Chapter Text
Let's just say Hiroto hadn't been exactly thrilled when he found out just what type of spider had bit him. But how to foresee such a thing? Sure, he liked to wander around the factory, where a little river made its whirly way to a pretty meadow hidden behind the trees, and study there. Few people knew about the haven, and, despite being able to smell the pungent, prickling scent of toxics, Hiroto found the place quiet and comfortable enough when the loudness of his home became too unbearable to do work. What he wasn’t expecting was for a radioactive spider to have been discharged.
He didn’t think much of it when the arachnid bit him; he was in the wilderness, it was only natural for animals to approach him, although it did sting a little bit more than it should have. Still, Hiroto disregarded it, and soon forgot about it. That, of course, until his clothes started sticking to his skin and his strength seemed to have multiplicated by lots. The boy tried to overlook it, but it became quite evident the day he woke up glued to the ceiling. At the moment, he had been so freaked out he struggled for about half an hour before being able to unglue himself and, ultimately, he arrived late to his economics lecture.
He had needed some time to understand that that was his new reality - because of course he had - but when he finally did, he just... sighed. Anybody else would have relished it, but not Hiroto; no, he already had a firm goal in mind he desired to achieve. Gaining superpowers, hence the responsibility of protecting and fighting for the people, was rather a nuisance. He wanted to take after the Kiyama Company, after all. Making up for his father’s wrongs was a task that remained unsolved, and he was putting a lot of effort in his studies to become a qualified candidate to run the industry. It’s not as if Hiroto dreaded helping people, on the contrary, he just felt as if it had been imposed, a decision out of the grasp of his hand, and couldn’t help but be weighed down by the pressure of it all. It was like having two full-time jobs, which resulted in him being frustrated, not being able to perform at his best at neither, as well as exhausted.
Hiroto had spent his entire childhood running after the approval of father who neglected everyone’s needs but his own. Now, he felt as if his autonomy had been stolen all over again. He just wanted to fight the battles he felt were his on his own terms, yet it seemed that that had been taken from him as well.
Not everything were perks, though. Swinging across the city had to be the best sensation ever. Whenever Hiroto did so, all his worries disappeared. Nothing mattered; not his guilt, not his obligations. They were all overshadowed by the wind scraping his figure and the heavy air that lightened his mind. The lump in his throat that suffocated him – constantly, like a reminder –, always seemed to grow smaller, more bearable.
Such thoughts awoke nostalgia and longing inside the boy's chest. Hiroto looked through the window, hands cramped from all the writing on his computer and a throbbing headache settling in. He’d give anything to be out there at the moment, but he had already been delaying that assignment in the name of heroism. In spite of the dull nothingness and the still heart, he couldn’t prioritize one life over the other: there was a shadow behind the Kiyama name, and Hiroto was determined to erase it.
He was about to continue doing the project when a notification popped up in his phone, which was an admittedly welcome distraction. Apparently, in a nearby supermarket, some delinquents were holding as hostages some civilians. Hiroto glanced at the screen of his computer and reflected on it for a moment.
He sighed. Oh, well; maybe he could prioritize it for a day.
He saved his work and nimbly put on his suit, excitement bubbling in his stomach. He stood at the edge of the window, and took a deep breath before diving, the numb body squirming at the teasing breezes that sneaked beneath his clothes and tickled his belly. The fall was his favourite part; he enjoyed the uneasy certainty of the approximating ground, the real danger the situation held. It made everything else seem so small. It transformed the exhilaration prickling in his gut into something so big. Just before impacting, Hiroto shot a thick disarray of spider webs that stuck to the nearest apartment block and swung him through the air, his heart pounding loudly inside his ears.
He couldn’t help the beaming face behind the mask. Moments like that were what kept him alive, they reminded him there was more to life than lectures and assignments, than drabness and tedium.
He kept swinging with ease, a loud ringing burdening his hearing at all times. That was odd, Hiroto thought as he moved. His senses were warning him about something, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. He was stll not familiar with hsi new abilities, but the sound, piercing and relentless, somehwat felt like a warning. Furrowing his brows, the man hastened his pace. There was a squishing sensation in his chest, a burning in his mouth, but he disregarded them as soon as they appeared. If he wanted to be of any use, he had to pull himself together.
When he arrived, he saw cops thronging the place, walking in uneasy circles and trying to keep citizens from getting involved. Hiroto decided to be as stealthy as possible and intervene without getting noticed. Truth eb told, he didn’t like the police very much, as he knew they were a governmental institution and acted on orders rather than justice. His father, at the end of the day, had taken advantage of said corruption plenty of times; money could buy silence, but Hiroto found human wellbeing priceless. He preferred to not associate with them whatsoever.
So, with utmost delicacy, he entered through the back windows, and was met with the most jarring situation: a couple of teenagers, impossibly over eighteen, trembling like shuddering leaves while holding a bunch of people at gunpoint. Hiroto couldn’t tell who looked more scared, the hostages or the young malefactors. Their countenance was tense and strained, hesitation plastered all over their shrinked, watery eyes and wrinkled noses. Their lower lips were shaking so bad one of the two bit it, teeth sinking down into flesh hard enough to draw blood.
Those were not fully fleshed criminals; they were merely kids.
How on earth had they ended up like that?
Hiroto tried to approach in silence, careful not to startle the boys. The best procedure was to take them down swiftly and without warning, the element of surprise facilitating the work of stunning them into a doze. In the best of outcomes, they’d solely suffer from a mild concussion and the civilians would pull through safely. He just had to be tremendously cautious not to apprise them of his presence, which had fortunately remained unnoticed.
The universe, paltry and arrogant as usual, seemed to not agree with Hiroto's intent.
He accidentally kicked a can with his foot, the shrill, penetrating sound alerting the perpetrators, who quickly withdrew the guns to aim at him instead. Hiroto cursed under his breath at the same time he rose his arms above his head.
"Look," he stuttered, "I’m not here as your enemy-"
"You are..." one of the delinquents interrupted, spiky blonde hair and clothes so baggy he seemed to be drowning in them. "You are Spiderman!"
The red-head grimaced at the nickname; he seriously didn’t like it one bit. It made him feel unreal, like a superhero straight from a kid’s comic book rather than an actual crime-fighting vigilante who stressed other’s welfare more than his own. It somewhat infantilized his labor, making it seem like something cool, something desirable. And, even though Hiroto found solace as well as satisfaction in his imposed work, it was also frightfully dangerous. The peril of injury, of death, was tangible enough he could feel it quiver as deep as in his marrow. It shoudln't be put lightly; Hiroto was an actual superhero liable to pain and suffering, with lifelike weaknesses and fears. And it was also very dumb.
He was not fucking Spiderman, thank you very much.
"Don’t call me that," he spat without thinking twice. His poisonous tone, however, made the boys flinch, so he forced himself to swallow the petty annoyance down. "Please, put the weapons down. Nobody has to come out hurt."
The other culprit, a slim, short thing with narrow shoulders and small hands, quavered a nervous response:
"Get down! Get down, or else, I’ll shoot you!"
Hiroto kneeled, slowly to not unsettle them.
"Please, listen to me; no one has to come to any harm. Put the guns down and I’m sure the police will spare you any harsh treatment." He then tried to appeal to their sentimentality. "You two are kids, you’ll be forgiven. So I beg you, stop this madness and do the right thing."
Hesitance shaped a wince on their young, naive faces. Hiroto pushed further.
"Don’t you see all these people are innocent? They are just as scared as you are, maybe more. Whatever reason you have for this, their lives and security is not a price worth affording. They deserve better."
Blonde hair, who had been nervously fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves until then, snapped his eyes open as his former fearful expression twisted into a scowl. Those had not been wise words, Hiroto realized.
"We did too!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. "We did too! But you don’t care about that, do you?
His tone was so accusatory and sharp Hiroto couldn't avoid getting defensive.
"Wait, of course I-"
"Shut up. Spiderman doesn’t give a damn about actual people in need. He just saves lives under the spotlight."
"You better stop with your moral bullshit," Small Hands added, "especially considering you’re merely another performative asshole who lives off praise rather than virtue."
"Where were you, if not, when we needed a hand? When we were living in the streets like starved rats? Where was the fucking Spiderman?" Blonde Hair looked so furious Hiroto shrinked, intimidated. "This was our last resort."
"They promised us food, a roof to sleep under, healthcare. What were we supposed to do? Refuse? We had already been waiting too damn long for a superhero. This," he gestured to the hostages, "is your fault, if anything."
Hiroto felt trapped under the suit, suddenly tighter than just an instant before. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t like that, he tried to find whatever argument to justify his actions, but didn’t find any. Were those kids right? Was he as shallow as a cop? As his father? He had been fighting in the name of righteousness all along, genuinely trying to do good, but might accidentally been feeding the system he claimed to despise. Hiroto aided those in immediate danger, but had never realized that real bereft was unflashy and unpretentious. Not everyone in need was chained up and screaming for help; some suffered in silence. Silenced.
And seeing their pitiful eyebags, bony limbs and dry lips, he wondered why someone would actually turn to crime, and he was perplexed to realize it was not simple wickedness; it was necessity. Hiroto had been a fool, hadn’t he? Playing the hero nonchalantly, not addressing the crude truth. It had been right in front of him all this time, really, his eyes too blind to notice, his life too well off to relate.
Hiroto had underestimated just what accountability he was accepting, even if reluctantly.
"I’m so sorry, I’ve been…" he tried to explain as he clenched his fists in frustration. The delinquents jumped at the little movement.
"Don’t move!" Small Hands shrieked. "If you move again before the police hand us the ransom, they are dead."
And, for the first time, Hiroto glanced at the captives, and practically choked when he spotted a green-haired boy among the crowd. He would recognize that pitch-dark gaze anywhere, that tanned skin, those rosy cheeks. Fear carved a hole in his chest, a sensation so unnerving he felt like vomiting. What was Midorikawa doing there?
He tried to look away, aware that there were more pressing matters to deal with first, but his eyes were stuck on his shivering figure. He appeared so distressed, so tiny before the barrel of the gun. It was a pathetic sight. Hiroto felt the protective urge to wrap him within his arms and stroke his back until his whimpers stopped. Despite often encountering civilians in menacing situations, nothing he had ever undergone before compared to the sheer, icy fright he felt watching Midorikawa curled up in the corner of that wretched supermarket. For a moment, time stood still and the single clear-cut thought in his head was the need to take his friend out of there. Damn heroism and ethics; Midorikawa was the only thing that mattered.
Because, so far, being a superhero had been an obligation; Hiroto had managed to detach his persona – emotions and afflictions – from the work. That, though? The dearest person in his life involved? That was personal.
Hiroto fought to get a grip, and breathed deeply in order to relax. If he really wanted to get Midorikawa out of there safe and sound, he needed to act collected.
"You’re right." His admission surprised both criminals, who stared in disbelief. "It’s true that I am no true superhero. It’s true that, foolishly, I haven’t been addressing the root of the problem."
Small hands and Blonde hair exchanged a perplexed look. They couldn’t tell if Spiderman was being earnest or making fun of them.
"But I am trying," Hiroto continued. His words were not a mere bluff to save his skin and the hostages’; he meant them. He wanted to do good. He wanted to be good. "I am learning. And I appreciate you telling me how I can improve." He bowed his head apologetically. "Please, let me help you out. Let this be my first step to becoming the hero I envision to be. Hand me the guns, and I’ll talk to the police. I won’t forsake you ever again; I promise."
The boys were baffled, to say the least. They had grown up ignored by their environment, treated as relinquished pieces of society. Nobody had ever listened to what they had to say, let alone care. Seeing someone actually diligent, keen to fixing their mistakes, softened the hard edges of their hearts. Maybe, just maybe, there was still room to hope. Maybe there was another way. Maybe they could, for the very last time, trust.
Small Hands was the first one to collapse. He dropped the weapon carelessly and started weeping loudly in a kid-like way that made Hiroto sore on the stomach. A few seconds later, Blonde Hair also let go of his pistol, and fell to the ground like a disregarded puppet. Hiroto, slowly, got up and approached them. Then, to his own surprise as well as the two boys, he hugged them. The former shed a tear too when he noticed just how thin and feeble those teenagers really were. How could anyone have missed it? How come no one had aided them before?
Blonde Hair and Small Hands continued to bawl uncontrollably.
When the cops entered the scene and led the hostages outside of the supermarket, Hiroto peeked to assess just how badly Midorikawa was. Understandably, he did look scared and agitated, but, somehow, kind of awestruck as well. That was weird, he thought with a frown, but should have to deal with it later. First, he had to explain the whole situation to the police, as well as defend the two boys with all his might. They were so young, and had only resorted to crime as a result of being fumbled by the ones that were supposed to protect them.
Society had failed them, and Hiroto intended to not do the same. He owed it. And he would not repeat his mistakes.
Midorikawa, as much as he loved him, could wait an hour or two; then, he’d go to him and take care of his wounds. Just as Hiroto always did.