Welcome back! I'm going to put this in the story description too, but I did want to put a warning for some dark themes mentioned in this chapter. This story overall is going to be a bit darker than A Floral Fantasy, fyi. Enjoy!

Some believe that avoidance is due to fear or anxiety. But…this villain wasn't ready to admit that. Not yet.

They had managed to go to an internet cafe during the daytime— it was always easy. Sticking to the shadows made it oddly simple to slip into the light without notice, even if it was uncomfortable.

Hitoshi Shinsou, the online article read. Hero Name: Echo. Quirk: Unlisted.

They held back a scoff. Must be an underground hero thing. If everyone knew how his quirk worked, he'd be at a constant disadvantage.

The more they read about him, the more confused they felt. There was hardly any information to be found on the hero…in some ways, they felt they knew him better than most (nope, that was another thought that made them feel weird, push it away).

When they left the cafe, their mind drifted to the binder back at their hideout. As per recommendation, they'd taken it off after twelve hours— reluctantly, of course, because they didn't want to lose the feeling of freedom they'd gained, but they did have to admit that their lungs were starting to get a bit tight. There were the business cards, too, that they also needed to look through now that they had his full name to give as a reference.

….but why?

Why them? Why him? Why did they meet? Why did they get into this little game? Why didn't they run when they saw him on the water tower? Why weren't they more suspicious of the gift?

And why did they have this strange feeling in their chest?

They didn't like it, they decided on the walk home. They didn't like this feeling, and if continuing the game caused it, then they would stop (no matter how entertaining this had been for the past few months).

They would accept the odd hero's gift and move on.

The olive branch had been extended and taken. All Shinsou could hope was that it really worked.

Within a couple days, he heard from one of the LGBTQ+ centers he'd given them a card for. Due to confidentiality reasons, the man at the front desk couldn't tell him who it was who'd used his name as a reference, but…he hoped. He hoped and he hoped, so much so that he was starting to think it was a strange thing to hope for a villain's wellbeing.

But it wasn't just a villain, it was a person, right?

Right?

Shinsou banished the thought before it spiraled out of control.

(But only because he'd already been thinking it over so much because he of all people of course knew what it was like to live in a world of grey, somewhere in that odd space in between the pure white of heroes and the inky black of villains, and why was it just so hard to view this particular villain as some destructive evil that he should be fighting to stop?)

Nope. Not letting his mind go there again. It was a Tuesday. The weekly staff meeting for his agency was in three minutes. That would surely take his attention away from his acquaintance.

(Who was he kidding, he hated staff meetings.)

The chair scraped against the floor as he pulled it out from the large table. A number of underground heroes were gathered around, most looking disgruntled like him. There was often a stereotype when it came to their sort of hero work: introverted, easily irritated, probably had an emo phase at some point in their life. Looking around at his coworkers, Shinsou was starting to think the stereotype existed for a reason. He blended right in with his dark eye bags, crossed arms, and lips in a forever flat line.

He wondered what their lips looked like. Or any part of them, really. The mystery was beginning to drive him crazy.

"Afternoon," came the usual drawl. It was deep and lazy, but enough to snap Shinsou back to reality. His boss stood at the head of the table, that constant unimpressed look in his eyes. "What's being handed out to you is our latest update on the trafficking ring in the Akihabara sector. Gravesight, fill us in on your stakeouts for the past few weeks. Take notes, everyone."

The menacing figure of Gravesight, shrouded in gray and black and honestly looking like the Grim Reaper's brother, stood. "Thank you, Wolfsbane. I have collected information that I think will chill everyone in this room to the bone."

Shinsou sort of spaced out after that. He'd already read the emails, so…he didn't really know why this was necessary. Plus, he wasn't even assigned to the team handling this, so why was he here? Why wasn't he back at his apartment sleeping in preparation for another night shift?

(Another night shift that he hoped wouldn't be void of them, again.)

Somewhere in the haze of not paying attention, the sound of coworkers' pens scratching away at paper reached his ears. Shinsou stared at the writing utensils blankly. Really, what was the use in paper and pen? Their agency had a system of ensuring all data was filed away in their company server, so even if they took notes, all of it would have to be transcribed into the—

A metaphorical lightbulb went off over his head. At the same time, he also felt like the most dim-witted person in the world.

Pen and paper.

A method of communication.

A method of silent communication.

The moment the meeting was over, Shinsou ran out to the nearest bookstore and bought a notebook perfectly sized for one of his belt pouches.

Carrying the notebook around constantly felt like a never ending reminder that he hadn't seen them in two weeks.

He hadn't heard anything more from the LGBTQ+ center, but that was to be expected. Privacy policies and all that. Even if he asked, they wouldn't be allowed to give him any information. And he didn't feel like pulling the pro hero card because he knew from experience how private these matters were.

(But shouldn't he pull the pro hero card? They're literally a villain.)

It's the end of another fruitless night. Well, not entirely— he'd managed to save a woman cornered in an alleyway, captured a couple thugs, and brought an abandoned cat to a local shelter. But it was another night without seeing them, and for all the hope he'd once had in his peace offering, it was close to withering away.

The never ending thump thump of the notebook tapping against his thigh as he walked seemed to mock him. He all but threw the pouch it was hidden within onto the couch as soon as he entered his apartment. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, and Shinsou didn't want to see it. He was tired, frustrated, and beginning to think that he'd really chased them off for good this time.

And yet, the world didn't stop spinning just because he was annoyed. Thus, twelve hours later, he was suiting up for another night shift.

Shinsou was nearly at the door when he paused. The notebook. He backtracked to it. Violet eyes stared at the pouch far longer than he'd like to admit. After a full five minutes of contemplation, he picked it up and reattached it to his belt.

The dark of night was comforting as he slipped out into it. He took to the shadows with practiced ease, only being spotted when he wanted to (and with the admittedly foul mood he was in, that was rare).

The underground hero patrolled his usual sector. It was an oddly quiet night. The stars were twinkling above, the sound of trains in the distance echoed against the old brick and rusted metal buildings of the warehouse district, and he was…alone. Again.

Shinsou only realized his eyes had betrayed him after he'd been gazing up at their (their? as in him and them? was it really okay to be having such thoughts?) rooftop unblinkingly for a minute straight. The notebook rested heavily against his thigh. He sighed.

The path over to the building was uncomfortably familiar at this point. It was starting to feel like how the halls at UA had— normal and part of your daily routine in a way you only noticed when you no longer had to come this way.

So perhaps the familiarity of it was what threw him off. Perhaps it was because he was so caught up in this strange nostalgia that he didn't notice them at first. But when he finally heard a soft sniff, one that instantly clawed at his heart, all the hope that had been draining away so quickly filled him up once more.

Shinsou had to force himself to not dash up to the rooftop. They were like a cat, he'd realized long ago— playful yet skittish when they were uncertain.

He utilized a nearby fire escape to swing himself onto the neighboring rooftop. When he landed on their rooftop, he winced. He'd forgotten about the stray pieces of gravel up here. Surely they'd noticed his arrival?

But no, they didn't turn around.

Even from a distance, the hero could see how their shoulders were tense. They were in their usual garb, but with them facing away, the green cloak hid them almost entirely. They were sitting on the edge of the roof, back hunched over, and Shinsou approached cautiously. He'd seen too many situations like this before…they weren't going to jump, were they? Was that why he hadn't seen them in so long?

Again, a flood of confusion ran through his mind. They were a villain, the logical part of him chastised. Why should he care? It would save him a lot of trouble if they did jump.

Shinsou quickly told that little voice to shut the hell up.

The notebook, along with the pencil he'd stashed away, were already in his hands when he sat down two feet away from them. He glanced to the side as subtly as possible. He tried to not immediately speak out loud when he saw tears streaming down the black mask.

Swallowing, Shinsou flipped to the first page. He contemplated what to say for a moment. Then, he just decided to stop beating around the bush.

They hated crying. They hated it because they did it too much— or maybe it wasn't too much compared to normal people, but they didn't know what normal people were like, all they knew was their father's face years ago telling them to stop being so emotional and—

A nudge on their hand made them startle.

Glassy silver eyes looked up, wide because they'd honestly forgotten they had company. Of course they'd noticed him sitting down, but—

Violet eyes were staring at them (and not judgmentally…that was nice). The hero's gaze flickered down, and they followed it.

There was a notebook next to their hand, open to the first page.

What's wrong?

They blinked.

And then they immediately realized what he'd done, how he'd gone to yet another great length to figure out some sort of safe communication method with them, how he'd put aside all their jumbled up history with just two words, and they felt tears threatening to spill over again.

They felt like they grabbed the notebook and pencil both too fast and not fast enough. And then they froze, staring down at the paper blankly. What could they possibly say? How could any sentence unravel the tail of the endless aching of their heart?

They settled for the only thought their muddled mind could come up with.

Nothing a hero would understand.

Violet eyes blinked, they noted. But again, no judgement, only…confusion. As if this hero genuinely didn't get what they'd written.

The notebook was taken back. They ignored the brush of their costumes. They didn't bother watching him write, and it turned out they didn't need to. The reply was quick, two words they'd never forget.

Try me.

More tears flooded silver eyes unbidden. 'Why?' they asked themself for the millionth time. Why why why why? Why was this hero so strange? Why didn't they treat them as the villain they were? Why wasn't he backing down? Why was he—

There was a nudge with the notebook for them to take it back. They stared at the hero incredulously. The look on his face told them he was expecting an answer.

Sighing, black gloved hands swiped the book and pencil once more. Perhaps next time they should bring their own writing utensil…wait, next time?

After inwardly shaking their head at the intrusive (yet oddly elusive) thought, they looked down at the paper, thinking. They didn't realize they'd brought the pencil up to their mouth to chew on until it met the cloth of their mask. They were quick to pull it away before the hero noticed.

Finally, they answered with their own two words.

I'm lonely.

They handed the materials back, not making eye contact with the hero. It was…as honest of an answer they could give right now. Delving into their entire life's story with a stranger (were they really strangers at this point, though?) wasn't a favorite pastime of theirs.

They played with their hands awkwardly as they listened to the pencil scratching on paper. It was a quiet night…a nice one, they decided. Too bad they felt horrible— this would've been a fun evening for a game of tag-the-hero.

This time, the notebook was placed directly in their field of vision.

Well you have been avoiding me.

They looked up, silver eyes wide, but the hero wasn't angry— there's actually a slight curve to his lips. Under the mask and hood, they could feel their ears starting to burn hot in embarrassment. They hadn't expected him to be so…forward. But of course he'd figured it out. They should've known he would. Despite his multiple ridiculous attempts at speaking to them, he was clearly intelligent.

(It only occured to them later that if they'd ever actually wanted to completely avoid the hero, then they shouldn't have traversed the same path he usually did every night in the first place.)

Suddenly feeling particularly childish, they crossed their arms and turned their head away. And, of course, the sound of scribbling resumed.

The notebook was yet again thrust in front of their face.

Why were you avoiding me?

They pursed their lips. They didn't have to answer. They knew they didn't have to. They knew if they refused to engage in their only form of communication, then eventually the hero would have to give up and leave.

And yet…

They snatched the notebook, scrawled out a response, and all but threw it back in the hero's face.

Why are you trying to run into me?

The hero actually lets out a snort at their counter-argument. A snort.

Touché.

A hum that somehow seemed to signal agreement escaped their throat before they could stop it. Perhaps they weren't the only one questioning this little game they played.

Silence overtook them. It wasn't…uncomfortable, it just sort of was. They'd reached an impasse, a stand still in the already stilted conversation. The moon and stars, as they always were, were the only witness to their strange acquaintanceship (relationship was too weighty of a word to use at this point).

It was only after five minutes of this silence that they realized they were no longer crying. They hadn't been for a while, now.

Just as they'd come to this revelation, they were drawn out of it by movement. They glanced to the left— the hero was writing something down again. A minute passed, and when the message was given to them, it was with a somber look that ran deep in those piercing violet eyes.

I know how loneliness can be. It's not a fun feeling.

'Understatement of the century,' they think.

They reach over and pluck the pencil right out of his grasp, and yes their costumes brush again, this time a little closer, and yes they can feel some of the heat radiating from the hero, and yes they ignore all of it.

(Who are they kidding, it feels like all of their senses have been dialed to eleven.)

Brain on the fritz, all they could write was the following:

No it's not.

And that was that. There was a sense of finality in the reply, a tone that said 'and that's all you're getting out of me for now.'

Which was fine, because the pair seemed to silently decide to return to their usual form of communication— body language that they were finely attuned to interpreting.

The hero, who looked a little disappointed at their closing statement, began to open his mouth. They lifted an eyebrow, daring him. Immediately, his mouth snapped shut, and his eyes rolled. They grinned in satisfaction.

If nothing else, at least they knew it was still fun to mess with him.

They stood from the ledge. An early autumn breeze whipped their cloak out behind them. Silver eyes dared to meet purple once more. There were questions in those eyes. They knew there had to be questions in theirs, too.

The game wasn't over— not yet. Still, it did feel like it had shifted somehow. And they'd done enough shifting for today. Any more and they might break.

With a half-assed salute, they turned on their heel and walked into the shadows of night.

They would later wonder if how many times they glanced behind to see if the hero had followed was strange.

Me, my eyes wide and looking to the side like that emoji: oops, guess things are changing. Please leave a review!