Red Ink

Part 55 - Time's Up

Eijirou could hear the crowd from the prep room.

He used to like the sound— it used to call to him, beckoning him to the arena and promising him praise, admiration, love. A complete overwhelm of his senses that ensured he was wanted. There had to be thousands and thousands of people based on the volume, all cheering and chanting his name.

But it wasn't his name, was it? Who was the Prince, really? Eijirou had something to live for now. He had a home, a cat, a best friend he got to work with, and Red. His lovely little Red. What did the Prince have? A fat paycheck and strangers wanting a night in his bed? Sure, that was fun for a while, but none of that even came close to what he had now. He felt like the wealthiest man in the world just getting to hold Red's hand.

God, if he'd only met her all those years ago, he never would've signed that contract. Katsuki's words still would've hurt, but it wouldn't have pushed him to this. He wouldn't have searched so damn hard for someone else to praise him.

"Then you're not built for hero work, Eijirou. Go home."

How many times had Bakugou apologized for his words since then? More times than Kirishima could count; enough that the echoing phrase barely hurt anymore. But was Katsuki right? Did Eijirou only prove his point by taking on a double life just to feel loved? Maybe he wasn't meant to be a hero. Maybe he was more the Prince than he'd ever been Red Riot.

But... no. That wasn't true.

He was loved as Red Riot. By his friends, by the people he helped, by Red. He remembered that day in her tattoo parlor when that little boy flipped open a handmade hero book, telling him, "I saved this page for you, see?" with a crayon drawing of him and his shark teeth. The first page. The memory wet his eyes and he clenched his jaw to keep from letting them spill.

How did he ever think that praise for winning a stupid sparring match could compare to that?

The cheers from out in the arena sounded so hollow now. So artificial. What were they even cheering for? What about this stupid sparring match warranted more attention than the possibility of impending war?

Then it clicked: he was a distraction for them. Just like the Prince had been a distraction for him. All the Prince was, all he embodied and represented, was fake. A faceless, objectified symbol of victory— maybe that's what the Underground really wanted. A fucking win for once. A chance to feel represented by something powerful.

Because they didn't have heroes, did they? All they had was him.

The door opened, shattering his last moments of solitude with deafening cheers, and his manager walked in.

"They're ready for you. Let's have a good final, huh?"

~~~

The Commons was jam-fucking-packed. It reached full capacity over an hour ago, but people still filed in, desperate for a glimpse at one of the TV screens hanging around the room; for a glimpse at their idol.

"Ray, you gotta close the doors. This is a fire hazard," Red said, tugging at her father-figure's shirt.

He clicked his tongue, his eyes glued to the screen above the bar. "Not happening, kid."

"But—"

"They'll fuckin' hang me if I start kickin' people out. They've waited all year for this, Red. Check it out! There's your guy!" he cackled, pointing up at the TV.

Red watched the Prince walk out into the arena, glancing around at the crowd as he made his way to the center. His jet black hair was pulled back into that same messy half-do and his hands were wrapped in sparring tape. He looked as menacing as ever, but Y/N knew better than most that he wasn't like that. He was kinder than the other boxers. Funnier, too.