Chapter Text
It was twelve o’clock when they stepped out of the bar together. The night air tasted different with two hours having passed. The more respectable night goers were heading home now, while the livelier folks seemed to be just getting started. Metal Bat –or, Badd, as he’d encouraged Garou to call him— led Garou through the crowded streets with an easy confidence that spoke of an intimate familiarity with the area.
They weaved between drunken businessmen who had the misfortune of working on a weekend and had sought to remedy that tragedy with an appropriate amount of booze.
They slipped between clusters of college kids –who, Garou realized with a slight jolt, were technically older than them— that were blushing and stumbling through conversations with other members of their quant little mixer.
They skirted around tight-knit groups of people dressed to the nines with intricate outfits and colorful wigs and elaborate make-up that elevated them to a status not dissimilar to peacocks among pigeons.
One even reached out to Garou, brushing their manicured hand down his arm as they cooed something about the material of his shirt and invited him along to their party in one breath. The others flanking the speaker agreed with a sort of jubilance that instinctively put Garou on edge, not trusting that anyone could want him around with so much, well, want. A steady grip on his shoulder tugged him away and Garou faintly heard Badd apologize to the group with an excuse that they actually had plans already somewhere else.
Garou couldn’t get an accurate read on the situation, and that ignorance put him on edge. Did he actually get invited somewhere, or had they been making fun of him? Or had the invitation been legitimate but the event they spoke of less so? Was that why Badd had intervened? Or had the people themselves been a danger? Did Badd think he was saving Garou from something? Because he didn’t. And even he somehow did, did he think Garou just like, owed him now? Not a chance.
“Relax, Stretch,” Badd chuckled as he led him further down the street. Garou only realized then that his muscles were still tensed, and he eased them with a quiet sigh. Not because Badd had told him to, obviously, he just didn’t feel like walking like that anymore.
Clearly what he’d done wasn’t enough for Badd though because the hero side eyed him and smirked. “Don’t worry, wasn’t anything bad. Just figured you wouldn’t be into the sort of show they were going to.”
“And you think I’m interested in the show you’re taking me to?” Garou scoffed before idly kicking an empty can down an adjacent alley.
“It’s got booze and karaoke, what more could you want?”
Badd smiled in a disarmingly charming manner. He looked all of his seventeen years right then and there. And, like clockwork, Garou was in turn reminded of his own eighteen years. He felt simultaneously too young and too old and met the confliction with hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a skip in his step to outpace Badd.
“Well come on then, Metal Bat, show me what you got.”
They walked for a few blocks in a general Eastern direction. Before long, Badd led them through a narrow door, down a stone corridor, into a small foyer, and down the spiral steps to the right.
Raucous laughter and the off-key warble of a singer drifted up from the depths, growing louder with their descent, until the sounds enveloped him with a physical pressure against his skin. He and Badd wove between the small tables, packed to the brim, and those who had to make do with standing.
After a quick diversion to the cramped bar in the corner, where instead of smoky cocktails in fancy glasses they got sour beer in plastic cups, they dove straight into the throng before them.
Garou was still trying to figure out what exactly their destination was when their journey was interrupted by a tall man with skinny jeans, a spiked leather jacket, and what looked to be an honest to gods dog collar fixed tightly around his neck. Ring and all.
His shaggy, red hair shone like fresh blood under the neon signage lining the cornices of the space, and he threw a hand out towards Badd without reservation.
“Yo, Badd! That you?”
Badd grasp the hand with a firm clasp, and they pulled themselves together for a quick hug. Contact, squeeze, shoulder pat, release. It was all so quick, so casual. Were they going to expect him to know this little dance too?
“Ryuji,” Badd laughed, “what’s up? Been a while, huh?”
Ryuji gave Badd a shove against the shoulder. “You say that like I’ve been the one away.”
“Sorry, been busy with classes,”
“No doubt, no doubt, so who’s this?”
Ryuji’s eyes had turned to meet Garou’s. He could feel his fingers twitch anxiously. He wasn’t ready to hold someone’s hand so casually, to pull them or hold them without any force behind it.
Badd didn’t step aside and stayed between them, gesturing over his shoulder as he spoke. “Oh, uh, this is Gaaa- ahem, Gakuto he’s, um, he’s in the same class as me.”
“No shit, really?”
The newcomer looked over to Garou, who, after a glance towards Badd that provided no explanation or suggestion, nodded at Ryuji. “Yeah, really,”
“Hey man, that’s cool. Pre-med’s hard as shit, so, respect,”
“Uh, yeah, respect,” Garuo replied, carefully meeting Ryuji’s proffered fist for a knuckle-to-knuckle bump.
“So Badd, you gonna do a solo shotgun tonight?”
Badd met his cajoling voice with a somewhat rueful expression. “Do I have a choice?”
“There we go,” Ryuji laughed, clapping Badd on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. “I’ll go ahead and foot the bill for the 40, what song you want to go with it?”
“I’ll do the Steel Panther one,”
“All I Wanna Do, that right?”
“That’s the one,”
“Ohhhh, we’re in a good mood tonight!” Ryuji laughed before giving Badd one final pat on the shoulder before departing, squeezing between the loaded tables with practiced ease.
“Pre-med,” Garou asked once the other was out of earshot. He made sure his eyebrow was appropriately raised for the sincere doubt he wished to convey.
Badd shrugged, mostly nonchalant save for the slight waver to his chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, well, I spend enough time in hospitals to pick up some stuff here and there, and all you gotta do is drop a few technical terms and you’ll lose them.” He took a sip of his drink and tucked his chin down to his chest, a small smile gracing his lips. “I told ‘em I was on track for orthopedics.”
“Hm, is that what you’d be doing if you weren’t a hero?”
Badd stared down at his drink, watching the liquid slosh around with the careful rolls of his wrist. He chuckled again, this one even more shaky and forced. “Heh, probably not. I’m uh, well I’m not all that bright, so I wasn’t doing so hot in school before, and it only got worse when I joined the H.A.”
“Then what was your plan before becoming a hero? Baseball player?”
“Hm, you’d think so, but, well, by the time I got to high school, it wasn’t really that much fun anymore. I just kept hitting it out of the park, kept winning every game. No fun without a challenge.”
Garou’s heart skipped a beat at this brief moment of resonance.
“I get it,” he replied, trying to sound the normal amount of excited despite the way his heart seemed to flutter without control.
“I figured you would. That’s why you don’t do martial arts tournaments, right?”
Whoa, so that’s how it felt for people to just know things about you. Probably would have set off more alarm bells in his head, except, well, that’d be a bit of a pot calling the kettle black with his intense memorization of the Hero Almanac and all that. “How’d you know?”
“Ah, well, Suiryu told me. Ever since that guy’s heard I fought you, he’s always bugging me for details and hints. Told me he’s been going to martial arts tournaments all over the world, looking for you so he can fight you. Honestly, I think he’s a little obsessed.”
The guy from before, Ryuji, came back about then, clapping Badd on the shoulder and giving his body a bit of a shake with his enthusiasm. Badd capitulated to the motions with an easy grin, and they all just made it look so damn easy, didn’t they?
How was anyone even supposed to know when to touch or how? What place was acceptable? How long was contact held? Was there a level of familiarity that had to be achieved first? How many levels did someone have to be to place their hand on Badd so calmly, to shake him like that? What level was allowed to lean against his side and get a smile in return for the touch?
What level was Garou at right now?
“Got you all set up to go, Badd.” Ryuji said as he slammed a giant can of beer onto the wobbly tabletop. “Just after this jerkoff.”
“Hey now, everyone likes The Gazette,”
“Exactly, which is why I won’t stand for their butchering like this.”
Ryuji released himself from Badd’s side and backed away, shooting Badd a lazy salute as he went, “now go on and make us all proud Badd!”
Once the other was a suitable distance (i.e. not close enough to hear Garou say something dumb) he leaned in to ask, “okay, so, what the hell did you just agree to, because I don’t know if you realize this but,” and he took a moment to gesture to himself, “I’m kinda trying to keep a low profile here.”
Badd laughed before tossing back the last bit of his shitty beer. “It’s nothing illegal, Stretch, though I gotta admit it’s weird that you’re suddenly concerned about that.”
“Comes with the territory of being a fugitive,” he huffed before meeting Badd’s unspoken (and possibly unintentional) challenge and finished his own drink as well.
“Well, we’re in a karaoke bar, what do you think we’re here to do?”
“Holy shi- you’re actually going to participate in that?” Garou scoffed, jerking a thumb over to the small stage flooded with lights where a drunken man was finishing off a truly horrible song with notes far beyond his talent.
“What’s wrong,” Badd asked with a surprisingly sharp grin, “thought this’d be right up your alley, you know, since you never shut up and all.”
Oh. Oh. He did not just. “Well maybe I wouldn’t have to talk so much if someone had been good enough to keep me entertained.”
The crowd around them erupted with applause. Not for Garou’s fantastic clapback, unfortunately, but for the man finally finishing his song and gracing the bar with a brief moment of blissful silence.
Badd cocked his head, his smirk becoming cocky with the tilt, and his eyes gleamed with a zeal under the dingy neon.
“Well then, guess I’ll have to find some other way to entertain ya.”
And he got to his feet and headed to the stage with his oversized beer can in grip. He strolled up onto the platform and a couple people strewn about the audience let out a wolf whistle at the sight of him.
A few more broke out into whoops and cheers when Badd held aloft the giant ass can.
“SO-LO! SHOT-GUN! SO-LO! SHOT-GUN!” The crowd began to chant as the song began. The drums kicked in. The guitars slammed into a power cord. And the lyrics popped up on the screen behind Badd, but he didn’t even spare them a look as he stared out into the crowd, mic held casually in his hand, and began in a taunting melody.
“You're looking good but not good enough, to take my mind off the really hot stuff. If you want a hot love injection, you have to look as good as my reflection. Lipstick. Eyeliner. No bitch around here is finer. If you really want to get with me, you'll have to be as fine as I can be. That's right!”
He threw his fist hand to the ceiling as he shouted out.
“All I wanna do is-”
The crowd around him interjected with a shout. “Fuck! Fuck!”
“Fuck myself tonight! All I wanna do is-”
And anyone who didn’t already know what to say, joined in. “Fuck! Fuck!”
“Fuck myself till the morning light! All I wanna do is-”
The room practically shook as the audience filled in the gaps. “Fuck! Fuck!”
“Fuck myself tonight! All I wanna do is-”
Fists pumped into the air, drinks spilled, voices screeched, as they all fell into the moment. “Fuck! Fuck!”
“I can't resist those sexy leopard tights.” Badd held the note and flicked his dark gaze directly to Garou as the next verse kicked in. “You're a nine there ain't no doubt. I love your boobies and your sexy pout. You tell me you're a virgin. But I'm late for my plastic surgeon.”
He commanded the stage, retreating across it like he was legitimately backtracking from some supposed flirtation with all the casual control of a man who was flattered but knew he could do better.
Which, well, looking the way Badd did. Fair.
“Tummy tuck, lip injection, facial peels for my complexion. Implants to perk up my ass, I wanna fuck you baby but I’ll have to pass cuz-”
He said it all with such tongue in cheek that it got the crowd laughing with him rather than at him. He made spirits rise straight through the fucking ceiling right as the chorus kicked in and he needed the audience on his side to chant alongside him.
Somehow, even louder than before, the crowd interjected and boosted the energy pouring throughout the space. Out of the corner of his eye, Garou could see Ryuji, phone out, laughing and cheering and screaming along with the rest of them.
Badd ended the chorus with pretending to feel himself up as he boasted, “a full-length mirror never looked so fucking right.”
Across the stage he went, singing categorically ridiculous lyrics with boldness and passion and humor and energy that the crowd fed off of until it was the only thing sustaining them.
“I can't help rejecting, the women that I date. When I look into my eyes, I have to masturbate.”
And as the guitars took over for their solos, Badd cracked open the obscenely large can of beer still in hand and took a swing.
And.
Just.
Kept.
Going.
His throat worked furiously to swallow the deluge of beer pouring down his gullet. The tendons of his neck tensed as he worked around the volume of liquid while his Adam’s apple bobbed with each greedy gulp. Stray rivulets of beer snaked out the corners of his pursed lips and down his sharp jaw, carving a path through the dips and curves of his tanned neck to soak into the fabric of his loose tee-shirt.
The guitars went on as Badd continued sucking down mouthful after mouthful. He tipped back, more and more dramatically as he emptied the can, and he finished to the explosive cheer of the crowd while the guitars kept wailing in the background.
While the crowd was still roaring with triumph, Badd slammed the empty can down onto the stage. It bounced and rattled off somewhere, but obviously no one gave a single fuck about that now as Badd knelt down and held his finger to his mouth to shush the uproarious crowd.
The music was went lower, softer, and Badd came in with a careful melody that would have fit perfectly into a rock ballad about tender love if, you know, he wasn’t singing about fucking himself.
And then, the drums kicked back in. The guitars screamed. Badd jumped to his feet. So did the crowd. And they all joined in together as the chorus slammed over them again.
“I'm gonna fuck myself tonight!”
The music cut off then, but there was no silence. Everyone was cheering and clapping and laughing too damn hard. Nearly burst his damn eardrum with how obnoxiously excited they were being.
Badd hoped off stage and swaggered over to their tiny little table to the side, like he was so some hot shit who was really cool and charismatic and had an entire bar of people on their feet, rooting for him even when he wasn’t playing at being a fucking hero.
Garou could feel himself slouching down in his seat and forced himself to stretch his arm out to sling behind the back of the chair and look unaffected by the suffocating feeling jubilance surrounding them.
“Think you’d just saved the city, the way they’re acting.” Garou scoffed once Badd took his seat.
“Close,” Badd smirked. “I got them all free shots.”
“Not surprised to hear a hero can afford to buy his affection.” Garou retorted, taking extra care to slouch extra sloppily, so Badd could see how casual he was about all the blatant adoration going on.
Badd snorted with laughter. “Jeez, you’ve really got me twisted. Like I could afford that. And even if I could, why would I? Solo shotgunning is way easier.”
The phrase caught something on the edges of his memory, and Garou recalled the chant the crowd had made before Badd had begun singing. “Was that what the can was for?”
Badd nodded, the curve of his smile and the gleam in his eye honest, the likes of which Garou hadn’t seen in years. “Yeah! You gotta chug it all down during a guitar solo that lasts less than 30 seconds and boom, free shots for the crowd.”
And, like magic, a waitress snaked between the bodies to set two small glasses down on their wobbly table. Badd snatched his up before the liquid had even settled from the inertia, and Garou was milliseconds behind.
Nothing else was said. They touched glasses and gulped down their contents.
Garou suppressed a cough as the spirit burned a path down his throat to settle like molten lava in his stomach.
“So when’re you going up?”
Garou had a harder time suppressing this next cough.
“What,” he asked, once he’d gotten his startled choke under control.
Badd nodded his head to the stage all casual like, as if he hadn’t just suggested social suicide.
Garou tried very hard to keep his eyes straight ahead, on Badd, instead of on the well-lit executioner stand that sat mere meters away. Though, staring at Badd really wasn’t doing him much better if his jackhammering heart were any indication.
His eyes were so dark, like pools of ink as they stared him down. Daring him to quit.
“What,” Badd smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”
Oh. Ohhhh, that absolute dickhead. Fuck him to the fucking stratosphere and back. He knew exactly what the hell he was doing. But if he thought, for one moment, that Garou was going to cave from some cheap, blatant, obvious-
“Okay,” his traitor of a mouth agreed before his better fucking judgement could interject.
Badd cheekily pointed out the booth where Garou could put down his name and song choice and turned back to his beer. And yet, Garu could feel the prickle of eyes on his back as he weaved his way through the crowd to sign his own death sentence. What song would he even put down? He didn’t really hate music, but he didn’t exactly love it either. He treated music with the same ambivalence as movies or fashion or restaurant bills.
In fact, he wasn’t even sure if he knew any songs in their entirety. He probably barely knew any lyrics beyond those Disney sing-a-long movies that’d pop up on TV every so often when he was still a scrawny brat.
Shit. Was he really going to do this?
The girl behind the laptop gave him a little too much side-eye as he tapped the end of the pen against the sign-up sheet. The silver ring puncturing her lip glinted underneath the low lights as she pretended like his endless wavering weren’t annoying her.
Garou scribbled down a song and sent a quick prayer that a sudden monster attack would level the bar before his turn came up.
But, as always, God could go suck a big fat dick because Garou’s name was called up after a measly three songs. Not nearly enough time for the audience to forget about Badd’s performance and not, instinctually, compare it to Garou’s.
Fuck. This was going to suck so much.
Garou trudged up to the stage, briefly blinding himself from the lights as he turned back to face the crowd, and struggled to adjust the microphone stand for a small eternity before giving up and just yanking it out to hold onto.
As the drums began, Garou’s heart stopped, and he instantly realized what a terrible fucking idea this was.
Once the strings joined, he debated which would be better. To dive offstage in a humiliating retreat, or fight his way out tooth and nail.
Just before the first lyric began, Garou wondered if Badd had set this all up to finally corner and arrest the Human Monster.
“Let’s get down to business,” and the rest of the lyric died in Garou’s choked throat as he realized that the entire bar was singing along.
“Did they send me daughters?” Garou asked, feeling the area just underneath his skin buzz with adrenaline.
“When I asked, for sons?!” The bar continued on, somehow even louder than before.
“You’re the saddest bunch I ever met, but you can bet, before we’re through. Mister I’ll, make a man, out of you!”
Everyone was singing. Every. Fucking. One. Not a single person was silent or watching or judging. They were all too busy joining in and contributing to the melody.
Garou squared his stance and ran through a few basic katas as he went on through the next set of lyrics, matching the flow of his movement to the syllables of the words. “Tranquil as a forest, but on fire, within. Once you find your center, you are sure, to win!”
The crowd seemed to enjoy his technique, based on the soft ‘whoas’ and ‘oohs’ and ‘holy shits’ percolating throughout the audience between them shouting along to the music. Garou continued on, his katas shifting into something slightly more aggressive to match the tone of the next lyric.
“You’re a spineless, pale, pathetic lot. And you haven’t got a clue. Somehow I’ll, make a man, out of you!”
Garou could envision himself as he was then. Spineless. Pale. Pathetic. Clueless. An awkward little boy who liked monsters and hated heroes and didn’t know what to do about it. But then again, how could a child be expected to know what to do about it. Not when Garou, even now, still didn’t even really know what to do with himself.
His mouth moved mechanically along to the song, but the audience made up the difference with raucous imitations of the character’s lines as they flicked across the screen.
“I’m never gonna catch my breath.”
“Say goodbye to those who knew me.
“Boy was I a fool in school for cutting gym.”
“This guy’s got ‘em scared to death.”
“Hope he doesn’t see right through me.”
“Now I really wish that I knew how to swim.”
“BE A MAN!” The bar shouted, their words pounding into him like the roaring waves of the waterfall he meditated under.
“We must be swift as a coursing river.”
“BE A MAN!”
“With all the force of a great typhoon.”
“BE A MAN!”
“With all the strength of a raging fire.”
“Mysterious as the dark side of the moon!” The patrons of the bar sang the high note, their individual voices off-key, but strong and joyous when together.
“Time is racing toward us, till the huns, arrive! Heed my every order, and you might, survive!”
He remembered when he first went to the dojo, desperate to change himself so that he could finally do something about a world that continued to grow more rotten by the day.
“You’re unsuited for, the rage of war.”
He was scrawny. Weak. So many times he’d wanted to quit.
“So pack up, go home, you’re through.”
The only thing worse than quitting, though, was the fear that one day, Master Bang would see through him and realize what a disgusting, pathetic little loser he truly was.
“How could I, make a man, out of you!”
No. Now wasn’t the time for that. Later. He could think about all that later. For now, Garou slowed down, going through his basic forms with a singular intent. Focusing all of his effort on the stances he contorted his body into and the words pouring from his throat.
“BE A MAN!” The crowd urged him.
“We must be swift as a coursing river.”
“BE A MAN!”
“With all the force of a great typhoon.”
“BE A MAN!”
“With all the strength of a raging fire.”
“Mysterious as the dark side of the moon!”
Garou ended with a high kick and the audience just ate that right up like it was gourmet. His hands shook as he forced the microphone back into its stand. His body felt raw, like an exposed wire as he felt euphoric and nauseous and proud and self-conscious all at once.
He stumbled back to his seat, pleased to find a new cup of beer, and sucked down the watery brew with gusto but couldn’t get rid of the strange dryness to his throat.
“Nice job,” Badd smiled beside him.
And more than the singing along, more than the cheering, more than the extraneous “hell yeahs” still echoing around him, those words burrowed beneath his skin and settled snugly in his gut.
“Heh, of course. Were you expecting anything less?” Garou snorted, as he hid his smile behind his cup.
“But I’m not fucking doing that again.”