Chapter Text
Flambae was already getting used to the fact that his mornings didn’t start with coffee, but with another high-speed chase after villains. He couldn’t exactly say he loved this job a hundred percent, but channeling his powers into something productive turned out to be much more efficient than trying not to burn his own apartment down while making a simple plate of scrambled eggs. A tall stack of ruined curtains (which he just couldn’t bring himself to throw away), neatly folded by the trash bin, screamed even louder about his "stunning" culinary experience. Some of the patterns left by Flambae’s fire could honestly be considered works of art. Still, he wanted to keep his recently bought and furnished apartment intact for at least a few years—if such a thing was even possible.
Eventually, the plan worked, and for the past seven years, Flambae had been persistently (and not always successfully) trying to tame his temper. But with this particular villain, keeping his cool was becoming increasingly difficult.
“I’m telling you, step out of the Mecha Man suit right now unless you want to become a permanent part of it. I have zero desire to call a rescue squad to scrape your charred body out of there,” Flambae said, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose.
This Robert guy was honestly driving him insane. One of these days, Flambae might actually lose his grip on his emotions and roast the bastard alive.
“No. This suit is coming with me. And that’s my final word,” a mechanical voice replied.
Another rush. Another brawl. How many had there been? He didn’t have the strength left to count. This guy—you had to give him credit—just wouldn't quit. Deep down in his subconscious, he had convinced himself that he had to reclaim his "father’s legacy" at any cost. Honestly, Flambae felt almost awkward about hitting him with the truth that would surely shatter him. Maybe it was part of his job, the easier path. But it felt like a much harsher solution than just trying to punch each other’s lights out again.
So they traded physical blows, trying to drown out the internal ache. But Flambae didn't dare to strike where it truly hurt, on the inside. Robert’s real armor wasn't Mecha Man; it was the web of lies his father had wrapped around him since childhood, and a crushing sense of duty toward a family name.
That was why Robert was still sitting in this hunk of junk that should have been scrapped ages ago. But, you know, every time this kid fixed it up so stubbornly that the machine managed to last a little longer. Much like Robert himself. Perhaps, with these simple tricks, he was trying to repair something inside himself, still desperate to prove his worth to a dead father.
“You’re such an idiot, god,” Flambae shouted, but his smile was somehow tinged with sadness.
A new strike. The temperature hit its limit. The suit literally began to melt. This time, the internal safety system kicked in, forcibly ejecting Robert from the machine.
“Damn it! Damn it! Piece of junk! I should’ve disabled that mechanism!” Robert yelled, kicking the suit in frustration, only to hiss in pain immediately after.
“Oh, for your information, that equipment is designed to save your pathetic life—unless you want to boil like soup or get roasted like a rotisserie chicken,” Flambae rolled his eyes.
“Go to hell,” Robert spat, flipping him a meaningful middle finger before pulling a small rod from his pocket, which quickly expanded into a long, multifunctional cane.
He spun it with impressive agility, like a real weapon, while simultaneously using it for support as he walked. His bad knee was acting up, but it didn't stop him. He’d gotten that injury in his youth, back when he went on missions with his father.
Though, watching the grace with which he moved now, lunging forward, you could hardly call him disabled.
Flambae accepted the challenge, deciding to fight on equal terms without using his fire. He saw it in every one of Robert’s movements: the anger, the despair, the self-hatred. But...
But there was also that passion for the fight. Robert felt alive. Capable. Free. Empowered. Himself.
Flambae couldn’t hold back a smile.
“You move well for a cripple.”
“Is that a compliment or a condescending remark?” Robert growled, quickly adding: “I’ll assume it’s the latter.”
Flambae just laughed. “Don't flatter yourself.”
Eventually, they both ended up among the ruins of the warehouse. Exhausted. Wounded. But... happy? Their clothes looked more like rags of car crash survivors. Scratches, bruises, and other injuries throbbed painfully, but neither of them dared to attack again.
Flambae began wiping blood from his split lip, breathing heavily as he rolled onto his side to stare at Robert. His smile faded slightly, replaced by something more tired, almost reluctantly impressed.
Robert seemed to catch his breath and gripped his cane again, preparing to lunge.
Flambae caught it easily, showing his true strength.
“Easy there. You hit like a damn freight train,” Flambae moved lazily, wincing at the pulse of a bruise on his ribs. “Who the hell taught you how to fight? And don’t say 'the streets,' because I swear, I’ll roast your stubborn ass after all.”
However, there was no real venom behind the threat—only exhaustion and maybe... respect?
“Like I’d tell you anything,” Robert spat, putting pressure on the cane.
Flambae muttered reproachfully: “I’m going to break your cane.”
“Oh no, I’m going to break your spine with my cane,” the man loomed over him.
But Flambae gripped the cane harder. A crack echoed through the air. Robert nearly fell onto the hero, but Flambae caught him gently and laid him down beside him. He tossed the broken cane into a corner.
“Seriously? Great. Just perfect,” Robert rolled his eyes in frustration. He lunged forward again, but Flambae pinned his hands, so in a fit of desperation, the villain simply used his teeth to pull the hair tie out of Flambae’s hair.
It fell in a cascade over the hero's shoulders, but he didn't pay it any mind.
“Calmed down yet?” Flambae hovered over Robert, inspecting his battered state—his own handiwork.
“Fine, fine! Enough!” Robert didn't want to surrender, but he finally gave in.
And, surprisingly, he didn't attack again.
“Wow. A villain who keeps his word? Should I mark this on my calendar?” Flambae let go of the man’s wrists before unceremoniously hauling him up by the collar. “Alright, creep. Let's see if your hovel has running water, or if I’ll have to toss you in the river first.”
“Oh, so now you’ve decided to drag me home like a naughty puppy?” Robert grumbled, but he accepted the help and leaned on Flambae’s shoulder. He practically had to hop on one leg; the other was barely moving.
“So, do you live alone or what?” Flambae asked curiously.
“No. And that’s the answer to your question. I live with my grandfather. But he’s... well, not exactly a 'grandpa,' you know. His ability just turned him into... 'that.' Chase. He’s more like a childhood friend my father left me with. He’s the one who taught me how to fight,” Robert said slowly. “God, why am I even telling you this...”
Flambae huffed. But he drew his own conclusions. So, the father was only responsible for the trauma, not the achievements. How ironic.
He continued helping Robert toward the city, then stopped mid-step.
“So your grandpa is still around? He taught you all that 'take the hit' and 'keep attacking' nonsense? He should’ve taught you how to run and when to retreat instead. You’re too stubborn for your own good. And for what?”
“You want a matching black eye? No? Then shut up.”