New Fanfic Drop (To be Hero X)
Part of Nice's Pov at the end cuz he crzy mf
A small, selfish part of him wondered what it would feel like to be the one getting saved for once. To have someone reach out to him instead of the other way around.
As he drifted down toward the edge of the building, the static muffled everything. The sun was setting in front of him, warm and blinding, and Nice found himself drawn to it like a bug to a light that would finally swallow him whole. Without thinking too hard about it, he stepped forward.
Only belatedly did he register another presence on the roof, staring at him in stunned disbelief.
Trust kicked in automatically.
Nice flashed his signature move as he passed the man, muscle memory fueled by beliefs overriding everything else, even when all he wanted was to stop performing the hero everyone expected him to be and do something for himself for once.
He thought that maybe this was how it could stop. No more expectations. No more smiling until his face hurt. No more hurting Wreck. No more painful need to always be perfect.
This death was not perfect. It was loud. Messy. It would disturb many. His blood and brain matter would have to be scrubbed from the pavement and still leaving its mark no matter how many times they try. That was why Nice chose it. It was something he decided for himself for once. Like Icarus flying too close to the sun and burning for it, Nice would fall to his death on his own terms.
At least it would finally be quiet.
Then something yanked hard at his cape.
Nice barely had time to register what was happening before his body jolted, momentum snapping him back as he dangled midair. He looked up, dazed and unfocused, and met the eyes of the man he had dismissed as insignificant, gripping his cape with white knuckled grip. The man himself hanging off the edge of the building supported only by one trembling arm hooked over the ledge to keep them both up.
Nice’s mind latched onto details automatically.
The man was scrawny. No visible muscle definition. Narrow shoulders. Wrists that Nice was fairly sure he could snap with a single flex of his hand. His face was drained of color, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful, teeth grinding as he sucked in sharp, uneven breaths. The arm holding the ledge shook violently, tendons standing out beneath stretched skin, while the other strained under Nice’s weight.
By all logic, this should not have been possible.
One hand on the ledge. One hand holding Nice. Physics did not add up. They should be both falling to their death by now.
Maybe it was adrenaline. Panic gave people more strength than they were meant to have. Nice himself had experienced it before, back when he was still a nobody hero with barely any Trust Value to his name. Back when everything still hurt and felt real.
He had been supposed to fall. To hit the ground, crack his head open, and splatter whatever was left of him across the pavement as one final, messy fuck you to the world. To Treeman. To Shang De. Let them scramble. Let them panic and bury the truth that their perfect hero had killed himself.
But this man refused to let go.
This man could have saved himself. He could have watched Nice fall and walked away with nothing more than a bad memory, or at worst, an NDA shoved into his hands by Ms. J once she inevitability tracked him down.
Nice vaguely remembered the man shouting at his billboard earlier, hurling curses at his face. He clearly did not like Nice.
So why was he saving him?
Instead, he was risking his own life. Nice could feel the strain through the cape, the way the man’s grip tightened every time he slipped an inch lower. There was a sharp crack somewhere. A sound that Nice was fairly sure came from bone.
A wet, metallic smell hit the air. Red seeped down the man’s hand, slicking his fingers, dripping onto the concrete below. Some of it splashed against Nice’s face, warm and tingling his skin.
Any other day, in the past, he would have panicked. He would have scrubbed at his skin until it burned, until the mirror showed nothing but raw pink and forced perfection again.
He let it soak into him. He let it trail down his cheek, slide along the corner of his mouth, down his neck, stain the pristine white of his hero costume. It felt almost reverent. Like rain blessing a drought after years of its absence. White was boring anyway. Too clean. Too empty. It needed color.
The man had good ideas. Nice like it very much.
Nice’s tongue darted out before he even thought about it, catching the thin line of blood that crept toward his lips. Metallic and still, sweeter than anything he could remember tasting. He hummed softly to himself, pleased, as he had discovered something precious.
Above him, the hand keeping them from falling began to shake. It slipped an inch. The man snarled, panic breaking through as he slammed his forearm tighter against the ledge, skin scraping harshly, blood smearing wider.
Still, he pulled. He never let go, even after it became painfully clear that the hero he was hauling up had no intention of helping. No effort to ease the strain. No attempt to climb or float as both know Nice is capable of.
Nice stared at him adoringly.
His thoughts drifted lazily, pleasantly, like he was floating just above his own body. He felt light, warm, almost giddy. His body must be releasing all those happy hormones because he felt high, loose-limbed, head buzzing as he watched the man strain for him.
How determined his hero was to save him.
All of that effort. All of that pain. Just for him.
What would this man do if his strength finally gave out?
If he lost his grip, would he follow Nice down, or would he use the chance to haul himself back up? Would he still try to protect Nice on the way down? Would he embrace Nice to his chest as they fell together and meet their end?
Would he regret throwing his life away for someone so insignificant? Someone who never ever tried to lived?
Nice was sturdier between the two of them. Built to endure. Expected to survive. Statistically based on their Trust Value, he had the better chance of living. The fans believe he is perfect, he will never fall.
The only reason he would die here at this moment was because he wanted to.
The thought settled comfortably in his chest.
Nice contemplated pulling the man down with him. Just a little. A test. A final sign that there really was someone out there who wanted to save him. It was reasonable, he thought.
This man wanted to be Nice’s hero, right? Heroes were always tested, weren’t they? Trust had to be proven. Sacrifice had to be mutual. If the man really meant it, really wanted to save Nice, then he would not let go. He would not discard Nice like he is a garbage.
And if he did let go, well. That would be an answer too. If he dies, he dies.
If the man proved himself, then Nice would return the favor. That was fair, right? That was how balance worked. That was how trust worked. He was not doing anything wrong. He was just checking.
Small and secretive, flashed toward the man’s panicked amber eyes caught in the the sunlight and burned bright, almost beautiful in its panicky state.
The relief in those eyes as Nice’s hand reached up, the way the man’s shoulders loosened just a fraction when Nice’s hand reached up and clasped his, thin and frail and shaking.
There. See? He wants to save me. He’s waiting for me.
The man was forced to let go of the ledge as they dropped together, air screaming past them. He swore violently, voice breaking as his hands scrambled uselessly for something that was no longer there. He cursed Nice, called him a crazy fucker, screamed at him for being insane, reckless, suicidal.
And still, his arms wrapped tighter around Nice.
One hand curled protectively over Nice’s head, shielding him in a stupid, instinctive attempt to keep him safe. The other locked around his torso as the man twisted his own body beneath him, forcing Nice higher, bracing himself to take the worst of the impact. Like if he could just angle it right, he could break first. Shatter alone.
Even now. Even knowing this was Nice’s fault.
Something warm bloomed in Nice’s chest for the first time in a long while.
See, Nice thought deliriously. He didn’t let go. He chose me.
He laughed as they fell, the sound ripped loose from his chest, wild and breathless and ugly. He clutched the man back with the same desperate fervor he had been subjected to, arms locking around him like a vice.
If he held him hard enough, would they meld together when they hit the ground? Bone and flesh forced into one shape, Ms. J would have to stitch them back together, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t even know which parts belonged to who.
Nice found the thought exhilirating.
The man bore a resemblance to him, he realized distantly. Only his hero was painted in deeper colors, warmer tones, while Nice had always been all pale blues and whites. Maybe that meant something. Maybe this was fate’s sense of humor. Maybe this was the universe finally giving Nice someone who understood him.
Someone willing to fall with him.
The ground rushed closer. Details sharpened. Pavement. Shapes. Shadows.
“It’s okay,” he told the man cheerfully, laughing again. “If we survive, I’ll save you next time.”
Only when they were a breath away from splattering against the pavement, only when the man’s grip tightened one last time like he truly believed this was the end, instead of pushing him away, did Nice finally spread his wings and fly.
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