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Rebuilding a career as a superhero is no easy feat for Kotetsu. Far from it, it's been downright disheartening at times; while he's good at keeping track of the various villainous types running around through the city, being a good tracker also means that he's started to take plenty of notice of the young upstarts who have taken it upon themselves to police and protect the civilian population. And if there's one thing that he knows, it's that no matter how much experience he has, no matter how good his instincts are, he doesn't come even close to being able to compete to their sheer youth.
They're sharper. In some cases, stronger. And none of them have to experience the typical problems with an old man's endurance — achy back, creaky joints, pains where no pains should be allowed.
It isn't that Kotetsu begrudges the youths their health. Far from it. He's always believed that the younger generation should be given all of the opportunity in the world to take the lead. He'd rather bet on the future than take all the weight on himself. But being acutely aware of his own mortality has called some other things into question.
Perhaps most notably, whether or not he should be holding back on whims, on honest emotions that he might have had a myriad of excuses to escape years before.
He doesn't go to her apartment immediately. It takes a few days of hemming and hawing, a few days of pondering their past conversations, the weight of history heavy on both of their shoulders. No matter what, he knows one thing — that whatever thoughts he has, whatever emotions he expresses, in the end none of that stands if she doesn't feel the same way. He may not be young enough to afford years of thought and consideration, but age also gave him the experience to know that there's nothing worse than ruining a friendship with uneven expectations.
Clearing his throat and willing the flush in his cheeks to cool down, Kotetsu raises a hand to Terry's door and knocks once, twice, and a final time, a bouquet of bright yellow roses in hand, the edges of the petals stretching into a soft pink.
They're sharper. In some cases, stronger. And none of them have to experience the typical problems with an old man's endurance — achy back, creaky joints, pains where no pains should be allowed.
It isn't that Kotetsu begrudges the youths their health. Far from it. He's always believed that the younger generation should be given all of the opportunity in the world to take the lead. He'd rather bet on the future than take all the weight on himself. But being acutely aware of his own mortality has called some other things into question.
Perhaps most notably, whether or not he should be holding back on whims, on honest emotions that he might have had a myriad of excuses to escape years before.
He doesn't go to her apartment immediately. It takes a few days of hemming and hawing, a few days of pondering their past conversations, the weight of history heavy on both of their shoulders. No matter what, he knows one thing — that whatever thoughts he has, whatever emotions he expresses, in the end none of that stands if she doesn't feel the same way. He may not be young enough to afford years of thought and consideration, but age also gave him the experience to know that there's nothing worse than ruining a friendship with uneven expectations.
Clearing his throat and willing the flush in his cheeks to cool down, Kotetsu raises a hand to Terry's door and knocks once, twice, and a final time, a bouquet of bright yellow roses in hand, the edges of the petals stretching into a soft pink.