Mumen just squints at him. “Hmm, I’m not sure if that’s true, but perhaps you’ll give me a discount then?”

“Hey, what’s there is pretty priceless.”

Mumen laughs. “Now you’re just being difficult.”

“Pretty sure that’s my secondary hero name.”

“Yeah?” Mumen shakes his head, casting the last of his rice ball into the water. “Then what’s mine?”

Badd hadn’t expected that and his brain freezes. “Uhhh…” But Mumen, if anything, is patient and Badd knows that the click of his tongue against his teeth can only buy him so long. “Flyer Reader.”

It’s lame and he winces. But Mumen chuckles (out of politeness? Badd doesn’t know) and hums softly. “It wouldn’t be inaccurate.”

A bug chirps and the last of the summer cicadas buzz in the trees. Disappointed that the rain of rice is over, Yin and Yang snip at the water one last time before paddling off. Their exclamations echo as Badd squats to rinse his fingertips in the water. “Talky pair.”

Mumen chuckles. “They’re excited. I’m afraid I haven’t been by in weeks…”

Badd glances over at Mumen as his fingers make waves. “Well, ya been busy.”

Mumen shrugs. “I’m always busy.”

And it’s from this angle that Badd sees the bags under Mumen’s eyes, hidden under glasses. They look how he feels. It also reminds him of something. “Can I ask ya somethin’?” He doesn’t really wait for an answer. “How many jobs do ya got? Besides the hero stuff.”

He didn’t expect that to elicit the sigh it did from Mumen. As he flicks water from his fingers, Mumen sits next to him, knee to his chest. “A lot. Too many. Not enough?” Mumen gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Enough to get by.”

Frowning, Badd dips his fingers in again and flicks the excess at Mumen’s face. “How many’s enough?”

Mumen ducks his head, laughing a little. “Right now? Four.”

Badd stares. “Four?! Fuck me, can barely do school and hero work!”

Mumen’s glasses come off, shirt hem being utilized to wipe off water marks. It feels intimate, seeing his eyes unframed. Badd’s not sure how to process it, especially when those eyes catch his. “It’s not as bad as final year exams.”

Badd doesn’t believe that. But even as he squints the glasses go back on and Mumen is giving him a bright, teasing grin that makes him not want to ruin the moment. “Ain’t got that far yet…”

“Yet,” Mumen reminds him. It’s as gentle as the nudge against his shoulder, though, and Badd just flicks water, again, at Mumen’s face.

“That’s for remindin’ me.”

Mumen laughs, sending Yin and Yang flapping sloppily across the water. “You’ve got a few months left yet!”

With a huff Badd finally sits back on his ass, legs folding into a proper sit. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll get a call during exams. Would be, like, the one time they don’t fuckin’ call, just watch.” Idly, he wipes his wet fingers on a pant leg.

As Mumen cleans his glasses again, he just hums softly. “Not a fan of school?”

Badd just shrugs. “Eh. Like sports though.” The question has this edging too close to that difference that’s keeping this from becoming a make out session. So he spurts out, “Zenko, though? God, she’s got brains. And beauty. I mean, she’s the whole package - no question about that - but she’s so fuckin’ smart .”

Mumen folds his arms over a knee, resting his head on a bicep. “You haven’t said much about your sister. How old is she?”

“Ten this year,” Badd says, not even sorry about the pride in his voice or the water threatening to show itself in his eyes. (Ten is a long way when you weren’t sure you’d see the end of two.)

Mumen just smiles, and if he sees the glaze in Badd’s eyes he doesn’t say. ”So what do sisters with everything going for them like to do in their spare time?”

And if there’s any topic Badd knows he can effectively talk about that isn’t himself, baseball, or the best recipe for French toast, it’s Zenko. So talk about her he does. Unabashadley and without an ounce of shame. He doesn’t want to say Zenko is the center of his world, because that’s an unfair burden to place on anyone.

But it’s Zenko.

There’s nothing and no one he’s more proud of than her.

Mumen listens, raptly, smile soft as Badd waxes poetic about Zenko’s piano skills (she’s a natural), her prizes for diplomacy and debate (definitely a natural), her award winning essays (yup, a natural).

“Takes after our parents,” Badd says, leaning back to feel the sun on his neck. “Both of ‘em. They’d have been so proud…”

He goes quiet wondering, not for the first time, what their parents would have said if they could see them now. (He wonders, also, if he’ll ever not wonder.)

A hand squeezes his shoulder and when he looks over Mumen is watching him. “I think your parents would be incredibly proud…”

“Did the best I could.”

But Mumen shakes his head. “I meant of both of you.” Mumen’s hand is warm, even through his sweater. “I can’t imagine raising a sibling. It sounds like at least a full time job to me.”

Badd frowns a bit. “Not sure if that’s right…” But maybe it is? He’s not sure how he feels equating Zenko to the bags under Mumen’s eyes. But they share that similar quality of being necessary for survival. He hums, “Maybe.”

Mumen looks like he wants to say more, however both of their phones ring at the same time. His hand drops away in favor of flipping his phone screen up. Badd already knows, just from the way Mumen’s lips tighten, just who it is.

“Lemme guess…”

“Hai.”

Badd sighs, chin hitting his chest as he digs his phone out of his pocket. Mumen’s already standing. “This is Mumen Rider reporting in…”

The Association’s number is stark, even against the dappled late afternoon sun. He sighs, but Mumen’s already cracking his neck. Yin and Yang are gone and the shinkansen passes with a woosh of air.

So he sighs and answers, “What now?”

The Operator pauses and Badd tries to remember that it’s not necessarily their fault they’re ruining (another) date. “Dragon level reported in B-City…”

“Got it. Be there in ten.” He doesn’t wait for an address; he’ll follow the screams.

When he turns, Mumen is writing on his forearm in pen, listening intently. Badd has just long enough to wonder where the pen came from before Mumen nods. “I’ve got it. Thank you, Alexei.” Mumen catches his eye as he closes his phone. “What?”

“Alexei?”

Mumen shrugs, a gentle lift of his shoulders. “He’s nice. Did you know he’s studying City Planning?”

Badd didn’t even know there was an Operator named Alexei, but it suddenly feels shameful to admit that out loud. So instead, he clicks his tongue. “You goin’ to B-City?”

“Of course.”

He’s not really sure why he asked. “You sure? Dragon level’s pretty serious…”

“I know. Chances are, I’ll be doing mostly people management.” Mumen gives Badd a small smile that Badd has trouble placing. “Do you need a ride?”

Badd snorts before he can help himself. “Nah, I got it.”

Mumen grins. “You going to run there?”

This time, Badd’s the one who raises an eyebrow and gives the enigmatic smile. “Maybe.”

Mumen huffs a laugh. “Well, then I suppose I’ll see you there?”

The shinkansen goes by with another whoosh of air and a helicopter screams overhead. But Badd swears he can also hear his heart pumping blood as he watches Mumen’s eyes stare at him. His stomach turns and suddenly he’s glad he didn’t eat that pork rice after all.

“Gonna have the problem dealt with by the time you get there on that bike of yours.”

Mumen’s smile makes Badd’s legs suddenly feel like pudding. “I’m counting on it.”

Badd’s tongue is heavy in his mouth and he manages out, “I’m countin’ on that surprise ya know.”

It takes Mumen a moment, but he chuckles even as he holds back some overgrowth. “I’ll do my best.” Badd believes it when he says it. “See you there?”

And Badd just grins. “Only if you get there in time.”

It’s a sufficient enough line to exit on and still feel cool. So with a step he’s off running, underbrush not a match for his speed. Even the shinkansen can’t break through the fact reverberating through his head: another date, another date, another date.

The Dragon Level doesn’t stand a chance.

Chapter Text

Four days later and the fights don't seem to stop. The latest one goes fast, but the aftermath drags on.

If Mumen is at the scene, Badd doesn’t see him. Instead, the evening culminates in interviews with no less than thirteen newspapers/websites/blogs/tabloids that has him feeling more worn down than the fight itself. As he mops blood off the side of his face, warmth finally fading from a flood to a trickle, he hears it.

“Metal Bat! Are you currently seeing anyone???”

His head whips around and he finds the face to the question. A flash has him squinting, but he finds them hiding behind a camera lens. Owlish eyes blink behind large glasses and a name tag stuck to his hat has his blood running cold: a tabloid.

“Why? You interested?” He regrets it the minute the laughs wash over him, gut twisting in a hard, tight knot. “You think I got time to date with this shit goin’ on?”

It’s a weak save. But it’s taken easily, pens scribbling headlines, and the questions shouted melt into one as Badd turns away, hand to his stomach. For the first time he feels faint. A medic notices and frowns but he side steps away to over turn a piece of rubble with his bat, complaining loudly about the smell.

Like the smell, however, the laughter stays. It echoes in the quiet apartment as he sits with a cup of untouched coffee, watching it stain the unwritten assignment below. He can’t focus on kanji or characters right now. Instead, he just listens and thinks and thinks and listens and makes eight different lists about what he could have said, should have said.

Because Mumen isn’t a laughing matter. He’s not a joke and he’s not a means to an end. It’s done and over, logically he knows. But it feels like a betrayal that goes far beyond his own comfort.

If it was about just him, he’s not sure he’d still be thinking about it at all.

He drops his head into his hands and sighs. There’s no forgiveness to be asked, per say. But still… He reaches for his phone and hesitates.

Finally, he types it out and sends. U up?

He groans at himself for what it sounds like and part of him prays that Mumen doesn’t answer.

His phone blinks just as he considers warming up his mug. Just getting home. Are you ok?

Badd hesitates. He’s ditched the wrist support already and tomorrow afternoon he’ll need the school nurse to take stitches out. Still… Good enough.

He’s not sure what else to say.

Fortunately, Mumen always seems to have something ready. Good enough isn’t great. How can I help?

Even Badd isn’t sure of how to answer that. Just wonderin if ur ok.

There’s a pause that has Badd finally standing to empty his cup. The coffee’s a lost cause, though the kettle is still warm. One cup of tea later he’s back staring at the rings left on his assignment.

The phone beeping is a welcome distraction. I’m all right. A bit tired, but we were able to dig out over 51 people.

Badd shakes his head, a smile curling his lip. And u say u don’t have powers.

It was a team effort. Badd rolls his eyes, though the screen blinks again before he can type a response. Thank you for helping take down that monster so quickly. You helped save a lot of lives.

It’s not a word Badd hears often from other heroes. Yeah, well, just doin my job. But it’s not that part of the job that has him up. He’s just not sure what to say, now that he has Mumen’s attention. (He’s not really sure why he wanted Mumen’s attention at all.)

Plans for tomorrow?

He’s grateful for the change in topic. School. Got a paper due.

What’s the paper on?

A good question. Badd isn’t proud of how long it takes him to look up what he’s supposed to be writing about. Nature symbolism in post-modern literature.

He has to snort at the blank faced emoji Mumen sends back. Not quite a page turner at 2am.

Not sure it is any hour.

Badd can practically hear Mumen laugh. Some post-modern stuff is fun though!

He remembers Mumen’s taste in television. Not sure Moon Garden counts as post-modern.

Excuse you, Moon Garden not only deals with the themes of growing up and loss of innocence, but also the very real threat of humankind’s inability to adapt to environments in zero-g.

Badd just snorts. He knows the manga too well, if only because his tendency to end up buying snacks at the 7-11 at odd hours has been on the rise in the past few weeks. Right. And the love triangle adds what exactly?

There’s not even a beat missed. Some of us just need a light Plot C to give us a break from the heavier thematic elements.

His paper is already forgotten as he leans back, eraser already being destroyed in his molars. Ur so full of shit.

I’m also fully aware you should probably be writing a paper right now instead of talking to me.

Badd wrinkles his nose. Ur not my parents.

It takes a few long moments for a reply. For a moment, he wonders if he crossed a line. (Even if the rebuke does emphasize the age difference a tad too much for Badd’s liking.) I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to nag.

Leave it to Mumen to say such and actually have it be believed. Badd sighs. ‘S fine. Just blowin’ off steam.

Everything ok?

Badd still isn’t sure how to answer that. So he shrugs, before remembering Mumen can’t see it. Yeah . It happens.

What happens?

That takes Badd a bit longer to parcel out. If he concentrates, he can feel that unease from earlier creep back in. But what to call it that isn’t self-deprecation? He’s not sure. Got some unspent fightin spirit is all.

Which is true. If he could, he’d go back and punch himself for that joke. ...he might just be tired.

There’s another pause. And then: You get 20 questions. Go.

It takes Badd a moment to catch on. He snorts. He hasn’t played this game since the last time he and Zenko went to the beach. (Two years ago.) But he doesn’t have anything else to do that isn’t write a paper he honestly has no chance of scoring full points on. So he chews until he bites off the eraser and finally texts: Is it a person?

He isn’t able to guess lemur. Mumen somehow figures out cat. (Badd blames Tama for being easily recognizable, even as she ignores him in favor of an early morning kibble call.)

Too easy, Mumen teases him.

Badd just puffs his cheeks. Urs was 2 hard.

He nearly gets Mumen with daikon. Mumen definitely gets him with Zombie Man.

Zombie Man? Why him?

Mumen’s answer surprises him. I’ve always wanted to meet him.

You haven’t met him?

No, never.

Badd isn’t proud of the surge of jealousy. Why him?

If it were anyone else, Badd would expect the reason to run the gamut of any three popular Z-Man myths (as the tabloids call him). That the guy doesn’t have a heartbeat. That the guy smells like death. Or that the guy is a ghost and that’s why he’s so hard to catch on camera. They’re all shit, so far as Badd knows.

And this is Mumen responding. So he waits. Because he was alive when Gold Helmet was a hero.

Badd feels another surge of that relationship brand of jealousy. Who’s that?

The next text takes a long moment to come. It’s enough time for Badd to abandon his homework for favor of his room. By the time he flops back against the pillows, the wall of text has arrived. He was an A-Level hero from about fifteen years ago. Was known for having a gold helmet and a heart of gold to match.

Of course the guy did. He ride a bike 2?

A motorcycle. He was apparently really good at trick riding.

Badd’s not sure what to say. Trick involve slamming his motorbike in2 monsters? Cause that sounds expensive.

He can practically hear Mumen laugh. I like to think I invented that move. But if anyone discovered it before me, it was him.

U got a picture?

The one he gets is a phone snapshot taken of what appears to be an old magazine article. The creases are evident event through the phone. Gold Helmet is smiling, giving an easy peace sign  as he straddles his bike. There’s dark hair peeking out from under the signature helmet and the smile is effortless. It’s easy to see the charm. Hell, he could see himself being into the guy at Mumen’s age.

Eh. He seems ok.

I wanted nothing more to meet him. But by the time I moved to the city, he was gone.

Badd feels like he knows even before he asks. Gone?

He was badly hurt defending N-City years ago. He retired and hasn’t been heard from since.

A-Class is pretty impressive.

There’s a longer moment and Badd wonders if it’s contemplative or sleep starting to take hold. It’s not quite as impressive as S-Class. ;)

Badd finds himself biting the edge of his lip in a bad attempt to contain a grin. The jealousy is still there, he can feel it. But like his restlessness it’s settling into something manageable. I’m an S-Class in every way possible.

Except your paper, if you don’t finish it. Badd wrinkles his nose. And by that I mean less in a nagging, get it done way, and more in a I’m very tired as it is 3am and I am old.

The oldest. Badd knows there’s a small part of him that’s disappointed that this is the end. Go get some rest, golden oldie.

Good luck and good night, Badd.

He holds his phone on his stomach for awhile, watching the text glow until the screen blinks asleep. Outside a police chopper goes by, sirens wail, and if he really listens he can hear the train speeding off. Yet the phone stays in his hand like an anchor.

It’s just nice to know that someone out there, amongst the millions, likes his existence for more than a headline.

Predictably, the paper comes back with an almost passing grade on it. There’s so much red he can’t even look at it without thinking he can hear his phone going off. It gets dropped in the trash can right next to Tanaka’s and they share a brooding lunch lambasting society’s tendency to reduce potential to grade point averages.

He doesn’t tell Mumen.

And no text follows the last.

They don’t text for three days. He likes to think it doesn’t unsettle him, yet he ends up at the batting cages waiting on Tajima late on Thursday night nearly breaking his flip phone’s screen right off the hinges with how fast his thumb flips it. It’s not that he’s dependent, he tells himself. It’s just hard to believe that good luck doesn’t cover a grander scope than society’s attempt to justify shitty literature as post-modern.

Tajima’s heavy breathing distracts him from breaking what would be his third phone in two months. “Sorry, sorry! Practice went late!”

Badd just raises an eyebrow. “Must’a been some practice.” Tajima just blushes and Badd lets it go. He doesn’t want to really think about someone’s dating life being better than his right now, if that’s what Tajima is actually doing. “C’mon, let’s hit some balls.”

Tajima heads for the reservation desk - complete with new art on the walls - as Badd stakes out their usual cage. (It’s got the newest ball machine and the strongest fence. He would know, as he broke the last one.) He pauses briefly with a frown at a vending machine, out of order sign askew and an apology tacked up asking for his patience as they sort out various damages to the facility.

Vaguely he hears Tajima calling for an attendant but he ignores it in favor of putting the lock code in. Normally, it works.

Like his past essay and three tests, today it fails.

He frowns. “What the fuck?” Another go around of the code doesn’t work. Neither does the one for the second best cage. His brow furrows. “You little piece of shit…” His fingers clamp down and grip, metal starting to bend.

“Uh, sir, I’m very sorry, but those are very expensive to replace and…”

Righteous fury is on his tongue as he turns, frustrations of the week piled up. Zenko would be disappointed in how he’s expressing those, but he’s never been good at containing the particularly fiery parts of himself. It serves him well 50% of the time. He doesn’t find out if today falls into the latter 50%, however, as the words die in a stutter.

“I-d-uhhh…”

Mumen blinks back at him, shaggy hair in his glasses and a new bandage covering his chin. He can see red on Mumen’s cheeks form instantaneously. Badd’s 90% sure that his own cheeks are burning from frustration turned embarrassment.

“Hey...Badd…”

His brow furrows. “Hey...Mumen....”

And then it clicks. It all clicks. He glances around at the broken vending machine, the new locks on the cages, the new art strategically placed on the walls. When his eyes come back to Mumen he sees the tape still holding the man’s glasses together.

He clicks his tongue. “So, birthday parties?”

Mumen smiles, hesitant. “Hai. Though I think the place looks pretty good. Maybe even a bit better?”

Badd shrugs a bit. “Eh. For a batting cage it’s alright.” He can feel tension still gathered in the base of his neck. “So you work here?”

“Hai.”

“This job number, what, two? Three?”

Mumen wrinkles his nose. “Two.”

That hesitancy is still there and the silent phone in Badd’s hand seems to be a heavy stone rather than an anchor now. “Ya know, I could go-.”

“It’s not that-”

“Hey! There you are!” Tajima chooses then to jog over, waving at Mumen. “We wanna rent a cage and some balls, man.”

Badd can see the change flicker over Mumen’s face. The light hides his eyes as he bows to Tajima. “Hai, sir, of course. Please, allow me to enter the code. I apologize for the new locks; we are doing our best to ensure our esteemed customers receive the best experience possible.”

Mumen takes the lock from Badd, ignoring the finger imprints in the metal to punch in a new code. As he does, he gives Badd a sideways look that Badd can’t quite decode. But when Mumen disappears to go get balls his phone buzzes and a text from Mumen’s number simply says: Later, promise.

It’s not a satisfying answer, and Badd isn’t proud of himself for growling when Tajima gives him a look, “What?”

They hit their balls in relative silence. Tajima vents about History, he vents about Literature. It doesn’t solve their problems but it normally makes them feel far away for at least an hour or two. Tonight, it leaves Tajima satisfied. But Badd can only feel his phone in his pocket and it makes the tension in his neck tighten into a ball.

He almost misses Tajima flicking a finger at his skull. “You ok?”

“Just tired, I guess.”

Tajima doesn’t buy it but no look is going to get Badd to admit anything. “Was that guy bothering you?”

Badd sighs. “What guy?”

“The guy. The ball guy. The attendant?”

Badd can feel the wooden bat in his hand crunching in warning. “Him? Nah. What makes ya even say that?”

“I don’t know, you just had a look…”

“Had a look cause I’ve had a day an’ last thing I wanted was ta have to get into it with some guy about our usual cage.” It’s an easy lie, though Badd feels his stomach twist a bit at another denial.

(It seems to be a theme this week.)

Tajima respects him enough to leave it there. “I gotta get going, man.” Though Tajima lingers by the cage door as Badd takes the basket of balls and dumps them back into the machine. “Lemme know if you need anything, yeah?”

Badd appreciates the gesture. But he’s not sure what Tajima can offer right now that will help. Instead, he focuses on hitting balls into the upper left corner, striking the fence until he swears it starts to sag. He doesn’t know how long he lets the repetitive motion take him. And he almost doesn’t hear Mumen behind him.

“Badd-san?” The last ball gets stuck in the fence and the machine huffs, waiting for a refill. Badd turns to see Mumen, a hand in a pocket, watching. “Are you all right?”

It seems like a cruel thing to ask. “Fine.”

Mumen frowns. “You don’t seem fine.”

Badd hates how that makes his heart skitter. “Does it matter?”

He almost misses it. “It does to me.”

The machine huffs once, twice, ten times. Badd’s not sure what to say that. Suddenly, his certainty isn’t certain at all and doubts about his own lies sink in. He licks his lips. “You didn’t text.”

It sounds pathetic, hanging in the air like clothes on a line. Mumen blinks, almost owlish. The ball machine choses then to click off with an ugly sigh. (Same, machine, same.)

Badd expects something in the form of words back. Instead, Mumen moves in with a near silent grace that Badd prides himself on starting to know fairly well. Mumen doesn’t say anything to him. Instead, he refills the ball machine, dumping balls in with a speed Badd knows (now, at least) comes from practice.

Badd’s never dealt well with silence. “Wasn’t sure if you were ghostin’ me or something. That’s apparently slang these days, ya know, for disappearing? Ghostin’.”

Mumen just flips the machine back on and steps aside.

Badd doesn’t take the bait. The cage wall behind him shudders as ball after ball hits. “Nothin’? Really?”

“I don’t really know what to say.”

“What about sayin’ it to my face?”

“Say what, Badd-san?”

“That you ain’t interested.”

“Why would you think that?”

Badd feels his fingers tighten and he hits a ball out of reflex. It lodges next to the other in the upper left corner. “Because why else would ya ignore me?!”

By the time the machine has emptied itself Badd can feel himself breathing a bit heavier. The bat is heavy in his arms and he realizes he hasn’t heard from Mumen. For a moment, he’s scared to look. He does anyway because he has yet to back down from a threat of bodily harm. Harm to the heart shouldn’t be any different.

Mumen just watches him, the machine huffing, and for a moment Badd starts to wonder if this is what defeat feels like.

He doesn’t expect Mumen to step forward, put a hand on his arm, and kiss him.

It’s as gentle as the touch and as soft as the man’s laugh. It lingers, however. Deliberately so. Badd knows as much because, as dumb as he is, action is something he can read clear as day.

When Mumen pulls back Badd knows he’s staring. “I am interested. Very interested. Specifically in you.” And Mumen’s smile grimaces at the corners. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, Badd. I never do. I just...” Badd’s heart freezes. “Am out of practice, I suppose. At this. Dating. Being in another person’s life. Old habits die hard, is what they say.”

Badd’s lip twitches. “And ya ARE old.”

Mumen smiles, relieved. “Practically ancient.” And he adds so fast Badd nearly gets whiplash, “Not that that is an excuse.”

“What’ve ya been doin’ that you’re too busy to text me?” He’s proud of how it comes out as a question and not an accusation.

Mumen scrubs a hand across his face. “I don’t know where to start with that, honestly.”

Badd sees it then. There are circles hidden by glasses and he swears there are new wrinkles in the corner of Mumen’s eyes. “Work?” The nod he gets isn’t surprising. “Even I don’t work this hard. And I fought two Demon Levels last week.”

Mumen takes a deep breath. “You’re right, you’re right.”

But Badd knows from life with Zenko that being technically right doesn’t mean emotionally right. So he crosses his arms and leans against the back of the cage. “Why don’t ya start with Tuesday?”

After a moment, Mumen inhales. “Tuesday I woke up early to ride across town. You see, Fogwell-san’s gym was destroyed late last week by a Wolf Level and he has yet to requisition emergency funds from the city office to rebuild. On my way, I assisted with a flat tire, a jogger being harassed, and two different cases of bullying on the way to school. By the time I got to the gym I had thirty minutes before I needed to be back across town once more to be at the grocery to stock the morning’s hot foods delivery. I was late due to a Demon Level threat that closed three streets. By the time I got the hot foods stocked I was needed for a Wolf Level emergency nearby and was thus late for my courier position across town. The papers I was delivering ended up being eviction notices for an apartment nearly destroyed two weeks ago, and-”

Badd shoves the bat in his hands into Mumen’s, spins the man, and steps aside. Mumen just blinks. “I’m sorry, that was too-”

Badd just flicks the machine on. “Think you need this more than I do.”

Mumen flinches as a ball breezes his shoulder. But with another glance at Badd (and one over his shoulder to the still empty lobby), he squares his shoulder and hits the next with surprising force.

It’s not nearly as precise as Badd’s. But he finds himself shivering nonetheless under his jacket. “Huh.” Another hit rattles the wall. “Didn’t think you had it in ya.”

Mumen just gives him a sideways glance. “I do work here.”

“Job perk?”

“More or less.”

Badd takes a moment to breath as Mumen hits another few balls. It takes him a long moment to remember what he was unsettled by, and it disappears as soon as he has it in his hands because Mumen’s form is off and it’s distracting him. He can’t help it. He reaches over as the machine dies, “You’re chokin’ it too much. Ease up a bit, let it breath.”

He slides to the side as Mumen fumbles. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He moves Mumen’s hand for him. “There. Try it now, ya? Got a bit more swing there. Just don’t lose your grip now. Easy to do. Wrist ain’t what does the work.”

Mumen just nods and Badd almost misses it, “Show me where again?”

Badd pops his lip and moves Mumen’s hand back. “There. Ready?”

He doesn’t give him too much of a chance to object, flipping the machine on within seconds. Mumen misses the first ball and why Badd doesn’t know. But he gets the next one with a satisfying crack of the bat that sends shivers down Badd’s spine.

“Nice! There, ya got it!” Pride wells in his chest. “Two weeks under me and ya coulda taken on everyone on that school team.” Mumen laughs, suddenly, missing a hit. Badd wrinkles his nose. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing…” Mumen shakes his head, grip tightening properly with only one adjustment.

The next hit is more sure and Badd realizes he feels settled. If he thinks about it, there’s a sting there, just a bit. Like a lingering scratch. But he thinks he heard Mumen swear under his breath at a weak swing and holding onto irritation seems less appealing than teasing the man.

“Hey now, we’re in a family place!”

Mumen’s look is incredulous. “I didn’t -” And then he blushes. “Oh no, I said that out loud, didn’t I?” Badd can’t even say he heard it well but it’s confirmation and he grins. Mumen doesn’t need an answer to blush harder. “I am SO sorry…”

Badd throws his head back and laughs. “Fuck, you think I fuckin’ care?”

“Badd!”

“Fuck ‘em! Oh wait, ain’t no one else fuckin’ here!”

“ Badd! ”

He just laughs. “C’mon, if you’re gonna swear, at least do it with everything ya got.” Mumen just bites his lower lip, throwing a glance to the (still empty) check in desk. Badd pokes his shoulder. “You don’t gotta. Just sayin’, I ain’t one of your kids.”

Mumen licks his lips and hits the last ball with enough force that Badd can see his shoulder working even under his uniform. The machine chuffs as the ball bounces off Badd’s, unsticking it with a dull thud.

This time, Badd hears it. “Damn.”

And he laughs, throwing an arm over Mumen’s shoulder and bringing him in. “Knew you had it in ya!” Mumen ducks his head, but the smile is there. “Feel better?”

“Hai. I do.” Badd can see the line of Mumen’s shoulders is relaxed. “Do you want to go another round?”

“You fucking bet I do.”

So they do. Mumen calls out corners for him to hit, which Badd does every time. Badd gets Mumen to try hitting without looking. They end that game when a ball beans Mumen’s shoulder. He hasn’t seen Mumen laugh as much and it shouldn’t surprise him when he does. He likes to think it won’t always. Especially given how things seem to be. (He just tries not to rely on how things look; he’s been disappointed before.)

Badd’s phone buzzes after a round of  H-O-R-S-E that Badd wins single handedly, literally. “Eh?” Mumen gives him space, picking up balls and turning the machine off. “I should get going.”

“It is getting late.” It’s not, but he knows Mumen’s just being polite. There’s some satisfaction in hearing light disappointment in Mumen’s voice. “I should get to cleaning.”

Badd helps him pick up the basket anyway, ignoring his protests. “Faster with two of us.”

They linger at the check in desk. When Badd tries to pay, Mumen waves him off. “Please, let me cover it.”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not.” At Mumen’s look he slides over bills anyway. “Ain’t gonna be responsible for you losing another job.”

“The last one was not your fault.”

Badd just shrugs. “Either way. Besides, now that I know you work here…” He waggles his eyebrows.

Mumen rolls his eyes. “You are absolutely incorrigible.”

“But you like that about me.”

“I do.”

Badd’s stomach coils at that victory. “You gonna be ok here alone?”

“Hai.” And Mumen pauses, awkward. “I am sorry again for not texting, Badd. I will do better.”

“You’d better.” But Badd has to pause as well. “But I suppose now that I know you suck at it…”

Mumen just smiles. “Perhaps I will need lessons.”

“Yeah?”

“After your birthday.”

Of course. Badd sticks his tongue out. “Old man.”

“Adult by law.”

Which is a very good point. “Yeah, yeah.” He remembers the kiss though and feels butterflies in his stomach at the memory. “So can we, uh, do that again though?”

It takes Mumen a moment to figure out what he means. “Let’s maybe not push it.”

It’s not exactly a no. Though Badd realizes that this is also him. So he steps forward and gives Mumen a peck on the lips back. It’s far less than he wants, but he makes do with the fact Mumen doesn’t pull away.

He does break contact though he can feel Mumen’s exhale on the tip of his nose. “Mmk.” If he doesn’t leave now he isn’t sure he can make himself do so. So he turns, pausing at the door to glance over his shoulder. “Same time next week?”

Mumen smiles, not quite all there. “Yeah.”

Badd nods. And then is gone in three swift steps. By the time he gets home he has a text waiting for him, blinking excitedly (though that just may be his heart still racing).

Good night, Badd.

Chapter Text

He notices a conscious effort on Mumen’s part through the rest of the week. In turn, he makes sure he steps up his game as well. They spend three hours Friday night staying up late, talking about life, the universe, and not quite everything else, but enough.

Badd sends a photo of Zenko and Tama. To his surprise, he gets one back. I didn’t know u had a cat!

He is very friendly, but only for a few hours after dinner.

Badd actually chuckles out loud. Sounds like a cat. He saves the photo anyway after only a few moments of hesitation. (It’s nice to see Mumen without a work uniform, hero outfit, or sweater on.) He got a name?

Don’t laugh at me.

Me? Badd scotts. Never.

Watch.

Badd has to read that twice. You named ur cat Watch?

...short for Watchdog.

It’s a struggle now to not laugh. Oh. Ok.

The ‘in progress’ dots take a moment to stop moving. Take a look at his face. See the thick fur he has? He looks like Watchdog! He’s the exact same color too. And his eyes. The resemblance is more obvious in person. And sure enough another photo comes and even Badd has to admit that Watchdog the Cat has the same fur coloring, length, and eyes as his namesake.

Ok ok u got a point!

How did you get Tama? You do not seem like a cat person.

It’s a fair question. Found her in a box while fighting a demon level. Got lost, actually. Stumbled on her by coincidence and couldn’t just leave her there. Not with big ol’ demon level stompin’ around.

Hence the name?

Zenko thought her eyes were like emeralds or somethin’.

That leads into a discussion on Zenko, which is a topic Badd could go on for days. She’s smart. She’s talented. She’s going places. He’s not sure if he’s anything of those things but Zenko? Zenko is the best parts of what is left of their family. He can’t lose that.

Badd also finds himself frequenting the batting cages more, sometimes with Tajima, often without. Mumen waits until they’re alone before joining him in the cage. The first time, Mumen asks permission to join him.

“Ya don’t gotta ask,” Badd says, amused.

“All right,” says Mumen and he doesn’t ask again.

Badd treasures the hour or so they have. They take turns taking up the bat normally, though two weeks in when he offers the bat to Mumen he declines.

“I enjoy watching you.”

Which is code for something, though it takes a few moments of Badd squinting from the corner of his eyes to formulate a guess. “You look like shit.”

Mumen snorts. “The golden kind?”

“The tired kind.” When Mumen goes quiet Badd pops his lips and hits a ball. “C’mon, ya gotta take time off sometime, right?” He spares a glance over. “Go out with me tomorrow night?”

Mumen runs a hand over his cheek. “Tomorrow? I have a shift at the tea house.”

“Tea house?”

“I bus tables…” Off Badd’s look, he adds, “It’s temporary. Just for a few months until their usual guy comes back.”

“When’s your shift over?”

“Four o’clock. But I have my route after that…”

Badd isn’t too surprised. “Sunday then.” Mumen sighs and Badd doesn’t wait for him to explain. “Oh come on! Ya gotta have free time somewhere, right?”

Mumen grimaces. “I get off at 11pm Sunday…”

“Any day of the week next week that doesn’t have every hour accounted for?” Mumen is quiet. The machine spits out air as Badd sets his bat down and reaches out to squeeze one of Mumen’s arms. He can see the bags under the man’s eyes. “Saturday night it is. C’mon. Please?”

“All right, all right.” Mumen sighs, but Badd thinks the man would say no if he didn’t want to. “Would you mind if we did something a bit low impact?”

He considers this. “You got something in mind?”

Mumen takes a moment. “Have you seen the latest Star Man?”

Badd’s not sure he’s seen the first one(s?). “Nope.”

“It leaves cinemas on Sunday.”

He doesn’t need a brain to hear the longing. “Done.”

“You don’t mind?”

Badd just hands over the bat with a roll of his shoulders. “We’re definitely gettin’ popcorn.”

Mumen smiles. “The biggest container. Promise.”

Unsurprisingly, Badd doesn’t doubt him on that.

As he texts Tanaka even later that night, the mention of movie popcorn slips. Badd’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing with text after text of short strings of sudden plans.

WE HAVEN’T DONE A MOVIE IN FOREVER MAN

WE SHOULD SEE OUTPOST 31

HAVE YOU SEEN THE TRAILER?! IT’S SICK!!!!

NEED ME SOME BUTTERY CORNS

Badd has to take a moment to even determine what’s happening. By then, it’s too late. Ennoshita’s been added to the group chat and suddenly Hinata is there adding the rest of the team. By the time Badd’s able to piece together what to say, the group chat is eight strong and there’s nothing to be done.

His heart sinks.

Saturday night with the guys is nothing to sneeze at. But the price is hard to swallow and while logically he knows there’s nothing wrong with saying no...he doesn’t. Instead he closes his phone and tries not to feel like a traitor to himself.

It’s almost irritating how understanding Mumen is. It’s all right, Badd. I should try to fit a workout in anyway.

He can’t help it. You have time for the gym?

...I do administrative work for a gym right now.

Badd rolls his eyes. Promise me a date? Soon?

Barring a kaiju...Monday night?

I thought Star Man was out of theaters after this weekend?

It doesn’t really matter what we watch so long as we’re both there.

He’d check his phone for sap if he wasn’t too busy feeling sentimental about a what is, frankly, a dime store line. It’s oddly fitting. And he vows never to scoff at similar lines again when poking through serials at the store. (Not that he’s holding himself to that, because there’s only so much a man - nay, a human - can take.)

Saturday night finds him wedged not next to Mumen but between Tanaka and Hinata. Their popcorn buckets are so big they nearly touch and their group has grown to nearly the entire row. It’s loud and rowdy. The manager has peeked in three times and Badd can feel slight irritation growing. Even if this is the movie he wanted to see, this isn’t how he wanted to spend the night, or rather who he wanted to spend it with.

Tanaka leans over with a side eye. “You’re grouchy.”

“It’s loud.”

“Like that bothers you.”

“Your face bothers me.”

Tanaka not-so-subtly kicks his calf and the resulting kicking war doesn’t stop until the manager peeks in again and gives them that side eye that threatens Tanaka enough to concede defeat with a fistful of popcorn in his mouth. As soon as the threat of no movie is averted, however, Tanaka leans over.

“This is supposed to be fun.”

Badd mutters and wipes butter on his pant leg. “It is.”

“Yeah?”

“If ya have to keep asking if it’s fun it won’t be.”

Tanaka leans back with a huff and Badd knows he’s hurt his feelings. It does enough to assuage his irritation, at least enough to lean over and point out the fact that the main character in the film looks like Professor Iro from history, big eyebrows and all. They spend the movie snickering over similarities.

He walks to the bus with Tanaka and Ennoshita, sharing a cigarette with the former and pretending the latter isn’t giving them not-mad-just-disappointed looks in between sighs.

“Yeah, yeah, your eyes are sayin’ it all ya know.” Badd decidedly doesn’t look over; he’s not quite ready to see them holding hands in the dark.

“We have a practice match tomorrow.” Ennoshita just gives Tanaka a look.

Tanaka huffs. “Fine.” With one last puff he hands the last back to Badd and gives Ennoshita a raised eyebrow as smoke pours from his nostrils.

Ennoshita just gives him a bland stare. “Really?” Even Badd sees his smile crack when Tanaka moves his ears as well. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re the one that wanted to date this.” Tanaka gestures at himself.

“I mean, I DID.”

“Did?”

“Now I’m just in it for the convenience.”

Tanaka laughs from his belly and Badd flicks the cigarette butt into the bushes to ignore the kiss the two exchange. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous. He is. Deeply. Especially as he glances over to see Tanaka whisper in Ennoshita’s ear.

“I should get.” It’s a bit rude, he knows, but the bus stop is a block over and he’s ready to text without an audience.

“Heh, sorry.” Ennoshita is smiling wide, though, and Badd knows he’s not quite all there.

Tanaka gives him a near apologetic look. “Seeya tomorrow?”

Badd almost wishes there were some kind of protest. But his phone buzzes in his pocket and when he glances at the screen the thought dies. “Yeah, sure.”

He misses Tanaka watching him go, confused, and the knowing hand Ennoshita places on Tanaka’s shoulder. Instead, he strides off with his head in his phone, typing a response to: How was the movie?

Sequels aren’t ever as good as the original. He pauses as he types, glances at the time. Gettin’ off work already?

I’m on break.

Badd pauses mid step, feeling the night chill start to set in. How long?

30 minutes.

Where?

R-City, at the New Horizons Gym. Why?

Badd stops reading, having already changed direction. He notices the trees bow in his wake, whipping branches with a crack in the air and sending goosebumps up his arm. Perhaps it’s an impulsive mood, but the phone in his hand is a brief, heavy hope that the wind in his ears will be something more soon. 

The gym isn’t hard to find, nor is Mumen. The latter is in the alley, staring at his phone and worrying his lower lip in his teeth. When Badd skids to a stop Mumen looks up and his jaw drops. “That was…”

“Amazing? I know. Everything I do is.” Badd grins. “What’s up?”

“I was going to say fast.” But Mumen’s lip goes unchewed as he tucks his phone neatly in his back pocket. “Did you really run all the way from K-City?”

“I’d run a lot further if I had to.” Badd shrugs. “So, you got like, what, 20 minutes left?”

“Hai.”

Badd makes his move then. Two steps and he’s kissing Mumen, a hand moving to catch him as Mumen stumbles back in surprise. He’s pleased to note he can feel Mumen’s breath catch and a smile tug on the man’s lips.

They kiss for a long, long moment until Mumen pulls back, laughing. “Badd! Everything ok?”

Badd is itching for words to be over. “Can’t wanna kiss ya without something being wrong?”

“No, no, just...surprised me.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I should surprise ya more often.” Badd leans in to try again.

But Mumen pushes his chest, gently, and Badd stops. “I need to eat.”

“Got somethin’ ya could eat right-”

“Badd!” Badd holds up  his hands as Mumen gives him a reproachful look. “Maybe after your birthday.”

Badd holds up his hands, not sorry. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Lemme buy you dinner to make up for it?”

Mumen’s reproach turns into a huff. “You don’t have to buy me dinner, Badd.”

“Well I wanna.” Badd glances around. The street is mostly closed, they gym, a convenience store and a takoyaki cart the only signs of life. “Certainly got your choice around here…”

“I do like takoyaki.”

Of course he does. Badd isn’t surprised at all. But he’s already making his way over, glancing back at Mumen with a bored look. “Comin’?”

They sit on a low wall, benito flakes dancing under the streetlight. Mumen digs in greedily, while Badd picks at his own. He casually picks a speck of green onion off Mumen’s sleeve, giving him a smirk when Mumen glances his way.

“You eat lunch today?” He teases.

Mumen’s hunched shoulders shrug a bit. He can see a bit of a blush on Mumen’s neck as Badd pops the green onion into his mouth. “I ate most of it.”

There’s a story there. “Lemme guess, someone or something or somewhere needed your absolute 100% attention right then and there?” Mumen doesn’t correct him and Badd shakes his head. “Ya know, ain’t gonna be much of a hero if you don’t have the energy for it.”

Mumen purses his lips. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“I know.” And he means it. Mumen glances at him and Badd holds out his barely touched takoyaki. “Want mine?” Mumen hesitates, but takes it and Badd just smiles. “Guess I’d rather you get your shitty schedule done with before our date on Monday.”

Mumen chuckles, soft, and Badd finds himself absolutely fucking charmed. “Do I need to swear on this takoyaki that I will be there?”

Badd hums, considering. “Couldn’t hurt.”

True to his word, Mumen sits up a bit and crosses his heart with his chopsticks. “Cross my heart. And this takoyaki.”

Mumen pops the rest of the treat into his mouth and Badd nods, satisfied. “Promise sworn on fried food is for life, ya know.”

“Is it now?” Mumen smiles, streetlight catching his glasses. “I never saw myself going out because of takoyaki, so I guess I had better be there, huh?”

Badd rolls his shoulders and throws Mumen a smirk. “Guess so.” Though that has him thinking, “So how do you see it?”

“See what?”

“Yourself goin’ out.”

Mumen puts his chopsticks down carefully, stacking the empty takoyaki containers with careful precision. “Honestly? Probably getting involved in a battle outside of my abilities.”

There’s at least points for honesty. “That the ultimate goal?”

Mumen huffs, a bit of a laugh. “No, not at all. But I know what being a hero entails and I fully accept the dangers that come with it.”

Badd frowns a bit. “Right, but, why not just not get involved in somethin’ bigger than you can handle?”

Mumen gives him a considering look. “I know my limits, Badd, don’t worry.”

He doesn’t quite get the reason for the look. But Mumen smiles at him fondly and lays a hand on top of his and Badd doesn’t particularly care about the whys anymore. His grin is wide and toothy. “You sure about that?”

Mumen just laughs. “Well, I was !”

It hasn’t seemed like more than a few minutes, but Mumen’s phone beeps and suddenly Mumen’s standing, stretching his shoulders. Badd wrinkles his nose. “Work?”

“Work,” Mumen confirms.

Badd beats Mumen to the trash, tossing the containers and watching Mumen blink in surprise. “I’ll walk you back.”

Mumen grins. “Such a gentleman.”

Badd grins in return. “Only until my birthday.”

Mumen’s laugh lasts for most of the (short) walk back. (It warms Badd’s heart for even longer that night.) He doesn’t get a kiss goodbye, but Mumen does squeeze his hand and the look in his eyes is enough. “Good night, Badd.”

Badd squints at Mumen. “I still expect a text.”

Mumen bites his lower lip, fighting a smile, and Badd feels his stomach turn. “I expect you to get home safely. And tell me about it.”

“Deal.”

Mumen just smiles and it takes another beep of his phone before Mumen turns to go. Badd watches him leave. Even waves when Mumen pauses at the door to look back. He’s gone before he can see Mumen go in, racing for home and for the comfort and safety of his bed.

By the time he shoots off a quick text and flops into his bed a text is waiting for him.

Good night, Badd.

He nearly spills a bowl of pancake mix on Tama the next morning when Zenko asks, “Who’s MR?”

Badd clears his throat to cover the fact he nearly swallows his tongue as well. “Uh...what?”

“In your phone.”

“Why you lookin’ at my phone?”

He can feel Zenko’s eyes bore into his head. “I plugged it in for you.”

Badd really hates that phone sometimes. “Just a friend.”

“Uh huh.”

He doesn’t need a high school education to hear the disbelief there. So he tries to deflect. “You want blueberries or chocolate chips in these?”

“Chocolate chips!” Badd nearly startles when he turns to find Zenko next to him. “And the truth.”

“Jesus!” He takes down monsters for a living and yet can’t track a seven year old across the kitchen. “Gonna give me a heart attack!”

“The truth, onii-san!”

“I’m makin’ pancakes here!”

“You can talk and cook, you do it every day!”

Badd groans. “C’mon, sis, it doesn’t matter!”

“Then it won’t matter if I know or not!”

Badd would be more annoyed if he wasn’t so damn proud of how smart his sister is. “Ugh, it’s just a person. Ain’t nothin’ serious, all right?”

Zenko squints. “Is this a NICE person?”

“No, they’re a jerk.”

“Well, YOU are, yes.”

He pouts until she gives him a hug. The pancake mix splashes on his shirt with the force. “I hope they’re the best, cause you are, and you deserve the absolute best.” If that doesn’t melt anyone’s heart, he doesn’t know what will. “When do I get to meet them?”

Probably after his birthday. “When I decide it’s gonna be serious.”

“Ok.” And just like that Zenko is back at the table reviewing her assignment just like she was five minutes ago.

Comfortable silence settles again. Badd feels a warm curl of contentment in his stomach as he glances over his shoulder. Zenko’s feet kick the chair legs as she finishes her homework. Tama curls under her chair, hopeful for a handout. For once in a long time, Badd can’t reach each side of the kitchen just by stretching out his arms.

If this is what success is, Badd feels like he could get used to it.

(Even as he thinks about what it would be like to have one more at the table.)

“Pancake’s burning, Baddo.”

He swears as it comes off the grill but Zenko eats it anyway and if that isn’t love he’s not sure what is.

By the time Monday night rolls around he’s still considering what Zenko said and just where this all lies on the ‘seriousness’ line. He could probably figure out which date they’re on if he thinks about it, but what is a date? Do the nights spent staying up playing 20 questions, talking high school memories, or discussing weird dogs they’ve seen that day count as well?

He startles a little when Mumen appears next to him. “Did I already miss the show?”

“Huh?” It takes him a moment. “Naw, still got plenty left up in here.” He wraps his knuckles against his skull.

Mumen smiles and offers him a ticket. “Not sure this ticket will get me in to that show, but at least we can both go see this one.”

Badd doesn’t bother looking at the ticket he takes; it doesn’t really matter what they’re seeing. “Trust me, there ain’t much happenin’ at that show.”

“I’m probably still interested.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, which is why Badd wiggles his eyebrows. “What if I said it was R-rated?”

Mumen rolls his eyes even as he pushes him, gently, with his palm. “Incorrigible.”

“Optimistic,” Badd corrects. When Muman laughs he considers it a victory. “Popcorn?”

“Please.”

As they wait in line he catches Mumen rubbing his eyes. “How was work?”

“It was fine.” Badd waits and sure enough Mumen goes on. “There was nearly a fight at the gym over re-racking weights, but it was resolved with words, fortunately.”

Badd hums. “Mmm, prefer punches myself.” At Mumen’s look he holds up his hands. “All right, all right, your way’s probably better!”

Mumen smiles. “In this case...yes.”

Still, Badd checks him over and huffs. “Least your glasses aren’t broken.” He has to correct. “More broken.”

Mumen’s fingers touch the tape still holding his glasses together. “I haven’t had time to replace them.”

“You ever have time for anything?”

“I can sleep when I’m dead.”

Badd raises an eyebrow. “Hey, no dyin’ till AFTER my birthday. Got it?”

As Muman laughs Badd just smiles, even if the joke still sits a little funny in his stomach. He buys the big tub of popcorn without thinking and just clicks his tongue when Mumen comments, “It’s bigger than your hair is.”

“Go big or go home, eh?”

Mumen shakes his head, but there’s a smile on his lips and Badd is content with that. He catches Mumen yawning as he dumps an unholy amount of butter onto the popcorn, but he accepts the small smile Mumen offers and doesn’t mention it. (The bags still under the man’s eyes say enough.)

The theater is mostly empty but Badd takes the back seats anyway. Mumen snorts, but follows, settling in next to him with a soft sigh.

“Old man,” Badd teases.

“So old,” Mumen agrees easily. “I may not be able to get up again.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll carry ya out.”

“Always a gentleman.”

Which Badd follows with a flick of his fingers, popcorn hitting Mumen’s cheek with unerring accuracy. Mumen gives him a Look, but swipes butter off with his thumb and absently licks the grease from his finger. Badd feels himself reddening, so he busies himself with digging out napkins from his pocket, too late realizing he has none.

“How was the movie on Saturday?”

Badd freezes at the question, glancing sideways at Mumen. It feels like a trick, but Mumen doesn’t look upset. He clicks his tongue. “Ech. Fine. Movie wasn’t that scary though.”

“I’m fairly certain few things scare you.”

Badd’s not sure how to admit it’s more than most think. “You’d be surprised.”

Mumen gives him a considering look, then places his hand on his. “Well, I’ll be here just in case…” Even Mumen has to look at the ticket to remember. “ Die Every Day inspires any uneasy feelings.”

Badd can’t help it. “What about other types of feelings?”

Mumen snorts. “In-”

“Corragable. I know.” Badd wiggles his eyebrows and Mumen removes his hand to face palm. He misses the contact, but it’s worth it for the look on the man’s face. “You gonna just stare at this popcorn or help me?”

Mumen obliges by taking a handful and they compare popcorn loves - Badd’s is plain with butter and salt, Mumen’s is caramel - as a handful of people trickle in. By the time they empty one-third of the tub the lights are dimming.

It’s mostly Badd working on the tub now, but when he glances over he’s happy to see Mumen relaxed, even slumping a little in his chair. Badd nudges him to get his attention. “Sorry it ain’t Star Man .”

Mumen whispers back, “It doesn’t really matter.”

The meaning is clear and Badd’s toes curl as they both busy themselves with pretending to watch the preview.

By the time the movie starts Badd’s talked himself into it. Why not, after all? They’ve been on a few dates and it’s not like there hasn’t been no shred of physical contact between them. It’s not a cliched move because it’s stupid, right? He’s seen it done so many times there’s no point in being nervous. (Right?) Mumen’s gone from slight slumping to an elbow on the arm rest, cheek in his hand. It doesn’t take long until he yawns again, giving Badd the in he needs.

Badd yawns, stretching an arm out and carefully ensuring it finds it’s new resting place on the back of Mumen’s chair.

He freezes internally as he feels Mumen’s eyes slide over to him. One second ticks by. Then two. And just when he feels like his heart is pumping too hard...he feels Mumen’s shoulder against his.

Idly, Badd’s fingers press against Mumen’s upper arm, casual and cool as he relaxes. By the time James Bond has seduced the girl, Mumen’s head is on his shoulder and his hand is curled possessively around the man’s shoulders.

“Bet she’s the villain,” he whispers.

When Mumen doesn’t respond he chances a glance. He’s only slightly surprised to find Mumen’s eyes closed. Badd lets him be. He knows he won’t remember the movie, but he will remember Mumen’s slow breathing next to him in the dark.

Afterward, Mumen apologizes profusely, but he just shrugs. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I didn’t mind.”

Mumen smiles, relieved. “You’re too kind.”

“Says the guy who actually cleaned up popcorn off the floor before we left.” Mumen blushes and Badd laughs with a flash of his teeth. With a tug he pulls Mumen into the alley and gives him a kiss. “Do it again next week?”

“Hai…” Mumen’s slightly dazed and Badd credits that to himself. “Yes. Please.”

“I’ll text ya?”

“We’ll make it work.”

Badd takes that promise home with him. Zenko is curled up on the sofa, watching TV when he gets home, and regards him carefully as he toes his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow at her. Too late he realizes the smile on his face is still there. His phone buzzes as they stare off.

Zenko just smiles. “So when do I get to meet them?”

Badd’s fingers curl around his phone and he hums as he takes a seat next to Zenko. He looks down at his phone and can’t help it. He smiles. “Soon.”

Chapter Text

They try three times to set a date that week. But for once, it’s not just Mumen’s work schedule that interferes with living. Mid-terms may be months off, but it’s as if the halfway point to the halfway point is reason enough for quizzes, projects, and essays. Badd’s never been much of one for school. Yet every time he talks of quitting Zenko gives him a not-mad-just-disappointed look and he finds his butt in class struggling to care.

Practice keeps him out until late, regional tryouts looming. Their chances are better than good, excellent if Badd says so himself. But practice makes perfect and by the time he gets home some days the street lights are already on.

True to promise, he does get Zenko those piano lessons. He already hears a difference. Competition season is coming up fast and this year he believes she may place. It calls for a new practice keyboard which he’s only too happy to provide.

Zenko’s arms are tight around him when she finds it in the living room, bow nearly as big as she is. “I love it, onii-chan!”

He sticks his tongue out at her when she pulls away. “Good, cause I love ya.”

He’s not around to hear her practice, however. Three calls come in that week for Wolf Level threats. Inconvenient in more ways than one. Badd’s never particularly seen doling out a beating beneath his stature. But the third call in at 3am on Thursday morning has him feeling vaguely insulted at the ease.

As he stares at the passed out monster - he’s not sure if it’s supposed to be a catfish or just someone with a weird mustache? - he finds he can’t uncurl his hand from his bat. A vein twitches on the back of his hand.

“Well done, Metal Bat.”

He doesn’t turn to greet Iwate. “Why was I called out, again?”

“Pardon?”

When Badd turns he finds that the surprised look on Iwate’s face isn’t enough to quell his irritation. “Why the fuck was I even called out, eh? This was nothin’. And where the fuck even is here?” He gestures at the empty lot they’re standing in. The closest building is a good three miles away. “Any A-Level could take care of this. Hell, I know B-Levels that could have taken this fucker down!”

Iwate doesn’t blink, though his lips purse a bit. (It’s the most reaction Badd can remember seeing from the guy.) “We knew you’d be able to deal with the threat in a timely manner, Metal Bat-San, and-”

He knows how long kiss assing can go on for and he’d rather try to not fail history than have his ego stroked. His finger finds Iwate’s chest with a forceful shove that has Iwate stepping back. “I don’t fucking want to hear from you again this week unless it’s somethin’ worth gettin’ out of bed for. Got it?”

Iwate’s eyes narrow. “You work for us.”

His hair is on end and irritation has morphed into rage. He’s tired, so tired, and Iwate’s blank eyes inspire nothing but more anger. “I don’t see why it’s so hard to fucking call someone else!”

They’re face to face now. Badd can see his spit on Iwate’s cheek and he knows he should back down. He can’t bring himself to let go, however, knuckles white and wrist starting to groan with the force.

Just like that, Iwate steps back and smiles. “Of course, Metal Bat-san.”

Badd feels as if the air has shifted. For a moment he seems underwater and his anger splutters with the pressure. His bat hits the ground with a dull thud and his knees suddenly seem weak. A hand unconsciously goes to his chest just to check that his heart is still there.

A hand is on his shoulder and he can’t find his wits enough to do more than glance up at Iwate’s smile. “You’re absolutely right. We’ve been pushing you a bit hard. Please, take some time to rest. It’s nearly regional season for your district, correct?”

All he can do is nod.

Iwate pats his shoulder. (Badd doesn’t feel reassured.) “Well, train hard and get some rest. I’m sure you’ll help bring your team to victory.”

An Association car pulls up and Iwate is away, already hailing the agent that steps out. Badd feels the air come back and he legitimately wheezes as he sucks oxygen into his lungs. He can see the medics approaching warily from the corner of his eye. For a moment he considers letting them take a look.

But just like that he feels strength come back into his limbs and when he straightens up the medics immediately alter course for elsewhere. (They’ve been snapped at one too many times to try to approach. It’s not a reputation Badd is entirely sure he should be cultivating.)

He doesn’t stick around to appreciate his re-found strength. Instead, his feet take him away until he’s at the train depot, phone clutched in his hand. He’s already texting by the time he collapses on a bench near the dark turnstiles.

I fucking h8 the Association.

Having the words in black and sent out to the world make him feel like he can untense a little. As if he doesn’t have to bear it all alone. He doesn’t expect an answer back, not at this hour, which is why he’s surprised when his phone buzzes in his hand.

Are you ok?

For a moment he has ‘no’ written out. Eventually, he backspaces and sends: Just restless. What are you doin’?

It takes a long moment for Mumen to respond. Eventually an address appears on his screen with no explanation. Badd is off before the screen can even lock.

It turns out to be a coffee shop in Z-City, a hole in the wall place with fading laminate and neon that only half works. Mumen is waiting outside, gear on and helmet off, Justice leaning against the shop window.

He can’t tell if Mumen is just starting or just ending. “Hey.”

No matter which, Mumen smiles. “Hi.”

Before Badd can say more, Mumen steps forward and hugs him tightly. He almost doesn’t it hear it from the unexpectedness of it all. But his ears catch Mumen murmuring. “Everything will be ok.”

He doesn’t know why it touches him the way it does. But he sighs and feels his anger fade into exhaustion, settling in his bones and causing him to lean hard into Mumen’s arms. They stay like that through three deep breaths. Badd lets his eyes close and feels his mind clearing with each exhale they take in time.

Eventually Mumen speaks. “Tea?”

Badd pulls back to wrinkle his nose. “Just tea?” Mumen gives him a tired Look. “Ok, ok, just tea.”

They end up sitting under an old cork board filled with long since torn announcements and advertisement. Badd stares at an add for in-home cleansing as he wonders just what one needs their house cleansed of. Part of him presumes he doesn’t want to know.

“Do you live here?” He blurts out.

Mumen doesn’t pause in dunking his tea bag, as if that will make it steep faster. “Hai. A few blocks away.”

Badd frowns. “I didn’t know anyone still lived out here.”

“It’s affordable.” Mumen doesn’t offer much more of an explanation and Badd doesn’t push.

Instead, he takes a sip of his tea and tries not to cringe at the bitterness. “So you were heading...in?”

Mumen huffs gently. “Out.” Badd knows by now to give him a moment. “I have a shift that starts at 7am. The bars will be letting out soon, however, and I like to keep an eye on things when they do.” He adds, quieter. “When I can.”

Badd glances at the clock on the wall. “Isn’t last call soon?”

“It is,” Mumen confirms with a glance at his wrist.

Badd wonders how he didn’t notice the watch. “Ok.” He slams his cup down and stands. “So we goin’?”

Mumen blinks owlishly at him. “We?”

“Well, yeah. Not gonna run all the way out here to just drink tea.” He realizes how that sounds and holds up his hands. “Not that I wouldn’t do that, cause you know, if that’s what you wanted to do that’s cool. Just…” Smooth. “Look, I ain’t gonna go home and sleep anytime soon. So let’s go.”

After a long moment where Badd is afraid Mumen will say no, Mumen takes a sip of his tea and stands. “All right.”

Badd sighs in relief and takes his bat off the holster on his back. “Great! So, where we goin’?”

Mumen thinks for a moment as he finishes his tea in one go. (Badd takes the opportunity to toss his.) “We’ll head toward X-City and see what happens.”

“That your usual route?” He asks as they head out to rescue Justice.

Mumen buckles his helmet carefully, shrugging. “It’s one way to it. Usually I take the river route up to R-City then circle.” Without a thought, Mumen swings a leg over Justice, glancing over his shoulder at Badd. “Are you going to be able to keep up or do you want a ride?”

Badd feels his shoulders set at the challenge. “Ain’t no way you can out ride me.”

Mumen just lifts an eyebrow and, without warning, takes off. Badd has to admit...the guy’s pretty fucking fast. He grins toothily to himself, cracking his neck before sprinting after him. He stays just behind him. Just enough to give the illusion of a chase. A farce Mumen runs with, so to speak. They weave through the edges of Z-City, passing sullen apartments and depressed facades. Steam pours from a sewer vent that Mumen circumvents at the last moment.

Badd swears as he jumps through, “You jerk!”

Mumen just calls over his shoulder, “Watch your hair!”

Just for that Badd takes the extra three strides to keep pace with the rider. He flashes Mumen’s surprised look a wink and salacious tongue wag. Mumen snorts and takes a hard left that Badd barely follows.

By the time they sail through into Y-City proper they’ve seen nothing but empty houses and more back alleys than Badd can count. They’re both laughing by the time they come to the first proper red light they’ve seen all night.

Badd won’t show he’s out of breath, though he does lean a bit on Mumen’s handlebar with his forearm. “So, impressed?”

“Yes, yes I am!” Mumen lifts his goggles to wipe at his eyes. “I haven’t had that much fun since…”

“Since?”

Mumen doesn’t answer, however, staring off to the right, standing upright on his pedals. Badd hears it then. Angry voices and the sound of glass shattering. They get there at the same time, a small karaoke bar on the outskirts of town, windows dark and heavy cloth covering the out door.

She doesn’t look like she’s in distress, though the three gentleman attempting to collect their wits do. One holds a broken bottle, unsteady on their feet, as the other attempts to help the third off the ground.

Badd’s ready to march in, bat in hand, one foot forward. Mumen’s hand catches his chest, however, and he notices the man hasn’t even gotten off his bike yet.

“Ain’t we supposed to be helpin’?” He’s confused.

“I know her. We’ll step in if she needs us,” is all Mumen says.

Badd doesn’t expect the flare of jealousy to fire up as hotly as it does. “Know her??”

Mumen doesn’t answer, as the woman sidesteps the lunge from the armed drunk, grabs his elbow, and twists. They hear the crack from across the street. The man screams. Badd can see the indecision in the other’s eyes change to conviction when the woman crushes what’s left of the bottle with her high heel.

As the three run off down the street, Mumen finally pushes forward. “Evening, citizen. Are you all right?”

The woman turns, cigarette already in her fingers. She’s all curves, right down to the massive eyelashes that frame high arched eyebrows. “Oh, hey, babydoll. Haven’t seen you in awhile. Too busy saving the world to say hello?”

Mumen, Badd swears to god, blushes. “I’ve been busy.”

The woman’s eyes travel over Mumen’s shoulder to Badd. “I see.” Badd steps forward, protective or possessive he doesn’t know. “Hey sugar, the name’s Cherry.”

“Hey,” Badd manages.

Cherry just hums, lighter clicking and cigarette drawn to her namesake colored lips. He knows the minute she’s done looking him over because she smiles, like she knows something he doesn’t, and looks back to Mumen. “You look tired, babydoll. You been getting enough rest?”

Mumen shifts a bit, bending down to scoop up a larger piece of glass off the pavement. “Oh, you know me, Cherry-san. Eight hours and three meals a day.”

Badd can’t hold back the snort. “Yeah, an’ I get perfect marks.”

Cherry snorts, flicking ash into the gutter. “And this weave’s all natural. It’s ok, babydoll. I know you’re doin’ your best.” Mumen just smiles, the words taken from his mouth. Cherry’s eyes meet Badd’s and he’s struck by their intensity. “And what are you doin’ out this late, sugar? Getting into trouble?”

He shrugs, swinging his bat over his shoulder. “I don’t get into trouble. Trouble gets into me.”

Cherry’s teeth show in her smile. “I bet it does, sugar, I bet it does.”

He’s not entirely sure what to make of that. “I get myself out of it.” And he adds, because she doesn’t seem impressed, “I’m S-Class, you know.”

“Relax, sugar, I’m not here to question your skill!” Cherry laughs and finishes her cigarette. She moves to drop it, but at a look from Mumen smashes the end into the lip of the trash can. She fishes out another that she twirls in her red lacquered nails for a long moment. “You’re Metal Bat, aren’t you?”

Badd lifts his chin. “Yeah, so?”

“Just not who I pictured babydoll here spending his free time with.”

Badd bristles. “He can spend it with whoever he wants.”

There’s a pause. Then Cherry laughs and looks to Mumen. “I like him.”

Mumen looks over at Badd and smiles softly. “Me too.”

Whatever irritation Badd feels toward Cherry falters with those two words and one look. He meets Mumen’s smile with one of his own. Words fail him, as they often do in situations where his heart feels bigger than his mouth.

Fortunately, Cherry isn’t as lost in the moment. “You two goin’ on like that are going to make me start considering believing in love again.”

Mumen ducks his head, hand creeping up to his neck. “I am not quite sure if we’re...”

Even Badd’s not quite ready for that word. “We ain’t exactly proposin’ right now.”

Cherry’s eyes crinkle. “You’ll figure it out.” Another cigarette appears in her hand. “I’m all good here, babydoll. Go show your man a good time.”

Mumen mutters something that Badd swears is, “Yes, ma’am.”

Badd just puts a hand on Mumen’s shoulder. “He will.”

Cherry just watches them, as if waiting for something. When nothing comes, however, she just takes a long drag. “Have fun.”

Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Badd shifts. He can feel Mumen shift under his hand and at least he isn’t alone. Mumen shifts Justice into gear and Badd drops his hand to head off down the street. He can hear Mumen following close behind.

They pause at another light and Badd finds it in himself to ask then, “How do ya know her, exactly?” He likes to think it’s casual, cool, and definitely not bothering him.

Mumen purses his lips. “It’s a bit of a story. The short version is-”

They’re interrupted then by a scream and if that isn’t a proper monster then Badd doesn’t know what is. They race off without another word just in time to find an early morning jogger watch in horror as a trash can turns into something with far too many plastic teeth. It’s surprisingly nimble. They manage to get it down and unconscious only after Mumen trips on a tree root and falls on it, pinning it long enough for Badd to whack it on the head repeatedly.

He helps Mumen up even as the jogger hovers. “You ok?” Mumen nods, then winces. Badd’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“I smell.”

The mournfulness in Mumen’s voice causes Badd to laugh, startling the jogger. As Mumen attempts to soothe nerves, Badd just watches. It takes him a long moment to remember why they’re even out here. Vaguely he remembers being annoyed. He’s filled with contentment now. A satisfied calm that comes with feeling like something is going right.

He watches exactly what that is offer the jogger a jolly rancher.

As the police pull up, Mumen’s watch beeps. Badd already knows what that means and he can’t help feel himself frown.

It’s as if Mumen can hear his disappointment, as he turns and gives Badd a regretful smile. “I need to get to-”

“Work. Yeah, I figured.” Badd pops his lips. “Guess I should go to school, huh?”

“I suppose you should.” Mumen pauses. “Truancy, and all that.”

“Tru-what?”

Mumen face palms. “Seriously?” The look on Badd’s face must say he is because Mumen just shakes his head. “Have a good day at school, Badd.”

Badd knows better, but he tries anyway. “No goodbye kiss?”

Mumen’s teeth scrape at his lower lip. Badd doesn’t have to pretend to see a smile there. “Good night, Badd.”

“It’s morning.”

Mumen’s eyes roll. “Good morning, Badd-san.”

And he gets the point then. With a heavy sigh, he hoists his bat over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. You go get some rest.” A pause. “Eventually.”

“I will.”

Badd doesn’t believe that but he lets it go. “Text me?”

Mumen laughs and waves him off. “Go to school!”

He does. And not even the lecture after class about tardiness can damper his mood. It bleeds over into practice. As their machine spits balls at him, he cracks them off with a pop. They fly high and fast.

The assistant coach claps a hand on his shoulder. “Play this well at regionals and we’ll make nationals with ease!”

Badd just smirks. “Tch. Play this well all the time!” He winds up and hits the ball hard. Even he knows it’s not going to be caught as it sails over the fence. “Just playin’ even better, is all.”

The assistant coach frowns a bit, tracking the ball. Badd catches him glancing at the coach out of the corner of his eye. But he doesn’t care if his turn of phrase is wrong. They don’t have him play for his brains and his talent more than makes up for his ego.

He’s confident that he knows his worth.

“We’re gonna win nationals this year,” he brags, casually, as Tajima waits with him for the train.

Tajima huffs. “You mean win second, right? Cause we’ve got first locked down.”

Badd pops his lips. “If that’s what makes ya sleep at night then sure.”

Tajima rolls his eyes and pokes his side. Badd retaliates with a finger jab to his temple. It devolves into a poking war that only ends when Tajima holds his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right, you win!”

“That’s what I thought.” Badd cracks his neck and pats his pocket. “You got any…?”

“Quit for regionals.”

“Probably smart.”

They sit in silence for a few long moments, humidity beading on his brow line. The air is heavy and Badd knows it will only get heavier still as the weeks go by. It’s a herald for BBQs, the end of school, and beach nights. His mind drifts to the potential of another at the end of summer bonfire. He’d bet money Mumen wears green swim trunks…

“Hey!”

He feels the flick to his forehead too late to dodge. He blinks. “Huh?”

Tajima watches him, eyebrow cocked. “What’s gotten into you lately?”

“What’d’ya mean?”

“You’re all...smiley.”

Badd meets his eyes. “Smiley?”

Tajima scrunches up his nose. “I dunno, man, like. You’re smiling a lot more. You haven’t complained about the Tank Top Crew in awhile. And you keep getting this look when you send a text.”

Badd had no idea he was even holding his phone. His fingers uncurl from around the casing. “Maybe I just got a lot goin’ for me.”

“You think?” Tajima lets out a breath. “I’m just saying. Some of us might be a little jealous, you know?

“Jealous of what, my good looks, my skills, my big-” Tajima shoves him and Badd clicks his tongue back at him. “Eh, don’t be that jealous. You ain’t seen the bruise the last call left me with.”

Tajima is quiet for awhile, fingers worrying the strap of his gym bag. Badd wonders if he’ll ever see him wear through the reinforced material. So far they’ve lasted through lost championships, various crushes, and more than one close call.

“What’s it like?”

Badd frowns. “What’s what like?”

“Hero work.”

Badd wishes that didn’t feel like a minefield of a question. “Like the biggest adrenaline rush in the world.”

“Yeah?” Tajima kicks at stain on the train station tile. “More so than baseball?”

Badd goes quiet. He’s not sure how to answer that, as baseball has been in his life longer. Baseball doesn’t require blood nor does it come with collateral damage. “Different kinda rush.”

Tajima bites his lower lip. “How do you do it?”

He misses that flask a lot right now. “Do what, man?”

“Balance all of this.” Tajima gestures vaguely at the train, at Badd, at their sports bags sitting by their feet.

Badd isn’t sure how to answer that either. He feels a bit of his joy drain out struggle as he might to not let the question affect him. The truth is, he doesn’t always balance it so well. The fact that Zenko had to make dinner again tonight is testament to that. He knows college will likely be based on his name, not his skill, and a part of him wonders if school isn’t off the table entirely. (What would he even study? Does he even care?)

His eyes rake over Tajima and he recognizes something he is starting to get familiar with. “Everything ok?”

Tajima runs a hand over his face. “Yeah.” Badd waits. “Just been stressed out lately…”

They miss the next three trains while Badd listens, sitting on a bench under dim light. When his phone buzzes he turns it off. Some things can wait. Tajima relaxes when he does and Badd knows he made the right choice. (Not something he can always claim.)

By the time he gets home he’s too tired to check his phone. The fact that he nearly misses first class doesn’t help his attendance or his sleep deprivation. But he, for the first time in months, feels like he has every ball in the air, so to speak. He even remembers to check his phone while in the bathroom, responding to Mumen’s gentle how are you with the cheek he’s known for.

Oh u know just doin some thinkin in the usual place.

He waits a long moment, but eventually shuts his phone. He’s due back in class and he knows that try as he might ‘I drank a lot of water’ only gets you so long to pee.

School blurs by - he didn’t fail anything today - and practice goes long. He rushes to meet Zenko outside of her piano teacher’s studio and is only a few minutes late. His heels burn nonetheless as they walk home.

“I’m real sorry, Zenko.”

Zenko looks up at him and just smiles. “It’s ok, onii-chan. Though you don’t really need to carry my books…”

As if knowing they’re being talked about the books in his arm flop to the side in a desperate attempt at freedom. “Least I could do. Besides, gotta keep those fingers ready for that recital.”

“They’ll be fine.” Zenko wiggles said fingers at him. She doesn’t speak again until they’ve stopped for a light. “Onii-chan, you love me, right?”

His head whips around so fast it cracks. “OF COURSE I DO. WHO TOLD YOU OTHERWISE?”

Zenko frowns. “NO ONE TOLD ME ANYTHING, ONII-CHAN, STOP IT YOU’RE EMBARRASSING ME!”

People stare as the light blinks red. Badd does back down, though he feels his blood threaten to boil at the insinuation that Zenko isn’t the center of his world. “Why you gotta worry me like that?! Ain’t gonna let anyone make you feel like that!” He squats, hand to her shoulder. “You’re the most important person ta me in the whole wide world.”

Zenko’s frown turns into a soft sigh. She reaches up to pat his cheek. “Then why don’t you introduce me to your new boyfriend?”

One second goes by.

Then two.

And a third.

Then, he falls over onto his side, books still miraculously held in place. The light blinks green and cycles through before he’s able to finally form a word. “Eh?”

Zenko nudges him with her foot. “You’re so dramatic…”

He pops up at that. “I’M the dramatic one?!”

“I just wanna meet him!” Her arms are crossed now which is a surefire sign that Badd is probably going to cave sooner rather than later.

“I never said it was a him!”

Zenko’s eyes light up, triumphant. “So there IS someone!”

Fuck him. “I never said that either!” He stands, brushing off his sleeve, doing his best to not meet Zenko’s eyes.

Somehow, Zenko manages. She stares at him from his elbow, startling him. “But there is.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, because really, when did she get that fast? “All right, all right, maybe there’s someone! I’m allowed to have secrets, you know!”

“Not from me you’re not!” Zenko gives him the Eye. When he raises an eyebrow, it changes to a pout. “I just want to know who my big brother spends all his time with.”

Not that much time… He sighs. “It’s not that I don’t wanna introduce you. I just don’t wanna…” It sounds stupid to say.

Zenko considers him. “Ruin it?”

“Jinx it.” He

The snort that comes from Zenko is impressive. “Onii-chan, there’s no such thing as jinxes!” She looks up at him as she pats his hand. “If it ends, it wasn’t meant to be.”

He snorts this time. “Not sure that’s how things really work.”

“Then how do they work?”

He sputters at that question. “Jesus, you’re too young for that talk!”

“Then my point stands!” Zenko crosses her arms. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll work out. If you don’t treat them right they won’t stay.” She pauses. “And if they don’t think you’re the best…”

Badd rolls his eyes. “All right, all right. I get ya. Trust me, though, they’re...nice.”

Zenko’s eye contact, however, doesn’t waver. It’s exhilarating. And terrifying. “They’d better be.”

Badd stands there, jaw open, for a minute and a half before he manages to form enough spit to swallow. “That’s terrifying .”

“We could go back to that talk…”

“NO.”

Zenko nods. “So...boyfriend?” He realizes then what this was and he just stares at Zenko. Jaw open. Zenko lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“Just always forget you got all of mom AND dad’s brains.”

Zenko’s smile widens a bit. “Yeah?” She grabs for his hand as the light turns green again. “Tell me more.”

He shifts his armload of books to take her hand, not carrying that they’re digging into his chest. “Well where ta start…”

He tries to think of where to start. But all he can think of is Zenko. How did she know? Or, rather, know so accurately? Not that it matters because if she asks he’ll tell. Or be there. Or listen. It’s Zenko, and he meant when he said she was the most important person to him on this earth. More so than Tanaka. More so than Mumen. He’d kept the latter close to his heart if only so not to break what was there. (He was so good at that.)

But as they cross his eyes slide to Zenko and if she’s asking then maybe, maybe it’s time to share? Their orbit has been them for so long. It feels like an intrusion. And yet, maybe that’s not a bad thing…

“So, when do I get to meet him?”

“I thought you wanted to hear about mom and dad!”

“I can have it all!”

Though they may bicker about just how literal that is, even Badd has to admit that she’s right in that regard.

They never do get around to mom or dad, or Mumen, but he doesn’t hide when he texts Mumen the next morning. Zenko rolls her eyes, mouths ‘gross,’ and goes to load the dishes. But even Badd has to agree it’s freeing to let someone in on it all, even if it’s just a step or two.

It takes a few tries to pin down a date with Mumen. Between school, practice, and his routes, they finally settle on a late Sunday evening, which is not really ideal for just about anyone. But Badd feels itchy and restless to take advantage of what he’s got going for him right now. And Zenko has a sleepover to prepare for a school project. So he sits with Mumen at an udon stand near T-City’s dancing fountains and listen to the frogs croak as they wait for their noodles.

“So what does the fucker do? He slowly pulls his mit off and, what would you know? The shit head actually had a whole hot dog in hand!!”

Mumen laughs, glasses catching the light. “He played the whole game with that in his glove? Badd-san…”

“I ain’t foolin’ ya!” He smacks the table, ignoring the fact the udon man jumps. “Thing even had mustard on it. Mustard. And onions!”

Mumen’s smile is as warm as the night is. He settles an elbow on the counter and cups his chin with his hand. “And did he eat it?”

“You fuckin’ bet he did. Ate it in three bites.” Badd crosses his heart. (He has yet to hope to die. Especially not now.) “Scout’s honor.”

Mumen’s eyes narrow. “You weren’t a Scout...were you?”

Badd laughs, teeth sharp. “You really think I was?”

Mumen hums. “You DO keep surprising me.”

Which has Badd perking up a bit. “Yeah? That right?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “What else have I surprised ya with?”

That gets a snort out of Mumen. “You are positively relentless.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything about that!” He pauses. “Unless you’re sayin’ yes…”

“No!” Mumen laughs though as their udon is plopped in front of them.

Badd scowls a bit as broth sloshes on his hand but the udon man has already turned away to poke at a fryer. He takes up his chopsticks and glances over as Mumen methodically picks at a noodle. “So, we were talkin’ about me?”

Mumen scrubs his face with the back of his hand. It doesn’t quite hide his smile. “Don’t the forums say enough?”

That stings a bit more than he expects. He frowns, lips curling a bit. “I ain’t on those.”

To his credit, Mumen considers him before speaking. “I am sorry, Badd-san. I did not mean to offend.”

Badd wonders why it feels like a step backward. He waves steam away. “Whatever. Udon’s gettin’ cold anyway.”

He jams a too hot noodle into his mouth and nearly misses it over the searing sensation of pain in his mouth.

“Your eyes.”

He splutters a bit. It’s not attractive. He doesn’t care, however, as he whips his head toward Mumen. “Huh?”

Mumen’s teeth chew his lower lip. “They’re expressive.” Mumen’s eyes glance off his and settle elsewhere. When Badd follows them, he sees the udon man peeking over his shoulder. “That’s all.”

Badd’s noodles cool as he lets that sink in. He pops his lips but doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure he’d call himself expressive. But the way Mumen says it makes it sound like more than a compliment and he wishes he could probe into it more, to see the true magnitude behind that. The fryer pops, however, and he remembers that there are some things better left in private. (Though if he’s honest, he wonders if he hesitates because of that or because of the way Mumen does.)

Still, his ego, while not exorbitantly stroked like he’d prefer, is satisfied enough and he just raises an eyebrow to go with what he thinks is a charming smile. “I am quite a catch.”

Mumen just stares. “I feel like a deer right now.”

“...like the majestic as fuck kind?”

“Like the kind that are about to get hit by a car,” Mumen snorts. He does pause with chopsticks in mid-air, thinking. “A very nice car.”

“...would you even know what a nice car is?”

Mumen laughs and Badd feels his stomach untense. “No.” But Mumen’s foot nudges his shin. “I’m guessing that you do though.”

“Course I do!” He likes the fast ones. The ones with the convertible tops and jacked up sound system that the next prefecture over can hear. “Gonna get me one someday.”

Mumen snorts a bit. “Why?”

Badd gives him a sideways look. “Cause not all of us like hoofin’ it old school style.”

Mumen picks at his udon broth, searching. “You run far faster than any car I know of.”

“I’m startin’ to think you don’t know anything about cars.”

“So I’m wrong?”

They face off for a moment before Badd wrinkles his nose. “Doesn’t mean I wanna be runnin’ forever.”

Mumen justs hums. “Badd-san, the day you aren’t running toward the fight is the day I know for sure...”

He frowns and wonders what joke he’s running into. “Know for sure what?”

“That you have gained your ninth tail and are ascending.” Which is touching. Until Mumen hums. “Or you’ve become a lazy yako.”

Badd squints at him and can’t even be mad. He debates on just how bad of taste it is to throw the carrot he’s currently holding in his chopsticks at that stupid look on Mumen’s face. Almost too late, he realizes it’s a smirk. It’s new in his growing Mumen lexicon.

“Ya wound me, wound me!” He clutches his chest which gets an honest laugh from Mumen. It only goads him on. “Why, I should call the Association on ya now for sayin’ unflattering things about the city’s best damn Class-S hero!”

He notices it, a quick sour look in Mumen’s eyes at the mention of Association. It disappears as fast as it was there, but it’s like all he can see are the bags under the man’s eyes now. “Badd-san, we both know that is an over exaggeration.” A beat. “I am fairly certain the best is currently still Blast-senseii.”

Badd slams his hand on the table so hard it threatens to break. He barely hears it over Mumen’s laughter at his rant on just how one even gets that title when he has yet to see Class-S Rank 1 in person.

It’s late by the time they leave. He walks beside Mumen, chewing on a toothpick as they wait for the light to change. He’s content with the silence, jacket hanging off his shoulder, which is why he’s surprised when Mumen breaks it.

“I may be...a bit scarce the next few weeks. I apologize.”

Badd just blinks. “Eh? Everythin’ ok?”

Mumen’s expression doesn’t change. “Hai.” Badd just stares. “It is nothing, just need to fill in a few missing hours before my report is due to the Association.”

Badd frowns. “Wait, thought you were over on hours.”

“Requirements change.”

Unlike Mumen, Badd feels his eyes narrow and his expression change into a snarl. “Fuckin’ hell, why haven’t I heard of this??”

The look Mumen gives him is confusion. “Badd-san, it’s a few extra hours-”

“Few extra hours my ass! Barely see each other as is and now you’re gonna, what, not sleep at night just for what, to prove somethin’ to some assholes who sit in towers all day?!”

“That is kind of the point…” Mumen mutters.

“They’re actin’ like you’re some kind of machine. You’re only human!” Mumen is silent at that. It does nothing to quell Badd’s rage. “They even say why?”

Mumen hesitates. “Badd-san-”

“They gonna do what, put ya up against Dragon Level threats now too?! Just to prove a point?!” Not that he could say what that point is.

“Badd-san-”

He feels his fingers want to curl. “Cut that shit out.” He’s never liked honorifics. And he hates not being told something even more. “They must’a said why. They ain’t changed anything since I was a kid! Why the hell now?!”

Badd wants to rage. Wants to punch through the crosswalk sign, maybe kick over the garbage cans they passed a block ago, even throw a rock through a window of a condemned building somewhere. There’s a small part of him that realizes the irrationality in his response. He’s nearing 18, not eight, and acting out is no longer a socially acceptable response to no date next week.

Still, the impulse is there…

Until Mumen puts a hand on his arm and gives him the same tired smile Zenko gives him when he stumbles home from a party too late at night. “I just need two weeks to catch up. We can do something fun after then. Besides, don’t you have a regional game to be practicing for?”

“Like I need ta practice. I’m basically the team.” Still, he stretches out his fingers and rolls his shoulders. “Gonna do somethin’ big to make up for havin’ to wait two weeks.”

“Whatever you want,” Mumen promises. When Badd starts to raise an eyebrow, Mumen amends, “Within legal reason.”

It doesn’t really help the sour stain on the night. But Badd nods and huffs because it really isn’t Mumen’s fault. “Fine.”

Mumen, to his surprise, gives him a peck on the cheek. “I will text when I can.”

When Mumen pulls back, Badd realizes he has his gloves on already - when did that happen? - and kiss or not Badd’s not ready to let it drop. “Tonight?”

“When I get home, yes.”

“I meant you’re goin’ out tonight?”

Mumen can’t hide the strain now. “Of course.”

“Ain’t you been out enough today already?”

He wouldn’t call it a snap. But Mumen’s words are clipped. “I can handle it.”

The dark circles say otherwise. “You sure?”

Mumen’s shoulders stiffen and jams his helmet on hurriedly, glasses reflecting the streetlights, making him unreadable. “Good night, Badd. I will text when I get home.”

“Fuck, Mumen, wait…”

But Mumen is off, bicycle spokes whirring softly as he passes. Badd knows he could catch up. Easily, in fact. But he lets him go because if he’s honest he’s not sure what to say or what to do.

“Fuck,” he says.

The frogs croak loudly, as if to agree.

Chapter Text

He waits up until Mumen texts (because Mumen will text, he always does). It comes in as the sky lightens from grey to cornflower blue. Badd intends to only read it once. They have a routine, after all, and he has those three words committed to memory at this point. But there’s change tonight that echoes their parting.

Good night.

No Badd. Not even a Badd-san.

The blood vessels in his eyes throb. What the hell? What the fuck? (What happened?) He feels simultaneously chastised and confused. Is this a fight or just an over sensitive moment? He doesn’t know. Normally, not knowing something doesn’t scare him. But he finds himself sitting on the sofa, head in his hands, trying to think through what had been said and what hadn’t.

What the fuck had he said?

He assumes it was something he said. It usually is. But like most of his fights he’s left in the dark, unsure what or where it all derailed. In the past, these moments have never ended well the next morning. No matter how much he likes to think this one won’t, he’s left scrutinizing what was said and done until his only theory is that Mumen doesn’t like being questioned on his schedule. Which leads him to realize that he honestly doesn’t know Mumen’s schedule well at all. The batting cages on Tuesdays and alternate Fridays, but beyond that? For that matter, does Mumen even know his?

It makes him realize how little they even really know about each other at all.

Rumination keeps him up, sitting in an exhausted fugue state on the sofa. He’s considering making cereal and saying fuck it to being down to their last box - bran, something neither of them remember buying - when the front door SLAMS open.

He’s on his feet in an instant, nearly tripping on his own bat. “Zenko?”

Zenko appears in a blink Badd can’t be entirely sure was a regular, short blink. She’s in rumpled pajamas, backpack in hand, looking sick herself. “Onii-chan!”

Badd has an arm full of Zenko, small arms wrapped tightly around him and equally small face in his chest. He puts a protective arm over her shoulders as his cell phone rings. “Hey, hey, ‘s ok. Hold on…” He juggles the phone to his ear, using his chin to keep it in place. “Yeah, Mrs. Ita?”

Mrs. Ita sounds fragile even over the phone. “Oh, Badd, I’m so sorry, but Zenko-”

Ah. “She’s here.”

“Oh thank the gods!” He can practically hear Mrs. Ita collapse in a chair. “I am so sorry, Badd, she woke up and was insistent on going home-”

“Lemme talk to her and call ya back.” It’s not the most polite thing but he doesn’t care what Mrs. Ita has to say right now so he hangs up and lets his phone drop. He pulls Zenko to sit with him on the sofa, patting her back. “Hey, kiddo, you ok?” He squints. “Someone try somethin’ funny? Someone scare ya? I fuckin’ told Mrs. Ita no scary movies before bed.”

Zenko shakes her head into his chest and says something that gets muffled in his jacket.

Badd frowns. “What was that?”

Finally, Zenko looks up at him. He nearly has a heart attack at the tears in her eyes. “I was worried.”

“Worried?” Every hair on his neck and arms goes up. “About what?”

“I had a bad dream…”

Badd doesn’t want to say he relaxes. He can’t when tears are in question from his favorite person on this planet earth. But he does feel a breath let go when the emergency in question turns out to be at least theoretically manageable. “Yeah? You wanna talk about it?” When Zenko hesitates, he adds, “I’ll make us pancakes.”

The bribe is taken easily. Zenko nods. But when he goes to stand she gives him a last, tight squeeze around the chest and whispers, “I don’t want you to die.”

“I ain’t planning on it, imoto-chan.” Zenko lets him go, but the urgency lurks beneath the stillness in the way Zenko tracks his movements. He pauses as he gets to the end of the sofa. Turns back. “Why would you think I was goin’ to die?”

Zenko frowns and looks down at her shoes. “I had a dream…”

Badd has never placed much importance on dreams. Particularly since the last one he can remember involved the beach and pink waves. But he knows how they can leave an after image. “Yeah? Dream about me?”

“You were buried.”

He moves to start for the kitchen again. “Yeah? Buried like buried buried?”

“Buried under rock.”

And he freezes then, breath caught in his lungs. Because he remembers that. No air. Buried. Rubble. The smell of concrete and dust in his nose. The roar over head and the screams…

“Badd?”

He feels a tug on his jacket and looks down. Zenko stares up at him, eyes large. The breath he’s holding leaks out slowly. “Yeah? Rock, eh?” He doesn’t know what else to say. Zenko nods and he kneels down to look her in the eye. “Buried don’t mean dead.”

“You were screaming…”

He didn’t think she remembered. How could she? She wasn’t even breathing when he pulled her out. “Yeah? So I was alive at least.”

“But then you stopped.” Zenko’s eyes are filling again and he can hear the start of sniffles.

So he pulls her in close and gives her a hug. A tight, encompassing hug. Zenko returns it and they spend a long moment listening to each other’s heart race.

If he were an omen spotting man, he’d say this incidence isn’t exactly a good one. It hits a little too close to home after last night even with a healthy dose of skepticism thrown into the mix. His chest feels full and tight as he waits for Zenko’s heartbeat to slow.

When it doesn’t, he manages out, “Ain’t gonna leave ya. Ok? You’re stuck with me for life.”

Zenko lets a breath out. “Ok.”

Neither are very convinced, if their grips on each other are any indication. He doesn’t know how to fix this. Any of the last 24 hours, really. But he knows he promised pancakes and, well…

“Fuck it.” Zenko blinks up at him as he pulls away. “Get dressed.”

“Why?”

“Cause we’re goin’ out for breakfast,” he says, convicted.

“But what about school?”

“We’re callin’ today a hooky day.” He’s already grabbing his phone, the number for Zenko’s school programmed in. “Pancakes. Then whatever the hell we feel like.”

Zenko just stares as he calls the school. He feels bad, as the assistant there, Tamaki, is sweet (and sweet on him). Yet all he can manage today is, “Akitamashi, Zenko, out sick today. Somethin’ bad. Dunno. Sorry.”

He hangs up without waiting for confirmation and ignores the phone call that comes immediately after. When he looks at Zenko, she’s biting a fingernail. “Hey. It’s ok, ok? They ain’t gonna do anything and besides, got all week to present that project of yours.” He sets his phone down on the counter and hesitates… Then leaves it to grab the pancake mix. “What’s your project on anyway?”

The fridge door opens and milk is set on the counter by his hand. “It’s about how cells work. Did you know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell?”

“The mito-what?”

He listens as she gives him the project speech. As always, he’s impressed. He’s always fucking impressed when it comes to Zenko. She’s the best parts of him and always will be. When she talks he knows people will listen.

(He knows she’ll be ok if he’s ever not here.)

As she hands him the chocolate chips - which were in the top cupboard, so how did she even reach those? - he finds a thought hit suddenly. What would she and Mumen talk about? He has no doubt they’d find something in common immediately. There’s a reason she idolizes the man.

They eat pancakes on their porch, watching traffic go by. Badd pretends he doesn’t check out the cyclist going by (and pretends he isn’t disappointed when it’s not Mumen). If Zenko notices she says nothing, instead pouring milk in a saucer for Tama and laughing when she sneezes said milk all over Badd.

It’s a good excuse to get out. Their favorite stores, a stop at the doughnut stand that makes rings into animal shapes, a walk through the open air museum of K-City. The theme this month is summer. Original. But it’s fun to see artists of all ages with art displays protected behind plastic. Everything from statues to portraits to paintings. Zenko’s favorite is a cat sunning itself, done in yarn on canvas. Badd, when pressed, chooses a park scene made with popular breakfast cereal crushed up for paint. (He doesn’t say that the green bicyclist in the background is the reason why.)

Zenko insists on lunch at a tea house in J-City, by a lake, overlooking the lotus on the verge of blossoming. They drink out of teacups and Badd ignores any looks thrown his way because fuck them and their expectations.

He does consider the ceramic in his hands, though, and wonder whatever came of Mumen’s shift at the tea shop. He realizes he didn’t ask how that turned out. Short term or not, something had to have happened. Even if that something was nothing.

“You never did tell me about mom and dad.”

He nearly spits out his tea. “Huh?”

But Zenko is giving him a wide eyed look, the one that puppies wear when they see a sucker. And if Badd is anything he’s a sucker when it comes to Zenko. So he tries to dab tea out of the tablecloth and thinks about what to even say.

“Whaddya wanna know?” he eventually asks. Because he doesn’t know where to start.

Zenko sips daintily from her cup. “What was mom like?”

For a moment all he remembers is her hand, shadowed by a looming form. She had painted nails, silver, to match the jewelry she had on that night. It’s funny that he can remember that but couldn’t tell you why. Where was she going? Why was that night important enough to get dressed up?

“She was beautiful,” he finally says, because she was. (And if she wasn’t she was to him.) “She knew exactly what she wanted to do, all the time, and didn’t take no for an answer. Like you..” Zenko is watching him, however, intent. So he takes in a breath and thinks back. “She loved baseball.”

“More than you?”

“Well, let’s not go to far there...but maybe. Yeah, probably.” He huffs a bit as he looks out over the lake. “You know, she took you to a game only a few weeks after you were born. If you’d been eatin’ solid food she woulda fed you popcorn. She loved popcorn…”

Zenko’s eyes are as big as the tea saucer she’s holding. “Caramel kind?”

“Plain with butter ‘n salt.” It’s his favorite too. “Dad was the one with the sweet tooth.”

“Did dad like baseball too?”

“He liked it because mom liked it.” And he did. If there was someone cheering the game, it was their mother, Zenko on her hip, Badd screaming next to her and their dad holding the diaper bag.

Badd remembers waking up in the back seat after a game to their parents unloading the car. They stop in the humid night air to kiss and he remembers making a face.

“What did dad like?”

That one’s easy. “Birds. Every and any kinda bird there is. He used to take us to the zoo and we’d wanna see the lions and he’d still be lookin’ at the herons.” He knows they went on picnics and walks and hikes. Once he knew more than he wanted too about sparrows. But he doesn’t have the heart to admit to Zenko that he’s forgotten everything about this passion passed on by their father. “He worked with ‘em, you know.”

“I know,” says Zenko, though Badd knows she only knows because he told her.

He knows she wants more though. “You used to collect feathers for him on walks.” She may not wear overalls anymore, but Badd knows she’s still the curious kid with an uncanny eye. “Think you knew all birds before I did.”

“Did mom go with us?”

“On walks? Sure. When she had time. She traveled a lot for her job.” Long hours away, sometimes a few weeks. He doesn’t always remember to where but he remembers how exciting it was to come home to find her at the breakfast table.

Zenko frowns a bit, struggling. The prongs of her fork scrap at the cream atop her dessert. “Mom was...gone a lot?”

Badd realizes she was too young to remember watching her on television late at night. “Yeah. She traveled for work.”

“I don’t remember…”

He’s not surprised. Every year she seems to remember less. He knows that’s part of growing up, but he wished he had the warning that growing up meant losing pieces bit by bit. “She was an amazing athlete. She benched more than you and I will probably ever.”

Zenko’s eyes are wide as she watches him, dessert (her favorite meal) forgotten. “Benched like weights?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she stronger than Puri-Puri?”

“Even stronger than his angel mode.” He remembers watching her miss the title by a mere ounce. She’d qualified for the Big Games the year she died. They’d made plans to go and he’d sworn to wear a shirt with her face on it. “She was gonna be big.”

“She already was...I think.”

Badd laughs, causing a few heads to turn. But he doesn’t care. “You shoulda seen her arms. Jars feared her!”

That gets a laugh out of Zenko as well. “Do I take after her?”

That makes Badd think for a moment. Zenko watches him over her tea cup as he leans back, chair digging into his shoulders. “A bit. You look like her sometimes.” When she cocks her head just so, he sees their mom. Yet… “You’re more like dad.”

He’s not sure if it’s the answer she was hoping for. “Oh…”

“Did you know dad graduated top of his class?” Badd isn’t 100% if that’s true. He thinks it is? Occasionally he fact checks himself on things like that, because he can. But on the spot like this he finds himself faltering. “He was the smartest guy in the room, but you wouldn’t know it.” He looks down at the fine china, the blue porcelain pattern, and sighs. “You woulda gotten along with him without havin’ to think about it.”

They’d loved each other, but he’d always gravitated to their mother. Zenko? Zenko would have been a daddy’s girl without a shadow of a doubt. He was reminded of that every time she corrected his math homework without a hint of disdain.

Zenko nodded, thinking. “Because we were both smart?”

Badd rolls his eyes. “Ain’t you been listening to anything I’ve been sayin’? It’s cause you’re more than smart. Yer smart and got the brains to know not to flaunt it. Your kind and lovin’ and you put up with me.”

There’s a protracted silence between them, laughter around them fading as they regard one another. Zenko’s eyes are wide. They’re also bright with something that Badd knows isn’t tears but doesn’t know how to describe. He just knows it’s the same look she gives him when he attends her tea parties and helps save Mr. Usagi from the likes of King Ghidorah.

“You are difficult bancho to put up with,” Zenko says finally. Badd just pops his lips and they settle into something more easily navigated. “But you’re MY difficult bancho.”

Badd lifts his near empty tea cup to that. “Toast?”

Zenko giggles and their cups ring when they clink together. They race to finish. This time, he wins, and Badd feels as if he’s won twice over and in ways his brain doesn’t know how to manage but his heart does.

They end up seeing a movie in a near empty theater, taking up an entire aisle to themselves and laughing so hard they spill most of their popcorn. That evening, they grill on the BBQ outside as the sun sets, watching a game show and screaming answers at the screen as people stare from the sidewalk below.

He doesn’t think of Mumen at all.

They end the night playing video games until Zenko loses to him due to yawning through a critical strike.

“I’m not-” She yawns again, ruining the argument.

Badd just raises an eyebrow. “Brush your teeth before goin’ to bed, eh?”

Zenko gives him a betrayed look. “But I wanna play another game.”

“We can play tomorrow. After school,” he promises.

Zenko sighs, but she’s always been one to give in to reason. She gives him a tight hug. “Thanks for a great day, onii-chan.”

“Anytime.” He hugs her back tightly. “Love you lots, brat.”

“Love you more, jerk.”

When they part she runs down the hallway to her bathroom. She pauses at the door to make a face at him, to which he responds with an ugly face in return. They waste a few minutes attempting to outdo each other until Badd concedes. “Teeth!”

She disappears after that with one last curl of her lips. Badd shakes his head and goes back to finishing the game. He dies quickly without Zenko there as back up, which he tries not to think too much about as a metaphor for his life. The TV clicks off with a hum and he stretches as he stands.

He’s made it a point to not look too much at his phone all day. So far, he’s succeeded in forgetting about it. Mostly. But now, without distraction, it sits on the table beckoning him with the blue blinking light that indicates a notification. He tries to tell himself he’s not itching to look at it. At least wait until Zenko is in bed. He can go that long.

It feels like forever until Zenko emerges from the bathroom, breath smelling of mint, for one more hug. “Good niiiiiight.”

He snorts. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

She smacks him on the head slightly. “You’re supposed to say good night back!” But she goes and the minute her door closes he goes for his phone.

His fingers have the screen flipped in no time. But of the 18 messages he has, not one is from Mumen Rider. He double checks the kitchen clock, just in case. It’s about that time. And yet… Nothing.

He chews his lips, considering. And finally, he types out, Headin 2 bed but hope ur keepin outta trouble.

There’s no answer. Not that he expects one right away. But there’s no text after he finishes brushing his teeth. Nor is there one after he double checks the front door and takes the trash out. There’s also no text after clearing out the other 18 text (Tanaka catches him up on school gossip while Taijima reminds Badd of his ever increasing batting average). He lays in bed, fan on, white noise not enough to drown out thoughts of where Mumen is and what’s possibly more important than the little routine they’ve developed. (He tries really hard not to think about monsters or drunks or Cherry.)

By third period the next day there’s still no text. There’s likely a logical explanation for it. Instead of opting to believe any of them, he gets angry about it. His mood slides like oil through his thoughts until even practice is tainted.

His bat breaks; he trips on a base; his water bottle - high grade aluminum - crumples in his hand when the assistant coach asks if he’s ok.

“Fine, I’m fine!”

The assistant coach doesn’t look convinced. “You’re replacing that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He takes a breath in. “Just...got some sh-uh, stuff goin’ on.”

The assistant coach’s face softens a bit. “Look, Badd, if you need time off-”

He hoists his new loaner bat up over his shoulder and wishes it didn’t feel as uncertain under his fingers as it does. “My turn’s up, eh?”

Badd hits so hard on the first ball that it takes two of them to pry it out of the chain link fence. They say nothing more to each other during practice or after. He doesn’t miss the glance between the assistant coach and the head coach. But when they catch him staring they part and he wants to push the issue. He almost does.

But his phone distracts him with a buzz. Good night, Bad.

He frowns a bit and looks up, just in case he’s the one who is wrong. The sun is setting earlier and earlier, but even now the sunset has barely started. His frown deepens.

Are u just getting home? There’s no response to that so he sends another. Hello?

If silence were golden Mumen would be 24k through and through. He’s frustrated when he gets home, something Zenko mirrors in the way she barely greets him. Every part of him wants to focus on the feeling of betrayal swirling in his chest. But she comes first, she always does. So he takes a breath in and sits down across from her and listens as she goes on about small arguments turning into more. He forgets what it’s like to be her age. He is careful not to label disagreements she has with her friends as petty. After all, what would that make his current mood?

He’s not sure he does a good job. He feels like he’s fumbling through a minefield he was never prepared for. It’s times like this he wonders, just wonders, what she would have said or done...  

But in the end Zenko sighs, emptied, and gives him a hug. “Thanks, onii-chan.”

He hugs her tightly back. “Love you lots, ya goober.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what,” he says.

Satisfied with that answer, Zenko peels away and puts her dish in the sink. She sing-songs for Tama, shaking the kibble bag. Badd’s not at all surprised to see Tama magically appear at that siren song.

The movie they put on after homework is distraction enough from his phone until right before bed. He’s brushing his teeth when he realizes he has a notification. For a moment he pauses in his routine and considers flipping it open. His fingers itch to.

But the disappointing response from earlier looms and a part of him isn’t ready to give the satisfaction to Mumen of being the person who responds right away. (A deep part of him wonders if that even matters to Mumen at all.) So he gets into bed and ignores it.

He won’t admit that he didn’t sleep well that night.

As breakfast cooks he finally reads it. It was a long night. But I stopped a sewer monster from blocking a river so it was well spent.

Badd frowns a bit. Didn’t hear about it on the news.

He’s surprised when he gets a response back. The river did most of the work.

Badd snorts. Guess the river ain’t much of a news item for doin’ what it usually does. There’s no immediate reply to that, but there’s at least some kind of communication going on. He wouldn’t say he feels better, but he at least feels less angry at the world. Even if Mumen doesn’t respond until the weekend has passed.

His phone goes off while he’s talking to Tanaka. With a flash, Badd’s phone is in Tanaka’s sticky hands, caramel still on Tanaka’s lips. “Been carryin’ this around all week! Is it from this mysterious PERSON you’re always moonin’ over??”

Badd scowls and swipes for the phone. “Ain’t none of your beeswax now is it?”

“OooOOOoooOOO!” The face Tanaka made was begging for a sucker punch. A finger wormed its way under the phone cover. “You don’t mind if I just crack this on open now, do ya? Read it for ya like one of them fancy business guys with a secretary.”

“You gonna be my secretary then ya better start learnin’ to read.”

Tanaka makes a face at him. “If I can’t read then what do you call this?”

The phone cover flips and Badd feels like his heart skips a beat. He’s ready to kick it out of Tanaka’s hand with extreme prejudice.

Ennoshita, however, comes to his rescue. Nimble fingers pluck the phone right out of Tanaka’s hands, closing with a satisfying snap. “Give it a rest, Tanaka. I’m sure Badd-kun will tell us when he’s ready to share.”

Bless the giant of a man. Badd takes the phone back with a scowl aimed at Tanaka nonetheless. Tanaka makes a face and looks to Ennoshita for back up.

Ennoshita, however, rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Tanaka’s shoulder. “Don’t look at me. You’re the one being an ass.”

“Fine, fine!” Tanaka puts his hands up, defeated. “I’m a jerk who just wants to be a part of his best friend’s life is that too much to ask?”

Badd rolls his phone in his hand, considering this. Ennoshita gives him a ‘what can you do?’ look and honestly, maybe it is time to let them in on this. What’s the use of something good if you keep it to yourself forever? And yet...he hesitates, the words on his tongue and stalling against his teeth. If it had been a week earlier, maybe he’d be convinced by his own words.

His hand grips his phone tightly. “Next time. Yeah? Gotta go pick up Zenko.”

He doesn’t actually have to pick up Zenko. She’s been old enough to get herself home for quite some time now. Ennoshita and Tanaka know that. But they know better than to call him out on it. “Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow, butt face.”

Badd makes a face at Tanaka. They exchange a few unpleasant scowls before he turns away. When he gets to the corner, Badd glances back and sees their fingers slot in for a quick hand squeeze. It does nothing for his jealousy. And it does nothing to fuel any type of regret in not saying anything. Next time. Maybe.

He checks his phone around the corner and of course. It’s not Mumen. It’s Zenko, reminding him she’ll be home late tonight. Badd knows he shouldn’t feel frustrated by that but it feels like another break he just can’t catch. It also means home will be just as empty as his inbox. He’s not ready to wrestle with his own insecurities just yet.

Fortunately, a scream sounds and he’s on the case within seconds.

When he wakes up, he’s staring at a familiar white ceiling. He squints. Is it the ceiling making the beeping sound, or is a semi backing up over his skull? He’s inclined to believe the latter, though he’d amend the sentiment to backing up again over his skull. It already got him once.

With a whoosh, the rest of reality less seeps in and more announces itself as the metaphorical truck. The coldness in his arms, the pinch at the underside of his wrist, the too thin blankiet. He groans.

A face appears overhead at that, as if summoned.

It takes Badd by so much surprise he chokes on his own spit.

Mumen frowns and glances worriedly over one shoulder, then the other. Badd wonders how he can see out of his glasses at all.

By the time Mumen finds (after nearly spilling) the ice chips he was looking for, Badd has found the remote and is jamming his button on what he thinks is the ‘raise bed’ option. Frustrated when it doesn’t work, he growls.

“Easy,” says Mumen, somewhere between relieved and worried. He holds out the cup of half melted ice chips and finally settles on a smile. “Just take it slow.”

“Ain’t much for slow,” Badd says with a smack of his lips. He takes the cup though and goes for sitting up, with or without the aid of the bed. His head spins and the cup crunches under the reflexive tightening of his hand.

It takes him a moment to realize Mumen’s bandaged fingers are on his shoulder. Just in case. “No time like now to dabble in trying it out.” At Badd’s look, Mumen adds, “Being slow, I mean.” Badd raises an eyebrow, and yeah ok, a dick move perhaps but the last week he thinks has warranted a bit of dickery. “N-Not that I think you’re slow…”

He gives. “Yeah, yeah, ‘s fine.” A tire iron feels like it’s lodged behind his eyeball. He brings his hand up, forgetting momentarily why his fingers are wet and cold.

Mumen sits back heavily. “You really should just...take it easy. You’ve hit your head.”

“Think I knew that.” The problem is, he doesn’t quite remember what led him to do just that. “Was it on purpose this time?”

“I would not know.” Mumen sounds apologetic, again.

Badd snorts. “Then you don’t gotta be sorry about it.”

Mumen blinks and Badd realizes the man didn’t actually apologize. Huh. “I should go get the nurse…”

“Nah, leave it. Sure they done what they can.” And ah, there it is, in between pulses of his brain attempting to either right itself or puff up what’s left of it. “Did I get hit by a fish?” He sniffs a strand of hair and recoils back. “Ugh, definitely not sushi grade.

Mumen laughs a bit and sags back in his chair. The light refracts off the spider web cracks in his lenses. “I’ll leave the wasabi at home next time.”

Badd finds the remote again - ah, apparently he’d been hitting the down button - and manages to rise the only slightly more comfortable position of half-up, half-back lean that only a hospital bed can truly achieve. He takes the chance to look over Mumen. “Surprised you’re here.”

That catches Mumen off guard. “Huh?”

Badd just pops his lips. “Didn’t even know you were in the area.”

“Only for the end…” Mumen doesn’t get it. Badd folds his arms and fixes him with a look. To his surprise, Mumen frowns. “I would have been there earlier if I had known.”

“I don’t mean the fight.” Badd knows the snap is more intentioned than he’d like to admit. “Don’t really care about gettin’ smashed by a fuckin’ fish. Ain’t the first time…”

“You mean to say you regularly get hit by fish?” He’s in a mood now, though, and Mumen finally sees it through his glasses. “Oh. I see.”

“Do ya?”

This time when Mumen sits back he slumps and stays slumped. There’s a butterfly bandage on his chin and Badd can see a just healing split lip. He wonders if the bandage is from today or earlier in the week. He wouldn’t know. He wishes he did.

“I really am sorry, Badd-san. I have been-”

“Busy, yeah, I know.” But the apology doesn’t quite cover it all. The way they parted. Terse good nights. Perhaps if he accepted the apology as it was he could eventually forget. Yet it seems too easy, far too easy, and Mumen seems run down. Beaten. Which is far different than apologetic.

He doesn’t want to win a fight with Mumen by force.

“It has been…” Mumen trails, wrinkling his nose. Rethinking. “I...I haven’t been…”

Pregnant silence grows until Badd can’t take it anymore. “You’ve been mad at me, ain’t ya?”

Mumen less shifts and more squirms. “Badd-san-”

“If ya are might as well just tell me.” Badd does his best to keep his breathing even lest the heart rate monitor betrays him. “Ain’t exactly quiet about it with this disappearing act you’re pulling. And if I’m noticing? Ya know it ain’t subtle.”

He’ll be one of the first to sing his own praises, normally. But there’s a point to be made and Mumen, he’s learning, isn’t the best at catching on to what he perceives to be rather obvious hints. It’s frustrating. Even more so that this conversation is happening at all. (And in one of Badd’s least favorite environments, to boot.)

From the look on Mumen’s face, he’s hit something. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Ya sure?”

“I wasn’t ,” Mumen says, strongly. It’s as close to a snap as Badd’s heard. “Some things aren’t-” And Mumen stops. Badd raises an eyebrow but whatever the man was going to say is retracted. “Meant to offend you.” Mumen runs a hand through his hair, rethinks, and rubs his face instead.

Badd watches his shoulders hunch. “Then what’s with the Houdini-ing?”

“You’re distracting.” It’s rushed out without the careful thought of before. Badd knows Mumen regrets it, though to his surprise, it takes Mumen a long few moments to speak again. “And maybe I was angry at you.”

“Ya think?” He’s annoyed.

Mumen throws his hands up a little. Even that is muted, oddly gently. “Ranking evaluations are nearly due in. I’m behind.”

Badd doubts that. “Too busy to say hi? Ya sure about that?”

The air between them is heavy with silence thick enough to drown out the heart monitor. Mumen’s glasses hide his eyes. But Badd sees the way the man’s fingers tighten on the thin armrests of the hospital chair.

It seems to take Mumen effort to puncture out, “I think I would know my own hero eligibility requirements.”

“It’s not that I’m questioning!” Badd wants to stand, to get in Mumen’s face and make him listen. No one can need to be out on patrol that much. No one. Not even him. Is he selfish to want to see the man have a life? (To be in that life?) “It’s whether-”

“I can handle it?”

Badd nearly misses the whisper. He catches it, though, and finds himself tripping over what to say. “I never said you can’t.”

“It was implied.”

“I didn’t mean to imply it!”

Mumen sounds defeated again. “All right, Badd-san…”

It’s not good enough for him.

“Do I look like someone who wouldn’t say what they were thinking?” Mumen is silent. “I’m not.” Badd rubs his head. He can feel the headache fading, though an entirely new one unrelated to brains knocking around seems to be building. “Look. I’m not the smartest guy in the lot. And no, don’t make that noise, I know I ain’t so don’t waste your breath. Part of all that, though? Means I run my mouth. If you’re upset by it? Ya gotta tell me cause I ain’t gonna figure it out on my own.”

He pauses to take a breath, flicking a lone ice chip off his bed. Think. “I don’t wanna hurt ya, Mumen.” Badd hadn’t realized how rarely he actually said the man’s name. It still feels a little foreign in his mouth. He wonders if Mumen feels the same about his. “I’m not actively trying to.”

Silence is broken by the heart monitor. Slow and steady until Badd pulls the clip off his finger. There’s more he could say. But, for once, he feels as if now’s not the time to do anything but wait.

Mumen takes his glasses off and folds the arms in, then out. Finally, he says, “You’re right. I was angry.”

“I knew- ”

““I also was foolish.” Badd shuts his mouth so hard his teeth click. Mumen continues. “I should have talked with you about it rather than avoided it.” Mumen inhales, slowly. “But I honestly didn’t mean to ignore you, Badd. Truly. I am sorry.”

Badd’s unsure where this goes now. Mumen is scrubbing his face with a tired hand and Badd wonders vaguely what he looks like without the bags under his eyes. He doesn’t bother to ask Mumen what happened. The man was busy. It doesn’t really matter with what because the hurt is still there, albeit dying a little with the apology - the real one - finally there.

At least it wasn’t personal… At least, not mostly personal. “What did I say?” Mumen looks up, confused, and Badd takes pity on him. “You said you were angry.”

Mumen rests his forehead on his knuckles, tilting dangerously. “I was.” Badd raises an eyebrow, hoping for more than that. Mumen sighs, “You...well…”

“What?” Mumen hesitates and Badd doesn’t mean to say so crisply, “C’mon, we can’t do this and you not at least make some shit up.”

Mumen’s mouth twitches just a bit at that. It breaks the tension, just enough. “I have been told I don’t have much of an imagination.”

“Then guess yer gonna have to just tell the truth.”

Mumen shakes his head a bit. “Badd…” Badd just raises an eyebrow. “I-”

They’re interrupted then, suddenly, by Badd’s phone going off. He’s ready to ignore it. Until he sees the caller. He curses, holds a finger up to Mumen, and flips it open. “Heeeeeeey, Zenko…”

By the time Zenko’s done yelling at him she’s in his room, gripping his neck tightly in a hug that leaves him wondering if this is how he dies. When she finally pulls back, Badd realizes that Mumen is gone. He’s not too surprised, though a bit disappointed.

Disappointed, until he checks his phone again when Zenko goes to find a nurse. One message waits for him, saying simply, We can talk later. Get some rest.

Chapter Text

He does get rest in the form of two boring days spent in the hospital. Zenko is reluctant to leave his side, but one of those days is a school day and he refuses to let his still-healing ribs get in the way of her education. Tanaka, wisely, doesn’t offer to bring his homework by. What he does bring is company in the form of gossip via text. That is, until he stops responding around halfway through Literature.

The rest of the day leaves Badd with his thoughts, which isn’t much to be left with. He badly wants to text Mumen. But he’s already sent off three inquiring texts including what he considered a masterpiece -

Still in bed, wyd? ;P

No word, however. He’s not entirely surprised though he sort of resents having to wait for Mumen’s schedule to be free enough to fit him.

Not that he wants to think that way. He keeps reminding himself that Mumen showed up and showing up is half the battle. It’s been a hard week. There are allowances to give when deadlines loom, particularly ones given by the Hero's Association. Still...it’d be nice if the picture in his head of what a couple should be matched up to reality. Particularly when he was still picturing his hand smoothing the tired wrinkles around Mumen’s eyes, chasing his sigh away with a kiss.

Naturally, he’s still thinking that when the nurse walks in and bless them for their professionalism because Badd definitely won’t be forgetting that embarrassment anytime soon.

By the time Tanaka’s gotten his phone back, practice has started. Attempting to avoid the nurse from earlier, Badd takes the doctor’s advice to stand to heart and one step further. A quick walk through the hall reveals the floor’s beds are on the full side. He doesn’t recognize anyone, which is a relief. But the sheer number of monitors and full visitor’s chairs sends a spattering of goosebumps through him.

Particularly when he passes a room where a man and woman are crying. He can just see them through the privacy curtain, just as he can see the tip of a white covered toe. A nurse sidles out of the room, door closing with a thud hidden by a broken sob.

“Oh, sorry, dear!” She’s a petite, plump woman with a smile Badd suspects is always ready to be brought out. He’s not fooled. Her arms, he suspects, could hold down even him. “Didn’t see you there.”

He waves off the apology. “Are they…?” He gestures lamely at the now closed door.

The nurse’s smile goes sad. “Poor dears.”

Ah. “What happened?”

“Internal bleeding, poor thing, just didn’t get here in time.” She pats his arm, then seems to see his face because she blushes. “Oh! My, I didn’t expect to see you up and walking! This is perhaps an imposition, but…”

He signs the Hero Book she has on her in silence as she chatters on. If he spells Ricky right he doesn’t remember. All he can think about is that thin white sheet separating what was from what is, staggering sobs filtering through his mind. The image follows him back to his room where he sits in silence for a long, long time. He presses fingers to his wrist, feels the blood pump, and wonders just what it is that’s kept him rising time and time again when others don’t get a choice at all.

Zenko insists on spoiling him that weekend. It drives him a bit nuts, but part of him recognizes this is for her as much as it is for him. So he lets her order the take out, do the dishes, and acquiesced to watching his favorite movie that he knows she hates.

He feels like his life has come to a slow stroll. His weekends are usually busy with family, friends, and fucking up monsters. But Tanaka and Ennoshita are away on a volleyball tourney and Tajima is apparently halfway to failing Writing. Even Zenko needs to practice before her recital and it leaves Badd with time, so much time, too much time to sit and think about just what it was Mumen was trying to say.

Implied… He implied Mumen couldn’t handle meeting his hero eligibilities? Why on earth would he think that? The man had been a hero for longer than him. If he implied anything he felt he implied the man didn’t belong in C-Class. Not unless he really, truly was that ineffective.

Thinking about it did little to settle him. He wasn’t sure where the insult had come. Or why the man couldn’t see his own exhaustion. Which, granted, was perhaps a bit pot calling kettle. He never did see when he was done and out until he was, well, done and out. That was just how his Fighting Spirit went, though. It kept him going until the job was done.

What did Mumen have to keep him going?

(Is it terrible to hope that perhaps he, Badd, is a motivator?)

Mumen texts back Sunday night, long after Zenko has retired and long after Badd should have realistically considered sleeping as well. He grabs the phone so fast the first notification blink has yet to fully die.

How are you feeling?

His reply is jammed out within seconds. Like I could take on a Dragon Level. Which is true. His ribs aren’t even sore. Get your evals done?

Yes. Everything is turned in.

I’d tell u good luck but u don’t need it. He can’t see a promotion not forthcoming. They’ll know in a week. Or, well, Mumen will. He wonders if Mumen will even let him know. Lemme know?

Of course.

Good cus I hate having to look up things on the HQ site.

Perhaps you should get Zenko to teach you how to use it.

The TV program he was half watching is long forgotten. WOW thx such a vote of confidence feeling v supported right now. He hopes Mumen is laughing. Then hits on an idea. Wanna talk?

Give me 10 minutes. I need to put Justice away for the night.

A small part of him is giddy he understands that sentence. He also takes the opportunity to shut down their apartment for the night, sliding into his room feeling as if he’s sneaking out past curfew. By the time his phone rings he’s on his stomach, feet tracing lines into the air.

“Hey,” he answers smoothly. “Whatcha wearing?”

There’s a silence, then a laugh. A tired laugh, but one nonetheless. “You are-”

“Incorporal, I know.”

“That’s-”

“Whatever, ya know what I mean.” He doesn’t have time for that kind of learning tonight. “So?”

“So?”

He rolls his eyes. “What are ya wearin’?”

Mumen sighs, heavily. “Pajamas. And before you ask, no, I’m not sending a photo. I haven’t washed them in awhile and frankly I’m rather embarrassed at myself for wearing them.”

“The great Mumen Rider, not doing laundry? Makes yer image look a bit less...spotless.”

Mumen snorts. “And smell less so too.”

Badd grins. “So if you ain’t been doin’ laundry what have you been up to?”

“Patrols, work-”

“Where you workin’ now?”

Mumen doesn’t miss a beat. “Warehouse. I am assisting in inventory records and stock management.”

“So you’re cleanin’ up after shipping out.”

He can see the tug of Mumen’s lips in his mind. “Hai.”

“So what’s the warehouse ship? Is it ships?”

And Mumen chuckles, “Wire and plugs.”

Badd hopes his wicked grin translates over. “Plugs ya say? What kinda plugs?”

“Appliance plugs…?”

Badd pouts. “You coulda pretended at least.”

“My apologies. How about we try that again…when you’re older.”

Now Badd grunts. “Kill joy.”

“Always am,” Mumen murmurs.

Which reminds Badd of something. “How did you hurt your hand?”

“Huh?”

“Your hand,” he repeats. “It was bandaged on Friday. You had a split lip.” When Mumen is quiet he presses, “Had a bandage on your face?”

“No, no, I know,” Mumen assurres. “I just don’t remember which one was my hands.”

“Which one?”

“I fought a mutated fly and a larger than average mouse within a few minutes of each other. I don’t remember which one scratched up my hands.”

Badd frowns nonetheless. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“You were injured; I didn’t want to worry! Especially since it was nothing.”

It doesn’t quite feel like nothing, even if logically Badd knows he’s right. “I’m fine now though.”

“Amazingly so,” Mumen agrees. “How did you get so lucky with your immune system?”

He turns on his back, foot thumping softly against the wall. “Born lucky, I guess.” Most of the time he even believes that. “Though ya know, I hear kisses make just about anything feel better.”

“Hai? You would say that.”

“But it’s true!”

“I suppose I can not argue with that passion.”

Badd just snorts. “Yeah, well, you only ain’t agreeing cause ya haven’t experienced it.” He heads off Mumen’s inevitable retort, “When I’m older, I know.”

They fall into silence then, for just a moment. The space between warm breaths where the air is still soft. It would be easy to stick to something safe; to talk about his week or ask if Mumen’s seen the latest trailer for the latest Godzilla (the biggest yet).

Instead, he pops his lips. “You said we’d talk.”

“I suppose I did,” says Mumen, and Badd knows to stay silent. There’s a long silence that seems to stretch before Mumen’s voice, soft and thick, is heard again. “I feel as if every time we talk, I end up apologizing. And for good reason. I am...not very practiced anymore in including another in my life. I know I have said as much before, but the fact remains that I feel as if I’m set to disappoint you more than not.”

Badd frowns. “Is this a break up?”

He hears his own heart beat more than he’d like to before Mumen finally answers, “No?”

“That sounds like a question.”

“It’s…”

Mumen trails and annoyance fizzes and pops in Badd’s stomach. The bitter tang of anger and the sourness of panic. The why starting to fall away and he knows he should take a breath. Try to think. But he’d been hoping, oh so hoping, that this, too, would pass as a misunderstanding.

“It’s what?” He should care about the sharp bite in his tone. But he doesn’t. And he can’t bring himself to even as he hears the plastic of his phone threaten to crunch in his hand. “If you’re gonna break up with me at least tell me it plainly, ya know?”

“I-”

“Or maybe just don’t. Doesn’t matter anyway, since I’ve barely heard from ya the past few days.”

“Badd-”

Disappointment breeds anger in him. That need to distance and to pretend that he didn’t have a hand in creating the ground for that very emotion. It’s easier when it’s someone else’s fault; and he’ll pretend just that to add to the bancho image that has lifted him to the top of his still young career.

Anger swirls in him, a vortex of hot hurt and raging fight against that deep, deep pit waiting to claim him. (Didn’t you know, Baddo, you aren’t enough for anyone?) “Don’t worry, don’t gotta worry about fitting me in to your clearly busy schedule any-”

“I don’t want to break up with you!”

It’s the loudest, the most insistent he’s heard from Mumen outside of a fight. And later perhaps he’ll realize that the voice here is the same as then. A declaration of a deep seated sense of self that seems to manifest in floods where a rock is needed most. In the silence that follows Badd realizes the heavy breathing isn’t just him.

“Eh?”

He can hear Mumen lick his lips. “I...don’t WANT to break up.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

“...I was giving you the option.”

“Ain’t that basically you looking for an out?”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Mumen says with a sigh. “But I can see why it would seem so…” The other is tired, he can hear it. Has been hearing the exhaustion but now can practically see it in his mind’s eye. Mumen slumped in a chair, head in the table. Phone only just balanced against his hear. “I don’t want to break up, though. I just...am tired of disappointing you, Badd.”

There’s no san, no kun, no ‘Baddo’ there and it gives him pause. “You ain’t…” But he trails because it’s a lie and he knows even now that Mumen would see that.

“I am,” Mumen says, miserably. “What can I say that doesn’t sound like an excuse, Badd? I have submitted the Association’s required recertifications, but in six months it will happen again. I’ve had at least two jobs concurrently for at last five years and I will likely be working just as I do now when eligibility rolls around. Time is something I feel as if I never have, and what I do have I want to desperately give to you. I feel as if it is never enough, though, and for that I can’t blame you at all.”

The whirl of anger was little more than a dust devil now. Dying now as his own anger and the sincere misery in Mumen’s tone warred.

When had Mumen, however, been anything but honest? The other was certainly even more honest than Badd was with himself. Promises had been made, and in Mumen’s defense, he’d gotten better at texting now. And what had now been?

“Recertification really that bad?” He nearly surprises himself with the question.

Mumen sighs. “Things have changed since you began, Badd.”

He’s never been less than A-Class. And even then he scoffed at paperwork and found himself in the upper echelon with little more than a swing of his bat. For the hero he is, he realizes now he’s not even sure how ranking honestly works. “Not really the guy that would even know what it was like when I started.”

The soft chuckle is charming. “Why would you need to? You do far more good than many of us. And I think even the Association would not see you slowed down for the sake of bureaucracy. The city could, simply, not afford it.”

There’s fondness in that statement and he leans back against the pillows, drinking it in. “Still doesn’t mean that’s ALL I do. Gotta life outside of hero work.” Which, he’s realizing, is part of the problem. “They really expect that much of ya?”

“It is standard,” Mumen says, simply, which both doesn’t answer the question and says far more than Badd needs to know. “And it still does not excuse my own neglect.”

Badd sighs, unsure how to fix it, and he can tell through the soft exhale that Mumen feels the same. It boils down, he realizes, to deciding what to do and whether what is here is worth it. A hard question when he feels compromised by the promise of what could be.

“So what do ya want to do?” He asks, because he’s not sure what else to say.

The silence that stretches sends pin pricks up his skin. But he waits; he’s waited this long and he feels as if this particular virtue - while not his favorite nor the easiest for him - just may pay off. Because though the memory of anger and hurt still ache like a strain in his chest, he also remembers the warmth of Mumen’s head on his shoulder and the feel of his laugh in the air between them. Can see the flash of his smile in the batting cage and remembers the jolt of kisses stolen in secret.

“I would like to go on a date.”

The answer isn’t one Badd expected, even if he is pleased with it. “Eh?”

“This week.”

He shouldn’t say it but it slips out before he stops himself. Tongue clicking against his teeth. “Sure you got time?”

“I will make it if not.”

He’s quiet for a long moment because he feels like they’ve had this conversation before. A near circular turn of events that he’s scared will become habit for them both. But even as he thinks, thumbing the idea over in his head like a worry stone, he hears Mumen shift.

“...Tuesday night.”

“Ain’t that your batting cage night?”

Mumen hums a bit. “Hai. But it also doesn’t have to be.”

Badd finds himself frowning a bit. “Yeah? What’s that mean?”

“I am owed a favor, and I believe I have found a good reason to call it in.”

He feels a burst in him of elation. Smug joy at being worth a change of plans, at being a reason for upsetting the very order of things. “All right. Where you gonna take me?”

Mumen considers this. “I think...I will let it be a surprise.”

Badd feels his brow raise, amused. “All right.” Simple as that. “Better be good though. I deserve a nice night out.”

“...define nice.”

He can’t help himself. He laughs. And moves to roll to his stomach, foot tracing the headboard as a hand moves to pillow his head. “You take me somewhere a suit’s needed and we’re gonna have to revisit this break up talk.”

“Where ever will I take you now?” Mumen intones, voice even, and oh how Badd missed that dry humor there. “No suits. I promise.”

“That includes hero suits,” he says, voice smug because he knows that given the circumstances there’s only one answer Mumen will give. Does he feel a bit bad in demanding it? Perhaps. But there are hosts of heroes for good reason. They’ve already proven what happens when weight is not given to one’s own happiness.

“...hai.” Mumen agrees with a soft sigh. “That I will promise too.”

Pleased, Badd grunts. “Good. Say it.”

“Huh?”

“Say it then.”

“Badd…”

He grins into the phone with a hum. “Maybe I just wanna hear it again cause I like hearin’ ya talk.”

If Mumen’s face isn’t red he’d eat his shoe. “...I promise, no hero work while on our date. Will that do?”

“That includes helpin’ old ladies across the street.”

“That is not hero work!”

He cackles. “Fine, fine, but you know what I mean!”

“That is not hero work!”

“It definitely is.”

“You cannot tell me you would not do the same.”

Mumen isn’t wrong. But he enjoys the wind up in the other. “Do got my bancho persona to hold up.”

“Badd…”

“Didn’t get my bad reputation for nothin’!”

“I cannot believe you-”

“Admit it, that’s part of why you’re attracted to me. You’ve got a thing for walkin’ on the wild side.” He chews his lower lip at the indignant huff on the other end of the line at that.

“I will have you know that I have walked plenty of times on your so called wild side.”

“So you’re sayin’ you have a type?”

Mumen fumbles a little, “A-Absolutely not.”

“I think you do.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to just continue to think that despite the contrary, because I’m not sure how to possibly prove to you I do not.”

“Don’t need you to prove it,” Badd hums. “Like ya regardless.”

There’s a soft chuff on the other end, full of fondness that bleeds into Mumen’s voice. “You’re too charming for your own good.”

“I think I’m just charming enough to get what I want,” he counters.

“And what is it you want?” Mumen asks. Adding quickly, “That isn’t going to fall under the realm of by-law illegal.”

Badd wrinkles his nose. “...got the date already. So how about you tellin’ me more about your day?”

So Mumen does. There’s a story for every hour - some exciting, many of them not - and Badd listens up until Mumen waves off describing his courier job and asks him about his own. He talks until he realizes the beep he’s hearing is his phone, reminding him that charging it is a necessity. Yet even after they, reluctantly, hang up his phone blips one more time.

Good night, Badd.

He falls asleep smiling.

Despite Monday’s best attempts - a savage raccoon...hybrid thing, two pop tests, and a ruined pack of cigarettes to be exact - Tuesday morning sees him humming as he irons Zenko’s uniform tie. The morning is an early one and the laundry was ignored all weekend. The tie was hastily spot cleaned last night and left to dry overnight, and heaven help him if he sent her to school looking less than as impressive as he knew her to be.

Zenko hisses a bit as she plucks it from his hands, even as he clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Hot off the presses, what’d ya expect?”

Nonetheless, she has it half tied already, giving him a side eye. “I’m gonna be late!”

“Then ya should’ve woken up earlier!”

She huffs a bit, indignant. “Some of us were up late studying, unlike others.”

So what if he was texting until 1am? His cheeks threaten to blush but he shrugs his shoulders instead. Leaning down to adjust the hem of her sleeve. “Oi, still got up on time didn’t I?” He pauses, however, in his once over of her. “...you feelin’ ok?”

Zenko blinks, then glances at the mask hanging out of a pocket. “Oh. Yeah. Someone was sick yesterday so teacher asked us to bring them in. Just in case.”

He hums a bit, concern coloring his rumble. “How sick?”

“It’s fine, big brother, now I’ve got to go! Kiki-kun and I are trying to meet up to talk about our projects before school!”

“All right, all right!” He follows her to the door, grabbing his own backpack even as he steps behind her. “You still going to her house tonight?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’m gonna be out late tonight too, so call me if you leave her house early, ok?”

That has Zenko pausing even as he locks the apartment door. Her head turned over her shoulder, feet on two different stairs, balanced serenely with a hand on the stair rail. “Late? Where to?”

“Just out,” he says.

Zenko’s eyes widen. “Out...on a date?”

He sucks in a breath. “...yeah.” Because there’s no use denying it now that she knows there’s at least someone. Even if she doesn’t know who that someone is just yet.

“My big brother...finally growing up and having an emotionally fulfilling life.” Zenko wipes a tear away from her cheek.

Badd wrinkles his nose. “Huh?”

He gets a hug for his efforts and Zenko pries a promise to at least tell her a general how it goes when he gets home. For half a moment it feels very much like he’s the younger of the two as she waves to him from the street corner. A send off that he has given her on countless mornings. For a moment he feels conflicted until he realizes his heart feels full. For all the years spent wondering just what would be next… Who’d have thought they’d both be comfortable enough one day to end up living their own lives with their own interests?

By the time his other interest has ended, hands still feeling the rub of a baseball glove and bat bindings, his latest one shows up. True to his word, Mumen appears with the ring of a bike bell and without the uniform that normally comes with. If the other looks any less tired it’s difficult to tell. But the smile on his face is one of relief and what he likes to think is genuine joy.

“I’m here for the surprise,” Badd says with a pop of his lips and a grin.

To Mumen’s credit, Badd notes, he’s even wearing a different helmet than usual. Classic green replaced by black. “Mmm, that and only that?”

“Company mighta been a plus.”

Mumen’s lips break into a smile at that, teeth flashing as he ducks his head a bit. He doesn’t get off the bike, however, instead changing his grip. “I knew you were a fan of Justice.” At Badd’s snort Mumen gives a nod of his chin. “Climb on.”

Badd raises an eyebrow. “Thought we already established I can run faster ‘n you can bike.”

“Yes, well…” He swears there’s a bit of color on Mumen’s cheeks. “Talking is easier when you’re close.”

Admittedly, the man has a point. “If you insist.” Feet firmly on the spokes at the back tires, he squeezes Mumen’s shoulders and if he deliberately leans down close to his ear, well, he’s not sorry. “This close enough?”

Mumen’s ears redden, he sees it this time, and Mumen ducks his chin a bit. Not entirely away, however, he notes. “Hold on…”

They start off and admittedly it still continues to get him, the power in the other’s legs as he pedals them both from a stand still start with just a huff. “So, where we goin’?”

“I promised a surprise, and I did not simply mean actually showing up.”

The jab is self-deprecating and he knows it. Wonders if he should perhaps call it out. But Mumen doesn’t seem bothered, nor does he seem to be saying so in a true fit of self-hatred. And there’s a small truth behind it that he knows they both recognize. It’s as much of an apology as the several already given, and while Badd isn’t interested in making these apologies a habit, it does soothe a part of him still stinging over it all.

So instead he snorts, “All right, all right. I’ll let ya surprise me…”

He trails as they ride on, however, watching those they pass. Realizing that not a soul glances their way. A few flicks of eyes, but without the gear that marks them as heroes they’re nothing more than citizens. Near invisible. And though, admittedly, it’s the attention that pays for his life, there’s a moment where he realizes the freedom that comes with having no expectation laying on his shoulders.

It also makes him realize something.

“Mumen...”

“Hm?”

He almost considers letting it be. But he’s drunk on the fact that they’re here, together, and he’s been given this inch so he may as well take another. “Been callin’ ya by your hero name for awhile now. That really what you go by?”

They stop at a street light and he can practically hear Mumen thinking. Notes how the other glances up through his goggles, head tilted back to look him in the eye. Badd just raises an eyebrow in response. The answer, ultimately, won’t change anything one way or another. But with so much effort taken to divorce themselves from their own personas now, it feels almost like an intrusion to use the other’s hero name in replace of what should be something far more personal.

Cars buzz by and Badd’s almost certain he’s going to have to repeat himself before Mumen’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips. There’s an answer, Badd can tell, and he feels his breath catching in his chest, now tight with anticipation.

Until a car horn BLARES, sending a wince through Mumen that Badd feels. There’s a stiffness as Mumen follows the car, and Badd realizes then he can feel the switch threatening to turn back on.

His hands tighten in the cyclist’s shoulders, not unkindly. “Light’s green, off-duty hero.”

With a shake of his head, Mumen peddles on, pink on his cheeks not just from exertion. “Right.”

He can’t help himself; he leans down, ear close to Mumen’s ear and drawls. “You all right there?”

There’s a wobble to the bike that has Badd throwing his head back, laughing loud enough to startle a pedestrian and small fluff on a rope nearby. The tiny dog’s barking is lost as Mumen groans. “In-”

“Yeah, yeah, better start thinkin’ of new things to call me. My birthday’s soon, you know.”

Which does get a cock of Mumen’s head, though eyes stay dutifully on the road. “As you have mentioned.”

Badd waggles his eyebrows, sure the movement will come through in his voice. “You’re takin’ me out.”

“I am?”

“Duh.”

“Huh. And just-” Mumen has to pause to puff a bit up a hill, and Badd nearly offers to push them but he’s not entirely sure the gesture wouldn’t strike the guy’s pride. “-what are you expecting?” He just smirks and Mumen’s eye roll is practically a full body event. It causes him to cackle, even as the rider comes to a slow, respectful stop. “Badd.”

Hopping off, Badd’s arm stretch over his head and he shrugs into the stretch. “Just sayin’, I’ve been remarkably patient.” For a half second, he almost wonders if that’s a flash of a frown on Mumen’s face. But lights catch his eye and he glances up at the sign, attention diverted. “The hell is this?”

He realizes how that sounds from the way Mumen goes quiet for a moment. “An arcade bar.”

Badd can’t help the way his eyebrow raises. “Bar?”

Mumen’s hand goes to the back of his neck, blush starting. “Perhaps it was-”

He’s striding forward, eagerness in his step. “Fuck yeah.”

It is as Mumen says, though he’s disappointed to note that the establishment is not enough of a dive to not card. Arcade machines dot two floors, from prize cranes to air hockey to ticket machines. Badd feels like the eight year olds running past, screaming. Simultaneously like a kid and a painful awareness he’s too old, probably, for this. But lights and prizes beckon, the joyous ring-ting-ting of machines and rat-tat-tat of games ping off the walls and through each of them. This is the type of place Badd knows he’d have crowded into with the boys if he’d known.

It’s surprisingly cool, for Mumen.

Glancing over, his look begs explanation. Mumen, hand at the back of his neck, looks suddenly small. “You, ah…this is ok?”

“In what fucking world isn’t this ok?” It’s a genuine surprise that comes from him, because he’s long since thought that Mumen had dated before him. Now, however, he’s starting to wonder otherwise.

A breath wooshes through Mumen, relief flicking into those brown eyes. “I just…” A shoulder shrugs and Mumen shakes his head, hair falling into a gentle, chaotic mess. “Nevermind.”

Perhaps there’s something more there to unpack. Badd feels like there’s far more to unpack than even he suspects, but thought of diving into a tough conversation flees from him when Mumen reaches out, takes his hand, and keeps hold of it while leading Badd to the counter. There’s no hiding that connection, and while it could maybe be explained away in that moment Badd’s heart thuds and a cold sweat wants to break out. Especially when, upon reaching the counter, Mumen’s hand squeezes his with a surprising intensity.

The warm imprint of Mumen’s hand stays with him even as Mumen slides yen over, and too late Badd realizes that money has exchanged hands for the plastic cards the other comes away with. He clicks his tongue, “Woulda paid.”

“I believe it was me who asked you here.” Mumen glances back, where Badd realizes then that the cashier’s eyes have followed. There’s a familiarity that passes between the two he can’t place, but Mumen answers it with a shrug of a shoulder. “I may have called upon another favor.” Mumen’s smile threatens to break into rare grin territory and it is so new of a motion that Badd takes the card without a word. All he can do is watch as Mumen turns away, voice brightening to sunny. “Hey, they have Street Ninja!”

Street Ninja turns out to be a racing game, twin motorcycles set up that sway appropriately. Badd tilts his head a bit, eyes sliding to squint at Mumen from the side of his vision. “You even sat on one of these?”

Yet Mumen has straddled the black and green bike, glancing over his shoulder. Glasses flash in the incandescent light, a confidence there that leaks through with the force of Badd’s last base steal. It’s a look that speaks of Tajima and Tanaka and maybe, just maybe, his own self as seen on the cover of the latest Hero’s Association magazine. It’s a grace Badd’s certainly seen in the other before, but never without the cushion of Justice and goggles and helmet to hide beneath. For a moment, it marries the two: Mumen the hero and Mumen the man. A perfect union that strikes Badd if only because the through line is both not surprising and yet decidedly jarring.

That grin from earlier finally appears. “Are you scared?”

And how could he not return that with his own wicked grin? “Oh you did not.” He’s on the bike in seconds and come hell or high water he’s at least giving Mumen a run for his money.

Turns out, there’s a reason Mumen sticks to bikes.

“How the hell are you going over 200?! Game doesn’t even go that high!” He’s long since given up winning and attempting to lose less bad. Badd knows a fleece when he’s in one and currently the wolf in sheep’s clothing is nearly half a lap ahead of him and weaving so dangerously through NPCs that Badd’s surprised he hasn’t crashed just watching.

Mumen’s answer is a flick of eyes sideways, a wink answering that’s so salacious and fucking sexy that Badd crashes into a barrier and can’t even be mad about it. He’ll be thinking of it later. (And not in the respectful way either.)

Throwing up his hands, he just stares incredulously over as banners flutter on the screen, 1st place flashing over Mumen’s side. The other is sitting up, rolling his shoulders like he didn’t just unlock a whole fucking new load of questions in Badd’s brain. Glancing over with the innocence Zenko uses when trying to ask for something. “That was fun.” A loaded three words that hide a pride and a longing that Badd would have to be deaf and blind to miss. “What next?”

He can only stare as Mumen casually dismounts and walks away, like there isn’t four high scores on screen that all blink the initials “MMR” that Badd is fairly certain even he can guess the meaning of.

When he shakes off the shock, he joins Mumen at a shooter game. Something horror that Badd would be all over if he wasn’t still trying to two and two together to a question that has now arisen. “What the hell was that?”

Mumen looks down at the plastic rifle and it’s then Badd sees the man’s hands falter. A sudden wrinkle of his forehead erasing the joy behind second guessing. He could kick himself for that.

Badd takes a breath, counts to two, and tries again. “Can’t just fucking pull out some hot shit like that and not tell me why I’m not seeing you around on a bike of your own.”

Brown eyes meet his, a moment passing where the intent behind the question is weighed. It is, apparently, found to equal the ask and Mumen chuckles. “I, ah, had intended to do such when I first started.”

There’s a story and Badd will absolutely not leave here until he gets it. “And then?”

Mumen shifts and for a moment Badd finds irritation flashing through him, because now what? He realizes, however, that Mumen’s blush goes with eyes that glance away. This is embarrassment of another kind entirely. “It is much harder to get a ticket on a bicycle than a motorcycle.”

A beat passes. Then another. Zombies moan on screen and Mumen swipes his card to start picking them off, cleanly, one by one. Badd can just stare, because ticket and Mumen Rider do not belong in the same sentence ever. It’s practically law. Brow furrowing, he lands on a thought, then shies away. Then circles back to it as a zombie falls off a platform into a pit of bubbling chemical. “You’re telling me you had your motorcycle license?”

“Hai.”

“And you lost your motorcycle license because of what, a ticket?”

When Mumen doesn’t answer, Badd feels an eyebrow go up. The game flashes in his mind and he chokes it out. “Because of a speeding ticket?”

He couldn’t care if Mumen’s face was as red as a stop sign because the sheer irony of it all was too much for Badd to stop.

“Because of numerous speeding tickets?”

Missing a shot, Mumen licks his lips and glances over. An eyebrow that is certainly never going to win against Badd’s rising. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

It bursts from him before he can stop himself. The laughter loud and drowning out the game for a long moment. Hand gripping the plastic console to keep himself up. Tears threaten to stream from his face because the image of Mumen pulled over is so utterly ridiculous that it seems unworldly. Any moment now, Badd expects to wake up. Yet Mumen’s face only seems to get redder and leaning in, hand gripping Mumen’s stiff shoulder, Badd tries his best to compose himself.

“I fucking love it.”

Mumen glances over at that, something in his expression not quite readable. There’s a charged moment, and Badd can’t help but think of those dating sims he’s seen Zenko and her friends play together: he’s just waiting to see if he gains affection or loses it. But the smile that tugs at the edge of Mumen’s lips is clear indication that his response was well received and something in Badd sizzles, hoarding the knowledge he now has like a great dragon and its horde. “I fear that may be the only cool part of me.”

“That’s why you got me, ain’t it?” This time it’s Badd’s turn to wink, hefting the other plastic gun to do his part in ending the zombie horde. His shoulder bumps Mumen’s and to his delight Mumen looks away as he does when he seems to be charmed. Or perhaps embarrassed. Badd’s not sure but it’s a good as time as any to start narrowing it down.

They fail to save the day against zombies, do slightly better against dinosaurs, and both end up nearly crying laughing when Badd manages to break the fishing simulator. They spill out onto the dwindling streets, clubs at their zenith and bars a few hours from closing still. The calm before the evening, but more than enough room for the two of them to share warm laughs.

“I did not think one could LEAVE the lake like that.”

Badd puffs air, still feeling the staccato of Mumen’s chest against the other’s laughs eek out. A hand of his goes to his pocket, fishing out the cigarettes he’s been finding he keeps on hand more and more. “Not my fuckin’ fault they left an opening like that! They think I’m not gonna take it??”

Mumen eyes the shake of the carton, a wrinkle of his nose, but says nothing. “I do not think they expect anyone to *leave the boat*.”

“I’m a rule breaker, baby,” says Badd with a smug croon, accented with the click of his lighter. “Didn’t we go over this already?” There’s another comment waiting as his lips take the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, tip red as the fire catches and the first smoke goes in, then out.

But Mumen beats him to the punch. “I believe it is I who has the tickets to back up such a claim.”

Badd laughs, deep and rumbling, and Mumen for once doesn’t blush, not really. A smatter of pink, a duck of his head that Badd is certain means pleased now for the fact that Mumen’s hand settles on his own neck as he tilts back, breaths in the deep evening hair, and lets a grin that overrides the exhaustion.

It shouldn’t make Badd feel as deeply as he does, but something stirs in him nonetheless. That feeling that he’s seeing something most don’t. This isn’t the hero Mumen Rider, and that realization makes Badd’s nose crinkle a bit behind another inhale.

“You never did say what the hell ‘m supposed to call you,” Badd says, suddenly.

He half expects it to break the warm silence they have going for them, and he steels himself for the inevitable sigh, the hand to the back of neck, the look away of brown eyes. Spring may be here, but Badd is learning to live with the glacial pace that Mumen seems to go at. And for a moment, Badd feels he may just have to accept that there’s still frost between them as he sees Mumen work his jaw in that silent way he does. Flittering between emotions Badd is starting to think he understands as worry, anxiety, and consideration.

Badd is patient, however, bolstered by the laugh of earlier, and takes another deep draw of his cigarette. Ready to walk it back, “Not that I oppose Mumen, and don’t get me wrong, if that’s what jingles your jangles, then all right. Just gotta say it and I’ll drop it, though I gotta say, when it’s my birthday, it’s gonna get real fuckin’ weird screamin’ that out-”

It’s sudden, and unexpected, when Mumen’s hand takes the cigarette before it can find home again. Other slim hand winding in Badd’s shirt to reel him in for a kiss.

It’s far less careful than the others have been, more comfortable now. Like this is an action that Mumen is starting to grow into, or more precisely, grow comfortable with him. A familiarity that tastes less of first crushes and more into something…settled. A seed that is finally reaching the sun and sprouting.

A feeling that only grows when Mumen pulls back and says, quietly, brown eyes crinkled. “It’s Satoru.”

Chapter Text

The name chases him through the week, a high that won’t quit, a secret that pulses so brightly that he writes it instead of his own during a history quiz. Badd isn’t about to tell Satoru that he somehow got a fail on that quiz - despite the fact the guy doesn’t go to school and likely didn’t even go to this one - but he still finds himself tracing the name in the smoke of his cigarette.

Tanaka glances over, their gym clothes sweaty in the humid spring afternoon. Groans of the outdoor bleachers overhead as the track team goes by on the dirt a few dozen meters away. “So it went well, yeah?”

Badd huffs, and glances sideways at the borrowed cigarette dangling from Tanaka’s lips. “Better than your day. Enno know you’re smokin’ again?”

The red blush on Tanaka’s cheeks and there’s a few muttered curses and Tanaka blows smoke in his direction, kicking at his ankles. Badd can’t bring himself to do more than take it with a smug grin that only sends Tanaka’s pout deeper.

“Don’t think you’re gettin’ out of telling me details, Baddo!”

“What kinda guy would I be if I kiss and tell?”

It’s just enough of a tease for Tanaka’s jaw to drop, cigarette floating to the ground and sending the volleyball player scrambling. Badd cackles, “I ain’t givin' you another one!” and watches as Tanaka dives for the thing, swearing once more.

Only after Tanaka is up, grass stains on knees and cigarette firmly in his lips, does the whine come. “Come ooooooooooon! I never get to hear anythin’ about this one!”

There’s a vainglorious happiness at keeping the secret. But there’s a smug lick of pride in sharing as well, and Badd isn’t above the allure of edging Tanaka’s curiosity on. “I ain’t sayin’ much, but if you were around that arcade bar E-City probably woulda seen a show that would make your mom cry.”

He still feels Mum-no, Satoru’s lips on his, the softness of a moan, the click of teeth when they’d kissed. Long enough that the clubs finally did start letting out and they’d left under cover of people too drunk to think twice. A month felt far away when the promise of more had been concreted by the fact he could feel the other’s tongue in his mouth still, if he closed his eyes, and god if that hadn’t added to the already brimming bank of ideas.

Eyes were on him and he watched as Tanaka’s black ones furrowed, then widened. “ Fuck .” It’s warm, humidity starting to seep into the afternoons, but Badd’s not sure that can be blamed for the sweat that creeps down Tanaka’s neck as he leans against the bleachers. “So it’s serious?”

Which is a good question.

It’s Badd’s turn to furrow his brows. “I guess?”

“You guess?” Smoke curls from Tanaka’s mouth as if to accentuate the question.

“Ain’t done anything yet.”

Tanaka just snorts. “I didn’t ask if you’d done it yet, just if it was serious .”

Which, to Tanaka’s point, perhaps that’s a fair. It’s hard not to conflate the two in his head sometimes, but Badd knows if Ennoshita were here he’d be getting a lecture. Sighing, he flicks ash into the grass. “I dunno. Ain’t done much and the guy won’t do much outside of mouth each other until I’m “of age”.”

“Older man,” Tanaka cackles, a wolf whistle low in his throat to follow. “Isn’t that something else.”

Badd shoots him a glare. “You know, awful lot of askin’ if I’m serious when I haven’t seen you and that giant of yours makin’ moves.”

“Still got another year of school left,” says Tanaka. But there’s a quiet at the end of it, a far off look, and Badd realizes that there’s perhaps far more seriousness to it all then outward appearances say.

He wonders what they’ll do. Once school is over and the haze of youth starts to drip away into adulthood, when problems they aren’t yet dealing with start to take the forefront. Volleyball and homework are well and good, but Badd knows a thing or two about the loneliness of growing up. It makes him realize, then, that serious is a far more loaded word for the rest of everything.

For a long moment, they smoke in silence, the sound of track going by with grunts and huffs, the creak of the bleachers, the far off announcement of an after school club ending. Filters burn between them and when Tanaka finishes his - always first, to give himself time to rush the taste from his mouth before Ennoshita realizes it was ever there - he flicks the butt to the cement pillar and stomps it with his heel.

“Gotta get. Practice, then home. Got a curfew.”

That sounds so off Badd nearly gives himself a nosebleed. “What?”

Tanaka huffs, “People getting sick in the area. My mom’s convinced it’s something in the air.”

Badd’s frown deepens. “Ain’t heard about it.”

“Not sure the news cares so much about some pumped up flu strain when there’s monsters running around.” Tanaka nudges his shoulder, grin bright. “Besides, not like you’ve got anything to worry about. You’ve got the monsters handled, yeah? And not like you gotta work about anything else” The never sick goes left unsaid.

Badd’s left to brood over that, an unease filling him as he - for once - walks rather than runs home. Zenko’s mask lingers in his mind and when he stops at the 7-11 for a treat for tonight he notices the cashier eyeing his lack of mask warily. The changes of seasons, he remembers his father saying, brought out more than just the flowers. Things that lay dormant springing forth and Badd wants to believe this is nothing at all other than a bad flu season.

Yet the hospital and that sheet, the what was and what is, still crowd out space in the ventricles of his heart, pumping out an unease in a steady beat.

When the call comes, he’s there, though he almost wishes he weren’t when he sees who’s beat him to the scene.

“Metal Bat,” says Child Emperor, voice casual and bored.

Badd can’t help it. “Otouto.” It never fails to make him smile when that brings a sour look to the other’s face.

“Don’t call me that,” hisses Child Emperor and Badd has to turn away to hide the snicker. “I didn’t ask for you to come.”

Badd shrugs. “Didn’t ask to be here, but when the phone rings.” His eyes go out to the street, what can be seen at least as the power lines snap, frown falling into place. “What the hell is it?”

If he’s honest, it looks like a rampaging centipede is drilling through concrete; clack of mandibles and crunch of stone sending clouds into the air. Overhead, wires buzz and threaten to spark as rock hits live lines. The water station is in a panic, red lights spinning and klaxons barely audible over the creature’s powerful jaws. There’s a shiver that goes down Badd’s spine, not because he’s scared but because of all the bugs to choose centipedes are not up there on his list of acceptable. The legs alone go beyond his will to count and there’s memory of the time Tama brought one home with that hopeful purrip she does when proud. The scream Badd and Zenko had let ous certainly set the small cat straight on what they thought of the present.

Still, there’s something unsettling about the thing, not just for its shape but the location. Gunfire sounds, but bullets do little against super sized segments.

Badd glances back to see Child Emperor frown. A spidery leg has emerged from the boy’s backpack and Badd tries not to let a shiver go down his spine at the spider association that runs through his mind. “Why here? The night crew here is barely 20 when there’s an entire city two miles away with over 2 million.”

The mutterings mean little to Badd, and his focus shifts abruptly back to the crunch of concrete, the creak of rebar. “Maybe it’s thirsty?”

Child Emperor’s look is droll. “Captivatingly astute.”

Badd’s not entirely sure what the insult means, but he’s used to the digs by now. “Right, well, you can scan it all day long, I’m gonna go do somethin’ about it.”

He strides off, ignoring the “Wait!” that drifts after him. Child Emperor catches up soon enough with a grumble, spidery legs clicking and keeping pace. It annoys Badd to no end. “I need to get closer to scan for a weakness.”

It takes effort not to roll his eyes. “It’s a fuckin’ bug.”

The look Badd feels on the side of his face is withering enough he’s not entirely sure it doesn’t give him a gray hair. “Oh yes, I forgot. Your specialty is smack first, ask questions later, isn’t it?”

“So you do know me,” Badd croons and he gets a victory out of the way Child Emperor huffs in an indignant breath. His grip on his bat tightens, leather of the handle conforming like a comforting embrace. “Relax, this’ll be over before you know it, otouto.”

If looks could kill Badd would have been dead four times over by now. But he doesn’t wait around for number five, instead pounding a foot into the concrete and leaving a cracked, spider web of breakage behind him as he jumps into the sky. As he flies, he winds an arm, and feels the wind whip through his hair, flowing past like a river and him a fish against it all. Moments like this he feels that fighting spirit soar, crowing to the heavens, leaping from the waves and feeling a power he isn’t sure he’ll ever get tired of.

“DRAGON THRASHING!”

His bat hits carapace and dust flies. Dirt sticks to his eyes, legs flail, and the wail that rises is keening and horrific, a thousand voices at once that static in Badd’s mind and scrape at the concentration it takes to keep his grip. There’s a desperation to those voices that sinks teeth in, and when Badd’s final blow sends the thing flying sideways, away from the hole being worn into the side of the treatment plant, his skin is clammy with the screams that drag along his psyche.

“Heroherowillnotwinfightmegnashmyteethdonotinterferestaythecourse! ”

Badd’s teeth grit as he watches the centipede’s body, slumped and unmoving. When the dust starts to settle, he stands, leaning on his bat, smug. “See? Haven’t even broken a damn sweat.”

When he turns to Child Emperor, however, the other is unamused, dryly saying, “Metal Bat, watch-”

A tail slams into Badd before he can be warned. If he’s completely honest? He might have maybe deserved it just a little.

Eyes crack open and the facility house he’s been knocked into is certainly likely going on the Association’s bill. But there’s a feral smile that finds its way to Bad’s face as he extricates himself from the crater he’s left behind. Shoulder rolling the sting out. “Oh ho ho, gonna fight back, are we?”

The centipede rears up and the voices are back. This time, however, a single one rises above the background noise. “ Mustgrindmusteatmustcrack-CHALLENGE ME AS YOU WISH SMALL ONE-destroywhatlietomakeanew-YOU WILL NOT TAKE DOWN ME, NOT WHEN MY GOAL-socloseandeverythingwillturn-IS AT HAND. ”

Badd’s brow crinkles, confusion laced in all but the way his hand grips his bat. “The fuck are you sayin’? Jesus christ.” He gets the point, though, and winds up his bat anyway. “You know what, nevermind. Let’s just go with this-”

And his feet launch him back into the fray. “SAVAGE TORNADO!”

Whirling sends dust, rocks, even bits of concrete into the air. There’s a brief glimpse of a sour look on Child Emperor’s face, but it’s lost to the gale force that Badd conjures. Feet dragging lines into the chewed up ground, leaving behind burn marks that smoulder. The laugh that comes from him dies in the furious whistles and bellows of the tornado, but he’d have it no other way.

The force collides with the centipede, sending it back and there’s the loud BANG of carapace meeting bat. It’s a blow Badd feels in his arms, and when he lands there’s a single bead of sweat on his brow, an offering of sorts to the relish he’d put into it.

The centipede stirs, then rises.

There’s not a dent in it.

Badd feels like the sluice of cold water in his spine, hissing at it hits his certainty. “The fuck?”

Segmented armor, bruised, but not cracked, rises in the air. Yellow eyes glowing in the dust, a creature of nightmare rising. “ Objectivemustbedonebreakthewallletlooseitall-I AM NOT TAKEN SO EASILY, METAL BAT. ”

If his arms weren’t already cold, they’d be ice at that. “What?”

“Oneofusthesuccessthebaselinemustbemet-TRY AS YOU MAY, YOUNG ONE, BUT WE WILL-evolutionwewillrisetheywillrisebrethren-YOU WILL NOT OUTPACE US. ”

“Its hide is fifteen times harder than concrete.” Badd doesn’t know when the Child Emperor caught up, but it shakes him from his shock, even if his spine still feels that tingle of unease. “We’re going to have to change tactics.”

“We?” A scoff and a click of his teeth. “Don’t see you doin’ much.”

Child Emperor gives him an acidic side eye. “The same could be said of you.”

The jab has him growling, but the centipede moves and with speed it shouldn’t have, charges. A whush of air announcing it more than anything else. Badd steps to the side and he hears the CRACK of mandibles shutting. A narrow miss that leaves his pant leg ripped, something that has him snarling if only because he didn’t need another addition to the mending pile. “Fuck. You got ideas, shortie?”

It’s an unfair blow, but Child Emperor doesn’t rise to it. Instead, pulling a screen from one of those mechanical arms. “Working on it. Buy me time.”

Well, that Badd can certainly do. His boot clicks on concrete as he jumps. Putting it all, putting everything into that kick, drawing it back to couple it with a double handed punch of his bat. Scream licking from him, “FIGHTING SPIRIT KICK!”

His boot and his bat meet the creature as it turns, boot glancing off a mandible with an audible CRUNCH. There’s a delight at seeing a crack in the appendage this time, in hearing the HISS of the thing as it rears back, flailing. Badd feels several dozen serrated feet scratch into him, sending that oxide tang of blood into the air. But the surface scratch is nothing for him, nor does the cracked mandible seem to be much of an inhibitor for the thing.

There’s an awkward pause, however, as he stares up and it stares down. Like Badd is the one being scanned. It raises the hair on the back of his neck. Wind whistles between them and for a moment there’s a sound Badd can’t register. A wheeze, a dying gasp.

Perhaps his kick did more than he thought.

It takes him a moment longer to realize it’s laughing.

The centipede sways, laugh as hideous and disharmonic. “Hedoesn’tknowhedoesn’tknowwhatalittlefool-LITTLE BROTHER, IF ONLY YOU KNEW.-Wewilladvancewewiillprogressitisthewillofthemaker-WHAT YOU ARE AND WHAT YOU COULD BE.”

“Shut up!” His snap of jaw is tight, tension in his body, every hair up and hackle ready to bite. He wants to tear this thing’s throat out, to gnash the familial claim in his teeth until the blood soaks into the ground. The tip of his bat gleams in the low light as it points it at the thing. “You’re not fuckin’ brother of mine! Everyone in my family has looks and you just ain’t it.”

But no amount of sass will stop those yellow eyes, boring into him. And he hears it then, something that makes his stomach twist into a tight knot. “They’llseethey’llallseejustwhatwedo-SO YOU SAY. BUT THE HOUSE WILL STILL- ”

The word dies in an explosion, the squeal and screech of the creature as the ice blue explosion hits. Cracked mandible falling to the ground with an ooze that smells of sulfur and sharp chemicals. Spraying dark blood, the centipede flails and Badd looks back to see Child Emperor’s arm, laser at the ready.

“The face! Go for the-”

In a rush, the creature coils around them both, sending Badd straight into Child Emperor’s side, head banging loudly against the heavy backpack that makes up the guy’s arsenal. Badd can feel the Child Emperor cry out at the impact. The speed on the thing is unlike anything, anything , Badd has seen up until now. Certainly Demon Level, it has to be.

There’s the sound of an avalanche, an earthquake, and Badd rolls to avoid as mandibles crash beside him, the ground spewed up in a veritable geyser. Rocks zing past and Badd has to shield his eyes as hundreds of pounds of beast DISAPPEAR into the ground.

He’s left in uneasy silence, the wail of sirens taking over for the sound of burrowing. He blinks once, then twice, then stands. Hand reaching out of his bat because what the actual fuck ?

“What the hell was it saying?” He realizes then it’s Child Emperor, speaking as he lifts to his elbows, a new gash on the guy’s face. Eyes wide and breath coming fast.

“How the hell should I know?!”

“It sounded like it knew you!”

Which it had, hadn’t it? Badd racks his brain, as if that will summon a connection he knows. But there’s certainly no hideous monsters on Badd’s family tree outside of himself. And though there’s a niggling in his skull that something, something here should be ringing a bell. Right at the tip of his tongue and frustratingly out of reach.

Badd shifts the bat over his shoulder, giving a scowl to Child Emperor. “You gonna keep talking or let me follow it?”

A pursed frown, “You’ll never catch up.”

And if that doesn’t boil Badd’s blood, he doesn’t know what. Perhaps it’s the ice still glacially melting from his veins, the sense of knowing something is unmelting in the slow sun within, but the dig is enough to set a fire him. Blazing and bright, rising into his eyes and dusting his cheeks red with fury. “You wanna bet?”

He jumps into the hole before Child Emperor can say more, hearing the other cry out and deliberately deciding to now listen.

Underground, the air is cold and stringent with damp darkness and a smell of noxious sulfer and debris. Detritus of the creature leading down, down, down into the foul earth. Badd clicks his tongue and for a half second hesitates. Zenko is asleep at home; there’s no one there to watch her and what happens if he should find himself buried, under rocks, screaming -

The thought is cut off with a step of his foot, concentrating solely on one sole in front of the other. There’s no time for that. No time to think of what was.

Sparks fly from his bat as it grinds the edges of the tunnel, lighting up the darkness in sudden fiery spurts. He can hear it now, getting closer, or rather him getting closer to it as it chews through the earth with a dizzying speed. It’s fast, but Badd is just that much faster. Following the smell of a cracked glowstick, a rotten egg, soiled trash left, right, left, down until-

The rumbling gets louder and suddenly, the sound of water and the scent of decay hits Badd hard. His stomach lurches and he nearly falls into the steep slope that constituted what the tunnel had turned into.

A cistern, underground, dripping wet and sloshing with runoff and sludge. Yellow eyes watch from a curled pile, heaviness in the air from the dour smell and a miasma of riled up anger. The ground is already starting to soften under Badd’s boots, and bracing himself against the wall he finds his hand threatening to sink in.

Still, however, he points his bat. “We weren’t finished, you shit fuck.”

The beast hisses in that discordant chorus, “Hedoesn’tknowhedoesn’tunderstand-STAND IN THE WAY IF YOU MUST, BUT THE HOUSE WILL SUCCEED. ”

Frustration zings through him and his bat cracks as he smacks it, a threat, against the tunnel wall. “What House?! What the fuck are you even saying!”

Centipedes can’t smile, but then again they can’t laugh either and Badd still knows, somehow, that this thing is doing just that. Smiling. “Littleonedoesn’tknowlittleoneisoneofuslittleoneis-THE HOUSE IS YOUR HOME, LITTLE ONE. OR DO YOU NOT REMEMBER?-hedoesntknowwhatafoolwhatafool! ”

His inhale is sharp and hard. “My home is not wherever the FUCK you’re from.”

“Itisitisitislittlefool-ISEE. ”

But those eyes don’t leave him and there’s a click of legs and mandibles as the face draws from the shadows, closer and closer. The stench of decay is strong now, laced with rebar, but Badd doesn’t believe in doing anything but staring death in the face. So he does just that, unmoving as they face one another, a mere meter apart.

It dawns on Badd then, that this thing isn’t attacking. And his brows furrow hard, eyes slits. “Either fight me or get ready to die, because I ain’t lettin’ a monster like you leave this place.

That laugh again, echoing, and Badd feels his skin goosebump. “ Canhekillus?Surelyhecanhe’sthegreatestofusalltheoneperfectspecimen-YOU CAN KILL ME AND MY BRETHREN, LITTLE BROTHER. BUT THE HOUSE OF EVOLUTION WILL REIGN.”

“I keep tellin’ you, I dunno what the FUCK you’re talkin’ about!” Badd’s voice echoes, eaten up by the sound of the great centipede moving, back end coiling and skittering.

Luminous eyes, dead lights in the dark, don’t blink. “Greatestofusallthesuccesstheonethatworked-YOU WILL KNOW. SOON ALL WILL KNOW.-nothingcanbedonewearesupremewearewhatwillrise. ” That head moved closer and for once, there was no preamble whisper. “ YOU WILL REMEMBER. ”

Ice coats Badd’s chest.

There’s an explosion, far above, far away in the distance. A split second of distraction that Badd almost misses. His bat strikes, ringing off the mandibles, crashing into the things face. A deadstroke to the eyes as he screams in fury and frustration because he doesn’t know what this House is.

The centipede goes, giant form dropping with a thundering crash as Badd breathes heavily, watching the light go from its eyes. He crouches, shoving a finger deep into one, uncaring. “I am NOT your little brother.”

“Oneofusoneofourown-YOU ARE…ONE…….OF US…. ”

Yellow eyes shutter, unfeeling and gone, the cacophony of voices sinking into the ground. Overhead, another explosion, the rush of water in the cistern, and Badd can only stare as the clues to what it all means dies beneath him deep in the earth. His breathing is jagged and crackles, frost deep in his skin.

There’s little more he gets the chance to say, as the ground shakes again. The last thing he hears is a wheeze-

“THE HOUSE….OF EVOLUTION…….WILL……REIGN…….”

It all comes down.

No air. 

Buried. 

Rubble. The smell of concrete and dust in his nose. The roar overhead and a long scream in his ears.

A long hand, calloused and well worn in the ruins, a slender one next to it with the shell bracelet from a trip to the seaside. Hopes and futures, a million possibilities gone at once.

No air.

Buried.

Rubble.

Her hair had been long and beautiful; dark brown ringlets nearly black. Spilled out and caked in white plaster. A perverted halo around a face covered in red and dust. His glasses had cracked, sending rays in the dying day, a dance of colors on a space that was dying.

No air. Buried. Rubble.

She’d screamed and screamed and screamed and he hadn’t been able to get to her, hadn’t been able to reach, had felt tears sop into brick and felt so powerless he would have given his own life just to find her hand.

noairburiedrubble

noairburiedrubble

noairburiedrubble

He was dying, he was dying, he was dying-

Badd’s ears are ringing. Fingers scrabbling through dirt and concrete and wet mud that squelches as he desperately seeks the cold burst above him. Lungs burn and all he knows is panic. It’s not unlike fury, he realizes in that moment as darkness surrounds him, suffocating weight stealing his breath. Desperate and damning fury that leaves him fighting. That’s perhaps what’s always been wrong with him; that everything goes back to fury. But it’s how he’s lived all these years and as he dies he knows it will be the last of it for him. At least he won’t die lying down, not really, as he claws for the surface, wild and hungry.

Fingers break through to cold, noise leeching back in slowly. The scream had been him, he’s sure, but it’s gone now, taken over by a voice, young and sharp, “Stop moving, damn it, you’re shifting it all back on to you!”

Cold steel grips his wrist, pulling even as he pulls himself, and Badd emerges to rescue lights, the click-click of walkie talkies, and Child Emperor staring at him coldly. Water drips onto Badd’s face as he retches and wheezes, mud and bile dripping from his mouth. The ache isn’t the worst he’s had, but his head pounds with the adrenaline that has dropped away with a quickness that leaves him shivering.

“-hn.” 

The retort dies, sound guttural instead, and Child Emperor’s brows quirk in uncertainty. But if the other has anything to say, they don’t, and Badd breaths in air like a dying man and turns his face away.

A brush with death - standard for him - but this one has slid under his bones and he feels the pile of years of running from that moment. Eons of building a wall around it and pretending that the anger of it all doesn’t fuel him in some way. That his anger isn’t, really, some sort of fear at knowing just how insignificant one can be in the grand scheme of things, and still leave such a crater behind that the living never fill it in.

He’d almost become that, the meteor strike into Zenko’s life. From a stupid bug. From a stupid fight. From all of this.

And yet, even as he breaths, he can’t shake what the thing said. ‘One of us.’ ‘Little brother.’ Something monstrous and terrible looking him in the eyes and seeing the tiny part that Badd knows isn’t normal. Isn’t right. The proof is right there in the way he looks at his hands, can see the cuts of earlier already getting smaller. How his lungs are already breathing easier and his legs less shaky.

“Are you done?” Child Emperor asks.

Badd doesn’t deign that with more than a snort, though even to him it sounds lame. A hand goes through his hair, coming away with sticky pomade and dirt. “Told you I’d catch up.”

“And then blocked us from getting down here,” says Child Emperor dryly.

That gets a snap of Badd’s neck toward the other. “You think this was my fault? You’re the one bombing the place up there!”

Emergency workers pick by, Badd waving off a paramedic with a scowl. Ignoring the scathing look Child Emperor gives. “That wasn’t a bomb, you idiot, that was the plant giving way.”

Oh.

Badd takes in a breath and is determined not to cough despite the deep scratch of lingering dust. “Yeah? Fuck.” 

Child Emperor isn’t watching him, however, and misses when Badd coughs into his hand. Eyes instead fixated on the great beast, more or less buried. Consecrated to the earth with only a few legs and one long, singular antenna stretched out. The tip of a mandible is being uncovered as emergency lighting begins to illuminate the caved in cistern.

“Did it say anything?” Badd nearly misses the question, quietly as it’s said. He glances over to find Child Emperor watching him with a critical eye. “It called you brother. It talked about a House. What did it say with its last breath?”

Something tightens in Badd’s chest, because it clicks then. The bird from before. The insect from now. The House of Evolution, whatever the fuck that is. Death spreading over faces of beasts that writhe in death, proclaiming love, fealty, whatever the fuck it is for an ideal Badd doesn’t understand.

Except this time, he had been cast within narrative.

And if there was anything he hated more than being told what to do, it was someone assuming they’d tell his own story.

He spits, blood and bile, and snorts dust. Child Emperor’s lip curl, but he waits for Badd to say something. “Just the usual shit.”

Child Emperor watches him. “If you’re sure.”

Badd can feel the dampness of underground, the ping of equipment off rock, and he realizes that for once, for once, he’s tired . Weariness and uncertainty weigh in on him and if he closes his eyes it’s dark and cold and crowded. His hand is rubbing his forehead, his own, as he tries to think. “I…something about Evolution.”

It’s mumbled, though, and he knows Child Emperor’s eyes are digging into him. Badd feels his stomach roil and he turns.

“Metal Bat, the Association is on their-”

“I don’t care.” He ignores Child Emperor’s spitting protest, but the smell of the underground is getting to him. He’s normally put together, able to filter it out, but the weight of rock and dirt on him has him rattled. Body remembering even if the entirety of it is not a memory he thinks - or wishes - to ever fully recover.

Before a medic can nab him, he’s off. Through the tunnel and bursting into the night air. Lights of the city glittering in the distance. His appearance startles a Heroes Association worker, who had been leaning over the expansive hole to determine the best way down. Badd can’t find himself to be sorry, striding past like he’s unaware of the massive amount of damage behind him.

He feels numb in a way he normally isn’t. To feel helpless is to feel out of touch, and the disconnect from himself makes him feel as if he’ll float away. That one breath wrong and he’ll crumple. It’s a feeling of helplessness that he’s so rarely felt and he hates it. He can’t be weak. He can’t afford to be small. So much rides on him saving himself, to save her, to save everyone. The weight of his bat is no longer the comfort it normally is, hand tight around the handle but the fire under his skin strangely as cold as the metal he’s known for. 

It’s unnerving to not feel yourself.

He doesn’t know how to be anything but himself.

There’s no question where he’s headed. And how he makes it there he doesn’t know other than by the grace of his own legs that don’t seem to tire easily. Tama looks up when he enters, small purrip bouncing off his frame. Badd doesn’t answer, however; he’s never spoken cat and he can’t speak normally right now as it is.

Quizzical gold eyes follow him, sending him off with a yawn as Badd moves for Zenko’s door. It creaks as it opens, though does little other than to stir Zenko within. Her head is just visible over the thick comforter she still insists on sleeping in. The window is cracked, soft breeze floating through. The sound of sirens is far, far in the distance and though Badd knows that the news will be a scramble tomorrow for now he breathes in the stillness of Zenko’s soft cream walls and strawberry patterned bedding. Everything is in place, from the shoes under the bed, the homework piled neatly on the desk, and the soft breaths she takes as she sleeps.

Badd leaves the door cracked so he can listen from his own place on the sofa. Springs creaking as he settles, arms stinging from cuts and scrapes. Staring up at the ceiling as he tries to focus over and over and over on Zenko’s breathing.

The phone pings then, then again, and it’s not until the third ping that he looks with a blankness reserved normally for school.

Are you ok?

Twelve messages: three from Zenko, a handful of Tanaka, another few for the group chat and …four from Satoru. For a moment Badd struggles to place the name. Then, it’s as if something in him rears up. Reacting to the name with a flutter and a sudden need that has him nearly whining.

Fingers hesitate however, and after a moment he deletes the no for. fine y?

It feels like hours sliding through molten liquid when the reply comes. K-city water alert went out. I wanted to check in that you and Zenko were ok.

As numb as Badd feels, something pits in his stomach at the inherent ease of kindness that comes from Satoru. Something he can’t even begin to fathom and wishes he could. For years, it’s been him and Zenko against the world. Now, it feels as if that world is just a tiny bit smaller of a foe.

Still, he can’t help but write, U subscribe to water alerts?

The answer doesn’t surprise Badd. City emergency alerts, yes. There’s typing, however, so Badd waits to answer. I was worried, is all.

There’s something in Badd’s eyes, grit he’ll call it, at seeing those words humming on his phone. Feeling the weight of it all within him, the sheer closeness and the pit that he stared down for a moment.

Are you sure you’re ok?

He hadn’t realized he’d taken that long to answer. The clock blinks 35 minutes later and the passage of time feels as nebulous as Badd’s grip on reality. He’s not ok, he knows this. It’s nothing sleep won’t fix, he’s sure, but the swallow he gets down now feels shaky and coarse. Just tired.

He needs to get up, to clean himself off, to be ready for tomorrow because who will cook breakfast, Zenko has school and he has a test and then there’s practice and music lessons and laundry and the kitchen hasn’t been cleaned and the memory of rubble, the weight of rock, screaming - 

It feels so overwhelming that he just closes his eyes.

When he wakes it’s to a phone with more missed messages than answered. Zenko is shaking his shoulder, light piercing through the window to a floor covered in dusty footprints and his bat on the floor. “Oni-chan?”

With a groan, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Five more minutes.”

For once, Zenko lets him lay. Why, he isn’t sure, though when he peeks he can see her casting fervent glances at him, worrying her lower lip. He’s not about to give her that - a reason to worry. So with a groan he rises, rubbing his eyes even as Zenko tries not to stare.

Tama chooses then to leap, using his hair and head as a springboard, bounding for the door with a casual insistence that Badd strives to emulate. He still swears, however, under his breath, until Zenko gives him a hard look. “Baddo!”

“She started it!”

“Her brain is the size of a raspberry!”

“That’s more than enough t’know better!”

And it’s enough to get him up, to get him moving. Swearing when the water turns out to be entirely out, ensuring breakfast and a shower are not in the cards. Breakfast is an easy enough solve, though the convenience store clerks stares at the brick dust that covers Badd’s shoulders like a shroud. He’s not in the mood to explain and the scowl he gives is perhaps unwarranted but the nicest thing he can manage. By the time Zenko’s at school, Badd’s made his way to A-City, where the showers still work at the Heroes Association building.

There are aches in his shoulder, though, and a heaviness that even clean clothes can’t dissipate. An uneasiness that only snarls and snaps at the threat of having to answer why. The words from the creature play in his head even as school drones on, his pencil tapping incessantly a staccato beat against the desk. House of Evolution. House of Evolution. House of Evolution.

Badd’s never been one for mysteries. Unless there’s bloodshed or action he’s more likely to fast forward to the end or flip to the last chapter than wait to see how things resolve. He’s always been a man of action and having a name with nothing else - no hint of a fact to it - is driving him mad, making him feel…

He’s not sure.

It’s that disquieting disconnect that has leeched back in, insidious and invasive. Something eating at the parts of himself he wasn’t even sure how to label. Tanaka’s loud humor and Ennoshita’s quiet laugh do nothing to help, nor does the passed smokes or shared inside jokes that the group rehashes again and again as they break in the early afternoon sun. He can feel the warmth on his skin, hear the talk of games and spring plans, of dates to be had and wanted to be had. The smell of chalk and cigarette smoke dominating the faint curl of wisteria that clung to the school’s planked sides.

There’s a war in himself that he can’t figure out, and if there’s something Badd has always been good at its fighting.

Fingers find the phone in his pocket as Hinata laughs at a retelling of the incident with the movie theater usher just as it buzzes. A sudden feeling in Badd’s leg that pushes through the cloud of it all enough to draw his attention. It’s then that he realizes there’s more texts, all from Satoru.

It takes him a half minute to place the name with the tone. I know I should not worry but I hope you are doing all right.

Worry.

Mumen - Satoru - was worried about him.

He’d be lying if he said that sole fact brought him back to it. There’s no snap to reality that happens, no sudden connection to the livewire of full conceptualized thought. But it’s enough of an anchor for him to stop and put one foot in front of the other that is the sludge of feeling.

Fingers pause over the phone, however, unsure what to say. Finally settling on, Yeah.

Three dots bounce for a long while. Are you sure?

He’s not, but what would it look like to say that so plainly? Badd’s not sure he can; he knows the words but not how to say them in a way that doesn’t make them feel bitter on his tongue.

long night

Is there anything I can do to help?

There’s some part of him that smirks at that. Just a bit. Just a little. Something bleeding back in that feels warm and raw in its expression. The hot lick of the first summer breeze. Badd’s fingers type without him thinking too hard.

Could use a kiss or 8 ;)

The bell rings, however, and Badd puts the phone away lest it be taken. A fate even worse than the one he has now, given he knows his own reliance on the fucking thing is perhaps not insignificant.

The first of the evening rush hours is starting to rumble past by the time practice is over. Coaches watch Badd go with whispers and stares he can’t be bothered about right then and there, arm aching from swinging away and more than a few balls lost to the horizon. Memory of the day is faint, but baseball never fails to bring Badd back to something more resembling normal. He likes to think it’s the burn of activity, but it’s also the satisfaction of doing better, moving faster, getting stronger. Dreams of the big leagues perhaps, maybe, still dot his dreams but even if not there’s something he can’t shake about the crack of the bat and the grip of leather that ignites that competitive, fiery spark.

Backpack over his shoulder, drooping like his enthusiasm for anything inside, Badd lets the lighter click in his hand. One bad habit away from annoying half the passerbys, when a flash of familiar light catches his eyes.

The helmet is the same, but it takes Badd a moment to realize that the rest of Satoru is not. It’s amazing how many people pass by the guy, a spare glance given for the familiar helmet but no more thought than a passing fancy given. There are a thousand similar helmets for sale. What’s special about this wearer?

But Badd knows what’s special, because he knows that face behind those glasses. Cool brown eyes blinking in the golden hour lighting, casting an orange pallor to Satoru’s cheeks. There’s that same old exhaustion hanging under those eyes, the messy hair damp from helmet and work, and Justice herself, dark green and dinged but faithfully leaning against Satoru’s leg.

“Mu-” Badd catches himself, flame flickering in his hand, caught between breaths. “Satoru? What are you doin’ here?”

There’s a minute intake of breath that Badd realizes is uncertainty. “I…well. You sounded as if…your texts.” It’s not helpful and he can see Satoru swallow and work his jaw. Badd should prod, nudge, tease. Instead, he’s quiet and he waits. “I felt as if perhaps you maybe did need at least one of those kisses.”

Badd’s lips go from slack jawed shock to a grin. The lighter clicks shut and he feels something in him flare up. “I know just the place.”

The trellis shudders, raining cherry blossom petals down onto them both from the wizened old tree. How it’s lasted as long as it has in the city, Badd doesn’t know. But it feels appropriate, petals kissing their cheeks as they kiss beneath it on the cobblestones of old, shoulders against the concrete pitted with age. It reeks slightly of garbage and terrible barbeque, but the discretion beats out the other senses, and Badd can’t deny…

It feels good.

There’s no hurry here, no rush. A kiss that turns into another, then a deeper one still. Justice keeping watch two feet behind, bat leaning against the front spokes. The last of the golden hour lighting highlighting Satoru’s hair with yellow-gold streaks. Satoru has always been gentle, but Badd has always been starving. Ready to sink his teeth in and lose himself in the rush. Even now, with how things are, he feels that familiar guttural need to move hard and fast.

Satoru says nothing on it, instead meeting him with a firm gentleness that gives slowly, the way a bridge sags but doesn’t bend. It lets Badd reach down, reach further into himself, and he’s not a believer in the healing power of love.

But there might be something to the old notion, because it feels as if he’s finally found the tips of his own hand and is hauling himself out.

When they pull away, each breathing heavily, Badd can’t help but be pleased. Satoru panting a bit, single drop of sweat trailing down his temple, lit by the streetlights that are starting to buzz awake.

“I think that was far more than eight,” Satoru murmurs.

“Feel like I failed if you were able to keep count,” Badd drawls, and he’s pleased when Satoru laughs.

“I do not think you need to worry about that.”

Badd’s fingers find the curve of Satoru’s jaw, running the tired, sharp line to the adam’s apple. It bobs under his finger, still catching its rhythm. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

It’s Satoru’s turn to gently palm his face. “I did not want to overstep. But you seemed…very distant. Something felt wrong.”

“‘m glad you didn’t,” Badd murmurs. “Stay away.” And because he can’t leave well enough alone, he kisses Satoru again. A teasing smile pressed into lips. “Though kinda creepy you found where I go to school.”

Satoru’s face flares bright red. “I did not mean for it to be creepy!”

Badd laughs, however, and shrugs. “Kinda creepy! But also kinda sappy. Sure you didn’t get the idea outta some manga?” Satoru splutters a bit and Badd just laughs again. Peppering him with kisses. “All that talk about my birthday and here you are jumpin’ feet first in.”

Satoru sighs against him and flicks his chin gently, a small thwip of fingers that has Badd’s smile curling into a smirk. “Nothing more than this, Badd.”

It’s one of the few times he’s heard Satoru say his name without an honorific, and it gives Badd pause, Tanaka’s question ringing in his ears again. How serious is this? It’s nothing big, sure, but it feels like confirmation of what this is sliding into. It makes Badd shiver. 

He hasn’t felt this close to himself all day, and he finds himself blurting out, “Come home with me.”

Satoru’s eyes furrow. “For what?” Badd stops the next question with a kiss, fingers flicking an ear gently. Satoru’s nose wrinkles, but it’s not unkind. “Badd.”

“I know, I know,” he grumbles. “Just wanna get my hands under your shirt, that too much to ask?” At Satoru’s look, he puts his hands up. “I’ll keep ‘em above the belt line! Scout’s honor.”

“There is no chance you were ever a scout,” Satoru murmurs. But with a deep sigh, Satoru’s hand finds the back of Badd’s neck, cradling his neck as Satoru’s cool brown eyes find his black. It’s not unlike being assessed, a feeling Badd isn’t sure how he feels about. Eventually, however, Satoru’s hand swipes a thumb along the hairline on the back of his neck. “All right.”

It’s a victory in a day that doesn’t feel like much of anything, and that alone has another curl of heat strike up through Badd, licking the permafrost away.

And when Zenko comes home late that evening and asks about the cherry blossoms that litter the living room, Badd just shrugs, smiles...and blames the cat.

Chapter Text

Zenko wakes him the next morning, confusion on her face, holding a bag and yawning through the overlong sleeve of her rumpled sleep shirt. “Who’s ‘S’?”

The question brings Badd straight out of the warmth of a dream that definitely had him feeling a few things, the sensation of fingers on his chest and in his hair exchanged for a cold sweat. Sitting up fast enough to lose the sheet from his chest, he ignored Zenko’s wrinkle of her face to grab for the bag. “It’s no one!”

“Uh-huh,” she drolls, unimpressed. “Put a shirt on, oni-chan.”

As Zenko pads past to get ready for school, Badd yells after her, “I don’t need a shirt to sleep!”

Only when the door to the bathroom closes does he uncrumple the bag from where it’s crumpled against his chest. A note barely hangs on, written in neat cursive that doesn’t surprise Badd in the slightest. It takes him a long moment to read it, but eventually he figures out what it says.

With the water out I figured you may need this. -S

Inside, two breakfast sandwiches carefully wrapped in foil are still warm. Hot cakes and two bottles of water also wait inside, and with a cup containing fruit that Badd is certain was not added for his benefit.

It’s not the food, however, that has his eyes watering but the fact that there’s a certain amount of thought and care that went into all this. The water is indeed still out and the breakfast fiasco of yesterday had left Badd’s mind in favor of the fuzzy edges of the dream he’d wanted to stay in. He certainly hadn’t said anything about wanting the help; last night they’d said perhaps four words to each other, the rest of the time spent with lips locked and fingers finding the valleys and peaks of each other’s chests.

But typical Satoru, who Badd knows thinks four steps ahead. A brief flicker of thought has him wondering if Satoru ate this morning at a table instead of on his bike, but Zenko is emerging before he can wonder too much.

“So, who is S?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Zenko bats her eyes and ducks the sandwich Badd launches at her head. “Coooooome ooooooon I wanna know! I deserve to know, considering I’m the one who makes breakfast half the time! Who am I gonna thank?”

“You’ll thank me for havin’ good taste now eat up you little shit!”

“Good taste? HA! You’re lucky you have any taste at all, you idiot!”

“If that’s how you feel I’m eatin’ your hotcake then!”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare!”

“ZENKO, LANGUAGE!”

They eat nonetheless, Tama licking up the egg yolk dripping from Zenko’s sandwich even as the morning sun climbs across the sky. There are chores to be done, but without water their options are embarrassingly limited. It makes Badd wonder how long until the damn government will manage to patch up this job. The fact that the corner shop is out of bottled water, however, doesn’t give Badd much hope.

Fortunately, there are other things to distract. A test in math that Badd’s almost certain he at least barely passes, a bus ride to that afternoon’s game, and more than enough chance to remember Satoru’s fingers tracing down his sternum. 

The afternoon light speeds by as Badd listens to his team, half murmuring rumors, the other half buried in walkmans or books. The churn of the bus makes it easy to lose himself in thoughts. He can feel Satoru’s lips and smell the gentle smell of floral shampoo and bike grease that Satoru exudes every time he blinks. Heat from fingertips chasing the vague unease left from the last few days. There are things he dreams of in the private of his memories, and his birthday can’t come soon enough for him. What they’ll do and what he pictures doing are likely two different realities, but the possibilities are endless until it comes around and it’s in those options he loses himself.

It’s Itachi who nudges him when they arrive, tearing him from a particularly fun imagined use for the sofa to face the reality that is a pristine diamond and stands full of the home team crowd.

They warm up on the pitch, taking their allotted fifteen minutes to get a feel for the runs and bases. Badd’s not surprised when his ears catch his name in the bleachers, a few photos flashing, more than a few glances spared to him and shy waves tossed his way. It comes with his work, and while there’s a part of him that bristles at being known for the hero side and not his baseball skills, it’s something he’s had to come to accept over time.

“Got the usual,” Maso teases as they file into the dugout, nudging his shoulder and motioning at a blonde giving him a shy smile.

Badd snorts, flashes the girl a wink, and ignores as she nearly faints. His heart isn’t in the flirt, not right now, not with the energy starting to wind up, the excitement bubbling in his stomach. “Yeah, yeah, just mad it ain’t you.”

“Please, got enough attention at home,” Maso says, rolling his eyes. Badd knows the guy has a beau in R-City, but he also knows that long distance is a pain when you can’t run between the cities like it’s nothing.

So rather than push, Badd shoves his shoulder back and smirks, “You gonna fumble the second base pass again cause of all that attention?”

It starts a good natured argument that leaves their blood heated and competition spirit ready to go. They ride each other, but they’re a good team. Badd knows that even without him, they’d be looking at a spot in regionals this year. The difference with him on the team, however, is whether they’ll get first or second. Because while his swing and his throw can cover more than enough ground, sometimes it just isn’t the day. Doing your best doesn’t always mean doing better than the other team, after all.

They save him for near last to bat, counting on that home run with loaded bases. His fingers rub the leather on his bat, feeling the wrapping creak, smell of leather and sweat reaching his nose. They can’t use anything but aluminum in games, and Badd has a habit of denting the ones they can use. But nonetheless, Badd takes the time to unwrap the strip of leather he’s been using for two years now, and rewraps each new bat he takes up. This one is no exception.

When his turn is up, two of the three bases are loaded; Shota managed to fuck up his steal of third. But it’s still more than enough to win the game, and Badd tosses Ishita a self-assured grin. The pitcher looks taken aback, a nervous gulp, and Badd likes to think it’s because of the figure he cuts and not just his own S-Rank following him like his shadow. This is what he lives for though; defying expectations, even the the sky high ones on him.

A glance Badd can’t decipher, but that makes him grin. His own stance shifts, back tense and straight, elbows bent, focus as laser-like as the ones Child Emperor uses. A lion stalking prey in the long grass, lightning gathering to strike, the powder in a gun ready to fire.

The ball streaks through the sky and when his bat connects the metal cracks with it. The husk of it - dented and useless - is left on the ground as the ball disappears to a stunned crowd. The cheers and jeers follow Badd along the bases like a theme song.

It’s a kaleidoscope of victories after that; the way his legs bring him to an impossible catch, the throw from back right field that reaches home, the whoops and hollers that rise from his team as the clock runs out and they’re ahead.

He’s laughing with Itachi and Maro, ribbing Jeiju for a bad run on home, and nearly misses the coach in deep conversation with the opposing team’s coach. The referee stands between them, and the argument can’t be missed. Badd’s eyes narrow, but his attention is drawn away and he doesn’t think of it until they arrive back at school.

The sun has set, darkness finally claiming the deep indigo of the sky as he pulls his gear bag from underneath the bus. The evening air smells of plumeria and something deeply akin to petrichor. There are clouds in the distance, a storm coming, which Badd can feel in the occasional cold breeze that breaks through the warm spring evening. He has every intention of showering at the school and heading home; the water isn’t scheduled to turn on until tomorrow - an improvement as there’s at least a date now.

As he turns, however, their coach clears his throat. “Badd-san, a moment?”

Badd turns to see Coach Daigo - a quiet, soft spoken man with hair that constantly looks tousled. His eyes, always looking half asleep, are certainly trained on Badd, however, and Badd can see the man’s fingers slide into a pocket, as if to hide nerves.

Badd raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” There’s a churn in his gut, an uneasy roil.

“Your performance today…” Daigo hesitates. Shifting, and finally glancing away. Badd can see the man’s brow furrow, jaw working around something that seems unpleasant.

It only makes Badd feel twitchy. “Gonna spit it out, coach, or just gonna keep eatin’ it?”

Daigo sighs. It’s not the first time Badd’s been short with the man, and the lack of reaction only makes Badd feel guilty. “You did good today.”

The statement doesn’t warrant the dramatics, however, and Badd’s eyes narrow. “And?”

Daigo glances up, exhaling. “Let’s talk next practice, yeah?”

There’s defeat in the statement, but over what Badd doesn’t know. He’s never been a smart guy, but even he’s able to put pieces together that this wasn’t what Daigo meant and it wasn’t the heart of the issue. Still, the joy of victory is still lighting his spirit. He’s not about to let whatever the fuck coach wants to say dampen that. 

So with a click of his tongue he turns. “Sure. Talk to ya then, coach.” He doesn’t wait for an answer to that, instead heading for the showers.

When he emerges next, cigarette intended to accompany him home, it’s not Daigo or the bus that waits, but a black car bearing distinctive plates. Badd’s hand manages to click the lighter, but the flame never meets the cigarette. Eyes locking instead on the sandy haired agent he’d grown to associate with an even bigger pain in the ass than mending socks.

“Agent Sato,” he greets, though the lack of enthusiasm isn’t hidden.

“Badd-san. Would you mind-”

“It’s a school night, you know,” Badd drolls, letting the lighter click shut. Slid back into his pocket where his thumb rubs the corner.

“We’re well aware. This shouldn’t take long, so long as you’re willing.”

Which is code for it’ll take forever. Badd’s eyes narrow further, slits against the warm light of the car headlights. “And if I ain’t?”

There’s an embarrassingly long silence, a game of chicken being played that normally Badd would be happy to play off of. But his eyes catch movement and he realizes that there’s a few people stopped at the street corner, playing witness to the showdown. One said person is on a bike.

Satoru watches him, warehouse uniform pitted with sweat, chest still.

It breaks all of Badd’s resolve. “Let’s get this over with.” Cigarette tucked behind his ear and ducking so as to not mess the fringe damp hair he’d wrestled into shape not moments ago. He wishes his hair drying had remained the most upsetting part of his day.

They ride in relative silence, Sato speaking just once when Badd removes the cigarette from behind his ear, “You know, those things will-”

“If a Demon Level can’t kill me, don’t think these things have a chance.”

Sato, wisely, shuts his mouth then and Badd watches the city go by in, well, not peace but at least silence. His fingers want to drum, his feet want to shift from the expensive leather they’re resting on, he wants to snark and snap and rage. But he doesn’t, making himself sit as impassive as stone. Not willing to give more than he has. That’s how the Association is; always watching and extrapolating the tiniest amount of information.

The Association is always lit, even at night. A smattering of office lights that dot up the impassive face, many eyes that watch over a quieting city. The lobby is empty at this hour save for the security guards, who don’t dare to so much as Badd’s steps echo angrily across the stone floors.

Iwate is waiting for them at the elevator, because of course he is. Glasses hiding those sharp eyes that Badd can feel dig into him from across the room. “Metal Bat-san, a pleasure as-”

“Let’s just get this done.”

Iwate, to his credit, nods, and they ride the elevator in a silence so stiflingly silent that Badd wants to scream just to feel alive.

Badd remembers the day when the Association felt big, impressive, like somewhere that was at the top of the world. He’d not been able to keep from staring wide eyed at the polished floors or the luxe waiting rooms smattered with plush chairs. Back then, he’d been just starting high school and desperate to make rent on the apartment life insurance barely paid for. The future had seemed bright and he’d been eager to sign on every dotted line under the distant, watchful eyes of the one and only Silver Fang.

Now, as they stepped into a conference room that looked like half a dozen others, folders strewn on the table, Badd had to admit the veneer had worn off.

The office chair squeaks, tilting dangerously as Badd sits, feet finding the table edge with twin thunks. Iwate’s eyes drift to the boots, and Badd is sure Sato wants to say something. But the fight never comes, Iwate instead sitting across from Badd and opening a folder.

There is silence for a long moment, the click of the door nearly deafening when Sato disappears. Badd gives him five minutes before he’s back with the customer water bottle. He should start selling them online; who wouldn’t want HA branded tap water?

It’s a mind fuck, Badd knows this. But he’s tired, so he starts the game with the intent on finishing it faster. “This about the water treatment plant?”

Iwate’s black eyes flick up to his. “Was there something you wanted to say about that job?”

Badd’s sure he’s gaining grey hairs. “How about the fact there isn’t fuckin’ water in K-City and I’m tired of showerin’ at the school?”

“The water should be back on tonight.”

“You gonna put that in writing?”

Iwate goes back to his folder and Badd sighs, loudly. Pulling the cigarette back out and fishing the lighter from his pocket. This time, Iwate does give him a sour look and shuts the folder. “Our surveillance has a 35 minute gap. I was hoping you could help us fill in the rest.”

Badd frowns, “Thirty five minutes?” It had felt like days in the dark, not mere minutes. Something in him cools and threatens to freeze. He attempts to recover. “What took you all so long?”

“So long to what?” Iwate asks, eyebrow raising.

“Get me out.”

Iwate just stares. “Badd-san, with all respect, it took us an hour to dig you out.”

Badd’s stomach jumps straight over frost and into a new ice age. “What?”

Folding his fingers, Iwate leans over the folder, staring intently at Badd. “You were underneath nearly two meters of rock and dirt. It took a team of twenty to dig you out. In all, you were out of contact for nearly two hours.”

Badd feels like he may have forgotten to breath. He doesn’t know what to say, and his hand simply curls around the cigarette so hard it crushes under his fingers.

“By all rights, Badd-san, no one should have been able to last as long as you did underground.” Iwate’s expression remains impassive. “You refused medical attention, but I feel I must ask again: are you all right, Badd-san? Should I fetch a physician?”

His brain is working at glacial speed; the polar caps are melting faster than his ability to speak, and Badd can’t say he’s ever been one to panic, but this is as close as he’s come since the cave in. “I…” Iwate watches, but it’s not until the man stands that Badd pushes air through his mouth and croak, “No. Don’t you fuckin’ dare. I’m fine. ”

Zenko had once told him fine meant ‘feelings I’m not expressing’ and damn, if that wasn’t the definition right here and now. But he wasn’t about to show a weakness, or more of one, to the Association; particularly to Iwate.

Looking across the table, Badd wondered when his hand had slammed onto the glassy top, fingers splayed out. “Ask your damn questions. I gotta get home soon.”

Iwate doesn’t speak for a long moment, but finally, finally sighs. Flipping the folder back open again and writing something down with a pen produced from behind an ear. “Fine. I will be direct then-”

Badd can’t help it. “Can you be?”

“What we want to know is what happened during the time you went underground and caught up with the creature.”

It’s pretty direct, Badd has to admit that, and he frowns, disappointed. “I fought it. It died. The end.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” It’s the kind of question one asks when they know it isn’t all, and if Badd’s honest it pisses him off more than being dragged here.

“Look.” He stands this time, to make a point, to honestly just leave because his patience is nonexistent tonight. “Either you ask it, or I leave, an’ I’d really like to see you try to stop me from leavin’.” He may not have his bat, but he knows a punch and a kick from him can do some serious damage.

Iwate’s look is sour, like he’s been singled out, and Badd finds he doesn’t give a damn about the man’s feelings. Does that make him a monster? He’s not sure. “Fine, Badd-san. If you insist, I’ll get to the point.” Iwate’s pen is set down and his fingers tent. “Something happened underground. I believe that the creature spoke. I want to know what it said.”

Badd doesn’t quite catch his face before it furrows. “Why would you think it spoke?”

“Because Child Emperor reported that it had above ground. We have an audio of it doing so.”

“Then why do you need to know what it said?”

Iwate’s face twitches and Badd realizes, then, he has said perhaps a bit more than he should. “So it did speak.”

Badd’s hands go up. “Ok, sure, yeah it did, but what of it? Who gives a fuck?? Just listen to the audio if you wanna know! It was more of the same shit!” Yet as Badd speaks, he sees something twitch in Iwate’s jaw. And an idea - rare and precious as those are - jumps into his mind. “You don’t have the audio, do you.”

“It is not quite up to the standards the Association would like,” Iwate mutters.

Badd’s eyebrow goes up. “What was that? Almost sounds like y’all fucked up your surveillance shit. Or Child Emperor isn’t playin’ nice either.”

Iwate doesn’t answer and Badd feels another stab of ice go through him. The audio had been a guess, but why the hell was Child Emperor - practical secondary poster child for the Association - not cooperating? If the twerp wasn’t, Badd wasn’t sure he wanted to be either. And that was outside of his already enormous disdain for authority.

Taking a deep breath, Badd ran a hand through his hair, feeling the ends of it trying to go limp. “Fuck this.” Hefting his backpack onto his shoulder, he looked at Iwate. “When y’all get the water back on, I’ll think about talkin’ to ya. Until then, consider it all part of my usual ‘do good’ that comes with the job description.”

He was ready to walk, and walk fast, when Iwate spoke. “Does the House of Evolution mean anything to you?”

It’s a name that seems to be following like a dream; on the tip of Badd’s tongue but the why of it all slipping through his fingers. In truth, the name means just that: a name with no substance. But that can’t be, as Badd has learned that names always come with content. (Why does he feel like he doesn’t want to know the content of this one, though?)

“You’ve heard it before,” Iwate continues. “What does it mean to you?”

“It means shit all,” Badd spits. He turns though, raising an eyebrow. “What’s it mean to you ?”

Iwate says nothing, however, and that’s the end of the conversation in Badd’s eyes. Tit for tat is nice and all, but the Association rarely gave either even when demanding both. For some reason, that thought brings a picture of Satoru to mind, and Badd finds his mood souring all the more for the missed connection.

“Whatever,” is his parting word before he moves. Taking the stairs in a blur and pausing only in the hallway because he can feel eyes on him. Looking around, however, there’s nothing but the weight of emptiness.

He fully intends to run home, but the minute he steps outside his phone starts going off. It’s in his hand, ready to read, when a voice nearly causes him to drop it, “Badd-san?”

It’s a two toned utterance Badd would know in a heartbeat. His own chest jumps and when he glances up he’s both surprised and not surprised to see Satoru there. The guy looks like he’s biked a few dozen miles to this specific bench outside on the lawn, if the sweat stains are anything to go off of. But Satoru isn’t panting and Badd likes to think it’s because the guy is in such good shape. (He’s seen the abs to back it up, after all.) “Mu-Satoru.”

Satoru’s smiles widens at the use of his name, even as his ears pinken. “I must apologize, I hope this is not a step over the line.”

“Why would it be?” Badd’s eyebrow goes up, but he grins.

“I am fairly certain there are laws against stalking,” Satoru grins back, elbow falling to rest on Justice’s seat as he gestures. “And appearing outside both your school and work would likely fall under those guidelines that are distinctly against the idea.”

Badd pops his lips. “Good think I ain’t the kind to snitch.” His phone buzzes again and glancing at it Badd feels himself go pale. “Shit, hold on-”

Fingers fly furiously as he hits speed dial. Wincing when Zenko’s voice comes over the other line, not mad but disappointed (and isn’t that worse?). “ONI-CHAN YOU WERE IGNORING ME-”

It goes back and forth for a hot minute, and Badd knows Satoru is smiling at him in that charmed, soft way of his. When he glances over his shoulder he’s proven right, and for one of the first times he finds himself wanting to get off the phone with Zenko fast.

“Promise, I wasn’t! Just got pulled into a thing but I’m headed home now and I’ll even bring home somethin’ nice for dinner for ya, princess, ok?” Badd listens as Zenko considers this. “And dessert.”

“It better be nice,” Zenko grumbles before hanging up.

That’s that. When Badd turns, Satoru is grinning again, and though Badd may be out his pocket money for the week he finds he can’t even care because seeing an honest to god grin on Satoru’s face is rare enough to still be a delight. (He’s honestly not sure it ever will stop being just that.) “What?”

“You are very sweet with her,” Satoru says by way of explanation. Shrugging a bit as if to walk back the compliment.

But Badd just puffs his chest out. “She’s my sister. Why would I treat her like anything but the princess she is?”

Satoru just smiles, demure. “I would ask for nothing less.” Standing - Badd can hear a knee snap, crackle, and pop - Badd puts a hand on Justice’s handle. “Would you like a ride?”

It’s not about the ride, Badd knows that now. Still, he clicks his tongue, “Could push you faster than you can peddle.”

“Probably,” says Satoru as he nudges the kickstand up, straddling the bike like it’s second nature. “Still. Would be hard to push me with your hands full of dinner.”

Badd’s already moving to get on the back, unbothered. “I’d just hold the bags in my teeth.”

It gets a laugh from Satoru. “You would not!”

Badd puts his head by the other’s shoulder, grinning in his ear. “You think I wouldn’t? Can do a lot with this mouth-”

“All right, all right!” But Satoru’s blushing and Badd can feel the heat from his neck. 

Laughing himself, he pats Satoru’s shoulder. “Let’s go. Know a soba noodle cart that’s second to none an’ I did promise Zenko the best.”

Dutifully, Satoru starts off, a fluid kick off that has Badd barely noticing. The Association looms behind them, shadow cast long and tall in the streetlights, and Badd finds himself holding his breath until Justice’s wheels past the sharp edge. Satoru’s head glances up at him, but if there’s any more comment than that Satoru doesn’t say it. Instead, Badd squeezes his shoulder, and they bike on.

Sangoro’s Soba stand is where it always is, with a line a mile long mostly filled with giggling girls and blushing women. Satoru gives Badd a raised eyebrow, but even as Badd blushes he puts a hand up, “It’s always like this.”

“I see. And is this popular with you because of the food?”

Badd sputters, “Why else would it be?!”

Satoru chuckles, and gestures. Sangoro himself is there today, as he is for two months in spring. It’s a small stand, well kept and well lit, the chef himself smoking as he always was and concentrating hard on the movement of his knife. Lanterns lit the chef’s hair to a brilliant gold, goatee well maintained, and after a moment of staring as stormy blue eyes flick their direction it’s Badd’s turn to blush.

“ It’s just the noodles, ” he hisses. Then something clicks, and his head snaps to Satoru. “Why. You jealous?” Satoru ducks his gaze, but Badd notices how the man’s gloved fingers cramp then flex and his grin grows knowing. “Don’t worry. He ain’t my type.”

Satoru huffs, but there’s a pink on his cheeks again and Badd decides to read it as acceptance. “I would not blame you.”

“Mmm, don’t gotta blame me at all then. Though Zenko, on the other hand…” Badd notes the number of school girls and decides he’s not bringing Zenko back until she’s at least sixteen. “Still. Heard rumor the guy was married.”

They get in line, nonetheless, Badd watching Satoru shed his gloves in the warm night air. Taking in a deep breath, Satoru’s tongue pops out to lick his lips, and Badd knows him well enough at this point to guess that he has something he’s working up to asking. Rather than push it, he makes himself bite his tongue.

“Are you ok?”

It’s not what Badd expects and he squints a bit. “Huh?”

Satoru glances over at him. “You seemed upset with the Association car. I know they can be…” The other trails and Badd gets a sense for what manners won’t let him say.

“Shits,” Badd fills in, and Satoru snorts but doesn’t deny it. “Fuckin’ hate getting dragged off when I’ve got elsewhere to be.”

“I am sure they mean well,” Satoru says, softly.

“Eh.” Badd clicks his tongue. “Don’t care if they do. Think they care more about controlin’ the narrative than they do about heroes.”

Satoru’s cool brown eyes glance at him from the side. “Oh?”

Badd sighs, runs a hand through his hair and decides not to care that the pompadour is most certainly sagging. “It’s like…they’re more interested in keepin’ their own noses clean than takin’ care of the people who actually clean up the streets. I mean, look at you!”

Too late, Badd realizes this might not be the best example to lead with. Satoru raises an eyebrow, but waits for him to continue to put his foot in his mouth. Badd considers just taking the shoe off to better shove it in.

Badd clears his throat. “I just mean, you’re bustin’ your literal ass to make their damn quotas but still gotta work, like, eighteen jobs just to make ends meet!”

Satoru considers this with a soft hum that’s as light as the bonito flakes on the noodles going by. Then, he smiles. “It is a good thing I have a padded seat then, isn’t it?”

There’s a long pause, then Badd laughs. Satoru lets out a breath and joins him, softer, but distinctly pleased and Badd decides he’d rather eat both shoes than disappoint the man. It’s nice, this. Standing side by side in the warm spring air, the smell of soba noodles perfuming the night. Satoru’s laugh is certainly not the only one around them, but it’s the only one Badd can focus on.

The incident at the Association suddenly feels far away.

“I just wish the Association took care of its own, you know?” Badd’s shoulders slump a bit and his fingers scratch under his chin. “People don’t even got water in K-City. Isn’t the Association supposed to handle shit like that?”

“They are limited in how much they can impact city decisions,” Satoru murmurs. But he sighs and Badd can see something give there in the other’s expression. In the way he lets out a soft, slow breath. “But there are many hard working heroes I would also like to see be better taken care of.”

Badd knows the other is likely thinking of everyone but himself, which is both charming and frustrating as all shit. But he doesn’t push the topic. “Plus, feel like they’re always hidin’ shit.” He nudges Satoru’s shoulder. “You ever even SEEN the number one S-Rank?”

Satoru’s eyes widen. “No, but I have theories…” 

And off the other goes on theories and questions, a list that goes on for at least ten minutes. It’s nerdy as all fuck, and Badd finds he doesn’t give a shit. He loves the animated way Satoru’s hands gesture, how he has such a careful list in his head of power scales and run downs. It’s the Association database in living form, and Badd never thought he’d even consider that to be hot, yet here they were. It’s sweet, too, how Satoru is careful to never quite say something outright negative about a hero. Even Sweet Mask - who Badd finds beyond anything even remotely sweet - is given cool consideration. It’s endearing.

Badd badly wants to kiss him, but it’s their turn and his attention is torn from a comparison of Flashy Flash and Stinger. 

The soba stall only really has one thing to order, but the chef takes it down nonetheless with a nod. Reaching up to take his cigarette from his mouth to deliver an upbeat, but calm, confirmation. Those same brilliant eyes glance at Satoru, however, then to Badd, and they crinkle, soft wrinkles forming, a knowing look sent back to Badd that has him blushing something fierce as he slaps down the money.

Satoru doesn’t notice, or if he does he only stops to breathe because he’s been talking for nearly ten minutes. “...I am…so sorry. I got carried away.”

Fingers itching for a cigarette, Badd settles for a shrug. “Kinda like it when you do.” The look on Satoru’s face is worth it, and Badd smirks, nudging his shoulder again gently. “Actin’ like I don’t know you’re a huge nerd.”

“Being one and someone liking it are two very different things.”

“Well, I ain’t one to listen if I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

At this, Satoru relents, shaking his head. “I don’t think even I could get you to do something you don’t want to do.”

Badd badly wants to point out how Satoru is using far more contractions than normal. A part of him wonders if it’s because the guy is relaxed. They’ve come a way since they first met, Badd realizes, and Tanaka’s question creeps back into the forefront of his mind. “I dunno, you might be surprised.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow at that, shooting him a look, one that Badd returns with a saucy grin. “You are-”

“Incredible, I know,” Badd finishes.

Satoru laughs and Badd wonders how he’s gotten lucky so many times tonight. The Association? Forgotten in favor of Satoru’s paler skin, glowing in the yellow light of lanterns. Badd watches him, unabashedly, and nearly misses the soba noodles pushed his direction. When the hot cups hit his hand, he snaps to, ready to give a snippy remark. But the chef merely grins at him around the cigarette, curled eyebrow rising, and Badd huffs in indignation at getting caught.

Neatly, Satoru takes the bag and gives the chef a bow that is ignored in favor of a blushing woman. As they turn, however, Badd half ready to give the chef a piece of his mind for the rudeness, Satoru hefts the bag up. “Shall we get this back to Zenko?”

Badd takes a breath, and in a sign of adoration that he’s not entirely sure Satoru notices for an act of such, turns away. “In a minute.” Satoru just watches, confused, as Badd reaches into the bag to take out a sealed container. Offering it out. “You gonna eat with me or just make me eat alone?”

Satoru just blinks, confused. “Aren’t you bringing it back for Zenko?”

“Yeah, but I’m guessin’ you haven’t eaten and I”m hungry now.” Satoru doesn’t look convinced however, so Badd sighs, “I burn through calories like Red Ape does bananas.”

It takes a moment, but the way recognition dawns on Satoru’s face is worth the theme song that still plays in his head at 2am. Joy incarnate, it turns out, is remembering that dumb line from that dumb song for the dumb guy who may or may not have his dumb heart.

“You remembered!”

Badd sniffs, “Course I did. You think I wasn’t payin’ attention during that exhibit?”

Satoru goes red, stuttering through a hurried apology, “I-I did not mean to imply-”

Badd shoves the container into Satoru’s chest, smirking. “I’m teasin’ ya, bike brain. Now take this and eat with me before I start gettin’ upset that you’re letting the best soba in town get cold.”

They find a spot by the fountain, the jets long since turned off for the evening quiet hours. There’s a part of Badd that feels disquiet resentment for the fact that A-City has water for fountains but K-City can’t shower. But Satoru wolfs down soba at a rate that confirms Badd’s suspicions and he smirks into his own cup.

Somewhere, a car backfires, and a car horn starts. But here, now, with Satoru and the best soba in all the alphabet cities, it feels hard to feel anything other than at peace. Enough so that Badd finds himself opening his mouth of his own volition, “I fought a centipede today.”

It takes Satoru a moment to finish slurping a noodle. But he swallows and asks, voice hoarse from the hot broth, “Did you spit on it?”

The question is so left field Badd nearly spills his broth. “What the absolute fuck ?!”

Satoru just blinks, “Like the Ōmukade?”

The name might as well be English to Badd, because it’s his turn to imitate a traffic light, blinking through confusion, exasperation, and fondness. “Bless you?”

A soft, indignant huff comes from Satoru. “You’ve never heard the story of Tawara and the Ōmukade?” At Badd’s continued silence, Satoru continues, “By Lake Biwa?” And when Badd tries to piece how any of that makes sense, tries once more, “Tawara Tōda Monogatari?”

Badd clicks his tongue. “Kinda flattering you think I read.”

Satoru groans, rolling his eyes a bit as he takes a last large gulp of his food before setting the container and chopsticks aside with the crinkle of carefully balled up paper. “I think it was more hope than actual belief.”

That drops Badd’s jaw and Satoru laughs a bit, glancing down, cheeks flushed from the cheer.

It takes a bump of Satoru’s boot to his to get Badd to shake his head, still reeling. “Did you just…for real?”

Satoru glances at him from the corner of his eyes, glasses shining in the street lights. “So, Ōmukade.” And by the time Satoru is done telling an abbreviated version of the tale, their feet are pressed together from ankle to knee.

Badd leans back on a hand, clicking his tongue. “Shit, if I’d known I could spit on the damn thing maybe I wouldn’t have ended up buried.”

Next to him, Badd can feel Satoru stiffen, head whipping towards him, “You what ?”

There’s a casualness to Badd’s shrug that doesn’t fit. Drowning in the indifference like the small child he’d felt like underneath the rock. “Chased the thing underground. Caved in the place. HQ had to dig me out, but you know what the worst part is?” He’s aware Satoru is watching him with a slightly horrified expression, one Badd doesn’t quite like on him so he pushes forward quickly, “K-City still has no water. You know how much it’s killin’ me not to shower?”

The joke falls flat, however, and Badd is surprised speechless once again when Satoru shifts. Soba noodle warmed fingers guide his cheek until Badd is looking into those wide, cool brown eyes wide and clear behind glasses. Badd feels his heart thud a bit and he realizes he’s stopped breathing. “What?”

“Are you ok?” The ask is quiet, insistent, serious as Satoru’s eyes scour him. “Did HQ check you over? Should you be out?”

Badd wants to push his hand away, and he considers it even as he croaks, “‘m fine . Would take more than that to keep me down.” Satoru says nothing, however, still insistently seeking out something for so long that Badd eventually grouses, “Seriously, I got an extra eye or why are you staring at me like that?”

Satoru says nothing, however, and Badd feels irritation start to spark through his chest until he’s pulled into a hug. Arms circling around him and a face buried in Badd’s neck. The irritation dies as quickly as it came, and Badd suddenly feels the cold chill that is starting to leech into the warm night. Hand coming up to pat Satoru’s back, he sighs, “‘m fine. I promise.”

“I knew something was off,” Satoru says, muffled against his skin.

Badd isn’t sure how he knew that, but he likes the idea of someone caring enough about him to consider his feelings in all this hero shit. So he patts Satoru’s back. “‘m fine. Yeah? Sitting here breathing, eating, makin’ you eat.”

At that Satoru pulls back to give him a bit of an annoyed huff, “I have eaten today, I’ll have you know.”

“How many times?” asks Badd, and the sputter from Satoru is worth it. Still, though, he takes the chance to cup Satoru’s cheek and traces the line of Satoru’s cheek bone with the pad of his thumb. The way Satoru stares at him, though, finds Badd opening his mouth, “Got a bit rattled. Just, needed some time I guess.”

Satoru listens gravely. “Oh Badd, you could have told me.”

He could have, but Badd still finds himself hesitating. “Didn’t…” He can see Satoru’s eyes unwaveringly watch him, giving him the time he needs to click through just how he actually feels. When he finally settles on something, he sighs, hand running through his long since ruined hair. “Guess I wasn’t really up to much.”

Satoru asks, gently, “Were you hurt?”

“Few cuts and scrapes, but nothin’ to really show for it,” Badd mumbles, well aware of how marks tend to not stick around on him. He frowns at himself, though, scratching idly at Satoru’s shoulder.

“I see.” There’s more in there, Badd can see by the way Satoru works his jaw. But nothing else comes and instead Satoru glances right, then left, then leans over to kiss the side of his cheek. Nothing more than a peck, but affection leeching into the way Satoru’s hands never quite leave his fingers.

Something else clicks for Badd. “Were you comin’ to check on me after school cause you were worried ?” Satoru blushes, and Badd grins, poking the guy’s cheek. “Awww, that’s kinda sweet, you sap.” Badd pauses, “Also to the wrong person could be kinda stalkerish.”

Satoru, predictably, lights up bright red like a lantern and Badd laughs so hard he gets a stitch in his side.

By the time they make it back to K-City, the hour is late enough office lights are blinking off, a silence that’s never quite complete - cities never fully sleep - blanketing around them. The apartment building looms overhead, a familiar presence that Badd would normally say put him at ease. Yet as they stood at the gated entrance, Badd couldn’t find himself ready to go in.

His fingers curl tightly on the soba bag, leaning against the back wheel of Justice, and he stares up at where he knows Zenko is waiting. Next to him, keeping Justice up, Satoru is tugging his gloves back on, sneaking furtive glances over that Badd wonders if he’s trying to be slick about. It’s adorable.

“Well. This is me.”

“So it is,” Satoru agrees. But those gloved hands don’t take up the handlebars, and after a long moment Satoru clears his throat. “Badd?”

There’s no honorific - not that there has been half the evening, but it still draws Badd’s glance over. He could say something snippy, but instead he finds himself simply saying, “Yeah?”

Satoru’s mouth twitches. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

Half of Badd wants to say no, to see if another kiss comes with. Half of him wants to say no, because he knows he isn’t; there’s something in him still damp with soil drenched numbness and it scares him he can’t name it. And half of him wants to say yes, because he’s Metal Bat, S-Rank. He’s the one who remains strong no matter the reason. 

(There’s too many halves in him and he feels overly full from it; like something will break.)

“‘m fine, bike head,” he says after a release of a breath. Turning to punch Satoru’s shoulder gently. Snaking a hand around the other’s waist to lean in to kiss-

And both of them pulling away when the motion lights of the front lobby go on. They both clear their throat, but Badd finds Satoru’s gaze is still gentle, soft. “If you are sure.”

“Don’t worry about me,” says Badd. “Ain’t gone up against anything that has killed me yet.”

Satoru’s nose wrinkles. “If I asked Zenko that, would she confirm?”

Badd opens his mouth, the shuts it with a click. “Shut up.”

A chuckle meets that, though, and Badd lets his pride be soothed. With a sigh, however, he pushes off from Justice’s wheel, rocking from heel to toes before spinning to look back at Satoru.

Satoru just gives him a soft smile, “I’ll be up for a bit. If you need anything.” There’s something else there, worry maybe. But Satoru doesn’t voice it.

Badd raises his eyebrows. “Anything?”

“ Within reason .”

“I had to try!” Badd cackles. He badly wants to kiss the guy, but someone chooses then to come out of their apartment to toss out the trash. Foiled by it all, Badd just sighs. “All right, get goin’ you. Get that leg work out in.”

Satoru snorts, “Sleep well, Tawara.”

The rider is off with that, the spokes of Justice whirring in the cooling evening. Badd watches him go, calling after him, “I still don’t know who the fuck that is!” But there’s no answer, and still swimming with the fact that they’re at nickname level now, Badd spins to head up. 

At the apartment entrance, Mrs. Togashi shuffles back in her plush robe, stained sandals, and hair in curls. She gives Badd a critical look as she waits, impatiently, for him to open the door for her. Which he does if only because he reminds himself it’s what Satoru would do. Grunting in thanks, Badd clicks his tongue, not impressed.

And freezes when the older woman glances over her shoulder. “That the new shrinegirl?”

Badd immediately stiffens, eyes narrowing against the upward curve of her nose. “Nah.” And he pauses for a nanosecond. (Tanaka’s question echoes again: how serous is it?) “Just a friend.”

“Hmph,” is all Mrs. Togashi says, and she shuffles away with a predictable slide of her feet.

Badd burns at that, unsure whether it’s rage at the idea of the principle, or if the noise doesn’t bring about a question that only the deepest of nights can bring. One that rattles in a drawer he keeps shoved, deep within the recesses. 

The question of if he deserves any of this at all.

Chapter Text

Zenko’s scream wakes him up and has him appearing in the doorway of her room, blanket puddled in the hall, bat in hand, and thin sleep shirt still struggling to decide how to settle after the movement.

She’s wide eyed and covering her head, shaking like the walls of the house Badd tries not to remember. Badd knows the figure he cuts, the heat of his rage so intense ice seems to have overtaken the room, eyes bright and feet still smoking from the speed. They’ll never get their deposit back with the number of burn marks that scour the floors. But Badd cannot give a damn about the ethics of renting when Zenko is crying, snot dripping into her tears, as she does something surprising.

She points at the balcony.

Badd’s there in a flash, ignoring the hiss of Tama as she cowers behind Zenko. Yanking the glass door open with enough force he’ll be surprised later it doesn’t crack. The small balcony is strung with an old set of fairy lights, batteries long forgotten about, a pot filled with well tended (and eaten) catnip, a faded pillow; quiet and empty and-

He smells it then.

Something .

Molded and dank, dark and raw. An energy that makes his blood boil and conjures memories of previous times when darkness pressed it and dirt filled his mouth.

The balcony is empty but something was there. But why or what Badd doesn’t know and it makes him growl . Honest to god snarling that only makes himself burn hotter and the world around him dwindle into cold, freezing, glacial ice.

“Onii-chan.”

The sniffle has him turning and Zenko is there, fear in her eyes, though now pointed at him. And if there is anything in the world Badd cannot be, it’s scary to Zenko. His bat drops with a metal clang and when he blinks the air is no longer trying to form crystals around him from the heat of passionate spirit broiling within him.

He’s at her side in an instant, letting her hug him tightly. Hugging tightly in return and trying not to think why his own shirt is suddenly drenched in a cold sweat. “‘s ok, Zenko, ain’t nothin’ there anymore.”

“But there was,” she says softly, and she at least is with it enough to remember that there’s nothing she says that Badd won’t take seriously.

It’s adrenaline that ensures Badd’s own fingers don’t shake as he pushes hair from Zenko’s face. “What’d it look like? You remember?”

Zenko swallows, “Two great yellow eyes.” She swallows again, “And fangs. And this dome for a head! And it was just staring at Tama and me and -” Hiccups overtake Zenko and Badd leans down to kiss her forehead.

“Ain’t gonna let anything scary into the house. Promise.”

“You can’t - promise that,” Zenko gasps between hiccups. She hugs him then, tightly, burying her face into his chest and he can feel her still trembling. “You aren’t - always - here.”

It’s something that hits low and hits true because she’s right . He can’t always be here. A fact he’s keenly aware of every time he rushes into the thick of things. A burning coal that outlasts the inferno; turning to diamond from the pressure and refracting guilt into every corner of his life. (Because if he goes, who does she have left?)

A glance back to the balcony confirms that nothing is there. But Badd can’t help that he feels chilled, unsettled, and his fingers itch to do something. So instead, he hums, “Wanna crash it on the sofa with me?”

Zenko just hiccups. “Can we - vacuum it - first?”

He does indeed vacuum it for her, though that does little for the hot chocolate stains that marr it when they both wake up to a late alarm, covered in blankets, couch arm covered in drool from Badd’s mouth, and their feet jammed up against each other that leaves both of them stiff and cranky.

A part of Badd wants to keep her home, keep her safe. Zenko almost asks; Badd can see her working on the thought over pieces of toast they cram down over the sink. (The water is still off, and there’s quite a collection of the little bastards now.)

In the end, she goes, and Badd’s grateful because she’s safer elsewhere, around people. Though to satisfy them both, he walks her there, ignoring the heart eyes and sighs thrown his way as he stands at the entrance, making sure she gets in safely. When the door closes behind her he’s gone. Back home in record time and scouring the balcony. He should be in Literature right now, but school always takes a back seat to Zenko. To the one good thing he has left from his parents.

Yet even his keen eyes and nose find nothing to give further shape or form to Zenko’s nightmare. The scent from last night now long gone. It’s frustrating, he’s frustrated (or is it helpless?). There’s nothing he can do against nothing though and it’s a truth he has to swallow as he shuts and locks the door for good measure. 

His phone buzzes then, and when he glances at it he half expects another call from the school. 

Checking in.

Satoru’s message blinks and Badd feels something catch in his throat. It’s the third text of its kind, sent ever since they parted ways smelling of soba and wisteria. A gentle nudge that makes Badd wonder if perhaps his insistence on being fine wasn’t quite the great act he thought it had been. It’s a sweet little thing, that check up though, and it makes something pop and fizz in Badd that he’s not even sure how to begin to describe.

Doin fine just got something goin on.

There’s a long stretch where for a moment Badd wonders if the guy’s even looking at his phone anymore. Then, another buzz.

Shouldn’t you be in class?

Badd snorts to himself. (And tries not to feel completely called out.) You got my schedule memorized?

It is 10:30 in the morning.

Which fair point. Badd winces, but he’s not about to go in. Not when there’s still a mystery to solve and a window to completely board up.

Somethin came up

And typically, a reply, Do you need help?

Badd can’t help himself. Shouldn’t u b at a job?

He likes to think he can imagine the soft laugh, the red cheeks, the certain way Satoru breathes in when he laughs. Touche.

That has Badd wrinkling his nose. I thought u said not until my birthday

He doesn’t check the reply, however, as there’s a chill up his spine. Something that drips down the very middle of it, seeping into his bone, and leaving behind raised hair and goosebumps all over his body. Stepping back to the balcony door, he glances down and sees it in the street. A flash of the fuck?!

A mole.

A giant ass mole staring up at him from the small plot that constitutes the apartment’s backyard, eyes narrowed, fur dark brown in the sun and near black in the shade. Staring up at Badd like the thing knew just where to look. Time seems to stretch for a long, long, long, long moment. That chill never leaving his spine and leaving him feeling ragged and torn.

Then, in a whirlwind of dirt, the mole is gone.

Badd doesn’t hesitate, throwing the door open and jumping. Landing hard enough to leave a dent in the concrete below and a boom of impact that shudders windows and sets two cars off. The dirt is still warm for movement when he reaches the hole, scowling as he glances in. He may not have his bat, but his fists can do a lot.

“HEY! YOU FREAKY SHIT FACE!” His voice echoes in the hole. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!”

He can hear digging, the noise dissipating as it gets further away, and he’s not about to let the mystery get away. So with a jump he’s falling, falling, falling, until his feet impact the ground hard again, knees threatening to crack. Not that he cares, because he’d shatter both legs to make sure Zenko was safe.

The noise in front of him gets louder, and Badd is fairly certain what he’s smelling is the smoke of his feet and the ass of the thing in front of him. A coincidence, as the latter meets the former with a roar from Badd that bellows throughout the tunnel. The mole man, to it’s credit, curses-

“FU-CK?!”

Which has Badd stuttering to a stop because, “Did you just speak?!”

Wide whites stare back at him, then a snarl forms over the mole’s face. If there’s more to be said, however, the thing doesn’t say it, choosing instead to flee, moving at mach 7, spraying Badd’s face with dirt. Badd doesn’t think. He runs after it, screaming something he doesn’t remember but that the thing most certainly hears as it speeds up. He can’t let it go, he won’t let it go; this thing may not be what Zenko saw but there’s that uncanny valley feeling of believing this monster isn’t related. There is no such thing as too many coincidences. There’s something going on and Badd isn’t about to sit around and wait to find out.

Fuck that.

By the time the mole bursts back to the surface, Badd is so close he can nearly touch its tail. Lunging and missing by mere millimeters. Fingers come away with hairs, and he’s blinded temporarily by the outpouring of light and screams. Emerging from the ground, he finds a car breaking inches from head. Hoisting himself from the tunnels, he nearly doesn’t realize that the screaming isn’t just over him.

It takes a minute to realize that the screams are running past him. That though the mole certainly gave a few another fright, few are stopping even to point at it. The mole, however, glances at whatever lies behind Badd, then flicks his eyes back. Pointed teeth grinning in a way that makes Badd feel that cold splinter of ice in his back all over again.

Badd dares a look behind him and realizes the rock and the hard place he’s found himself in.

“TIGER TANK TRI-CUT!”

He knows instantly who it is even without needing to see around the malformed creature. A thing made of plate upon plate upon plate, two ears swiveling, tail sweeping and taking a fire hydrant with it. The plume of water erupts, but it’s a faint roar over the screaming and the brick of a convenience store giving out. What the hell this is, Badd doesn’t know, but Tanktop Tiger’s punch only moves it back a foot or two.

This alone wouldn’t necessarily be enough to deter him. And he nearly turns away to let the B-Level handle it. But the spin of a bike wheel catches his eyes and he realizes with a sudden drop of his stomach that he recognizes the color of this particular one.

Where Justice is, Satoru is never far behind.

His feet feel cemented, and he turns back to the mole. It stares at him and he swears there’s a snicker that causes a tongue to come out and wipe over teeth. A taunt that sends Badd’s muscles into a strong tense. Unconsciously, he steps forward toward it, but behind him he hears-

“ ARMADILLO ATTACK! ”

The screams that follow pull Badd’s focus, and he realizes then he will have to choose. Every part of him is screaming, and his instinct demands he follow, interrogate, destroy. Zenko is his priority, Zenko is the most important thing in the world.

And yet.

Justice’s bent wheel slows, spokes clicking like a broken clock, and he realizes then as the armadillo creature swipes for Tanktop Tiger that there’s a form sitting against a nearby wall. Helmet covered in dust, blood trickling down an eye just visible through a broken goggle, hand over a shoulder and watching the battle with glazed eyes.

Everything in Badd stops and he feels an unusual paralysis take over his body.

It pops into his mind, unbidden: What would Mumen Rider do? What would Zenko want him to do?

Mumen Rider struggles to his feet then - there’s something wrong with his shoulder, even Badd can see the uncanny curve of it from here - and makes a grab with his good arm for a civilian fleeing. Pulling them in and against his beaten chest pad and away from the swing of that tail that would have taken them out.

“ BLACK HOLE BLAST! ”

Behind him, Badd hears it, the drawn out hiss of a laugh. He turns to find the mole huffing odd, odd chortle. “Have fuuuuuuuun, little brother.” And it dashes off then, as if it knows what Badd’s decision will be.

It’s made a critical error, however, as the nickname rings in the air.

Brother.

He sees red, then he sees black. The battle behind him is inconsequential, the slow click of Justice’s wheel disappearing into the vortex of anger that whirlpools through him. A term he refuses to hear from anyone, anyone , other than her. And isn’t that what this whole thing is about, anyway?

The mole squeaks when his hand catches its neck, lifting it into an impossible arc over Badd’s head. Crashing into the ground where a trail of burnt concrete leads to this inevitable grave sight. Badd’s eyes burn, smoke rising, and his school jacket threatens to fall at the speed of his turn. His foot comes down, right into the mole’s chest, grinding him further down into the ground until bone cracks under his heel.

“No one, I mean no one , calls me that except for her,” he says, and his voice sounds almost foreign to himself. Leaning down, he grabs the mole’s arm and he feels it twist in his arm, knows he pulls it impossibly tight, knows that the scream that issues from the mole’s mouth is indicative of the strength he’s using. But even the thing’s scratchy fur is second to the fury that still leeches into his vision.

The mole snarls, and slashes with its other hand, sharp claws flashing. Claws scratch his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Instinct and force send his face to the side, the taste of iron in his mouth and nose. For any other, it would crack bone, make flesh ragged, drop them like a fly. 

But instead, he simply turns his face back, rivulets of blood rolling down his face, dripping onto the mole’s dark fur. Its eyes widen as Badd’s grip tights, rather than let go. “ You’re gonna wanna rethink doin’ that again.”

He is fury, he is rage, he is everything that Zenko means to him - strength beyond the possible, a will that flares as everything screams in him that he must keep her safe. She is all that is good of their name, all that can be something instrumental to saving the world, all the good parts of the memories he barely has these days. And he isn’t about to let it be placed in the firing line of something he can’t even begin to imagine.

Badd hauls the mole closer, bones cracking, his breath hot between them, “Now you’re gonna tell me why you’re watchin’ me and what the FUCK is watchin’ my sister, otherwise I’ll grind you so hard into the ground worms gonna be eatin’ you before the day’s over.”

Something in the mole seems to acknowledge when danger has finally arrived. “I’m just like you, I’m practically your brother, I’m just doin’ what he says don’t kill me don’tkillmedon’tkillme!”

It’s more information than Badd knows what to do with, so he narrows his eyes and focuses on one thing at a time. “ Who the fuck are you workin’ for? ”

The mole freezes then, sweat drops appearing on its forehead, star nose twitching and Badd knows he’s been given more than he should have. “He’ll kill me if I say,” the mole wheezes, a mere whisper. Badd shakes him and the mole whines as bones grate under Badd’s heel. “HE’LL KILL ME! And you don’t wanna get on the bad side of the House of Evolution!”

It’s the third time now he’s heard that name and he’s no closer to understanding what it means. “What the fuck is that even? I don’t know anythin’ by the name House of Evo-whatever!”

But the mole just squints up at him, confused. “You don’t?”

“Why would I?”

And the mole squeaks and squirms as Badd’s grip tightens on its chest. “Because you’re one of us!”

Everything threatens to tunnel vision then. “One of you? One of you?!” Badd snarls, spit flecking the mole’s face. “I ain’t anything like you hideous fuckin’ monsters !”

The word drips with his ire; memories of screaming, of being buried, gasping for air, screaming . A hand that wouldn’t respond, two caskets and everything familiar with them. The suffocating feeling of being alone in a universe that didn’t want or need them.

The mole just twitters, oscillating between hysteria and a mad cackle. “You have no idea, do you? Not a single idea just what you are! You’re closer to us than you know!” And the thing dissolves into a maddening laughing, twisting under him.

Badd’s fist lets go to drive in, hard, into the mole’s chest. When he punches once, he finds he can’t stop. Something akin to a growl, perhaps a scream, coming from his mouth because he will never be a monster. He will never be anything close to what killed them . To what nearly killed him. He vowed when he was young to be strong, so strong, for her. To take the blows that would mean others would live with what he saw, with what he remembered, with what he wished he could forget. He doesn’t feel anything in his hand as his punches drive in. Blind to all but the fury and the scream that wants to rend itself from him because he will never be one of them.

Blood gushes from the mole’s mouth, but it stares up at him, claw dripping with his blood, his own mixing with the creature’s wet fur. The smile it gives is weak with pain. “Th-The only difference b-between me and you is you g-g-got the looks!” And it rattles its teeth then, something akin to a mad, feverish rage spilling into its eyes. “I-I-It’s because of the ones like me that the likes of you-”

A gun sounds, and Badd turns as the mole squeals, paw slamming into his side in reflex, sending a grunt from him. And they separate as they’re pushed apart from the force of the bullet and the swipe.

Badd shakes his head, the anger fading into a dizzy for a moment, watching as the mole miraculously, frantically, turns and digs. Deep into the ear at a speed borne solely of wanting to stay alive. He can feel the rumble of the earth as it retreats and the snarl that spreads is part anger at it and fury at the bullet. He’s on his feet, ready to follow, but the hand on his shoulder is surprisingly firm. 

And cold.

When he looks up, some part of his brain isn’t surprised to see Zombieman. There’s a cold aura to the man, and always has been. But what the hell he’s doing here, Badd doesn’t know, nor does he care. “Let me go.”

“Leave him be,” says Zombieman.

“I caught him once, I’ll catch him again!” snarls Badd, but Zombieman doesn’t let him go

Instead, the pallid face and pale, pale eyes find him. “And what would you do if you did?”

Badd’s face screws up. “Fuck you, why do you care?! I was this close to-”

“To what?” Zombieman lets him go then as dawning spreads in Badd’s face. A hand reaching into a long coat pocket and pulling out the cigarette carton. The sticks rattle as he shakes one, then another, out. “You were thirty seconds from killing it. Don’t try to sell me otherwise, kid.”

Another growl twists up his throat and he tries to worm from Zombieman’s grasp. The other, however, is fast, letting go and stepping a casual boot on his ankle. Bone threatens to crack, but more than that the numbness that radiates makes Badd see stars as the adrenaline leaves him. 

“Like fuck I was.” That pulls a sour look from Badd as he stands, wavering, blood pooling in his jaw until he turns to spit it angrily out. “Was getting good shit from him.”

“Oh?” It’s a simple goad, but one that comes with a lit cigarette at least.

Badd takes it, wincing as the marks of his face pull with the purse of his lips. “Why should I tell you?”

Zombieman watches him from the side of his eyes, letting smoke breath out of his nose. “Because I’m the only one that knows what you’re looking for.” 

Badd just stares at him. “Seriously? You know what the House of-”

Zombieman is suddenly in his space and Badd stammers to a stop, a match of wills that he hadn’t anticipated. “Don’t say it. Not here.” Zombieman glances over his shoulder and Badd sees it then, the tell tale cars of the Heroes Association pulling in fast. Badd’s eyes drag back to Zombieman’s pale ones, and the other puts a finger to his lips. “Say nothing. The Association is not your friend, and you are being watched very closely, Metal Bat.”

With that, Zombiemans takes another long drag, snuffs the flame with his hand, and turns to the tunnel. “I’ll follow the rat home. Meet me next week,” he says, and disappears with a single leap into the tunnel.

It leaves Badd to stare after him, cigarette hanging from his mouth, dumbstruck. “What the FUCK ?” And it hits him then. “Where the fuck am I supposed to meet you?!”

There’s no point, however, as both his best lead and his apparently best other lead are both gone. The sounds underground silent as the whine of police and association members starts to build. It hits him then, that he’d never told the Association where he was going, or why. And while monster attacks certainly call attention, the fact that a car heads away from the main uproar gives credence to much of what Zombieman’s warning held.

Taking a deep breath, Badd turns from the source of one mystery to another. And clear as a day, the memory of a bike spoke slowly clicking fills his head.

He stills for a moment, then brushes past the Association attempting to flag him down. Ignoring the called out questions and pushing through the throngs of assessors, emergency personnel, and pointedly blazing past the caution tape being put up.

Mumen Rider isn’t hard to find, perched as he is in the back of an ambulance. Patiently letting his head be cleaned and bandaged, goggles switched for glasses, arm already looking better though immobilized in a sling. Even moreso than the man himself, mention of him draws Badd like lightning to a pole.

"Keep tellin’ you, skills like yours aren’t needed here when the action is high, Mumen Rider! You’re a damn liability!”

“Tiger’s right; you aren’t cut out for this hero stuff if that’s the best you got! Better you step aside and let the real power houses handle this next time!”

Badd’s eyes narrow, and the forms of Tanktop Black Hole and Tanktop Tiger come into view. They’re both mildly bandaged and moderately annoyed, and Badd can see the EMT is nervous from the way they keep shifting to get further away from the furious two. Mumen, for his part, sits and takes the admonishments, and it’s hard to tell if his cheeks are pale from blood loss or something else.

Tanktop Black Hole tsks, snorting loudly as his arms cross over his chest. A ridiculous motion as it only makes his already ripped blank tank top rip further. “Takes real strength to be a hero, Rider. Dunno how you keep beating out Tiger, but one day you’re gonna realize that you’re better off on the sideline!”

He keeps waiting for Mumen to say something, anything. To snap his head up and throw a come back that unbalances the brothers. But nothing comes and Badd realizes, then, that he’s never once seen Mumen stand up for himself. Not here in the field, or out of it.

Clearing his own throat, he jams a hand in a pocket and lets himself put on the most bored expression he can. “You two gonna keep blowin’ hot air or gonna go do somethin’ useful for once?”

Tanktop Tiger looks over, face red enough that the tiger print tank top seems to stand out even more, ready to snap. “Dunno who you think you are-” His expression growing pale when he realizes just who it is. “Oh shit, fuck .”

Tanktop Black Hole looks over as well and his eyes narrow. “What the hell is an S-Class doing here?”

“Need to know basis,” Badd drawls. “And you two ain’t got the brain cells to ever be in the need category. So beat it. Some of us got a nice lookin’ face to save.”

The two get so red in the face Badd’s certain they can give Mumen a run for his money. But the news are here, a reporter grabbing the attention enough for Badd to slip by and find familiar oval glasses watching him.

“Badd-san,” Mumen says in more of an exhale than anything else. “What are you doing here?”

“Heard about a good cake shop and thought I’d drop by.”

The EMT looks over at him and drops the gauze she’d been using to tape a bandage to the cut over Mumen’s eye. Her gaze says more than enough without the trembling gasp needing to clarify just how bad Badd’s face looks. “Oh my god, stay right there!”

As she darts off, speaking frantically into her walkie, Badd shifts to sit next to Mumen. Huffing a bit as blood drips from his chest and snorting to clear his nose of the coppery scent. Mumen stares at him as well, eyes wide.

“Badd-san,” and a hand reaches for him, before Mumen winces. “What happened?”

“Got caught up in something,” he says, and he knows how cryptic it sounds. But the Association is crawling the place and Zombieman’s warning hasn’t left him. He glances over in kind, frowning himself at Mumen’s state. “The hell happened to you?”

Mumen sighs, a wince peeking out from the minute motion. “The creature was going for a school bus. So I did what I thought was best and led it away. It, unfortunately, was far faster than I anticipated.”

Badd glances up, frowning when no bus is visible. “A school bus?”

“Hai, a few blocks over and up.”

Badd’s frown deepens. “That doesn’t sound close by.”

“I-” Mumen frowns himself and there’s an awkward pause that Badd isn’t quite sure how to take. “I was hoping to clear the stores and lead it to the park.”

The same one Badd had half disappeared in. He gets it then; you lead the things away from collateral damage. A very Mumen concept that Badd struggles to consider in any light other than far more considerate than he could ever be. “Impressive.”

“I am not so sure,” mutters Mumen quietly.

Badd nudges his shoulder, the one slinged, gently. “And this?”

“When it caught up, it slammed into me and I may have perhaps dislocated my arm again.”

That takes Badd a second. “Again?!”

Mumen scratches the back of his neck and there’s a hesitation to his voice that Badd finds himself caught on. “It is…something I have handled.”

“How is your arm popping out again handled?”

A sigh fogs up Mumen’s glasses. “It is just something that happens, Badd-san. I promise. It is…manageable.”

It doesn’t look or sound like it is, however, and Badd is uneasy enough about all of it to not be ready to put the topic to rest. “You should go to the hospital.”

Mumen snorts, “It is not worth a hospital visit, I assure you.” Then, quieter, “I cannot afford another one.”

Which is something Badd sort of gets, even if his thoughts, feelings, and opinions on it are loud. “Seriously, though, you look like shit.”

Mumen’s eyes narrow and glance at him. “And you do not?”

Badd blinks at the retort and grins. “Never. I’m the most attractive thing for miles.” But he pauses, adding lower, “Except maybe you.”

That gets Mumen to blush, and Badd laughs, about to say more when the EMT comes back. In the end, they argue until he agrees to stitches then and there, insisting a local will do it. No one leaves particularly happy, but half of Badd’s face is covered in dissolvable stitches and a sworn promise to get it checked out asap, medical tape itchy on his skin where the bandages lie.

Mumen stares at him, silent, the entire ordeal.

Badd makes a face at him when the EMT finally leaves in a huff. “C’mon, you gotta admit it, we look good like this.”

For a moment, he almost thinks he said something wrong. The silence heavy and awkward, until there’s a small sound that Badd takes a moment to realize is a huff. Then another. Then a chuckle. Then a laugh. And something uncoils in Badd’s stomach at that, his shoulders relaxing. He doesn’t miss how Mumen reaches for his hand, then stops.

“I would…” Mumen trails.

Badd leans in close. “Would like to what?” Mumen just blushes, again, and Badd’s grin goes wicked. “Are you thinking impure thoughts Mr. Mumen Rider?”

“N-No!”

“Are you thinkin’ of kissing me?!” When Mumen buries his face in his hands, Badd’s grin goes smug. “ Nasty .” 

Mumen slugs him with his good arm, gently, and Badd just cackles. He wouldn’t trade where he is in a million years, though reality always threatens to break the bubble that comes when he’s with the other. EMTs go by, the Tanktop brother’s voices float from the other side of a news truck, and Badd can hear the crackle of police and association radios.

As if clueing in, Mumen sighs, “I should-”

“Help?” Badd finishes, eyes snapping back to the cyclist. “With a busted arm?”

“It is not busted, just…formerly dislocated,” grumbles Mumen as he stands. There’s a soft wobble there that Badd knows is light headedness, but he doesn’t insult Mumen by reaching out to help. Steeling himself with a breath, Mumen’s eyes fall on something just outside their sphere and Badd follows his gaze.

Justice sits there, back tire still caught under a chunk of roofing, looking as tired as her owner and just as put together. Badd winces, “That looks bad.”

Mumen’s brows knit together in thought, a tired shrug that brings a short wince. “I have a spare tire back at my place.”

Badd hums, “How you gonna ride her home like that?” It’s a question, but a vague one, the answer already known.

Mumen’s fingers tug at Justice, the scrape of metal against tile making them both wince. “So long as one wheel turns, I can walk her home.”

It paints a distinct picture, watching Mumen with his bandaged head and arm in a sling try to gently yank Justice free. His helmet hangs by the chin strap from an elbow, and while Badd would never see Mumen as anything less than the hero he is, in this instance he looks far more like Satoru - dog-eared and waning fast.

Standing, feeling the pinch of stitches and the pinch of blood rushing back to his feet, Badd moves to easily lift the tile. Moving to crowd out Mumen so that Badd can do the dirty work, Justice coming free with his other hand, paint job sparred more than a ding or two.

“Thank you,” says Mumen, voice a bit rickety. There’s an edge to it, but when Badd looks over Mumen sighs, tired, and shakes his head a bit, good hand going to his head.

Whatever it is, Badd lets it go. Instead glancing at where the Association is hovering around the Tanktops. His frown deepens and with a huff he easily lifts the bike over his shoulder. Justice’s good tire rides on the ground. “So. Your place?”

“Metal Bat-san, you do not-”

Badd raises an eyebrow. “Metal Bat, for reals? My tongue’s been in your mouth at least twice in the last week, Satoru.”

Satoru’s face goes even deeper red but the pretense drops with a quiet, “You don’t need to help me.”

“I want to,” Badd says, and it hits him then what the hesitation might have been. He tries not to let his own uncertainty show. “That ok?”

“I can do it,” says Satoru, but it’s quiet and not with the force of conviction.

And with an insistence of his own, Badd says, “I never said you couldn’t.”

Those are the magic words this time, as Badd can see when Satoru gives in, and a tiny curl of understanding buds in Badd, not quite blooming but an idea beginning to form as Satoru’s hands fall from his temple and eyes closing behind oval glasses, the deep sag of his shoulders as some invisible weight that Badd can’t name falls away. “This way.”

Badd knows he should ask about talking to the Association. It’s only proper, and Satoru is not one to shirk from responsibility like he is. Yet the Association has their hands full with the Tanktops and the hole and more angry shop owners than Badd wants to count. Yet the opportunity has arisen now to finally, finally see what Satoru calls home when it isn’t with him, and Badd has to admit he’s willing to break most of the Association’s protocols for the chance.

So rather than point it out, he strolls after Satoru’s retreating form, Justice’s spokes clicking as they make their exit.

If he throws a birdie over his shoulder, well, can anyone really blame him?

Chapter Text

Z-City is not familiar to Badd, but he admittedly has little interest in the stores he doesn’t know and the shop windows he’s never seen. If he were focusing, he’d perhaps note the number of storefronts hollowed out; windows papered over to reflect the grey spring sky, For Lease signs yellowed with age. The roads here are pitted with more scars than painted with lines and if yesterday were a place it would likely be what this city was or was rapidly moving toward.

Satoru moves like he knows the place like his own skin, even stepping over uneven ground like it's second nature and knowing which turns to take to avoid lights and potholes the size of tires. It makes Badd wonder how much of the alphabet cities the guy knows and how many times Satoru’s traveled the streets alone, on patrol or to a job, to memorize parts as well as he has. (It makes him wonder, as well, if Satoru ever moves through the city with no purpose; just for enjoyment, just for fun.)

It dawns on Badd then, embarrassingly so that he breaks the silence hanging between them, “Never asked you what happened back there.”

Satoru’s head snaps to him, eyes blinking rapidly behind glasses. Brown eyes - the color of the woods as the blue of evening fell, Badd realizes - struggle to focus and not for the first time Badd wonders where Satoru disappears to in his head. 

“Hm? Oh. Ah.” Satoru’s slung hand moves for his neck before he remembers, belatedly, to keep it down. “It wasn’t my finest moment, I’m afraid.”

Badd clicks his tongue. “Says who?”

Satoru gives him a look like Badd’s supposed to know. “I didn’t take down the creature.”

“Saw you save at least one person, so think it’s safe to say you were doin’ your job good enough,” says Badd with a shrug. He’s itching for a cigarette, but refrains. There isn’t even somewhere open enough to buy a pack.

Satoru takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and Badd is close enough to watch the drawn nature of Satoru’s forehead as he begrudgingly pulls up the memory, “It appeared outside the elementary school. I…was trying to lure it further, but I was a bit distracted.” Satoru rubs at the right arm as he says it, mouth downturning into a frown. Badd almost misses the quiet murmur, “Perhaps they were right.”

That has Badd’s head whipping over. “Who was right?” The look of surprise in Satoru’s eyes indicates that it had been a rhetorical question, but Badd isn’t about to stuff it back into a box. There’s too many tiny jabs like that, he’s trying to realize; always aimed by the rider at his own back. So instead he raises an eyebrow and repeats himself, “Who was right about what?”

Satoru’s eyes slide away from him and focus on the sidewalk in front of them. “I need to get stronger. My performance today was…pitiful.”

An acidic taste rises in Badd’s mouth. Tanktop Tiger and Tanktop Black Hole, he knows, fight hard and fight often. The street they’d left had been testament to what sheer strength could do, but the image of Mumen Rider pulling someone to safety, beaten and halfway to out of it, isn’t one Badd can banish from his mind.

His hand darts out to catch Satoru’s chest, stopping them both. Satoru’s reflection in the papered window of a long closed store is one of wild confusion. Like Badd’s broken him from a thought or a loop. Badd can’t say he’s sorry.

“Lemme get this straight.” And Badd has to breath in because every part of him is adding together to a picture. “You drew that thing away from a school and you’re sayin’ you didn’t fuckin’ do enough?” He can’t help but add, hurriedly, “ With a broken arm?”

Satoru’s brow pinches. “Dislocated, not broken.”

“Whatever,” says Badd, waving the distinction off. “Again. You led it away from the school. Are you even hearin’ yourself right now?”

Satoru’s expression goes sour. “Buying thirty seconds is not the same as taking the problem out at the source.”

Badd feels himself go quiet for a moment, cataloging the thirty seconds he wish he could take back from a million different moments. Who would he be if he had thirty seconds to redo back when the roof and the walls caved in and he’d cried and screamed and been buried? A thousand ways to use it and here’s the nicest hero in the entire Association unaware of the power of a mere thirty, a mere ten, a mere five seconds given back. 

“Thirty seconds is thirty seconds. Fuck, five seconds was enough for that guy you saved.” It’s exasperating to think Satoru can’t see it how Badd does and it makes him wonder, again, what the inside of Satoru’s mind looks like. 

“I suppose,” says Satoru, quietly. 

Satoru still won’t meet his eyes, however, and Badd isn’t sure if the dizziness he feels is annoyance or something more akin to pity. Taking a breath, he tries to fist the front of Satoru’s shirt, forgetting about the padding, and settles for taking his elbow and turning the other to face him. “Listen. Listen , all right? Who cares if you could or couldn’t take that thing on? You risked your life to draw it out and bought enough time to get those kids to safety. That’s what a hero does .”

It feels like he’s speaking in obvious truths, and something scratches unhappily in his chest as Satoru’s eyes watch him almost warily. As if expecting the next word to be a shoe that drops and squashes the seed Badd is trying to lay. His own black eyes are intense, he knows, and they make quite the sight - staring at each other, Satoru’s elbow in his hand and Satoru staring at him like he’s four seconds away from opening his mouth and swallowing him whole. But if there’s anything Badd knows it’s that he’s seen indisputable proof in front of his eyes as to why Satoru belongs on that roster. (And that’s not even to say anything about Zenko’s opinion of Mumen Rider.)

Badd watches as Satoru swallows, lips parting as if to say something, then closing again. Badd’s fingers squeeze, gently, and repeats because it is so very worth repeating, “Thirty seconds is thirty seconds, Satoru.”

He’s afraid he’ll leave bruises, so he lets go and Satoru stares at his arm, then at Badd. Tongue dipping out to lick his lips before glancing away again in that way the guy does when there’s something trying to throw a shadow over Badd’s words. “But what if I am a liability?”

The word papers the inside of Satoru’s mind like it does the building behind them, Badd realizes then, and he wonders what else makes up the shrouding of the facts from Satoru’s mind. It makes Badd’s heart drop and he doesn’t want to pity the man; no one wants pity. But there’s a sadness there at realizing that they both stare at themselves through very different windows.

Badd’s hand goes to Satoru’s shoulder, and he’s careful to keep his grip calm. “You aren’t a liability, man. You’re a goddamn gift, and next time someone says shit like that to you you’ve gotta put them in their place.”

Satoru’s expression is wry, “I think that is more your thing than mind.”

“Then it’s time it’s your thing too,” Badd says, as if it were that simple. Because fake it ‘til you make it, right?Standing straighter, an idea springs into his head. His hand moves from Satoru’s shoulder to his cheek, fingertips nudging the rider’s chin up. “Ok. We’re doin’ this.” He puts Justice down and claps his hands, rubbing warmth into the palms. “Back straight, chin up, c’mon.” 

The attempt is half hearted and awkward, but Badd acknowledges it’s a try and he’ll take it. “So pretend I’m Tanktop whatever, right? When I shit talk, you shit talk me back, ok?”

Puffing himself up, Badd crosses his arms over his chest and puts on the deepest voice he can. “Hey, you’re way too puny to be here! Let the pros handle this one!”

Satoru bites his lip a bit and there’s a long moment where Badd isn’t sure he’s gonna even answer. Then, after a long few seconds, Satoru takes in a breath and nearly stutters, “I am merely doing my job-”

“No no no,” Badd cuts him off, face palming. His hands try to emphasize just what kind of zeal he’s looking for. “First off, louder. Second off, forget the polite. These shit heads are gonna go for the throat, so you gotta be able to hit back.”

“I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to do that,” frowns Satoru.

Which, well, point. Badd thumbs his own chin, considering this. “Fine. But drop the formality at least? You have every right to be there as they do. And you’re a goddamn hero, not some fucking intern to order around.”

“I don’t think interns are there to order-”

“You get the point!”

“Hai, hai,” Satoru’s hands come up, accepting the analogy.

“Ok, again.” Badd plants his feet and puffs out his chest even further. “What the hell are you doing here? Get back on the sidelines!”

Satoru’s eyes watch him, hard, and Badd wonders if this has all been for naught. Then, Satoru speaks, and the tone isn’t where it needs to be and the guy’s expression needs work. But Badd smiles a bit as Satoru squeaks out, “I’d be doing my job if you weren’t…weren’t…”

It’s a start. Badd offers a few options, “Makin’ it impossible to tell where the sidelines are?”

Satoru groans. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Badd shrugs, “I concentrate on a word and just go with it.”

“I don’t want to be mean.”

“Don’t think you’ve got a mean bone in your body,” Badd assures. He flicks Satoru’s chin gently, however. “But you do need to dig out that assertive one. This is posturing, and like it or not you’ve gotta puff yourself up cause these guys ain’t gonna do it for you.”

Considering this, Satoru nods, burying his lips into the knuckles of his good hand and Badd tries not to apply the adjectives adorable, cute, or handsome to the gesture. (He fails on all counts.) “Ready to try it again?”

“I think so.”

And for the third time, Badd draws himself up and does his best to menace. A hard feat, considering Satoru is practically as tall as he is, but Badd believes in himself to manage all the same. “Oi! What the fuck are you doin’ here? Leave it to the professionals!”

Satoru’s eyes are locked on him now, and Badd blinks when the man manges, “I’m doing my job, which is what you should be doing now instead of focusing on me!”

Badd’s smile spreads, “Yes, yes ! We can work with this!” He grips Satoru’s shoulder before he can think, shaking him gently. Patting said shoulder in apology when a wince goes through Satoru. “Ok, you say that, just with, like, four times the volume. And put your whole body into it.”

“Are you sure that wasn’t too mean?” Satoru still seems uncomfortable, but Badd had seen it. A spark there, and he’s not about to give up on it.

“It wasn’t,” he says, doing his best to fan this into something more. “When’s the last time you’ve even said fuck?”

Satoru has to think about it, frowning a bit. “I don’t see why that matters…um…”

Badd rolls his eyes, waving the question off. “Forget it. Ok, try saying this.” And he takes in a breath, then enunciates slowly to emphasize the point, “Shut the hell up and do your damn job!”

Satoru just stares at him. “Do I have to swear?”

“Seriously?” Badd shakes his head, pinching his nose. “Fine, without the swear, just say it, man!”

Satoru takes in a breath, and Badd’s fairly certain even a librarian wouldn’t shush the guy for the volume used. “Shut up and do your job.”

“Absolutely not,” says Badd. “Louder. C’mon. I know you can do it.”

It’s a back and forth game then, each time goading Satoru louder and louder. “Shut up and do your job.” “Louder!” “Shut up and do your job?” “Louder and less question!” “Shut up and do your job!” “Say it like someone’s walkin’ on the road!” “Shut up and do your job!” “Yell it with your whole chest!” “Shut up and do your job!” “Some non-hero wants in on the action!” 

When Satoru gets it, it’s beautiful. “SHUT THE HELL UP AND DO YOUR DAMN JOB!” The curses ring with a rage that Badd hasn’t heard from the other; a deep seated irritation finally seeing the sky and realizing that it deserves to be free. 

And for half a moment, Badd watches as Satoru’s hand, fisted at his sight, seems to glow with said ire, white, almost pale, pale pink aura flaring and growing until Satoru is flickering with it. It may not be the inferno, but it’s a spark and a familiar one that calls to Badd in dulcent growls and snarls. If Badd could bottle the look on Satoru’s face, he would, if only to show Satoru himself the passion, the fiery righteousness that fighting spirit knows the guy has within him.

A woman walking nearby sniffs at them, causing Satoru to curl in on himself, a stream of, “Forgive me!” streaming from his mouth. 

But Badd just laughs, placing a hand on his shoulder to reel Satoru back from prostrating himself in apology. “There’s the competent hero I see.”

Satoru turns to him, head tiling, a bit. “You…you see me as that?”

“Competent?” Badd huffs. “Why the fuck would I not?” While Satoru may not say it, Badd doesn’t miss the way Satoru’s eyes glance to Justice. It just makes Badd huff again, “If I let you, you would’a stayed behind to help clean up every damn shop around there. With your broken arm and all. I have no doubt you could’a made it home yourself.”

There’s another one of those long pauses, but Badd can feel the difference in this way. The way Satoru’s eyes soften and his fingers curl gently. A small, fond smile tugging at those lips. “Dislocated, not broken.”

Equally gently, Badd says, “What’s the difference? My point stands.”

He badly wants to kiss the other. Because while a kiss isn’t a magic cure all, it goes far in smoothing a lot of things over. But there are strangers staring at them now and while Badd may be willing to say fuck it, he’s not sure Satoru can manage such a strong word or a sentiment today. So he settles instead for a gentle punch to Satoru’s chest.

“You deserve to be out here, same as the rest of us chuckle fucks. Don’t you forget that, you idiot.”

Satoru just snorts…but reaches out to squeeze his hand, just once. “Thank you, Badd.”

Badd shrugs, throws Justice back onto his shoulder, and tries not to scratch at his already itching bandages. “Thank me when you start believing it.” And because they’re lingering in dangerous territory, he prods, “Which way up here?”

Clearing his throat, Satoru turns, but Badd watches as the other’s steps seem more sure as they press deeper into Z-City.

He still makes a mental note to tell Tanktop Master to fuck off the first chance he get.

Satoru’s apartment is easy to miss, much like the man himself. A rusted iron gate fences in the meager front yard, overrun with weeds and a drooping tree that Badd’s pretty sure is trying to get out of that place before the exterior does. Inside smells of moths and old fry oil, the light dim and the linoleum long since lost its shine. It’s strikingly undramatic and there’s an undercurrent to the place that Badd can’t name nor is sure he wants to.

The lock on Apartment 4 fights for half a moment, but Satoru knows how to jiggle the lock and they step into something quiet, small, and not entirely what Badd was expecting. It’s a studio, with a blanket covered window over the militantly made futon and peeling sage wallpaper. Lavender hangs over the leaking sink faucet, muting the stale fry oil smell that permeates everything else. What surfaces Badd can see are scratched, pitted, aged, but clean, and it’s a mish mosh of organized clutter and sparsity that juggles into a blur in Badd’s brain.

He welcomes the snap of his focus to the entry, where Satoru is taking off his shoes, stepping up the single step to give a small bow that seems so entirely out of place Badd freezes where a hand is reaching for his own boot laces.

Half hidden by a coat, the small entryway table holds a meager butsudan. Four ihai crowd an incense holder - a dark wooden curve of wood forming a deer head inset with a bright green jade eye - and two old photos are hidden behind beeswax candles, two silver wedding bands on a long chain curled around the collection. Badd knows what this is; he knows grief in form even if the practice was never one his parent’s participated in. But there’s a soft murmur from Satoru that Badd misses hearing, one of Satoru’s hands reaching out to rub the tip of the deer’s nose. (If Badd looks closely, he can see the dark wood of the nose is a lighter shade than the rest.)

Even as Badd struggles to bring Justice inside, leaning her against the wall next to the door, his eyes don’t leave Satoru. His face softens as he watches the privacy, the safety of home play out. The rider seems to follow a path Badd can’t see, a well-worn routine if Badd had to guess. 

Mumen Rider disappears, hung up next to the solitary, patched winter coat. As Satoru runs a hand through his sweaty hair, breathing unevenly before drifting along the groan of floorboards to the kitchen. The calcium spotted facet sputtering as Satoru washes his face, running a damn hand through sweaty hair. Forgetting himself, Satoru’s bad arm moves from the slink to undo the small window latch there, letting a balmy spring breeze rifle the papers of magazines that are stacked on a single shelf near the bed.

“Oi,” says Badd as Satoru moves for the sliding door, bad arm reaching for a heavy looking bag next to it. He’s still struggling to get his other boot off, standing and nearly crashing into the wall in his haste. “What are you doin’?”

Satoru blinks, as if remembering someone else is here, and he blushes. “...feeding the cats?”

Badd’s brow knits together. “Cats?”

Either way, he’s up and over by Satoru’s side in moments. Giving the other a Look until Satoru, obligingly, puts his arm back in his sling and allows Badd to lift the bag. The small sliding glass door leads to a balcony, the wood even older than the floors. It’s kept as clean as it can be, dotted with five large bowls licked clean.

As Badd pours, he glances and notes with interest a cup hidden off to the side. A cigarette sticks out of it, and Badd’s head snaps to Satoru. Satoru, however, doesn’t notice, focused on making a soft pspspsp .

The first cat lands with a soft thump on the old wood, bits of stain flaking away under its white paws. It’s a solid white thing, ear notched and mismatched eyes staring at Satoru with a nonchalance that cut even Badd down a notch or two. Satoru, however, smiles fondly and offers his fingers. The tomcat sniffs them then rubs mismatched whiskers against Satoru’s knuckles before making his way to one of the filled bowls.

Badd lifts an eyebrow, letting the bag settle back to its spot just inside, as he watches the tomcat calmly eat. “Cute. Though feels a bit like overkill to have four bowls…”

He trails as he looks up to find four more cats waiting in the wings. Badd swallows, “You, uh, have five of ‘em?”

Satoru glances over as a particularly petite calico jumps up, head butting Satoru’s hand before stiffening. Wisely, Satoru doesn’t try to pet. “Ah, well, there’s about nine total.” Badd is pretty sure the guy would blush, but instead Satoru just looks tired. “They’re strays.”

Which suddenly makes so much sense Badd’s surprised at himself he didn’t guess it. “They got names?” Satoru blushes now, suddenly, and Badd finds his eyebrow raising. “Wait, they aren’t named after Power Man, are they?”

“Not quite…” It’s nearly a squeak, and Badd perks up then, sensing weakness.

“C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” he goads.

Satoru glances over to him, stilling for a long moment. “You can’t laugh.”

Which means Badd is absolutely going to want to. It’s only because he likes Satoru enough that he forces out, “Cross my heart.”

It doesn’t look like Satoru believes him, but with a sigh nonetheless he turns to lean with his back to the railing. Gesturing with his good hand at the white tomcat. “...that is Watchdog.” Another gesture to the calico. “That is Tatsu.” A particularly portly tuxedo blinks as it struggles to clear the railing. “This is Pig.”

“Oh my god,” Badd whispers, catching on then. “They’re all-”

Satoru’s face goes even redder. “You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

To Badd’s credit, he isn’t. But it’s close. “Fuck, I know I said I wouldn’t but-”

The screech Badd lets out isn’t dignified, but to his credit the cat that appears next isn’t either. A patchy grey tabby stares at him, missing half an ear, numerous crinkles of scars, and a band or two of fur that doesn’t seem to grow in right. There’s nothing normal about the thing, yet it stares at Badd as if Badd were the freakshow.

“Shit fuck , what’s wrong with that one?!” Badd can only watch in horror as Satoru bites a knuckle to keep from laughing. Oh how the tables have turned.

“Zombie’s prone to fighting, I think,” says Satoru, and while he doesn’t move to pet the ragged little creature the two regard each other with a mutual respect that is hard to miss.

Badd just stares as the cats gather, crunch of kibble surprisingly loud. It dawns on him then, taking him a moment to swallow and look over at Satoru, unsure if he really wants the answer. “Is there…”

Satoru’s nose wrinkles, but Badd already knows the answer even before Satoru stutters it out, “He, ah, doesn’t always show. But yes.” But then, Satoru smiles, “He’s sweet, just a bit of a free spirit.”

Badd glances over then and he suddenly feels…jealous of a cat? What the fuck? His expression must say more than he wants, because Satoru laughs a bit. Reaching over with his good hand to pat Badd’s cheek. “Don’t worry, I prefer the original.”

It shouldn’t soothe him, but Badd pretends to grumble even as inwardly he’s pleased. “Yeah, yeah, you’d fucking better.”

Tiredly, Satoru turns away from the feasting felines, ducking under the hanging plant that holds a whole lot of nothing underneath the porch overhang. “Tea? I might have some granola bars…”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” It’s not an answer, but the idea of watching Satoru boil water for tea suddenly makes him queasy. It’s a question that Satoru has to think about even as he slides the door shut, which is honestly enough of an answer. Badd catches him by the good shoulder before Satoru can make it further into the small kitchn. “I’ll make it. Sit down before gravity makes you.”

“I can make tea, Badd,” says Satoru, tone petulant.

But Badd is already rummaging through the kitchen, noting the fairly bare shelves and the lack of anything that matches. Plates and silverware a collection of things that Badd is guessing were thrifted, coffee mugs in a variety of shapes, sizes, and states. Even the glassware is missing a duo of any kind. “And so can I.”

Satoru frowns, however, and Badd looks over, stilling his motions. The test of wills lasts longer than Badd anticipates, the two of them staring at one another by the small kitchen table, half covered by an old computer so ancient Badd can’t name the brand and a stack of DIY and Cycling Magazines with pieces of paper bookmarking things. There’s a moment where Badd is almost certain he’s going to get told off, and as annoying as that is it also brings up a feeling of pride. His lessons won’t be wasted.

Eventually, however, Satoru’s nostrils flare and he sighs. Eyes sliding shut. “The kettle is in the left cabinet.” With that, the rider turns to sit on the edge of the futon, sliding his glasses up to rub at his temples.

Badd finds the kettle and watches in the reflection of its surface as Satoru’s shoulders droop, glasses set on the small steamer trunk, peeling with age, that sits at the foot of the bed. “Never told me you had roommates.”

Satoru’s head jerks up at that, and after a moment it hits what Badd is speaking about. Brown eyes glance to the butsudan. “My parents. And my grandparents.”

It seems they’re alike in more ways than just their hobbies. Stove lighting with a click, Badd turns and lets his eyes trail over the library books, the neatly piled newspapers next to bike repair tools and gadgets, and the simple wardrobe of cloth drawers that make up the rest of the simple space. It is homely, in ways, Badd supposes, but there’s little that seems to bely a hobby that isn’t heroing or working. “Too early for me to meet the parents?”

Satoru chuckles, “I think some would say a bit too late.”

The bitterness there, however, is mild and well worn, like the shoes by the door. Satoru glances up after saying it, a bit horrified for the dark humor that has slipped. But Badd just grins a bit, “Makes holidays easy then, considerin’ mine don’t have much to say anymore either.”

Satoru’s face smooths into a soft frown, “I’m so sorry.”

Badd moves then to sit on the edge of the futon with little fanfare. “Me too.” And after a moment, he adds, because it feels like he needs to add something after bringing up the topic, “My mom would’ve liked ya.”

The soft hum that gets from Satoru is sweet. “I think my mother would have liked you.”

It’s an odd choice of words, and Badd’s brow knits, “You think?” He’s not sure whether to be offended or pleased.

There’s a faraway look in Satoru’s eyes as he idly rubs his knuckles under his chin. “My mother died when I was young. I don’t have many memories with her that aren’t…” Satoru trails, and Badd holds his breath.

Then realizes what that silence is. A punctuated absence of good and the grief of what could have been. For a moment, Badd considers saying something, reaching out for a hand. He’s not sure how to offer condolences that aren’t cheap or tired. They both live in a world where they’ve seen too much of both, and he knows that explaining can carry a weight he doesn’t want to ask.

So instead, Badd lets his breath go and lets the other think.

“I think she would have liked you. I’m fairly certain she would have,” Satoru says finally. Chin dropping a bit, forehead resting against his hand; eyes glancing over from the side. There’s a small smile there. “My grandmother would have thought you were trouble.”

That makes Badd laugh, leaving a roguish smile in its wake. “I would’ve gotten her to change her mind.”

Satoru snorts at that, “If you did, I’d call it a miracle.” Satoru’s eyes close, the curl of a smile at least indicating the memory is a good one. The tea kettle shrieks, and Badd hurries to silence it, leaving Satoru to reminisce, and Badd wonders if that’s the end of this line of conversation right up until he finds the tea bags. Satoru’s voice is soft, far away, “She was a shrine maiden for awhile until she met my grandfather.”

Badd clicks his teeth in sympathy as he finds a dented tin that, apparently, holds tea bags, “Happens to the best of us.”

That drags another huff from Satoru, and a quick glance over Badd’s shoulder shows that Satoru’s eyes are still closed, lips still curled up in a smile. “After, she worked at the inn, cleaning and eventually working the desk. She was…” A deep sigh. “She deserved more than spending her last years looking after me.”

Turning, two hot mugs in hand, Badd frowns over the word use and tries to dredge up what his issue is with it. By the time he offers a mug to Satoru, he thinks he’s figured it out. “I doubt she saw it that way.”

Gingerly, Satoru takes the hot ceramic, blowing on the surface as he hums, “I know.”

They sit in gentle silence for a moment, the weight of what was pressing on them both. Badd doesn’t like tea, but he sips it anyway. Wrinkling his nose - any tea with florals goes far down the list of tolerable - yet deciding having something to do with his hands is better than not. 

It occurs to him, as well, that he doesn’t…know more than what Satoru’s told him about the rider’s life. A part of Badd had considered what kind of parents Satoru had; if they were kind, if they were understanding, if they were tolerant. He had plenty of his own to share, but the topic had never seemed to come up and if Badd was honest he’d been more interested in the memories being made then and there and now, rather than what was. But a glance to the butsudan tells him that what was for Satoru still is , in a way. And he wonders what part of Satoru’s kindness came from who.

“What was your grandmother like?” He asks, finally.

Satoru peeks an eye open. “Strict.” There’s a softness to Satoru’s word, however, that belies that while it is the first descriptor, it is not unkind. “She and my grandfather taught me to work with my hands, to find solutions.” Finally, finally Satoru sips his tea. “Mostly, she tried to teach me how to protect myself.”

Badd tries to imagine Satoru throwing a punch as a young child and realizes he’s likely seen Zenko throw stronger ones. “Like…with your fists?”

“Not quite,” Satoru chuckles, glancing over fully now, hands wrapped around the cooling mug. “When I was young, she told me that I was born with far too big a heart for what I would face when I grew.” Satoru’s eyes stare, but Badd knows they are focused on nothing here, so he sits quietly and watches Satoru instead. How a finger traces the handle on the mug, how the rider’s socked toes burrow under each other. “She tried her best to teach me how to protect myself from getting hurt by it.”

Badd has to chew on that one. “How would you hurt yourself with it?” But even as he asks he realizes that, perhaps, he understands. He thinks about Tanktop Tiger and Tanktop Black Hole; of the half a dozen other times he’s seen others rip and tear a tiny piece of Satoru off for caring. “Oh.”

“She wasn’t a pushover by any means,” Satoru says, quietly. “Unfortunately, I didn’t get that trait of hers.”

For another long moment they sit there, as Badd mulls the story. Would he want Satoru to be more assertive? The answer is yes, but the more Badd thinks on it the more he wonders if perhaps there isn’t an inherent strength in the weakness as well. Satoru thinks the best of everyone, assumes the best of intent. Both are a dangerous thing to do, and while Badd is sure Satoru has seen the sides of life that happen when there is no best in sight, the rider keeps putting faith in others.

“Maybe it’s ok you didn’t,” Badd muses, causing Satoru’s head to lift from his mug. “Think I like you bein’ the good influence.”

Satoru’s smile is small, but Badd almost thinks the rider’s eyes might be wet. It’s hard to tell. “So I don’t need to tell anyone to fuck off?”

Badd scowls, “I never said that, don’t put words in my mouth, ya punk!” Because he would very badly like to see that, thank you very much.

The laugh Satoru gives is breathy, but even as Badd works up a retort, he’s surprised by Satoru moving in to kiss him. He protests, just a little, because the mug he’s holding sloshes hot water down his pants. But there’s an invite in that kiss he’s not about to miss, leaf juice be damned, and so he puts up with it because Satoru is certainly putting something in his mouth all right.

Chapter Text

“He’ll be with you momentarily.”

Badd clicks his teeth, but doesn’t bother responding. Instead, working the toothpick in his mouth with his tongue and fighting a losing battle to put his feet up on the coffee table. The administrator’s office at the school isn’t new to him, with its sparse decor and stacks of books next to the large printer. The secretary spares him a glance, as if knowing his thoughts, and Badd settles his leg giving her a bored look.

It’s hard to keep his mind here when he’s still riding the high of that look into Satoru’s life. Memory of making out on Satoru’s bed, leaving only when the sun had started to swing to afternoon and Satoru had begun to yawn. It was still strangely intimate, to think he’d gotten to see the mundane little things that made up Satoru rather than Mumen Rider. A peek behind the curtain and Badd was fairly certain he was already hooked, but now? Now he had pieces to start putting together into a better picture.

Still, it was a nice distraction that Badd was realizing did little to dull the consequences of the last few weeks. Try as he might, there were obligations to contend with, and apparently his truancy was one of those that had finally caught up to him.

Shifting again, Badd loses the battle, his boots thunking onto the coffee table to hide his unease. The secretary gives him a Look, but it’s easy to ignore as he leans back, arms behind his neck, sighing loudly.

“Mr. Akitamashi.”

Badd sits up at the name and meets the onyx eyes of the Administrator. A part of Badd knows that Yamashita is only doing his job. The guy manages three schools and Badd is practically on first name basis with the man. “Yamashita-sama.”

Yamashita sighs, gesturing Badd in, and Badd swears the man has more grey hairs than he used to. “All right, Badd, let’s get this over with.”

Tromping in, Badd doesn’t bother sitting, instead crossing his arms over the back of the twin pair of chairs and leaning in. The toothpick isn’t a cigarette, but it’s close enough for him to not feel the twitch under his skin nearly so bad. “All right, lemme guess. Don’t skip school, got a bright future, gonna have to bench you if you keep missin’, yada yada yada. What’s it gonna be this time, after school cleaning?”

Yamashita shuts the door with a click and the sigh is audible even over the small desk fan doing its best to circulate the humid afternoon air. “Badd, how many times have I seen you in here this year?”

Badd scowls, shrugs, “Isn’t that your job to know?”

Yamashita sits heavily, pulling on his tie, and Badd wonders not for the first time if the guy has anything else in his wardrobe that isn’t a suit. “Nine. The year isn’t over, and we’ve had a variation of this conversation nine times this year, Badd.”

“Does this mean my tenth one’s free?” He can’t help it, mouthing off, because this whole thing is stupid. He gets enough of his school work done, that’s all that counts, right?

“I understand your…circumstances are unusual.” Badd frowns because unusual tends to mean nothing good, and in Yamashita’s mouth he can’t help but think it’s a death sentence more than anything else. “But so long as you are enrolled here, we can’t turn a blind eye to the numerous absences you have.”

Badd just clicks his tongue. “You really gonna tell me an algebra test is more important than taking down a demon level in A-City?”

Yamashita gives him a tired look. “You know I won’t say that, Badd. But I can’t keep looking away.”

That’s what’s confusing about all this, and Badd frowns around his toothpick. “Why not?”

“Because by regulations, you will not have the hours to pass.”

“So fuck the regulations then!”

“ Mr. Akitamashi .”

Badd holds his hands up. “Right, right. I’m just sayin’ though. I’m here enough! What more do ya want?”

“I need you here enough to satisfy the standards .”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

Yamashita takes a deep breath in. “We’re willing to look past absences because of hero business, but they’re going to need to be verified-”

Badd groans, “So you’re gonna have to ask dad to excuse my absences now?”

“That is not what I am saying, Badd.”

Irritation has spread, the toothpick only holding back so much. There’s a prickle that Badd can’t contain because he puts his everything into what he does. His knuckles curl and he’s on his feet before he can think through his actions, hands slamming so hard on the Administrator’s desk that the metal dents. “Then what are you sayin’? Because I’m keepin’ every damn city in this country safe an’ got a sister at home that needs me. So boo fuckin’ hoo that school ain’t on the list. I’m here when I can be, and if that ain’t enough I don’t know what to tell you.”

The air is heated between them, a few pages fluttering to the ground from the Administrator’s desk. Badd can see now they’re from his file, his name written over and over, page after page of his failings. Yamashita stares at the dents in his desk, then up to Badd, swallowing once, and Badd realizes then the other is unnerved.

Good .

“I know you’re upset-”

“No shit .”

“Mr. Akitamashi-”

Badd’s eyes narrow. “I’m goin’ to class. I’ll do the damn work. I’ll do my best and that’s gonna have to be good enough. Got it?”

Badd turns to go, toothpick crunching under his teeth, two seconds away from breaking. He’s not going to entertain a power trip, and damn regulations. There are no rules for how to navigate life as a student, hero, and parent. And someone who hasn’t had to work around a thousand and one challenges with no good answer isn’t about to tell him what he’s doing is right or wrong.

Behind him, he hears Yamashita stand, a few strangled words starting before he manages, “One more missed absence, and I will be putting you on watch, Badd. And that means no more baseball.”

The toothpick breaks in Badd’s mouth. He turns, eyes murderous, and there’s a heated moment between the two that drops the room’s temperature by about twenty degrees. It’s a battle of wills and Badd wonders how long until Yamashita walks the threat back.

The man, however, does not. Staring at him as if he is about to crumble, yet never quite doing so. Badd wonders if there’s a series of strings behind this; the Association, perhaps, or the government trying to exert their own concerns through examples (isn’t that what happened with the Korean hero he’s heard about?). Either way, Badd wants no part of it.

The Administrator swallows, finally, hands gripping the back of his chair. “No more absences, Badd. Otherwise, no more baseball.”

It’s a losing battle, Badd realizes, as he watches those knuckles tighten to white. Yet high school without baseball isn’t something Badd can lose. It’s one of the only moments he feels his age; on the field, throwing a pitch back to home plate, running laps with the team and laughing on the long bus rides home. Without that, what is he but an overworked student with a sister he’s desperately trying to not lose?

Something in Badd crumples and he looks away. “Yes, Mr. Yamashita-sama.”

His defiance is limited now to leaving without another word, letting the door slam on his way out. It makes the secretary pop up in alarm, but Badd doesn’t bother giving her the customary wink on the way out. His own head is filled with a swirling rage that he wants to shut down, needs to shut down. Because acting out further now will only hurt his cause.

It feels like a defeat all the same to leave the office, storming down the hallways with enough rage that the hall monitor gives him a wide berth.

At lunch, Tanaka takes note of his mood and they sit outside. Sharing a stolen cigarette in the sun as Badd picks at the sandwich Zenko made for him. Tanaka blows out smoke, huffing in exasperation, “Like they’d really kick you off the team. You ARE the fucking team.”

It’s nice to hear, but Badd knows his team is capable. He shrugs, half hearted in his agreement. “I can’t not play. Wouldn’t make this whole fucking shit show worth it.”

“I think it’s all bluster,” Tanaka says with a wave of his hand.

But Badd isn’t sure and his face twists as he takes the cigarette back. “Already got enough shit goin’ on without addin’ this. Between hero work and Zenko, ain’t got time for homework and practice and everything else in between.”

The deep sigh from Tanaka is unexpected, though when Badd looks over he realizes that Tanaka is just staring off into the distance. “Maybe…”

Badd’s own eyes narrow. “Maybe what?”

Tanaka runs a hand over his short cropped hair and sighs. Finally glancing over. “Just, maybe it’s time to take something off your plate?”

“I’m not giving up baseball,” Badd says flatly.

“I didn’t mean hero work!” Tanaka insists. “Just. Might be time to go on hiatus or somethin’ with the Hero’s Association?” The way Tanaka words it is uncomfortable, as if he knows that the suggestion won’t be met well.

Tanaka would be right.

“Absolutely not,” says Badd, hand curling and crushing the cigarette in hand. Tanaka mourns the loss with a sigh even as Badd shakes ash from his hand. “The life insurance ain’t enough without the hero stipend.”

“Damn,” says Tanaka and honestly Badd can attest that it is indeed a shit place to be.

It already feels awkward enough knowing the insurance payout that comes every month is from his dead parents. Knowing that he and Zenko would be nowhere near comfortable without it and the hero work, well, it is depressingly close to feeling like failing even thinking of giving up on the work that ensures Zenko’s piano lessons are something they can afford. Without his S-Rank, Badd isn’t sure where they would be and a part of him lays awake at night imagining what their situation would be if he didn’t have that to fall back on at all.

(It makes him understand Satoru’s position uncomfortably well.)

Taking in a breath, Badd brings his knees up to rest his chin on. Arms around his legs. “Fuck am I supposed to do?”

Glancing sideways at him, Tanaka sighs and lays a hand along Badd’s back. “Guess maybe it’s time for those other S-Ranks to do some work.”

Badd grunts, not agreement but acknowledgement, but doesn’t move to shrug Tanaka’s arm off. He knows, logically, that Tanaka is right, but there’s a sting to his pride that he’s unable to do it all. For all the strength he holds in a fist, he can’t seem to keep it tight around everything that needs to get done.

“Feels like a waste,” Badd says, not bothering to fill in the rest of the idea behind the phrase.

But Tanaka glances at him and seems to know, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s just one more year. World won’t fall apart that fast.”

That gets a snort from Badd, and it’s enough that when the the bell rings and Tanaka stands with a groan, crack of joints as he stretches, Badd is able to let some of the unhappiness go. “I’ll let you copy my math if you help me with the lit assignment.”

Badd just narrows his eyes, shoving Tanaka. “Fuck you, last time I did that I failed!” But it gets them arguing again and if that isn’t a comfortable normal than Badd doesn’t know what is.

Still, no matter what priorities should be, Badd knows what they are, which is why he sits up that night in Zenko’s room, bat in hand, watching the balcony with a stony eye. Zenko is asleep, safe in the living room under a pile of blankets and pillows that puts a super store to shame. Zenko’s room is silent, save for the softest of whirr from the light that sits in the corner, bathing the ceiling and half the walls in a rapid shifting colored variety of stars. Even a non-zero chance is worth a bad night’s sleep when it comes to Zenko, and Badd knows that such a priority will never change.

Yet when his phone goes off on the way to school, waiting for Ennoshita and Tanaka to finish making out in the alley he’s subtly guarding, he realizes then how much adjusting his priorities will test his own will.

It’s an emergency broadcast - the text that precedes the calls Badd knows he’s about to get if he doesn’t respond. Emergency in Y-City, Dragon Level estimation, and Badd knows he could get there in about ten minutes if he tried. But the bell is two minutes from ringing and his finger pauses as he considers what he’s being asked to do. It suddenly feels like a juggling act with a disappointing ending two seconds away from happening. What falls so that the hero work lives on?

Ennoshita’s hand lands on his head, careful of the pompadour, “Texting?”

Which means Tanaka is at his side, craning to look over his shoulder. “You never give us updates on this new mystery man!”

Badd clicks his phone off and gives Tanaka a shove. “Maybe I just want some peace about it instead of listening to 400 questions from your big fat mouth!”

“Please, at least my big fat mouth is getting something!” Which draws a blush from Ennoshita that Tanaka immediately soothes with said mouth. It doesn’t make the blush go away - in fact it makes it worse - but it still draws a dramatic roll of Badd’s eyes.

Ennoshita, still lobster red, looks at Badd instead. “Do we need to cover for you?”

Badd fidgets on his feet. “Not unless I want to get on the short track to expulsion.”

Ennoshita whistles and Tanaka pats Badd’s shoulder, sobering up. “Someone else will handle it.”

Something itches fierce in him, knowing that he’s down and out for the count because of something as mundane as school. It still feels like a loss as Badd turns, bracketed by Ennoshita and Tanaka, to head into class. Sparing a glance behind him as if he could see all the way to Y-City from here. 

He hopes to make the most of it at the game that afternoon; a consolation prize, and one hell of one. It’s what makes him feel normal and he tries to tell himself it’s worth missing the fight. When he grips his bat, practicing swings as a warm up, the excitement of forgetting for just a few hours that there’s responsibility for the city, for the people in it, for Zenko, for anything that isn’t just him bubbles up and takes over.

Yet as the game starts, first two hits earning a base each, Badd finds himself surprised when Coach Diago stops him with a hand. “On the bench, Akitamashi.”

Badd frowns, “You waitin’ for the bases to be more loaded?”

Diago gives him a look, however, something that Badd hasn’t seen before and that makes an uneasy feeling gurgle in his gut. “Just get on the bench, all right, Badd?”

Badd scowls, but this isn’t an order from the Association, or the Administrator. It’s an order from his coach, the man he’s played under for two years now, and it stops him enough for his fingers to still over the leather of his bat. There are a thousand arguments that he can make, more than a handful of nasty things to say. But in a move that makes himself unsettled, he backs down with a swing of his bat, twirling the neck in his fingers and ripping his helmet off.

“ Fine .”

He watches most of the game from the bench, fidgeting until the last two innings, when the lead is so high that there’s no chance of the other team coming back from it. It leaves him time to stew over what’s happened. There can only be one reason for his non-participation, and the source makes him steam until he’s nothing but dark smoke and wrath.

By the time he takes bat, the feeling of the game has long since died. That competitive spirit he breathes and lives for has become nothing but an anger that finds itself expressed in the rip of his helmet, bat clanging to the ground as he approaches Coach with the force of a tornado. “What the fuck was this game?”

Coach looks him over, wariness behind those sleepy eyes. “We can talk later-”

“No, we’re gonna do this now.” Badd’s arms cross and Coach Diago sighs.

Badd can hear how Diago’s voice drops lower, the man’s fingers clutching at the whistle around his neck. “Listen, Badd. It’s not that you aren’t a great player. You’re the best right fielder I’ve seen in awhile and we both know you’ve got one heck of an arm. But…”

The trailed off note sends something down Badd’s spine that makes him break out into goosebumps. “But?” he goads. “But what?”

Diago considers for a long time, opening and closing his mouth several times until finally he lets the whistle in his fingers drop. “You’re an S-Rank hero. You’ve got an arm that can level buildings . There’s been talk on whether it’s even fair to have you play.”

Badd feels his heart stop.

It’s like ice water sluices down his neck and pools in every single joint. Something in him cracks; that feeling of anger drains in one sudden go, leaving him feeling empty and raw and cold. An integral part of himself feels bared and now in danger of being cut out with nothing but a few words and a force he can’t fight.

Of all the things Badd thought he’d have to live without, not playing isn’t among the list.

It must show on his face because Diago clears his throat, “Nothing has been decided-”

“What the fuck is there even to decide?” Badd can hear the hiss in his own voice.

Diago winces. “Nothing has been determined and nothing is final-”

“ What would be final? ” He knows he’s all points and defense and ready to cut, scream, bite. 

Badd can tell Diago is desperate to get out of the conversation, particularly as more and more eyes continue to find them on the field. “We’ll talk more next week, all right?”

If Badd wasn’t busy half drowning in a miasma of malaise, he’d swear this was pity in the coach’s voice. It only makes his stomach tighten further and that numbness spread. Eyes are starting to find him, whispers among the team, and suddenly the looks from the last few games begin to make sense. How long had he been seen as something more than human? (How was he sure they weren’t staring at him as less than ?)

He can’t be seen like this. Everything feels like it’s crashing down and if he breathes the same air he’ll crack and dissipate into ash. Gloves come off, thrown to the ground in a petulant rage, back turning to the coach as he makes his escape. “Fuck this. Do whatever you want.”

“Badd, c’mon-”

But he is inconsolable and while he knows this isn’t his finest hour there’s too many things within him to be able to know what to act on. Anger has always been his outlet, so that’s what he falls back to now. Throwing a bird over his shoulder as he leaves the field to the buzz of whispers, judgement of phones, and scrutinizing eyes of onlookers.

His feet go and he lets them. Stopping just once to kick the side of a vending machine, screaming when the rage doesn’t dissipate. He knows that once the anger dissipates, the rest will rise. The shame, the despair, the fear, the numbing failure. His whole life he’s been covering up the fact that sometimes, sometimes he barely feels like he’s holding it together. Now it threatens to spill out like a dirty secret aired through accident.

Blood rushes through him and his hands fist, eyes squeezing shut. A rush of everything in him cycloning out of control. What will he have to make him feel normal without this one release?

Deep breath in, deep breath out - failing as his breath goes in, in, in with nowhere else to go out from. His mind is edging into the overwhelmed noise of static.

A memory pings, his father guiding him through breathing. “Let’s calm down first, then we can talk. It never does to talk when angry. We say things we regret.”

But that’s just it, isn’t it? There is nothing to talk about. There’s nothing to say. Everything feels outside of Badd’s control - school, baseball, hero work. For all the talk of destiny being in one own’s hands, Badd feels as if there are forces determining his life without input on what he wants.

His back finds a wall - the low retaining wall of a home half destroyed from whatever flavor of the week came through. An irony, if he were in the mind to think about it - his life falling apart in front of physical evidence of what made it all spiral out to begin with. Still, a few waylaid bricks dig into his spine and he uses them and his father’s voice to breath.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. By the time he rouses from his fugue, the sun is losing its nightly battle and Badd realizes his phone is buzzing A glance at his screen shows more missed calls and texts than he wants to admit to, and none that he wants to field. None that he feels like he can field. He knows he should, that Zenko will be home soon, that there is dinner to make, laundry to do, and a cat to feed. The bills are due in a week and he needs to figure out a meal plan for the next month.

This wasn’t the life he asked for, but it’s the one he got and he knows he’ll buckle down and get it done. Zenko deserves that. Zenko needs that.

(Even if, all he wants to do, he realizes then, is be on Satoru’s bed with his fingers gracing over strong shoulders and his teeth teasing the other’s lips.)

His phone buzzes again and he sees Satoru’s name pop up.

Are you all right?

Badd thinks, then huffs, then laughs, then cackles hysterically because how is he supposed to answer that? He should close his phone. Go home and calm down because nothing said in anger is good. 

Instead, he texts back. No

There’s nothing more to say. He considers adding more, but two letters seem to encapsulate how he feels and why ruin such a succinct answer? Taking a deep breath, he considers his option. Looking at the phone in his hand and feeling no which way about any of them. The numbness from last week seems to be coming back, bleeding into his hands and into his thoughts, fogging all rational thinking until he feels heavy with it.

Badd pulls a knee up and balances his forehead on it. Holding muscled thigh in close and trying to breath, trying not to drown. “C’mon, ya jackass.”

The words help, a little. But it’s Herculean effort that goes into making himself breath, making himself not feel like clawing every living thing that comes close, making himself grasp onto something and cling to it like an anchor.

Zenko.

Isn’t that what his life is about right now? It’s what it should be about, as he can only imagine his mother and father’s disappointment at her at home, wondering where her onii-chan is and calling every name on the emergency list until he answers. She’ll kill him. He’ll deserve it. And it’s that thought that gets him up, taking the train home as he, for once, feels the ache of the day in his feet.

Zenko takes one look at him as he staggers through the door, uncharacteristically quiet, and insists on making dinner. She tries to ask, bless her, staring at him with a squint, “Onii-chan?” Then, quieter, “Are you ok?”

Badd knows he isn’t, but he smiles and says, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Zenko’s squint deepens, and he realizes she was on the phone. “Nevermind, he’s here.” When she hangs up, her look doesn’t change at first. It takes a moment for a softness to go into the corner of her eyes. “Onii-chan, what if I make ramen tonight?”

He objects, he remembers protesting, but he ends up on the sofa anyway with her, sharing a blanket. Watching his favorite show and trying to laugh when he’s supposed to, knowing Zenko’s eyes are burning a path as she examines him. It makes him sink further into the sofa, another failure added to the pile, and his ramen congeals, more or less untouched.

Eventually, the tv turns off and Zenko’s hand worms out from under the blanket to settle on his arm. “Onii-chan?”

“Yeah?”

Zenko is silent for long enough that Badd glances over. She just stares. “Will you sleep in my room tonight?”

Badd’s eyebrows furrow. “You want the sofa again?”

But she shakes her head. “We can both sleep on the bed.”

They haven’t shared a bed since right after the accident, two years ago. Badd frowns a bit, unsure. “You haven’t done that since you were a squirt.”

The nickname normally gets a reaction from Zenko. A spit, a flurry of huffs, an indignant glare. Instead, Zenko squeezes Badd’s arm. “Please?”

It’s one word, but it has the power to get Badd to move mountains. That includes himself this time, and he stands with a sigh, “All right. Let’s get ready for bed.”

They brush their teeth in mutual silence, Zenko breaking it to lecture Badd about skin care until he’s forced to use a cleanser just to get her to stop. By the time he’s pulled on a clean pair of basketball shorts and undershirt, she’s curled up in bed in her matching pajama set he gave her for Christmas last year. Normally, they’d tease one another to an inch of their life, until someone goes low and initiates either a tickle or pillow war.

This time, however, when he climbs in she moves to hug him tightly. It gets a small oof from him at the force.

“You all right?” he asks, even if it feels like the question is a thousand miles away.

“I’m just worried,” Zenko says with a soft, quiet voice.

That almost as hurts as much as anything else, because Badd cannot bring himself to be another worry in Zenko’s world. She’s seen too much, been through enough. To add to it is antithetical to everything he wants to be.

His brows furrow. “Nothing’s gonna get you with me here.”

Zenko, however, has already closed her eyes and she sighs like she’s not ten. “You’re an idiot.”

He knows this, but he doesn’t try to argue with her. Eventually, her breathing evens out and he’s left in the dark with star lights playing over the walls, listening to Zenko breath softly as the sound of the city go by.

When he finally sleeps, he doesn’t dream of anything at all.

Chapter Text

“For reals though, man, are you ok?”

The question digs under Badd’s admittedly thin skin and if it weren’t Tajima asking Badd would have punched the guy by now. They’ve taken up the corner, early morning chill starting to dissipate already with the rise of the sun. Badd is doing his best to avoid smoking - Zenko had given him a look this morning on her way to the shore and he’d promised - but it’s hard when the weekend has only just started and he’s feeling the itch of suppressed anger licking at his chest.

He still isn’t over the awkward morning with Tanaka of yesterday, the two meeting at their usual crossroads point, backpacks slung haphazardly over their shoulders.

Tanaka had tipped his head, “You good?” Badd had shot him a shriveling look,to which Tanaka sighed, “Right.”

The only reason he’d been there was because he didn’t need the Administrator up his ass about another absence. They’d stood in silence, waiting for the crosswalk light to blink, shifting until Tanaka had broken the silence once more with a glance over, “Was worried about you, man.”

Badd didn’t know what to do with the frankness. He glanced over. “I’m fine, idiot.”

“Yeah, but usually you’re ‘fine’-” The air quotes certainly made Badd roll his eyes. “And loud . You just went completely silent. It was…” And Tanaka had shifted in a way that made Badd suddenly uneasy. “Weird.”

Which isn’t the word Badd is pretty sure Tanaka wanted to use, but he respects that he went for the more neutral one. Badd had sighed. “It’s all bullshit.” Tanaka raised an eyebrow, but was silent, and Badd found himself trying to spit it out. They were practically brothers, so why was it so hard to say?

(If he said it, did it make it more real?)

“Just bullshit,” he finished, lamely.

Tanaka had raised an eyebrow further, but the light changed and Badd had taken the opportunity to walk, never more grateful for the school building looming in the distance. The one time he’d needed something from the damn place and it had delivered; a convenient excuse to not say something about the miasma of emotion churning in his gut.

(A feeling not helped by the fact his few texts with Satoru amounted to ‘meh’ and ‘just busy’.)

It didn’t mean he was free, however, as he’s finding out now as Tajima accompanies him. It’s his biweekly grocery trip, reusable bag over his shoulder, stylish sweats and matching hoodie to go with. Tajima doesn’t always go with, but sometimes there are only so many opportunities and if bros can hang and bat balls they can hang and find bargains together too.

“I’m fine,” Badd grits out. “Fuck, everyone keeps asking me that and it was one fucking afternoon.”

But Tajima isn’t letting it go and there’s no amount of fast walking that’s going to get the guy off his case. “Listen, I get it, but also you try getting a call like that from Zenko.”

It’s a direct hit to his guilt and Badd groans, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I just.” And he hesitates, again, because it’s still difficult to find one thing to say to summarize the still roiling seas in him. “They’re talkin’ about taking me off the team. I think.”

Tajima huffs and has the decency to not look over at him. “You think?”

Badd grunts. “They said nothing was decided.”

“They say why?”

“Guess a guy that can level monsters isn’t exactly ‘fair’ to have battin’ for ya.” Badd hates himself for copying Tanaka’s air quotes, but what can you do.

The grocery store doors shush open and the cool air sends goosebumps up Badd’s arms. It’s still early enough to be mostly quiet, and it means Tajima can walk with him with minimal jostling. “When are they gonna decide?”

“Didn’t exactly stick around to ask.” Badd’s cheeks are definitely red now and he doesn’t look over at Tajima as he does his best to choose a melon.

“So you basically don’t know anything other than what they might do.”

Which, when put like that makes Badd even more flustered. His head whips around and he doesn’t miss the smirk trying not to show on the other’s face. “Shut up.”

“And there’s a universe where nothing could happen.” Tajima has the audacity to pretend like he’s also trying to pick out a melon.

“Shut up twice.”

It’s a good point, however, and Badd feels a bit flustered he didn’t think of it. Tajima gives him the space to put his thoughts together, melon, grapes, and kale acquired until they’re in the dry goods aisle. “You’re a hell of an athlete, with or without…whatever,” Tajima waves his hand over all of Badd. “You’d be a beast at the bat even without your freaky deeky genetics.”

Which might be part of the problem, but it’s nice to hear regardless. Badd chuffs, “You’re just jealous I didn’t get the flu last year.”

Tajima groans. “It’s criminally unfair that you didn’t have to puke for half a week like the rest of us!”

They move on after that, for which Badd is grateful because he needs space to think on it. It’s easy to talk about rice and meal planning; less so to talk about how to balance the wealth of feeling in him. He knows, logically, that Tajima is right and there's a comfort in knowing that. But Badd has never been one to lead with his brain. His heart still wants to palpitate and there’s a strong desire still to rip something apart.

But anger doesn’t put food on the table and Tajima at least makes the chore easier and keeps the rage at bay. Enough so that by the time Badd is on the train home, watching the news report on his phone about a minor attack in L-City that’s lazily making the news cycle, it’s with a clearer mind. 

At least, right up until he gets to the stairwell leading to the fourth floor. He nearly drops the two bags of groceries he’s been shouldering. “Satoru?”

The man himself is, indeed, sitting in the stairwell, form drooped over and leaning against the wall. His helmet rests with a grease stained paper bag in his lap, hair half dried and sweat stains still visible on dirt streaked padding. Behind those glasses Badd can see his eyes are closed, and if he’s not mistaken, despite the extreme position Satoru’s spine seems to be bent in, he’s…asleep.

Badd’s brow furrows in confusion. For half a moment, he’s not sure if he should wake him or not. His phone would likely answer this mystery, but with one hand reaching for Satoru and the other still balancing this week’s food, it’s almost easier to just get the why from the source. “Hey. Helmet head,” he says as he reaches over and flicks Satoru’s forehead, gently.

Satoru, unsurprisingly, jolts awake, a half-wild look in his eyes and a jerking motion that nearly sends his helmet flying. It does, in fact, send the greasy bag over his knees and three sandwiches wrapped in foil tumble out. “Huh?”

Badd’s foot catches a sandwich before it can find its death at the bottom of the stairwell, eyes not leaving Satoru. “You ok?”

“I, ah,” Satoru stumbles, hand moving to the back of his neck with a wince as his spine finally straightens. “I think I may have been tired.”

“You don’t say,” Badd drolls. For a half moment, he’s not sure how to respond. There’s an easiness to Satoru’s presence that Badd craves, even if another half of him is roiling at the thought of having to try to pretend that everything is ok.

Stooping to grab the last sandwich, Satoru stumbles as he stands and Badd watches as a sheen of dust cascades off Satoru’s form. And then, like that, something seems to catch in Satoru’s throat because he clears his throat once, twice, and then seems to struggle to think of words to say.

Badd purses his lips a bit and gives the guy a break. “You come by to nap?” Even he winces a bit inwardly at himself, as it sounds too brittle, too snippy.

Satoru’s gaze on him is careful, and for half a moment Badd expects ‘how are you doing?’ to come out of the guy’s mouth. He braces for it.

Instead, Satoru takes a breath in through his nose and there’s a thousand things that seem to nearly be said. Instead, what comes out is, “I missed you.”

It’s a simple few words, but they aren’t what Badd expects and it throws him off more than he already is. It’s also one of the first times he’s heard Satoru say anything that expresses something he’s feeling or he wants directly.

“You did?” It sounds stupid even in Badd’s ears, but he’s said it and he can’t change that now.

Satoru’s frown is soft. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Badd is just left to feel stupid. “Because you’re busy?”

Which makes Satoru wince and Badd regrets saying anything at all. Yet there’s no immediate reply, which makes Badd feeling antsy all over again. He’s on the cusp of saying something, when Satoru wraps his still gloved fingers around the bag. “I, ah, grew accustomed to you texting.”

Which he hasn’t been for the past few days, not like he used to. And there’s a pang there as Badd realizes that. “Fuck, Satoru, I’m…”

Satoru takes the trailed silence, however, and moves forward. Taking Badd’s hand in his. “I’m sorry if this was…forward. But I miss you.”

“And you were worried,” Badd fills in and when Satoru doesn’t refute it he sighs. “I’m fine, Satoru, I promise.” He watches as Satoru steadies himself against the wall and he frowns a bit, welcoming the change of topic. “Should you even be out doin’ hero work? Didn’t you break your arm?”

“Dislocated,” Satoru says softly. But the tiniest bit of a smile is on the rider’s face and Badd feels a bit of himself peek through the buzz of his own skin. “And if I call this a break, would that diffuse your own lecture?”

Badd’s snort bullets into a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ve always got a lecture in me. Got a younger sister, comes with the territory.”

Satoru, however, tilts his head in consideration of that point. “Is it you who lectures her or the other way around?”

The laugh turns into narrowed eyes and playfully Badd shifts the bags in his hands. “You wanna ask that again when my hands are free?”

Satoru, however, reaches out with a smile. “I believe the answer would be the same.”

Badd yanks the bags away, however, with a critical look. “There is no way in hell you’re carryin’ my bags with your broken ass arm.”

The eye roll he receives is so gentle that Badd has to wonder if anything the man does can be sharp. But Satoru follows when he motions, and before long Badd’s toeing off boots, Satoru sitting to undo his own rock scrapped and dust ground boots. Badd’s nearly to the kitchen when he realizes Satoru isn’t following. Turning with a raised eyebrow to find Satoru contemplating his pads, thumb hooked under a closure, mouth pursed.

Without thinking, Badd smirks, “Just got ya home and already you’re gettin’ undressed? My my.” Satoru’s face goes white, then red, embarrassed heat rising from him in waves and Badd feels a pang of both laughter and shame pinging through him. “Help me unload the groceries, ya kappa.”

That gets a flash of brown eyes at him, curious and brought out of where the cyclist’s mind goes when caught within its own depths. A muttered huff of something Badd just laughs at, he turns to give that iota of privacy that he is learning the other needs and feels a warm curl of satisfaction lick his stomach when the sound of padding against the entryway floor meets his ears. A small victory, but one that also echoes loudly in his ears. As much as Satoru’s socked steps across the floor sounds so delightfully welcome and so decidedly foreign.

When a human hand - not gloved - appears in his periphery Badd offers out a bunch of bok choy, foam squishing in his hand. “Right bottom drawer.”

Warming morning air slits through the blinds by the time the last of it is settled neatly in a cupboard. Badd flicks the kettle on even as Satoru casts a curious, polite glance to the rest of the living room. Sheets neatly folded on the arm of the sofa, an old practice from when the one bedroom had been a studio.

“So, you gonna give me the fake excuse for stopping by?” Badd glances over his shoulder as the sudden question sparks a startle from Satoru. “I already know the real one.” 

It’s cute how Satoru stares at him like he’s seen a ghost. “Pardon?” When Badd’s eyes flick to the brown bag, darkening grease marks nearly overtaking the bottom, Satoru clears his throat and springs into action. “ Oh . Well, I really would have brought you breakfast anyway-” Badd snorts, however, and Satoru’s shoulders shudder a bit, caught. “Fine, fine . You did very soundly catch me.”

“Big ol’ prep word for caught red handed,” Badd teases. But he holds a hand out anyway, and the sandwich placed in his palm is more than enough to shut him up.

Aluminum rips as Badd sits, Satoru joining him with a hand on the third sandwich. “For your sister.”

“She ain’t here,” Badd says between a bite, cheese strung between his lips and egg. “Can’t guarantee it’ll get to her, cause fuck these are good.”

Satoru snorts at that. Foil is tenderly foiled over and Badd wonders if the guy rips wrapping paper. “I’ll bring a fourth next time.”

Next time is such a simple phrase yet such a loaded one that the thud in Badd’s stomach is nearly audible. It’s not a bad feeling, bearing the weight of knowing this is long term and not something with a known end.

By the time Badd is done with the first sandwich and - with a silent apology to Zenko - working on the second, Satoru has barely made a dent in his. The quiet, slow blinks the man is doing belay that early morning was hours ago, and Badd finds his nose wrinkling as he considers the headlines from last night. “You sleep at all last night?”

It’s easier to talk about Satoru than himself, Badd finds. And Satoru obliges with a tired huff. “Some. I was…”

The pause lingers and Badd tries to help. “Doing rounds?”

“Helping a friend,” Satoru says, instead. Badd raises an eyebrow and Satoru tilts his head at him, cheek pressing into his palm. “I do have friends, Badd.”

“It wasn’t that,” he says quickly, balling up the tinfoil and flicking it at Satoru’s face. It bounces off his chin and to Badd’s delight gets a smile and a chuckle from the other. “It’s you out doing somethin’ that wasn’t hero work.” And a thought crosses him. “You have fun doing this favor?”

Satoru’s cheeks redden. “Are you implying I do not know how to have fun?”

“I’m not trying to imply it so much as accuse you of it.”

That gets a laugh and Satoru, to his delight, flicks the tin foil ball back. It sails harmlessly toward Badd’s left side and a hand reaches out to catch it before it can be lost to the kitchen floor. “What about the exhibit we went to? Or the movies??”

“You do that without me?” Satoru opened his mouth, then shut it again and Badd laughs. “So. Did you have fun or not?”

“I did,” Satoru confesses, taking another bite of his sandwich finally.

“So…what did you do?” Badd prods, flicking the ball over again.

Satoru deflects it this time, snorting a bit and letting his cheek press further into his hand. “Now I’m not sure you will believe me if I told you.”

Badd just raises an eyebrow. “Try me.”

“I went to a show. Then dancing. And walked my friend home,” Satoru says, simply, matter of factly, like it wasn’t something Badd and his crew had done a thousand times.

Satoru is right; Badd doesn’t believe him. “You dance?”

“Not well ,” Satoru clarifies, pushing the rest of his sandwich away toward Badd. “But hai. It can be fun.”

“Then when are you comin’ out with me?” The question is out of Badd’s mouth before he can think about it. Hand creeping for the sandwich.

“After your birthday,” Satoru says gently, with a soft tired, but fond, exhale.

Badd’s eyebrows just raise further. “So it was that kind of dancing.”

And he laughs as Satoru’s face reddens, leaning in to chase away the embarrassment with a kiss. The kiss turns into two, then something prolonged, and by the time they both fall onto Badd’s sofa he likes to think Satoru’s far more awake, bright eyes on him. Badd stares down where Satoru is sitting, letting a hand settle on a warm cheek, thumb following the cheekbone. He knows the boundaries here, but he can’t help but think about what it will be like when Satoru is wearing less and more willing to put a hand lower on his hip.

“My birthday’s soon,” he says with a pop of his lip.

“I know,” Satoru answers, and of course the guy knows. How wouldn’t he? “I keep my promises.”

“You sure I can’t get you to break one? Half of one? A quarter?” The tease doesn’t yield results, but Badd leans in for a kiss anyway as Satoru rolls his eyes. To the other’s credit, however, Badd doesn’t miss the way Satoru’s hand tightens on his hip. “Listen, had to try. Especially because you came over here because you were worried .”

Satoru raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

It’s out of Badd’s mouth before he can think. “Zenko could’ve been home.”

There’s a sting of quiet between them that is broken only when Satoru’s hand slides from his hip. “Ah.”

Badd knows he’s said something to disrupt the mood, but he isn’t sure just what. His brow furrows and he wants to prod further, but Satoru beats him to it. Taking a deep breath and hand settling against the back of his neck. “I suppose I got lucky this time then.”

There’s something else here, and Badd knows, knows , he should question it. But Satoru leans up to kiss him again and it’s hard to try to ruin a good thing by chasing a hunch. With the unease of everything else he lets it go. Not wanting to sully the moment further, anxious to just enjoy what he does have and not have to think about the future for a few golden moments.

Up close, though, Badd can see how tired Satoru is. There are bags under his eyes, a new piece of tape keeps his glasses together, and there’s a near imperceptible wince when Satoru’s right shoulder moves. There are things kisses can’t fix, and while Badd would love to try he knows the physical limitations of affection. He also knows calling attention to it is a good way to sour the mood, but there’s a part of him that wonders who really should be worrying about who.

“Could stay for a bit,” he suggests, instead, in hopes it’s a better way of addressing the concern.

Satoru’s lips purse, like he wants to say something and fights it. “I would not want to impose.”

Which is a no in Satoru speak. So Badd just clicks his tongue and changes tactics. “Already got you in my bed. What’s a few more hours in it?” Satoru goes bright red at that and Badd positively cackles in delight. “Relax. Ain’t defiled it.” Though he has to add with an eyebrow waggle, “Yet.”

It’s still a delight to watch Satoru squirm a bit, glancing around at the sheets stacked on the arm. The pillows underneath the coffee table. “I…should have realized.”

Badd rolled his eyes, leaned in, and let his hand trail through sweat soaked, mousy brown hair. “Stop over thinking it and kiss me, you idiot.”

So Satoru did.

The cyclist left only when Badd’s cell phone rang, Zenko on her way home and checking in as she always did. There was a look that was given at the name on the screen that Badd couldn’t place. Not anger - he knew that - but something more akin to…disappointment? Why Badd wasn’t sure, as their trysts had yet to go beyond something rather tame even by Satoru standards. But he didn’t dwell on it, instead, seeing Satoru off with a snuck kiss and a huff from the complex’s front gate as Mumen Rider sped off.

He glances over as the cyclist disappears to find two older women watching him, the two wearing matching joggers and hats. Out for a late afternoon stroll and fanning themselves. Badd scowls a bit and the two huff as they power walk by, but judged or not Badd finds himself not able to care. The glow of the morning is still strong enough to keep the rest of his own ennui at bay, and he accepts it.

It lasts until that evening, when Zenko is back from a sleepover and still vibrating from the high of it all. The practice piano filling the apartment as Badd listens from the patio, trying his best to hide a smoke. He nearly burns himself on the filter when his phone buzzes and the name is not who he expects.

How the fuck? It’s not unbelievable that Zombie Man somehow has his number, but it’s certainly edging toward the implausible side of things that Zombie Man would text him .

The text glows in the late evening light, burning into Badd’s mind.

What do you know about your mother?

Badd’s brows narrow and the cigarette falls, forgotten to the patch of grass far below. Her face flashes in his mind unbidden, and like the memory that it is it clenches so hard at his heart his breath catches in his throat.

He remembers her hair, always in a braid, thick as her eyelashes and streaked with early greys. She joked, once, that every grey hair was a loss, of which there had been many in her early career, or so she’d said. But Badd had never believed that. She’d been the strongest person he’d known, her hands capable of lifting the weight of a skinned knee and 500 pounds in kind. The smell of the gym still made him think of her to this day. 

Fingers hovered over his phone, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond. Unsure what to say regarding the sepia tones and silence starting to take the place of how she’d said his name.

Strains of Vivaldi floated through to him, breaking the reverie of his thoughts and he finally willed his fingers to move.

What about her?

Zombie Man responded with surprising speed. Sponsors.

Short and succinct, but it was enough for Badd to light another cigarette. Smoke rising as his stretched his mind back. It was one of the last memories he had, the bid for the country games. Her eyes had been on eventual gold, something Badd believed to this day she would have won if she’d lived. But while they’d grown up with enough for food and a roof over their heads, equipment and training didn’t come cheap. More than once he remembered them: men in suits, sipping tea in their kitchen, bearing jerseys with logos that Badd barely remembered.

She had a lot .

Which was also true. There’d been many vying for her attention at the end; they’d sent flowers for the funeral. That had been the last time Badd had heard from any of them.

His phone buzzed with the reply: Evotech?

Badd closes his eyes, letting memories rolodex through his mind. A cacophony of jerseys that Badd only half paid attention to. It had mattered back then, but his mother had never shined more than when she was in her gym clothes, hands white with chalk, fly aways curled and holding Badd close to her chest as she swung him on an arm.

Maybe?

No further text comes, however, and Badd huffs in annoyance. Leave it to Zombie Man to appear in his moment then leave him wondering. A trend with the other that extended to his hero work as well.

Yet the question sticks to Badd like gum to his cleats; following him around with a sticky pervasiveness that plucks at his awareness. Memories bubble to the surface, leaving his insides coated in something not unlike malaise. If he looked, he knew there was more to it than that. A longing for what should have been, a grief for what never could be. What would life had been if the weight of everything weren’t on him?

It was a question that he finds still rolling in his head as he lounges on Satoru’s bed, watching the other fill that ancient electric kettle with water. “Do you remember your mom?”

Even Badd is surprised he asked the question and he can’t fault Satoru for pausing, lid to the kettle nearly thundering in the sudden silence.

“Hai,” Satoru says slowly, turning to glance over his shoulder with a squint at Badd. “I…mostly remember her.”

Badd understands the pause in those words far more than he wants to admit. “What was she like?”

Satoru sucks in a slow breath through his nose, letting it out slowly. Tapping a finger on the kettle before moving to settle back on the bed next to Badd. “Dandelion puffs remind me of her laugh.” Badd let a hand find Satoru’s, sliding into his fingers and feeling him squeeze. “She loved to sing, and though I confess her voice would likely have never reached the heavens, it is what I remember her doing even when she did such things as the dishes.”

Brown eyes slid over to him and Badd isn’t ready for the question to be turned. So he squeezes Satoru’s hand back. “Never told me what happened to her.”

The shrine by the doorway says enough, and if Satoru were to leave it at that Badd knows he won’t push. But Satoru hums, deep in his throat, like he does when he’s weighing what to say and Badd has been on this enough to know that patience does usually pay off.

“My father was a policeman,” Satoru finally says, his voice just barely above the sound of the heat coil. “He was firm, but kind, and some say he gave grace when he should have given sternness.” The breath in makes Badd sure he knows what Satoru’s thoughts on that are. “The brother of a man he put away came one evening and settled the score with two lives for one.”

Badd sucks in a breath through his teeth and regrets asking. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Satoru gives him a small smile. “It was a long time ago. I have come to peace with what happened.”

And Badd wonders, again, what it is within the cyclist that gave him such peace. He raged against every monster he went against for what was, and yet, Satoru went to lengths to save the lives of the kind that took his family from him. “You aren’t angry at all about it?”

“Anger would do nothing to change it,” Satoru says simply.

Badd brings the other’s fingers up to kiss them. Wrinkling his nose playfully when Satoru gives him a suspicious side eye. “Trying to decide if you’re the kindest guy I know or a fucking push over.”

Satoru laughs at that. “I’m flattered?”

“You should be, I’m quite the catch,” Badd teases and he follows it with a kiss to the other’s chin. It makes Satoru blush and Badd clicks his tongue, charmed. “Think your mom would be proud of you.”

“That is what my grandmother said,” Satoru hums. It’s not a displeased hum, however, and Badd can feel how his grip relaxes in his. “I am unsure if my mother or father would have loved the hero business. But I think, at the end of it all, they would understand.”

“Why not be a police officer?” Badd asks, not eager to change the subject to himself. Instead, enjoying the look under the hood at what the shrine can only imply.

“I am not sure I could ever hurt a person, no matter the justification.”

It’s the most Mumen Rider answer that for a moment Badd isn’t sure why he even asked. Satoru’s earnest look isn’t lost on him and even when the other gets up to answer the bubbling kettle and it makes Badd wonder at how far such forgiveness can extend. It can’t be infinite, he reasons. Though as he watches Satoru pour tea in two different, cracked mugs, he wonders if perhaps it’s more that the end is less explosive than his own.

He ignores the look Satoru gives him when his fingertips meet the mug, giving a shrug of his shoulders. “Done a lot of cooking.”

“Hm,” is all Satoru says.

Badd pushes through the look he’s being given, “So you decided to beat up monsters instead.”

Satoru sighs, cuticle torn finger toying with the end of the tea bag. It’s a long moment, and Badd watches four hundred false starts try to pass Satoru’s lips before. Socked feet fight for the right to hide beneath the other. Finally, it comes forth in a soft sigh not unlike a defeat. “Because being a hero meant being able to do something.”

A deep hum issues over Badd’s tea and he realizes, belatedly, it’s him making the sound. “Do what exactly? Police do plenty and they at least get pensions.”

Satoru scratches the underside of his chin, says distantly, “They don’t always get justice.”

“And heroes do?”

Satoru is again quiet for a long moment, tea long forgotten. “Perhaps.”

It’s a sticky silence that follows, however, and Badd shifts in the discomfort of feeling like he’s trudged into a swamp he’s only beginning to realize is there. He’s no closer to understanding it than he is to pinpointing just what Zombie Man’s cryptic text meant.

“You hear about that new Korean hero?” There’s no better way to change the mood than to change the topic, wisdom Badd is leaning on now as he slurps down the rest of his tea. “Made real quick work of some Demon level. People are sayin’ he’s got shadow monsters workin’ for him.”

Badd’s murmur is quiet. “Using monsters to fight monsters? I’m not sure I’ve heard of that method before.”

“Maybe he’s part monster,” Badd jokes. “Maybe that’s the secret; becoming part them so we can beat ‘em down faster. Evolve beyond and all that.” 

Satoru scoffs, “Beyond what?”

Badd leans in, grinning, “You know, beyond us.” He makes a show of the pause, drumming fingers on his chin. “Would you still like me if I had tentacles?”

Satoru groans, finally snapping back into focus and giving him an exasperated look. The lone pillow on the futon smacks Badd’s face. “Badd!”

“Well?? Don’t leave a guy hangin’!”

Badd never does get an answer. But when he wakes in the middle of the night, sweat clinging to his skin and Tama leaping to safety from his heaving chest, he remembers something. A jacket draped over the bench, black and glossy like his mother’s hair, yellow embroidery in simple kanji; no fan fare, no dramatic declamation beyond the phrase beneath it.

Evotech - Evolve Beyond.

Chapter Text

It takes him four days to work up the courage to dig out the boxes. Two square pieces of cardboard, nearly more tape than anything else, pitted with dings and the corner of one water logged more than once to the point of warping a side to a nearly unrecognizable shape. Badd doesn’t remember who the handwriting on the boxes belongs to; kanji in black marker so dated it’s grey.

He hasn’t opened them in years and even now, pulled out amongst the myriad of light sticks that Zenko had come home with from the last Huntrix concert, he can’t bring himself to reach for the tape that holds those dilapidated edges shut. It feels as if the air has become thick with what-ifs and he’s staring at them with the distance of should have been.

Time ticks by and something within him crawls down his spine. It leaves a cold sweat in his wake, yet even then he can’t bring himself to open those taped down flaps.

Outside, cicadas scream as if to call him on his cowardice and Badd swears at himself under his teeth, clicking his tongue even as he feels the last patch of his tank top dampen with cold sweat. “Fuck, it’s just cardboard.”

But it isn’t and he has to come to terms with that as he sits there and watches himself lose to a memory.

In the end, he puts them away and cleans the kitchen - top to bottom - just so that he has an excuse for the sweat that drips down his neck.

Zenko gives him a look that afternoon, biting her lip, and it’s not like her to hold back like that. It has Badd making a face, one she doesn’t return. Instead, offering a blunt, “Are you ok?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She stares him down, however, and normally he breaks. What Zenko wants he gives, because the world sure as hell won’t and he’s not about to make her ghosts any stronger, any louder. But this time he doesn’t, because there are some things one shouldn’t give words to and grief, this grief at least, he doesn’t like to feed. He doesn’t want her to be haunted with it like he is.

Instead of a retort she sighs and he changes the topic with a gentle rap of knuckles into her hair and the promise of takoyaki after they air out the winter comforters.

Yet Zombieman’s text remains unanswered on his phone, those boxes remain unopened, and the school days tick on, with no answer on that front either to just what Badd’s fate is when it comes to the team. It’s making his skin crawl, all of the not knowing. He’s never proclaimed to need all the answers to things; he makes it a habit in half his life to just go in swinging and so far it’s worked out for him more or less. Having some answers though? It would definitely make the buzz of anxiety that’s starting to creep under his skin lessen.

Tanaka and Ennoshita notice the jitters, and Badd notices their glances they think they’re being subtle with. They’re less blunt than Zenko in asking.

“So…” Tanaka drawls as they spend Friday night in the wash of neon lights, awaiting a train.

Badd’s jacket is foregone for a tank top and torn jean vest, the true sign of spring slipping into summer. His eyes flicker at the low syllables strung along and an eyebrow arches as he answers with a click of his tongue. “Tch.”

Tanaka hands over the cigarette they’re (badly) concealing from Ennoshita. “Fair enough.

That’s as close as they get, and Badd’s thankful for it. He prefers the glances and the acknowledgement staying stuck in their throats, because he’s fine. He’s absolutely fine. Once he has a bat in his hands he’ll be perfectly fine and things won’t feel like he’s holding onto the end of a kite in a hurricane.

Practice crawls by and he can’t face the looks given as he bats. The way eyes have turned from sympathy to suspicion, more than one glance given that scrapes at the back of his neck. His cleats kick the dirt and he spits, pretending it doesn’t phase him. That the distrust that eddies in the air doesn’t sucker him down into a mire where his own skill is questioned under the worst critic of them all: himself.

That night, as the cicadas drone in time with the automatic ball machine, he feels the bat bite through the air in a way he can’t. The gnash of metal, growling through his arms until it connects and strikes the wall with a rolling bellow that ends in a crash. The net sags dangerously close to the wall. Chunk-chunk-chunk goes the machine and every hit roars in Badd’s ears.

His mind drifts. Landing on a thought and dancing away, not wanting to know. What am I if I can’t play? School has never been his strong point. He has made do as he can while playing to his strengths. Swinging away at everyone else’s demons and keeping his own at bay with the brash confidence that youth and irrational belief that whatever comes, he’ll climb out of.

But he hadn’t anticipated something as mundane, as sure as baseball was to be what was in question. And now that it is he isn’t sure how to handle something so ingrained within his personality being threatened.

The hand on his shoulders causes a ball to go errant, whizzing past the head of Satoru in a way that startles the other enough that his glasses fall from his face. Badd reaches out to catch the ball before it can ruin his hair, glancing over at the befuddled face of Satoru for a moment before it clicks.

“Shit,” he says, ball falling to the ground as he bends immediately for the glasses, “I didn’t hear ya.”

Their foreheads collide when they both bend, however, and Satoru reels backs, rubbing his forehead, cheeks red. Badd feels flustered, very not suave in a way he only imagines other people, and for a moment he wonders if this is how people feel on a normal basis: uncertain and fuzzed out at the edges.

“It’s ok,” Satoru says softly, and Badd doesn’t know what he expected the other to say.

Badd puts a hand out this time before he swipes the glasses up, frowning at the tape so brittle it breaks under fingers. “Here, your…glasses?”

Satoru’s blows out a bit of air, not quite a sigh but threatening to be. “My back up pair.”

It’s easier to be more invested in someone else’s troubles than face his own. “What happened to the main pair?”

When Satoru doesn’t answer Badd almost wonders if the other is reticent to answer because the story is tragic. Instead, he realizes only when Satoru scratches his chin, head tilting, that the man doesn’t remember. “I think they fell through a storm culvert or broke during a crash.”

“This a planned crash?”

Satoru smiles softly, “They rarely are.”

Touche. Badd clicks his teeth and watches as Satoru slips the two halves of his glasses into his pocket. “Don’t you need those?”

“I can see well enough,” Satoru insists.

But Badd raises an eyebrow further and holds one finger up. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“One,” says Satoru. “And I can guess which it is.”

Badd frowns, letting his finger drop. “Lucky guess.”

“Something like that,” Satoru says with a gentle laugh that is so at odds with the whine of the machine that Badd feels himself wince.

Satoru must notice, as he moves over quickly to flip the switch. Silence falling over the enclosure and finally, finally drawing Badd’s eye to the clock. He swears, “Shit. You should’ve kicked me out.”

“I should have.” But Satoru doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry and that gives Badd pause, as it feels suspiciously close to rule breaking.

“Why didn’t you?” There’s no quick answer, however, and as Satoru purses his lips Badd realizes why the answer is slow in coming, heads it off with a, “I’m fine.”

“If you say so.” Then, Satoru tilts his head a bit and gives him that soft smile that Badd finds helps redefine the lines around him, just a little, just enough to feel solid. “Soba?”

They eat on the sea wall, watching the waves glitter in the city lights. Satoru eats like a man starving, and Badd, for once, doesn’t give him a run for his money. Politely, Satoru keeps his eyes forward, silence stretching and stretching into something comfortable. Enough so that Badd eventually hums in the back of his throat, “What would you do if you couldn’t do hero work?”

Wide brown eyes blink, quickly, and Satoru swallows a large mouthful and flicks a drop of broth from his lip with a chopstick. “What do you mean, like for work?”

“Yeah.”

Satoru hums, giving the the gravitas it was asked with. “I think…probably work in a bike shop.”

Badd turns a disbelieving eye to Satoru. “That’s what you want to do?”

“That was not the question,” Satoru teases, not unkindly. He licks grease from his lower lip. “If money were not a barrier-” which suddenly puts the answer into perspective enough so that Badd curses himself for not heading it off, “- I would be a nurse. I think.”

There’s an image that pops into Badd’s mind unbidden, nose immediately starting to bleed.

Satoru, of course, notices and somehow manages to not put two and two together. “Badd? Are you ok?!”

“Fine,” Badd says, voice cracking as he wipes quickly at his nose, “Nursing?”

“They are always so kind to me when I am in need,” Satoru says, as if nothing happened at all. Scraping the bottom of his bowl for the last noodle. “I have also been told I am good in a crisis.”

Badd snorts, drawing a side eye. He waves the look off, “You’re the most level headed dumbass I know. Sometimes I think there actually isn’t anything that phases ya.”

Satoru’s lips purse a bit, and Badd knows by now to wait him out. “I’m not super human.” Which freezes something in Badd, enough so that Satoru glances over sharply. “...there’s plenty that makes me nervous.”

But nervous isn’t the same as that aching, yawning uncertainty that Badd has found himself facing, and his nose wrinkles. “Nervous ain’t what I mean.”

The waves crash in the distance, a stray breeze bringing them salt water and seaweed. The city takes on a smell during the summer as well that’s teasing itself; smog and smarmy heat. With the soba, it’s almost overwhelming. Satoru shifts, however, and for just a moment Badd feels as if he can breath as those eyes find his. “Sometimes, I wonder what my grandmother would say about who I am.”

Badd tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Satoru’s eyes close and the cyclist leans back, heels thunking gently against the salt streaked walls. It’s quiet enough between him that Badd can hear a gull alight on the lamp post a few feet away. “I think she’d be disappointed in what I’ve chosen to do. Being a hero. She had high hopes I’d become a doctor, or move back home to become someone of note.”

“All the usual suspects,” Badd drolls.

“Hai,” Satoru laughs, gentle as always. “I couldn’t begrudge her having such ambition for me.”

“But…” Because Badd knows there’s more to the story here, and something in his stomach twists.

“When she died, I hadn’t realized how much of my life had been defined by her.” Satoru swirls his cup, watching his chopsticks clatter. “We were all we had left to one another, and I feared losing her so much that I lost myself trying to become what she saw for me.”

Badd can’t relate to that, though he tries. Even as memories of his mother curl around his ear much as she had curled his hair behind his with her fingers. Black eyes shimmering as her treble laugh filled the house from basement to rafters. “I can’t wait to see who you become, baby boy. Whatever you choose to do, you’ll burn brightest at!”

She hadn’t been wrong.

There’s a deep sigh that issues from a thousand resentments Badd can only begin to scratch at, Satoru’s heel digging into the sea wall as the cyclist looks out over the distant, black ocean. “It wasn’t her fault I forgot myself.” And that, well, Badd has his doubts but he keeps quiet as Satoru goes on, “But when she died, I realized I’d built my life around the pillar that she was. With her gone, there was nothing left to lean on and I looked around to realize that I wasn’t sure what I was what what I wanted to be. Does that make sense?”

Badd curls his lip, popping his cheek after a moment. “Yeah.” He thinks he gets it, because he’s starting to think that perhaps baseball is his pillar. “What’d you do?”

Satoru laughs. “You’re looking at it.” Glancing over, Badd doesn’t miss the small, uncertain smile on Satoru’s face. “If you asked me who I was without hero work, I’m not sure I could say. And that scares me sometimes.” Satoru’s gaze drops a bit to pick at the edge of his soba cup. “It scares me a lot, some nights.”

They sit in silence for a moment, letting the weight of it even out. Badd wonders, not for the first time, how Satoru carries what he does with the grace of someone far older. For the first time now, he starts to realize it’s perhaps not all grace but fear. Fear of not being enough, fear of not making the right call, fear of it not working and having nothing left at all to fall back on. Badd certainly knows how that feels.

Too well, right now.

It feels less encompassing, this feeling, now that he knows the form of it. Though how to banish it is still lost to him. “What do you do? When it scares you.”

Satoru watches him from the side of his eyes and is kind enough to pretend not to put two and two together. “Usually? I go to sleep. Everything seems less large in the light.”

The disappointed groan Badd gives isn’t meant to be as loud as it is. But Satoru just chuckles, soft as the receding tide. “What, did you expect something more?”

“I dunno,” Badd grumbles. “Just thought maybe there was something more…permanent.”

Satoru hums at that, “I don’t think there’s any getting away from it. Not really.” He glances over to Badd, however, with those tired eyes of his and Badd feels at least a little comforted in the knowledge they aren’t as different as he sometimes thinks they are. “Sometimes, all you can do is find some joy and keep moving forward.”

Lifting his soba cup, Satoru gives a thoughtful click of his tongue. “That can be as simple as soba for dinner.”

It’s…annoyingly simple advice. But there’s truth to it. An easier said than done type, perhaps, but one that Badd can at least try to emulate now.

Badd sets his cup down and lets a hand move to nudge Satoru’s thigh. The cyclist starts, back from a thought, and glances over then down. Blinking as he watches Badd’s hand flip, fingers wiggling. With a gentle chuckle, Satoru offers his hand.

Feeling the weight of their hands together, Badd takes a deep breath in. When he lets it out, the tide rushes out and he feels it take some of his unease with it. He should say thank you for the advice. Acknowledge the vulnerable, beating heart beneath the tired armor Satoru wears. At the very least offer up something of his own that’s equally as fragile.

Instead, he sits in silence and Satoru lets him.

Finally, finally, Badd says, “Speaking of joy, it’s almost my birthday…”

Satoru doesn’t let go of his hand, but he does squeeze his fingers as he laughs. That laugh alone makes Badd feel as if he can face just about anything.

It gets easier, the next few days, to find joy. Badd finds it in the way Zenko smile lights up when she finishes a practice piece, shaking her fingers from the speed. It’s also there in the way Tama goes straight for his hand in the morning, rubbing her cheek against his fingers. At school, it’s as simple as landing a joke. Practice sees joy in the way the leather smells as his hand twists, sinking a ball straight to right outfield with textbook perfection.

Those boxes get further and further away the longer he seeks out those small little moments. Part of him wonders if he’s not just using all of this to avoid something ugly. It’s not like him to do anything but face obstacles head on. Yet things ease into either routine or normal, Badd’s not entirely sure, and it makes collecting his pay check and (barely) passing his tests just a little bit easier.

So he goes with it all the way until Coach Diago catches his shoulder as practice ends, tired voice murmuring, “Can we talk a moment, Badd?”

When Badd turns to answer, bat slung over his shoulder, his skin tightens and everything in him freezes when he sees Mr. Yamashita, hands in his pockets of his pressed dress pants, black blazer immaculate, waiting for him on the sidelines.

His toothpick falls from his mouth as his eyes narrow. “What the hell is this?”

Coach Diago’s lips tighten and the man glances towards the Administrator with a look distinctly saying ‘help me’. And Badd knows, right then and there, that the world is about to shatter.

Badd can feel the eyes of the team on him as they scatter, sensing the impending storm and dissipating. A few daring to run their finger tips along Badd’s back, as a farewell or good luck, Badd isn’t sure. It feels like a funeral, however, and the silence that lays thick over the normally active field is pervasive enough to sink down into Badd’s skin until even his own blood pounding is gone.

“Mr. Akiitamashi,” the Administrator greets, like it’s any other day, like Badd’s life isn’t about to shatter.

Badd tries not to think of Satoru’s pillar. He tries not to let anything show. He keeps his breathing even, eyes slowly sliding up, as if bored. “Don’t see you out of the office often. You sure you’re ok gettin’ that suit dirty?”

Yamashita-san doesn’t rise to the bait, however, only keeping his gaze level with Badd. Now that they’re face to face, Badd realizes they’re the same height. “Do you have a minute? Diago-san and I would speak with you.”

Badd clicks his tongue. “I got a choice?”

They both know he doesn’t. Yamashita-san, at least, clears his throat as if to apologize for inferring he did. “We’ve had a few…concerns about your participation on the K-City High baseball team.”

Badd tilts his head, tries not to tighten his grip on his bat. “If it’s us not winnin’ enough, then you better talk to our left fielder, cause that last fly he let go really cost us.”

“It’s not about the team-”

“I know as hell it ain’t about my performance,” Badd continues, not willing to give an inch. “I’m the fastest runner on the whole damn team-”

“Mr. Akitamashi-”

“I’ve caught more balls than half the team combined-” He can feel himself starting to pitch, but try as he might something in him bubbles.

“Badd-”

“And my batting average can’t be beat.”

Coach Diago breaks the flood before it can boil over into a kettle scream. Badd’s almost grateful for the interruption, as he realizes then that his knuckles are white from gripping the bat so hard. “That’s precisely the concern, Badd. You’re significantly better than half the team.” Diago’s voice goes softer. “Than half the school, even.”

Badd’s eyes narrow, though he finds himself lost in a puzzle. If he’s good, what’s the problem. “So what if I am?”

“You are an S-Level hero, Mr. Akitamashi,” Yamashita-san says, blinking slowly, words too practiced to have not been rehearsed. That, for some reason, pisses Badd off more - knowing that they’ve come to some decision awhile ago. “By definition, you are faster, stronger, and more resilient than most of us. No one is debating your school. What we are faced with is a question of fairness .”

Badd’s jaw drops. “What the fuck?”

Coach Diago glances to Yamashita-san, swallowing. “The point of sports, Badd, is to push ourselves to the limit. But your limit has yet to be seen, and your every day is already stretching what most of us can hope to achieve in a lifetime.”

It’s praise, Badd knows this, but he can’t accept it for the implication under it all. “So I’m too fucking good to play?”

“You’re too advanced for it to be fair,” Yamashita-san says simply.

“It’s not just us, Badd,” Diago says quickly, as if that will make it better. “Other schools have questioned allowing heroes of your status to be a representative for any physical sport.”

“Or academic,” Yamashita-san adds, and Badd immediately thinks of Child Emperor and his advanced mind. No mathletes for any of them, apparently.

He’d know this was coming, hadn’t he? Then why is he not breathing? Why does it feel like the world is dropping from under him? Why does he feel a loss and betrayal so visceral that he can taste the agony of despair between his molars?

When he speaks, it’s a rush, with no thought given. “Then I’ll drop bein’ a hero. There. Matter solved.”

Yamashita-san and Diago exchange a look, however, and the world wants to slide away under Badd’s feet. He doesn’t dare move.

It’s Diago who speaks first, slowly, like one does to a spooked dog, “I’m afraid that given your abilities, Badd, there just isn’t a world where it’s fair -”

He can’t help it. Anger rears with a spit in his eyes and his tongue. “And it’s fair to me t’get kicked off the team for somethin’ I can’t help?”

Diago is silent at that and Badd can see the flicker of uncertainty in the man’s eyes. Yet Yamashita-san steps forward, hands emerging from his pockets now to press in front of Diago, as if to halt him.

“It’s not fair to you, Mr. Akitamashi, no. But it’s fair to the greater good, and that’s-”

Badd interrupts with a laugh. Bitter, brittle, and biting. “The greater good? You mean the greater good I’m savin’ at least once a damn fucking week ?”

Yamashita-san’s face has spoiled into a sour expression. “Mr. Akitamashi-”

“It’s Badd,” he says with a snarl. “If you’re gonna fuck me over at least call me by my first name an’ maybe even buy me a drink.”

There’s a crack of silence between them and Badd wonders if, perhaps, he’s crossed a line. But there’s a hysteria building in him that feels as if it has no other way to be released. The only thing he knows is anger and acting on it, either with swings of his bat or sharp cuts of his tongue.

It’s only fair, when they’re taking the one beloved, normal part of his life away.

“I understand you’re angry, Mr. Akitamashi,” Yamashita-san says evenly, eyes locked to Badd’s. “But you need to understand, that this is not because of some fault of yours. It’s just how it has to be, for the sake of everyone else. Surely, you understand.”

Yamashita-san sticks his hand out, as if they’ve just agreed to do business together. “Your time on the team is not unnoticed, and you will be eligible for a plaque thanking you-”

Badd laughs, pushes the hand aside, and for a brief moment considers, considers, punching the man. His eyes glitter with the idea of it, with the thought of how good it would feel to feel the man’s jaw give under his knuckles.

But Zenko is in his head, her mouth pursed, her eyes not mad but disappointed , which is always so much worse. And Badd knows that no matter how angry he is, how hurt he feels, he can’t disappoint her like that.

“Fuck you,” he says, instead, and stalks off. Pausing only once when Diago hangs his head, waiting. When nothing comes, Badd snorts, “So much for team spirit there, coach.”

The bat flings from his hand to clatter against the chain link fence, trapped in the coils. He misses the flinches that draws from the two men, though he can feel their nervousness radiate off them as the storm passes through and away.

He can’t breath, he can’t think. The world narrowing and he kicks off without focus, ignoring the fact his speed sends wind ripping behind him, knocking leaflets off doors and newspapers off stands. The thok thok thok of his feet on the ground grinds into his mind as it spirals. Feeling untethered and unfocused in all the worst ways; a livewire broken free and dancing for control amongst the flood waters. Anger, rage, betrayal, upset, and beyond all of it - fear.

Because who is he without baseball?

A hero, sure, but at the cost of normalcy?

He thinks of Satoru, lamenting a self he didn’t know, and a cold sweat breaks on the back of his neck as he wonders at the edge of the thought: is that also him? He doesn’t know. The tragedy of it is that there’s a thousand things about himself that make up something. But what that something is, Badd can’t seem to form.

As he runs, he is aware of the stares. Of people checking their phone for an alert missed, or an emergency announced. And Badd doesn’t realize he’s running with a purpose until he’s up the stairs and through the door.

Zenko isn’t home yet, but the boxes are there. Staring at him, half hidden in the closet. Badd pulls them out with a force that tears a cardboard flap off in his hands. It’s thrown to the side as his knees hit the floor. Because if they’re going to take baseball away, then by god he’s going to figure out what the hell it is that’s making him feel like more than in the worst way.

Without fanfare, he rips the tape off in one motion and lets himself be swallowed whole.