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All Might leaps away, his too large shadow cleaving the light for one brittle breath, and.
And.
And.
It's almost a tangible and audible crack as his dream fractures, falls to pieces and scatters to the unforgiving wind, his resolve dissolving into dust.
Izuku folds, tears struggling up ugly and without permission, knees buckling. A laugh rips free, half a strangled bark and a hysterical sob. His last chance. His Hero. He’d hoped, he’d dreamed—
I cannot simply say 'you can become a hero without power.’
Oh man. Oh man. Izuku groans deep in his chest, his heart a hot and pulsing throb in his ears. The notebook falls limply from his hands, fingers darting up to curl ruthlessly into his hair, grip with a bruising force. There's an explosion in the distance, but Izuku can’t find the will to pick himself up, knees smarting still. He lifts his head, the skyline blue too bright and the shiny panels of the buildings blinding. Another explosion, and he chokes on another sob. Empty. He feels empty.
What now?
What now?
What now—
A soft whump, the sound of displaced air, feet behind him. Izuku stiffens, breath stuttering.
“—once more we are foiled by someone as classless as the Sludge Villain. Though, perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, All Might is somewhat out my league. La Brava, we should… Oh? ”
Footsteps.
“Young man, are you quite alright?” asks a voice, deep and solemn. A shadow falls over Izuku, but he just squeezes his eyes shut, presses his arms harder against his head. “Hello? Are you in need of assistance?”
Another voice, higher but just as smooth. “Gentle.... ”
Izuku feels like he’s drowning, the villain slogging down his throat. Helpless. He feels so damn helpless. “Go, go away,” he croaks, “just… just go away.”
Someone tuts, a sharp tsk. “Now, now, this just won’t do.” The shadow moves, brief sunlight, and the sound of flipping pages. “ Hm… Hero Analysis For The Future, Volume Thirteen. Did you write this?”
Resignation flares like a dying flame, and Izuku whimpers, leans further toward his knees. Kacchan was right, and he should have listened, should’ve just accepted his place. It would have saved him the humiliation and shame that now coils like a beast in his chest, scratching, clawing, for a way out even still. So stupid, who was he kidding. Him, quirkless, a hero? Stupid, stupid!
Hey, why don't you take a leap of faith off the roof—
“Oh, Gentle, just like—”
Oh. Did he… say all that outloud?
“Oh dear, La Brava, this really just won’t do, ” ‘Gentle’ announces, cutting her off, and Izuku is completely unprepared for the soft squeak behind him before hands shove their way under his arms, hefting him up like he weighs nothing . With a yelp, Izuku comes face to masked face with white hair and determined grey eyes. “My young friend, I know exactly what it is that you need.”
What? “What?” he gasps, suddenly afraid—too tight, too tight—head throbbing and dry mouthed. Izuku’s eyes go wide, the last of his tears falling away. Gentle. Gentle Criminal. “ What— ”
With a laugh, the villain tucks him under an arm much to Izuku’s growing embarrassment. A short girl—woman?—comes skipping over, his notebook in hand along with a camcorder, pink pigtails swinging. A yell for help bundles at the back of his throat, full of static and white noise, but then Gentle Criminal takes her hand in his, crouches, and leaps.
Immediately, Izuku screws his eyes shut, the wind searing and sharp against a kaleidoscope of white, blue and yellow. He’s pretty sure he leaves his stomach behind as they reach an arc and begin to fall. Past the whistling air, he thinks he hears another explosion, the cheer of people gathered for a villain capture, but it’s swept away as they land, and leap once more.
He loses the time between leaps and arcs, between roofs and open air, and it seems to take an eternity and no time at all before they come to a stop. Izuku’s stomach roils with the dizziness, and he peeks an eye open, yet to be put down as they begin a confidant stride forward.
I should struggle, Izuku thinks dazed, baffled by the homey sign that proclaims FANCY in curling kanji , I should.
But, his limbs feel like lead, his back beginning to ache where his bookbag digs into him. He can’t muster the strength, fingers curling weakly. Tired. Helpless. Scooped empty by scolding words, a hollow space where his hopes and dreams sat. Izuku sighs miserably, and looks up at the villain. Unexpected, he finds the man looking down at him, eyes briefly considering before ‘La Brava’ pushes the door open, and a voice calls out, “ Bienvenue, un moment , please!”
The smells hit him first, a fruity aroma, and then smooth and nutty. There’s too many for him to fully parse, but it’s unmistakable.
Gentle Criminal has brought him to a Tea Shop.
Izuku’s manhandled quite gently into a wooden chair, the bag off his back, and notebook at his chin as he droops over. He doesn’t know when the fear went away, but. It’s too much work to try and drag it back up. If the villain kills him… so be it.
Hey, why don't you take a leap of faith off the roof—
A chair scuffs, and Izuku looks up. La Brava is seating herself, Gentle pushing her chair in before himself. His eyes drift over the two—two?—villains, and across the shop and it’s polished wood and shelves of tins, case of pastries. Blue meets his, and he startles. A boy, maybe his age, peers over at them from a table in the far corner, papers and a textbook laid out before him. Weirdly dramatic, he props a hand at his chin, and seems to sparkle, much to Izuku’s growing confusion.
“ —anything you want, though I will be deciding your tea in apology.”
Once more, Izuku startles, eyes snapping back to the villains. La Brava’s blushing, her cheeks running almost as deep a pink as her hair, but Gentle Criminal merely smiles.
The thoughts come to him as he looks down at the menu suddenly in front of him, laid over his charred and waterlogged notebook. A media villain, an internet celebrity, for lack of a better word. Izuku’s never watched his videos, but people talk, and he can reluctantly admit the man must have talent to still remain at large, even if his videos sound less than, well… well thought out.
“No need to look so grim, young man,” Gentle Criminal says, “I’m merely treating you to some tea and sweets in the hopes of lifting your spirits.”
“So cool,” La Brava whispers, and Izuku flicks his eyes between them, unsure.
“... Why?” he asks, the letters catching with the dryness of his tongue. Izuku coughs, just a little, as if a feather were tickling at the back of his throat. He swallows, repeats, “Why? ”
Gentle Criminal hums, and brushes at the end of his moustache. His eyes look far away. “Kindred spirits, you and I, I believe.”
Immediate and burning denial rushes to the tip of Izuku’s tongue. What, exactly, would he have in common with a villain, a villain with a very capable quirk, of all people? Nothing. Nothing. Not even a Quirk.
… Right?
Mind churning, furious with the implications, Izuku doesn’t notice the man that comes walking up until a foot connects with his shin, not enough to hurt, but enough to drag him up from his thoughts. Brown hair with matching blue eyes to the boy a few tables over, the man arches a sharp eyebrow, expression friendly, if concerned.
“Gentle-kun, did you kidnap the poor thing?” the man asks, words tinged heartedly with an accent. Izuku blinks owlishly, astonished. “Mon amie , that’s not very gentlemanly.”
The villain huffs. “Aoyama-san, the young man was in dire straits and in desperate need of a well made cup of tea. What sort of gentlemen would I be if I left him to himself?”
Aoyama seems to consider it, head tilting, before he nods, much to Izuku’s vague alarm. “Well,” he starts, and then looks Izuku over, carefully. Izuku falters, realizes this man won’t be an avenue of help to escape. “I think ochazuke-panda might be a better choice than just the tea.”
“I could not dare to dream to compare to your wisdom, Aoyama-san,” Gentle Criminal says, almost abashed.
Ochazuke isn’t katsudon, but. Panda? Izuku wonders, not terribly well informed on teas.
Aoyama sweeps away with that written down on a small notepad, and Izuku watches as he passes the other boy and ruffles his hair before disappearing behind the counter and into the back. La Brava snatches up the menu to place with the others by her, but Izuku just drops his eyes back to his notebook. It feels like the smudged script is mocking him, jeers and taunts in his ears, and without really thinking, he flops it open. It’s probably some sort of omen of bad luck that a thick and bold signature suddenly appears, probably a punch to gut that makes all the air leave Izuku in a pitiful wheeze as fresh tears threatened to overflow once more.
“... I see,” says Gentle Criminal, and a gloved hand slides the notebook away. Izuku follows it, aborts a hasty snatch, and sees the villain give the pages an unreadable look, eyebrows drawing together, and.
The sound of ripping paper splits the air, overly loud and jarring, and Izuku jolts as the first page of the signature is torn free from the binding. Gentle Criminal studies it, lips pursing, before drawing his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling up into a ball.
Heat suffuses Izuku, heart beginning to race once more, and. And, he doesn’t know what this feeling is. Can’t place the cool swell of tenson leaking away or the grip that squeezes his heart, the ache that loosens its hold.
“Don’t ever allow the opinions of others hold you back,” he says, firm, and rips the last page out.
Izuku doesn’t realize he’s crying again until a small hand offers him a napkin. La Brava’s pink eyes are almost unbearably soft as his meet hers, and she gives him something of a watery smile. He takes it and presses it to his eyes too hard, but the pain is grounding. Relief, he thinks. Bittersweet, but relieved.
Muffled, Izuku whispers a choked, “Thank you,” and drags down a deep breath.
Thank you.