Chapter Text
Keigo was so happy.
So radiantly, and deliriously happy. So much so, it felt like his chest might burst from the pressure of it. He had never known happiness like this, had never been so happy that it made him want to cry just from the sheer shock of it.
These people, these strangers who had taken him from nothingness, who had saved him, and given him a new name to answer to and new orders to follow. They had seen something in him. They offered him something he hadn’t dared to want: a future. A purpose. A place to belong.
They liked his quirk. They liked him. And for Keigo, that alone was more than a miracle. More than he’d ever allowed himself to imagine, let alone hope for. He didn’t think he deserved it. Not really. But he clutched it with both hands all the same, like something fragile that might be taken away if he wasn't careful. Like when his dad used to take away his toys when he got into trouble...or when his mum used to take his feathers when she was high, because they were just so soft.
Keigo didn't care about the pain.
Didn’t flinch when the bruises bloomed purple and blue across his skin. Didn’t hesitate when his muscles screamed in protest or when his wings dragged behind him, with feathers broken and out of place. He didn’t mind the relentless drills, the barked commands, the impossible standards he was forced to meet again and again. The training hurt. Of course it did. It was punishing, brutal, and unrelenting. It danced right up to the edge of cruelty, but he leaned into it with open arms because it meant something.
Every blow, every blistering demand, every fall, every stumble and every failure meant something. They were telling him: You are worth this effort. You matter enough to break and put back together again.
It meant that one day—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even next year—but someday, he would be a hero.
Just like Endeavour...
Even now, sprawled out across the cold concrete floor, his limbs shaking from exhaustion and his wings twitching uselessly at his sides. Blood stuck hot and tacky to his back and arms, and his hands throbbing with a dull, rhythmic pain. His vision blurring at the edges, and sliding in and out of focus like a dream he couldn’t quite hold on to.
He was happy.
The pain was white-hot, piercing and cruel, but it was also far away. Like it belonged to someone else. It didn’t matter. Not really. Not when it came packaged with a purpose. Because pain meant he was alive, and being alive meant he was getting closer. Closer to the version of himself he wanted to be. The version they promised he could become.
He was so unbelievably happy...because he knew. He believed it with every trembling breath and every ragged beat of his heart inside of his chest. That one day, he was going to be a Hero.
No matter what it cost.