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Half of you is insisting that it’s not your fault. You’re not the one who didn’t rescue him. How hard would it have been for Bakugou to slow down long enough for Monoma to grab on? Maybe it wouldn’t have been easy, but if Bakugou thought Monoma was worth anything, he’d have saved him. He tossed Monoma into the same pile the rest of you are in, and now you have to watch a fifteen-year-old adjust to the fact that a bunch of villains care more about him than the heroes do.

You tell yourself that, but deep down, you know better. You were the one who helped Shigaraki get to the Sports Festival, where he saw Monoma’s quirk up close. You’re the one who didn’t talk him out of it when he set Monoma as the mission’s priority. You chose not to sabotage the League, first in the training camp attack, then again at Kamino. You might not have been the one who kidnapped Monoma or the one who abandoned him, but he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.

As bad as the guilt is, seeing what Monoma’s presence brings out in the League is worse. Toga seems happy to have a friend her age, and although you can tell that Monoma doesn’t want to warm up to her, she’s friendly enough that it’s hard for him to ignore. Twice’s bad jokes have landed just enough times that he keeps trying them. Spinner’s hyped enough about the possibilities of Monoma’s quirk to get him talking about it — and about the heroes, whose pedestals are pretty easy to knock down with a few tweaks on Stain’s principles. Magne’s good at reaching out to people — she got through to you, after all — and Compress, the only person other than you who can still go out and about safely, is slowly winning him over through snacks. Even Dabi’s nice to him. For a given value of nice.

Worst of all, though, is Shigaraki. He spends a lot of time talking with Monoma, and you can’t tell if he’s trying to turn him to the villains’ side or trying to make him feel better. He’s weirdly patient with Monoma, more than he was with you or any of the other members of the League, and you don’t know how to handle it. Watching it makes you feel really strange.

So you try not to watch it. You give yourself jobs, like mapping Overhaul’s hideout. And you try to get ready for your next move, which you’re starting to think might be critical. In the original timeline you fucked up, All Might’s reaction to finding out Shigaraki’s real origin was horror, and his first thought was of finding Shigaraki and saving him. Gran Torino talked him out of it, but last you heard, Gran Torino was still in a coma after taking a header in the battle for Kamino. You used to think of Gran Torino like somebody’s quirky grandpa. You feel a lot less friendly towards him after he tried to kick your head off at a hundred miles per hour.

You’re not sorry about what happened to him, and it’s given you an opportunity. In this timeline, there’s no one to talk All Might out of saving Shigaraki, so you need to make it stick. He could be the solution you need. The kind of opponents the League has coming up aren’t the kind you’re any use fighting. As Shigaraki’s options narrow, he’ll be pushed to further and further extremes, until basically getting Nomufied in the pursuit of greater power is the only route he sees to achieving his goals. You can’t let that happen. If he gets All For One’s quirk, it’s game over.

You know how heroes work, because you like them — or used to like them, or something. As soon as All For One takes over Shigaraki’s body even partially, Shigaraki stops being a person and starts being a target, so you have to make sure it never happens. For that, you need someone who wants to save Shigaraki, who’s motivated by something other than standard heroic ideals. All Might’s got a stake in this that goes beyond that. There’s no way around it: You have to find All Might. You have to talk to him. You have to make him listen to you.

And if you can, it’s not just Shigaraki you’ll save. You know Shigaraki won’t leave the League behind. If All Might wants to save Shigaraki, he’ll have to save the rest of the League, too.

You haven’t figured out where he is just yet. You’ve been scoping out hospitals, but you might be too late. Still, if he’s already been discharged, there’s one place you know he’ll show up eventually. The next time you head out, you need to stake out Midoriya’s apartment.

For now, though, the cigarette smoke is starting to make you cough. You want to put it out, but you have to wait for the smoke alarm — and, done. You stub it out on the floor, trying to look guilty rather than relieved, as two of Overhaul’s goons hurry towards you. “What are you doing? How many times do we have to tell you —”

“It’s an addiction,” you protest. “I can’t help it.”

“Take it outside, then,” one of them snaps. Score. “You aren’t made yet.”

“Right,” you say. “Sorry. I’ll remember next time.”

“No you won’t,” the other thug mumbles. “You lowlifes are all the same.”

You’re tempted to point out that you’re not the one serving some child-torturing creep who blows up people who argue with him, but you keep your mouth shut. They gave you what you wanted already. “Which way out of here?”

The guards escort you, and you spend the rest of the walk back to the League’s corner of the compound trying to fix the route in your head. Once you’re back in the main room, shutting the door behind you, you head straight for the map. The only other person in the room is Monoma, who’s holding a Nintendo Switch and staring at nothing. “Hey,” you say, once you’ve drawn in the new portion of the map. “How are you doing?”

Monoma shrugs. “They say Bakugou’s going to lose an eye,” he says. “I saw on the news.”

“I heard about that,” you say. According to the news, the light you blasted at him was so intense that it was basically a laser, and it flash-boiled all the liquid in his eyeball and cooked everything else. When you read about how you apparently did it, you almost threw up. “How do you feel about it?”

“I don’t,” Monoma says. You keep looking at him. “What do you want me to say? That he deserved it? He didn’t deserve it. Nobody deserves this.”

He’s getting there. “You don’t think he deserved it. Maybe he didn’t deserve it,” you say, although you’re damn sure he did and you’ll do it again if you have to. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good to see somebody who hurt you get hurt.”

“Heroes shouldn’t feel that way.”

“After what you’ve seen, do you really want to be a hero?”

“I’m not stupid. I know there are things wrong with heroes,” Monoma says. “But that doesn’t mean I should become a villain.”

“Fair,” you admit. “I’m going out in a second. Need anything?”

“You’re going out?” Shigaraki sticks his head out of one of the rooms. “Why didn’t you ask me if I needed anything?”

“I wasn’t sure you were awake. I was going to check.” You glance back at Monoma, who shakes his head, and decide you’ll bring him something anyway. “I need to get dressed. I’ll check back with you before I go.”

“Get dressed? What do you mean, get dressed?” Shigaraki is following you. “You have clothes on.”

“Get disguised,” you correct yourself. “I’m only safe to go out as long as they can’t tie me to Kamino.”

“I know,” Shigaraki says. He follows you into the room you share with Toga and Magne, neither of whom are there, and sits down on your bed. “What are you waiting for? Do whatever you’re doing.”

“Why are you in here?”

“I want to talk to you,” Shigaraki says. You were hoping he’d make up a reason. Something about a mission or a plan, not just — that. “Do your disguise thing. We can talk while you do that.”

“Okay.” You hid most of your costume kit outside the hideout before Kamino, and going back to get it was as stressful as things have gotten since the training camp attack. Almost as stressful as coming back with it and having to invent a reason why you hid it offsite in the first place. “What do you want to talk about?”

It’s quiet for a second. “The kid,” Shigaraki says. “Do you think we should give him back?”

That’s not what you were expecting. You pause in the middle of sorting through your wigs. “You want to give him back? After everything we went through trying to get him?”

“He’s an asset if he’s on our team, and he’s a huge liability if he isn’t,” Shigaraki says. “If he’d picked going with us, that would be one thing, but since he didn’t —”

Shigaraki trails off. You go back to sorting the wigs. “We’ve got enough problems already. More coming up, too,” Shigaraki says finally. He’s careful about alluding to Eri. Everyone is. “If he’s not on board, we should let him go.”

“He might not be on board yet,” you say. What are you even saying? You want Shigaraki to let Monoma go. You want Monoma to have a normal life. But something’s still nagging at you, gnawing on you, and it takes you a second to figure out what it is. “I think you should let him decide.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You pick up a hot pink wig, one you don’t wear a lot because it makes you look sweaty, and start brushing it out. “He might want to go back. I probably would, if I was him. But it should be his call. Otherwise we’re just one more group of people saying he doesn’t matter.”

It’s quiet for a little bit. You resist the urge to glance over at Shigaraki, to try to figure out what he’s thinking. It was a lot easier to look at him when he had the hand over his face. He was harder to read. Now you know him well enough to see what’s on his mind almost before he says it. “That’s what I was thinking,” he says. “He might pick us. Don’t you think it’s weird that he hasn’t tried to escape?”

“Escaping is high-risk, low reward as long as we’ve got Kurogiri,” you say. That was how you thought of it, anyway. You haven’t thought about escaping in a while. “And this place is a maze. I wouldn’t want to get lost in here if I was him. I don’t even like getting lost in here when it’s me.”

“I’d come get you,” Shigaraki says. “How come you’re wearing that one? You hate that one.”

He’s pointing at the pink wig. “What makes you think I hate it?”

“You never wear it,” Shigaraki says. “The only other one you don’t wear is that one.”

He reaches into the box and taps the navy blue wig with one finger. “How come?”

“Uh —” You didn’t realize Shigaraki paid that much attention to your disguises. “That’s the one I had on at USJ. People saw me follow you through the gate, even if they didn’t get footage. If I wear that, I match the description the cops have of me, even if I contour the hell out of my face.”

“I like that one,” Shigaraki says. You set the pink wig down and decide to do your makeup first. That way you have something to look at other than him. “You should wear the same one for every mission. If your hair color keeps changing, people are going to figure out how you’re disguising yourself.”

You probably should have thought of that. You nod in agreement and get to work on your makeup, wondering if Shigaraki will find it boring enough to leave. No such luck. He stretches out on your bed instead, head on your pillow. No matter how you zero in on the mirror, you can still see him in your peripheral vision. “When are we going to read again?” he asks abruptly. “Are you reading it without me?”

“No,” you say, offended. “I wouldn’t. Just, like — when are we supposed to do that? And where?”

“Whenever. Here.” Shigaraki’s giving you a strange look. “Like before. Why are you acting weird about it?”

“I’m not,” you say. “I just — I share a room with people now. People will see.”

“So what?” Shigaraki asks. You can’t tell if he’s being dumb on purpose, or if he honestly can’t figure out why hanging out on your bed with you while you read out loud to him might not be something you want other people to see. “I want to find out what happens. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Okay. Fine. We can read it when I get back. Do you want anything?”

“Some kind of snack. The food here sucks,” Shigaraki says, projecting his voice. The first thing you all did when you moved in was check the place for bugs, and while you got all the cameras, microphones are easier to hide. “Otherwise, be careful. They’re looking for you a lot harder than they were before.”

“I’ll be careful,” you say, and it crosses your mind that you’ve got an opportunity. “I might be gone longer, then. It might be smart to go further away.”

Shigaraki nods. You’re expecting him to get up and leave, but he doesn’t. Instead he flops back on your bed, making himself comfortable, and you finish doing your makeup faster than you’ve ever done it in your life.

On the way out, you check in with Monoma. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” He mumbles something. “Say again?”

“Chocolate.”

“No problem,” you say. “What kind?”

He wants a specific kind — something foreign — which gives you an excuse to go even farther out of your usual way. You sneak out one of the less-used entrances to the compound and make your way down the street to the train station. As you wait for the train, you decide you can give up on checking hospitals. It’s been too long, given that Recovery Girl’s quirk is a thing. Your best bet is to stake out the Midoriyas’ apartment and wait for All Might to show up. Overhaul’s hideout is in Osaka, while the Midoriyas live in Shizuoka. It’s not a short trip. You probably need all that time to think of how you’re going to get through to All Might.

All Might didn’t get a good look at you. Not at USJ, not at Kamino. If you approach him, he won’t see anything but an ordinary civilian. But that could work against you, too. Just like there are weirdos in your world who fangirl over criminals, BNHA has people who freak out over villains. An ordinary civilian isn’t someone All Might has to listen to. Shigaraki’s right-hand villain definitely is.

Part of you wonders if just leveling with All Might is the way to go. Telling him who you are, why you’re there, and why you think Shigaraki can be saved. It’s tempting, and maybe before Kamino, it would have worked. Now, though — if you out yourself as Shigaraki’s ally, the first thing All Might will think of is what you did to Bakugou. Nothing you say is going to matter after he realizes that you maimed a kid.

So confronting All Might directly is a nonstarter. Your best shot is to find a way to leave him a message and hope he actually listens to it. There’s a good chance, maybe, if you say it right. And you’ve got the whole trip to figure out how to say it right.

The first thing you have to do is establish your credibility. Tell All Might something you shouldn’t know, to prove that you’re worth listening to. The trick is going to be doing that without tripping your seizures. What’s not common knowledge in universe, but well-known in the fandom? It only takes a second to come up with the answer. Everybody knows All Might had to retire. How many of them know it’s because he lost One For All? How many people know that he’s quirkless without it?

That’s it. You open the Notes app on your phone and start typing.

Two sentences in, you get a text from Toga. Your phone is full of groupchats — there’s a League-wide chat, a League minus Chrono and Rappa chat, one that’s just you and Shigaraki and Kurogiri. Since you moved into the Hassaikai compound, you’ve been added to another one — League of Villainesses, that’s you and Magne and Toga and occasionally Chrono, who keeps getting removed by Magne if she misbehaves and added back in because Toga thinks she’s fun to mess with. The text from Toga is the Villainesses chat, and it’s mostly not a text. It’s a picture. Of Shigaraki, fast asleep on your bed.

Toga: ?????????

????????? is right. You might go so far as ???????????????????, because you feel like you’ve gotten punched in the stomach. Maybe lower than the stomach. You’re not sure. What the hell is he doing? You know he was in there hanging out while you got ready, but you assumed he’d leave, not that he’d flop over and take a nap. What the hell. Part of you wants to call him right now, wake him up, and tell him to find somewhere else to pass out.

But at the same time, you know Shigaraki doesn’t sleep well. Even if it wasn’t basically canon, you’ve seen it for yourself. He’s restless, tossing and turning constantly, waking up for the smallest sound. There were times back at the hideout where he came out of his room to snap at you for closing the bathroom door too hard. Right now, though, he’s sleeping hard enough that Toga could sneak up on him to snap a photo. And he’s not tossing and turning. He’s curled in on himself slightly, face turned against your pillow, expression calm. You feel that punch in the stomach again, stronger this time. There’s a word for this, isn’t there? It’s —

Magne: aww, they’re so cute when they’re asleep

Chronostasis: not when they’re on your bed

Toga: you’re just jealous because your boss won’t cuddle with you

Magne: has he figured out you’re a girl yet?

Chronostasis: Shut up

You sort of want to point out that you’re not — cuddling — with Shigaraki. You’re not even in the same town right now. Cuddling is the last thing on your mind, or it was, until Toga said that. Now you’re thinking about it. Shigaraki really would be terrible to cuddle with. He’s mostly skin and bones, and even after his canon glow-up, his bulk is all muscle, which isn’t comfortable, either. Not to mention the bit where he could easily kill you by accident. So why is your stupid face heating up when you read Toga’s message? Why are you wondering if there’s a way to make cuddling with Shigaraki safe?

It’s academic, you decide. Evaluating if the Shigaraki fans are onto something, or if they really are just that hyped to bruise themselves and maybe get Decayed. If you were going to do it, spooning him would probably be the way to go. He’s already sort of curled up. And there’s less of a chance that he’d grab you by accident.

Question answered. You don’t need to think about it anymore. You go back to your All Might letter, but not before sending a response.

Aspera: can someone put a blanket on him?

Magne: you got it, honey. I’ll make sure he knows it’s from you :)

God. You think about removing yourself from the chat, but you just close it instead. Letter to All Might. That’s what’s important here.

You haven’t put a ton of thought into All Might as a character, but you review what you know. All Might wanted to be a hero to be a Symbol, to set an example, way before he knew about All For One. All Might picked Midoriya to be his successor because of how Midoriya threw himself into harm’s way to help Bakugou. Selflessness is a quality he admires, and Shigaraki has that — but not at this point in the story, not in a way that someone like All Might would see and recognize. You’ll be better off talking about who Shigaraki is to All Might. His master’s grandson, kidnapped and tormented by All For One because All Might wasn’t there to save him. All Might’s already got the guilt. You just need to trip it.

By the time you get to Shizuoka, you have a draft of the letter ready to go. You stop in a convenience store, buy most of what you need for the others along with a card and a cheap pen, and sit down in a park to write it out. You make a few edits here and there, then hit a wall when it comes time to sign your name. Your real name won’t mean anything to him. The name the person whose life you landed in will tell him exactly who you are, just like your villain name will. But you should give a name, so that if you have to talk to him again, he already knows you can be trusted.

You come up with a name, sign the card, and hesitate over a name to put on the outside of the envelope. Maybe this is another spot where your extra knowledge will come in handy. The whole world knows All Might. Not a lot of people know Yagi Toshinori.

You seal the letter, rearrange your purchases in your bag, and steel yourself. Time to find the Midoriyas’ apartment.

That part is pretty easy. Easier than it should be, probably, which makes you wonder why All For One didn’t just send somebody to kidnap Midoriya directly. You’re thinking you’ll tape the letter to the Midoriyas’ front door, so All Might will see it when he goes to knock, but when you get there, you’re not the only one who’s just arriving. There’s a black car idling at the curb, and All Might is already climbing out.

Fuck. There goes your plan. You could still try it, but everyone would notice you sprinting there and back, and it’ll be clear who left the letter. Unless — you wait until the black car pulls away to circle the block, then break into a run, past the point where the car was parked. You wing the letter at the ground ahead of you, stumble to pick it up, and call out. “Sir! Um, sir, wait —”

All Might glances back, puzzled, just in time for you to lose your balance and tip over. Not on purpose, but if it was, it would have worked. All Might turns around and hurries towards you. “Young lady, are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I just tripped,” you mumble awkwardly. Even in scarecrow form, All Might towers over you. His hands are huge as he helps you to your feet. “I don’t mean to bother you, but — um — I think you dropped this.”

You hold out the letter to All Might, who looks at it blankly. “It fell out of your pocket when you got out of the car,” you say. “I didn’t want to just leave it there, in case it was important.”

All Might’s poker face isn’t great. You can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to decide how likely is that he straight up forgot a letter someone gave him. It looks like he thinks it’s pretty likely. It doesn’t look like he’s thinking that you might be pulling one over on him at all. “Thank you, young lady,” he says finally. “That’s very kind of you. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I definitely am. You’re here,” you say. All Might looks startled, at which point you realize how insensitive you sound. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to — make fun of you —”

“You weren’t,” All Might says. He smiles. “Thank you for the reminder.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t need to put on a costume to make someone’s life a little easier,” he says. “There is still good for me to do.”

A lot of it. Way more than he knows. If he reads your letter, if he listens, he could stop a war and see All For One destroyed at last. “There is,” you say. “Thank you, sir.”

You turn to leave, and so does he, but you check back over your shoulder once. Your letter is tucked securely into his pocket, and you breathe a sigh of relief. This isn’t the first time you’ve messed with canon, but it’s the first time you’ve done it for the better. Now you can grab Monoma’s fancy chocolate and head back to the hideout. Hopefully Shigaraki’s not sleeping on your bed when you get there.

You check your phone on the train and find that Magne’s sent another picture of Shigaraki — still asleep, but this time with the blanket draped over him.

Magne: I tucked him in for you

Magne: he really is cute when he’s asleep

Toga: and Chrono really is jealous

Chronostasis: I’m not jealous!

Aspera: thanks

Aspera: I’m on my way back. need anything?

They add one or two things each to your list, which means you need to make one last stop on your way home. Maybe you need it. You’re not ready to face Shigaraki just yet. You might not have betrayed the League with your letter, but that doesn’t mean he’d be happy you sent it. Are you happy with what you wrote? You open the Notes app to study it again.

Dear All Might,

I’m going to tell you something most people don’t know about you, so you’ll believe me when I say I know things: I know you were quirkless before you got One For All. And I know that you’re still grieving for your master. I bet it’s worse now, because you know that her grandson was kidnapped by All For One. If you’d been around, you could have saved him. I’m here to tell you that it’s not too late.

Other people might tell you differently. They might tell you that there’s nothing you can do, but there is. Shimura Tenko still needs you, even if he says he doesn’t. All For One has had fifteen years to brainwash him. It’s not going to get fixed overnight. Please keep trying. Please don’t give up on him. I think you might be his only hope.

Sincerely,

Astra

It still looks okay. You got a little Star Wars at the end, but that’s probably not the end of the world. You made it sound urgent, because it is. You guilt-tripped him, because he should feel guilty. You told him that it won’t be easy, because it won’t. All you can do now is hope that All Might’s the kind of hero everyone says he is.

There’s still a while left in the train ride. You put away your phone to save battery and take out your Shuffle. It doesn’t occur to you to dread what you’ll hear until after you’ve pressed play. The dawn is breaking, a light shining through; you’re barely waking, and I’m tangled up in you…

It had better be kidding. You press the skip button a few times, knowing it won’t work, and the stupid song actually seems to get louder. Your efforts to turn it down get you through most of the first verse and the whole chorus, and by the time the second verse starts, you’ve resigned yourself to getting incorrectly roasted. I’m quiet, you know. You make a first impression. I find I’m scared to know I’m always on your mind —

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You ignore it, and you cross your arms over your chest, staring out the window. Of course Shigaraki’s on your mind. He’s your friend, you spent the whole day trying to figure out a way to save him, and the asshole is sleeping on your bed right now. It would be weirder if you weren’t thinking about him. You wonder if All Might’s read your letter yet. What he thinks about it. What it’s going to take to make him see what you see when you look at Shigaraki and the League of Villains. Don’t stop here, I lost my place, I’m close behind —

God. You rip your headphones out of your ears. Even knowing that you’ll be right back where you started the instant you put them in again, you’d rather spend the rest of the trip back to Osaka in silence.

<- Chapter 12

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not only from his mind, but everything in his life revolves around you. seeing glimpses of his brother at home, the starry sky, in the coffee he drinks, the dew slung on the grass in the early rays of the morning when he goes to work.

when he drives home tonight, there's a tension in his head, pulsing. almost puke-inducing.

what's wrong with him?

he's never been like this before.

sukuna's home early tonight. he's avoided seeing his brother's the last week, coming home super late and staying in his room. that was his life. his friends? no one's reached out to him. he doesn't intend to reach out either.

this sole problem (you) in his life in unsolvable, yet linked to everything in his life. how did he get here?

with a hard sigh, he opens the front door. choso and yuji are sitting on the couch. they don't acknowledge him as they usually would. he stares at the back of their heads. they're too engaged in the movie playing on the tv. but he knows they can see him in the reflection of the tv and the shadow that crosses his face.

fucking rude.

like he doesn't pay for that tv.

he huffs and heads to the kitchen. this headache is absorbing him. he can't remember the last time he drank water or even ate properly.

sukuna opens the medicine drawer and pops a painkiller into his mouth. he grabs a cup from the cabinet, heads to the sink to catch water. however, when he catches the piled dishes in the sink, fury twists in his gut. he crushes the painkiller in his mouth, its bitter taste filling his mouth.

he grabs a one of the dirty baking trays, used for choso's famous tiramisu and throws it onto the tiled floor. the plastic tray resounds, wobbling from the fall.

"you guys are fucking useless!"

the silence that overcomes the household speaks words could never. he can almost hear his parents roll in their graves.

sukuna turns around slowly.

yuji and choso are frozen in place, fear embedded in their eyes.

the tray falls flat. quiet. crumbs and cream scour the floor.

"i pay for everything in this house and this is the thanks i get? you can't do one damn thing right?"

yuji and choso exchange glances. slowly, subtly, but sukuna catches it.

"think you're one team now? the two of you," sukuna asks. "defending your friend from me, huh? who was there for you when your fucking parents died?"

he doesn't know what he's talking about. he's a void, spilling incoherent words that don't matter to the conversation.

"you've actually lost it," yuji sounds, his voice high-pitched.

choso places a hand on yuji's shoulder, "ignore him."

"nah, fuck that. talk to me, or leave this house. right now," sukuna states.

choso glares right in sukuna's face. that's right. the sensitive, soft-hearted brother of his glared in his fucking face, "you don't want me to start."

sukuna folds his arms on his chest and leans on the benchtop, "go on."

he's almost hysterical, adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

"you think all of this is going to make you feel better about y/n," choso answers. "acting out, throwing tantrums—you're grown enough to know better. this is not how you behave."

sukuna scoffs, "you're telling me how to behave in my own house?"

choso stands up, walks right into the kitchen. yuji follows suit.

"do you want to fight?" choso asks. "like, do you actually want to?"

sukuna laughs, "you're going to lose."

"not with your fists, idiot," yuji says.

"watch it," sukuna and choso both tell him.

"he's still your older brother," choso says to yuji.

yuji shrugs, sliding on top of the benchtop, dangling his legs over the edge, "he's not acting like it."

sukuna takes a prideful stride towards him but choso presses a hand to his chest, "stop."

"my point still stands," sukuna states, matter-of-factly. "you guys don't do shit in my house. why the fuck are you still—"

"this is not about chores," choso intervenes. "you've never cared about chores."

"you just want to put out tough guy shit to hide the fact you're hurting on the inside," yuji nods along, grabbing a container of tiramisu behind him. he starts eating it.

"i'm not," sukuna disagrees.

"why do you have to let go when it matters the most?" choso asks.

the question causes a pang in his chest.

"why do you wanna run away?" yuji asks. "she's not going to bite, you know? she's a very nice girl. not right in the head, but nice."

"you have it wrong—"

"so, if she was to actually date geto, you wouldn't get mad?"

choso's eyes are flaring, watching sukuna's facial expression. the thought alone dulls his heart. he can't imagine it, he feels too much for you.

"but she's not. she can't," sukuna refuses with a small smile he doesn't realise on his face. your face flashes in his mind. your bluntness, your zero fear to his crash outs—the concept of you being a mirror to him, showing his best and worst.

this must be his very worst. he's hit absolutely rock bottom, lost it all. you're gone now. there's no point.

"none of it matters," sukuna huffs. "she's gone."

"she's not fuckin' dead, kuna," yuji rebuts. "she's still alive, breathing and i guarantee, she's thinking about you."

"she said she's done," sukuna says.

"do you believe that?" yuji asks. "if what you had was real, do you think she could throw you away just like that?"

"shut the fuck up," sukuna spits. "you're just trying to get my hopes up. it's done."

choso sighs aggressively, "fine. if that's how you feel. let's go, yuji."

yuji hops off the counter.

choso and him begin to walk away. a heaviness sinks in his chest. why are they walking away? his mind is tangled in questions. what is choso trying to say? he feels like there's a message, but he's not getting it.

"that's it?" sukuna scoffs.

"you gave up," yuji says.

"you didn't even try to convince me."

choso places his hands on his hips, "if you can't see the blessing right in front of you, a chance at love after everything you've been through, there's nothing to convince you of. she can get a boyfriend tomorrow, she can leave you behind, but you—you're just going to dig a grave for yourself and die from eternal loneliness."

"and," yuji begins. "why the fuck would she wait for you? you act like someone who doesn't care. i hope she moves on from you, actually. do you know how many times she tortured us about you? we told her not to go for you because we knew it'll end up like this. she didn't listen to us, and, uh, well, look at this. what a mess! and, she'll move on, so it doesn't matter at the end of the day."

"i raised two assholes," sukuna mumbles, rubbing his temples.

the headache is gonna kill him. you, even more.

everything they're saying would happen, happened.

it's the situation plainly put.

you're going to leave him.

you're done with him.

they're not trying to convince him of anything, just placing the pieces in his mind, painting the picture of what reality is.

"you know what they say, yuji, a man who doesn't want to be helped, can't be helped," choso says.

"right!" yuji exclaims, licking his spoon clean. "you're the real useless, big bro! congratulations!"

"yeah, now she's going to leave you."

are they trying to get on his nerves?

"no, the fuck she's not," sukuna seethes.

"do you think she's as miserable as you?" choso asks. "she'll probably move on soon. just needs a little time."

you can't move on.

no way.

after everything, move on?

be done with him?

"it's crazy," yuji comments. "she jumped through hurdles trying to land you. when she finally got you, you let go. interesting..."

"i didn't let go," sukuna argues.

he can't.

"you did."

"no, i didn't."

"so did."

"no—"

"nah, i think you did—"

"i think about her all the fucking time! do you think i could let her go?" sukuna shouts, gripping the benchtop. "i see her everywhere. i don't come home because i don't wanna see you bastards. i get reminded of how you're friends! seeing her cry the other day did it. i never want her to cry again because of me. i want to take her out on dates and be all corny and shit with her. she drives me fucking insane! and i don't show it cos she's going to get scared of who i really am and—" sukuna looks around desperately, his mind unfolding in a way he can't catch, fuck."

his heart drops to his ass.

your face flahses before his eyes.

"honestly, i feel like she's seen you for who you are. you're not very good at hiding it—"

"move."

his feet move before his brain does.

he walks through the two of them.

"where are you going?"

sukuna yanks the front door open, "to go fucking beg like the pathetic piece of shit i am."

PREV | MASTERLIST | NEXT

SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.

PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader

CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!

A ripple of hushed surprise went through the group. Felix’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t know?” He took another step. “You’re in Neverland. Peter Pan’s island. And we,” he gestured with his club to the boys around him, “are the Lost Boys.” His assessing gaze swept over you. “And since you’re here, that makes you a Lost Girl. The first one.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. “Neverland. Peter Pan. That’s...that’s a fairytale. A story for children.” But even as you said it, your denial died in your throat. Your memory slammed back into you: the living shadow, the impossible flight, the stars. Your skin went clammy. You had seen it. You had felt it.

You looked from one face to another. They weren't joking. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity, distrust, and something else you couldn’t quite identify. Felix watched your dawning horror with grim satisfaction. “Pan is our leader. He’s the one who brought you here.” He paused, a cruel twist to his lips. “Or rather, his shadow did. Against his orders. He’s currently in the skull cave at the heart of the island, arguing with the shadow for bringing a girl, not a boy.” He crossed his arms. “It has to be a mistake. Pan will either kill you or send you back. He has no use for a girl.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the forest air settled deep in your bones. Kill you. The other boys, however, seemed less certain and far less cautious. While Felix stood back, radiating silent apprehension, the younger ones edged closer, their curiosity winning out. One of them, a boy with a smear of dirt on his nose, pointed at your backpack. “What’s that? What’s in it?”

With trembling hands, you unzipped it. Your clothes, your map, your small stash of money…and a bag of cookies and a handful of candy bars you’d grabbed for the road. You pulled them out, the crinkle of the plastic wrappers making the boys flinch back. “It’s…food,” you said, your voice still shaky.

Breaking off a piece of a chocolate bar, you offered it to the smallest boy. He took it as if it were a jewel, sniffed it, and then popped it in his mouth. The reaction was instantaneous. His eyes went wide, and a beatific smile broke over his face. He let out a whoop of joy.

“What is that sorcery?!” another one cried, and suddenly they were all crowding forward, hands outstretched. You broke the cookies and candy into pieces, sharing them out. The joy was pure, unadulterated madness. They had never had chocolate before. They had never tasted anything so sweet. The initial hostility dissolved into a chaotic, sugar-fueled frenzy.

Their lack of guile was, for a moment, endearing. Until one of them, a stout boy named Devin, pressed a wooden practice sword into your hand. “Now you can play!” he said, his mouth still smeared with chocolate. You could barely hold it. The weight was all wrong, the balance unfamiliar. You swung it clumsily, and the boys erupted in laughter. “She’s too girly!” “She’s too weak!” “She can’t play Lost Boy games!”

A flash of indignation cut through your fear. “Maybe I can’t play your games,” you said, your voice gaining a little strength. “But I can teach you some of mine.” You sat down on a fallen log, ignoring the way Felix watched you from the shadows, and pulled a worn deck of cards from your backpack. You dealt a hand of Go Fish for a small, captive audience, and they were instantly mesmerized by the bright numbers and the mysterious faces of the Jacks, Queens, and Kings. They picked up the simple rules with a sharp, competitive intelligence.

Since you only had the one deck, you used a stub of pencil from your bag to painstakingly draw the symbols onto bits of parchment, creating a second, makeshift deck. The camp, which had been a place of interrogation and dread, was now filled with the sound of boys bickering over a game of War.

This was the scene Peter Pan walked into. He had spent an infuriating hour in the skull cave, a cavern lit by the sickly green glow of the island’s heart, shouting at his own silent, infuriating shadow. It had refused to communicate, its form flickering against the cave walls, impassive and defiant.

The shadow, the first being he’d ever truly bargained with, the entity that brought him here, a carefree boy forever, in exchange for his little brother Rumpelstiltskin, a burden he was more than happy to abandon along with a life of poverty and a drunken father, had betrayed his trust. It had brought a girl. And worse, it refused to undo its mistake. Rage, hot and acidic, still churned in his stomach as he walked back to camp, choosing the winding forest path to clear his head instead of simply appearing by magic.

He thought of a cage, wrought from bamboo and wicker, suspended from a tree. He thought of the lagoon, and how the mermaids would shriek with delight at a fresh, feminine form to drag into the deep. He thought of setting the boys on her, letting them hunt her through the jungle, though one glance at her had told him she’d provide no more sport than a baby deer. It would be a waste.

He stopped walking, the image of her standing behind his eyes. He had almost forgotten what a girl looked like up close. Even in the Enchanted Forest, in the grimy taverns and cobblestone streets he’d grown up on, he’d never seen one like her. She looked like a princess from a story, but dressed so strangely. A pout had rested on her pretty lips, even in unconsciousness. Pretty jewelry glinted on her ears and her delicate wrist. The strange blue trousers and simple shirt could not hide the gentle swell of her chest or the full, womanly curve of her hips. A new, different kind of anger stirred in him. A cage it was, he decided firmly. A cage just for him. He would not share this one with the boys. This one was a puzzle, a curiosity, a possession to be kept apart.

His decision lasted until the moment he walked into the camp. Instead of a fearful, shivering prisoner, or a corpse, he found a festival. His Lost Boys, his soldiers, his subjects, were not at their posts. They were clustered in groups, shouting over what appeared to be squares of parchment with markings on them. And in the center of it all, sitting on his log by his fire, was the girl. She was smiling, a weak, tired but genuine thing, as she explained a rule to a young boy.

They saw him. A cry of “Pan!” went up, and in a flash, his carefully honed authority was engulfed by a swarm of boys who abandoned their games to charge at him. “Pan! The new girl taught us this! It’s called War!” “She has a sweet called chocolate, Pan! You’ve got to try it!” “Don’t let her leave, Pan! Please, let her stay! She’s a bit weak with a sword, but don’t let her go! Don’t send her back!” “She made us more decks! Look!” Felix stood to the side, silent, his expression saying, I told you. It’s a disaster.

Peter Pan, the immortal boy who commanded the very magic of this island, who had faced down pirates and kings, stood frozen in a sea of pleading voices. His eyes met yours across the chaos. They were not the eyes of a boy. They were a deep, fathomless green, ancient and knowing, holding a sharp, predatory intelligence that made your blood run cold. The decision to cage you, to kill you, to banish you, warred on his face for a fleeting moment. He took in the scene, the boys’ joy, the crude but effective card games, your guarded but defiant posture.

A slow, impossibly charming smile spread across his lips, a smile that didn’t reach those ancient, calculating eyes. He held up his hands, and the boys fell silent. “Now, now,” he said, his voice a smooth, captivating melody that held the promise of adventure and the threat of absolute dominion. “What’s all this fuss about a guest I haven’t been properly introduced to?” He walked through the parting crowd of boys and stopped directly in front of you, tall and lithe, radiating a dark, magnetic power. His smile sharpened as he looked down at you, finally getting a close look at what had wandered into his territory.

“Welcome to Neverland,” Peter Pan said. “We’re going to have so much fun. We’ll start your training to survive this island at dawn.” His gaze flickered over you with an unnerving gleam.

The first night, you refused to sleep on the ground. It wasn't a tantrum, exactly. You had simply looked at the bed of leaves and moss the boys had prepared for you, then looked at the dark, crawling forest floor with its skittering insects and unseen things that rustled in the undergrowth, and you had crossed your arms. "No," you had said, your voice quiet but immovable. "I'm not sleeping on the dirt."

Felix had sneered, suggesting they tie you to a tree and let you sleep standing up. The other boys had looked bewildered, as if the concept of a bed was as foreign to them as chocolate had been. But Peter had only watched you with that unnerving, unreadable expression, his head tilted like a crow examining a shiny object. The next morning, a tree house stood at the edge of the camp. It was a sturdy, remarkable thing, woven from living branches and vines, with a roof of enormous palm fronds and a ladder that could be pulled up from the inside. A single, large leaf framed one wall like a window. He had built it with magic, with a flick of his wrist and a flash of green light, while the boys watched in awe.

"That's the only concession you'll get from me," he had said, appearing behind you so suddenly that you jumped. His breath was warm against your ear. "Don't ask for another."

It was the only concession he made. Your life in Neverland quickly settled into a brutal, exhausting rhythm. Dawn came early, and with it, Felix's club banging against the trunk of your tree, rousing you for training. The chocolate ran out within a week, and the sweet, fleeting joy it had brought was replaced by the grim reality of survival. You learned to hunt. You hated it. The first time you had to help skin a wild boar, you vomited behind a bush.

Peter had been there, leaning against a tree, watching your misery with a faint, amused smile. "You'll get used to it," was all he said. You did, eventually. You had to. You learned to fish in the sparkling streams, your hands clumsy at first with the crude poles and lines, until you could pull a silvery, thrashing fish from the water with grim efficiency. You learned to cook over an open fire, the taste of woodsmoke becoming a permanent fixture in your hair and clothes.

Then came the weapons. Felix oversaw most of this training, and he was a merciless instructor. He put a dagger in your hand first, teaching you how to grip it, how to slash, how to aim for the soft, vital parts of a body. The sword was heavier, and your arms ached for weeks as you learned the basic stances and strikes, the wooden practice blade leaving your palms blistered and raw. The crossbow was the worst. The string bit into your fingers, and your aim was abysmal for a long, frustrating time. The boys no longer called you too girly to play, but they still bested you in every sparring match, their laughter now tinged with a rough, brotherly kind of teasing rather than outright scorn.

You didn't complain much. You were too proud for that, too stubborn. But you did ask for things. Practical things. Your backpack had become a strange, sacred artifact in the camp, and you guarded its remaining contents. When the pack of wet wipes began to dwindle, you marched up to Peter where he sat on his log throne and held out the crinkly plastic package.

"I need more of these," you said, not a request but a statement. "And more of these." You produced a sanitary pad from your bag, holding it up without a trace of embarrassment. "They're essential."

Peter stared at the items with an expression of profound, almost comical bewilderment. He prodded the pad with one finger, his brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"You don't want to know," you said flatly. "Girls need it. Just make more."

He did. With a wave of his hand that suggested he was doing you an immense favor, he multiplied the items until you had a neat stack of them in your tree house. He never asked what they were for, and you suspected he genuinely preferred his ignorance. There were perks to it, you supposed, watching him wrinkle his nose and mutter something about strange girl contraptions.

One of those perks was your perfume. It was a bottle filled with pink, sweetly scented water, a little luxury you'd grabbed on a whim when packing. The body wash you used had the same floral fragrance, a scent of peonies and freesia that clung to your skin long after you bathed in the secluded stream the boys had shown you. The first time Peter came close to you after you'd used it, he stopped dead. His eyes fluttered half-closed, and he inhaled deeply, a sound rumbling low in his chest that was almost a purr.

"What is that?" he demanded, his voice strangely rough.

"It's called perfume," you said warily.

"Give it to me."

You refused, clutching the bottle protectively. Instead, you allowed him to refill it with magic when it began to run low. He did it without a single sneer or barbed comment, his fingers brushing yours for a moment too long as he handed the now-full bottle back to you. After that, he found excuses to stand close to you, his presence a constant, unnerving warmth at your back. You would catch him leaning in, his nose almost brushing your hair, his breath hitching slightly as he drank in the scent of you.

Your most valuable skill, it turned out, was not your slowly improving aim with a crossbow or your ability to gut a fish. It was your mind. You became an educator. It started by accident. One of the younger boys, the dirt-smeared one named Thomas, had picked up a stick and was scratching meaningless shapes into the dirt. You had crouched beside him and, without thinking, drawn a letter. "That's an 'A'," you'd said. "It makes the sound 'ah'."

Within a week, half the camp was gathered around you every evening, scratching letters into the dirt with intense concentration. You taught them the alphabet. You taught them how to write their names. The crude playing cards you'd made were now labeled with words, their games becoming more complex as they learned to read simple sentences.

Then came the stories. You told them tales from books you'd read, carefully sticking to the fantasy genre. Narnia was a hit. Middle-earth was met with gasps of wonder. You tried once to explain the concept of the internet, and the blank, baffled stares you received made you abandon the attempt entirely. Magic and dragons and dark lords they understood. Wi-Fi signals and electricity were a step too far.

Peter watched these sessions from the edges, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Then, one evening, after the boys had dispersed to their own shelters, he materialized in your tree house without warning. You were braiding your damp hair, the scent of your floral soap thick in the small space. He stood by your leaf-window, looking uncharacteristically stiff.

"Teach me," he said. It wasn't a request.

"Teach you what?"

"To read. And to write." His jaw tightened, a flicker of something old and bitter passing through his ancient green eyes. "I wanted to learn. When I was a boy. But education wasn't for peasants like me."

There was a raw, unexpected vulnerability in the admission. You didn't trust it for a second, but you found yourself nodding anyway. "Alright. Sit down."

The Lost Boys, in the meantime, had been conducting their own investigations. They had noticed your jewelry first, the small gold studs in your ears and the delicate chain around your neck. Gold was gold, and in their experience, only nobility possessed such things. Then Devin had picked up your jacket, the one you'd shed during a particularly grueling training session, and had spilled water on it. The water beaded up and rolled off without soaking the fabric. He had screamed as if he'd witnessed a miracle. Your backpack and boots received the same treatment, both proving to be mysteriously water-resistant.

"You're a noble lady," Felix had declared, his voice carrying a note of grim certainty. "You have to be. Common folk don't have enchanted garments."

You had tried to explain the concept of a middle class, of merchants and trade and a comfortable life that wasn't nobility. Their faces remained blank, uncomprehending. Feudalism, it seemed, was the only economic system their minds could grasp. "My family has merchants in our lineage," you finally said, simplifying as best you could. "We're not nobles. Just…traders who can afford to buy such things."

"Merchant nobility," one of the boys said sagely, and the matter was settled.

So Peter came to your tree house. It became a ritual. He had a nasty habit of appearing out of nowhere, slipping through the shadows or simply popping into existence with a soft crackle of magic. You would be tidying your small space, or mending a tear in your shirt with clumsy stitches, and suddenly he would be there, too close, filling the room with his presence and the scent of the forest.

He would sit beside you on the woven mat you used as a bed, his thigh almost touching yours, and you would trace letters onto a piece of smooth bark you used as a slate. "A, B, C," you would say, pointing to each one. "Now you write them."

His handwriting was surprisingly elegant, his quick mind picking up the shapes with unnerving speed. He learned the alphabet in three days. Within a fortnight, he was reading simple words. Within a month, he was devouring the scraps of paper you wrote stories on, his lips moving silently as he sounded out the sentences. He was brilliant, and it infuriated you.

He liked you. It was obvious in the way he looked at you, in the way he always found a reason to touch you. His hand would brush yours as you passed him a writing stick. His fingers would trail over your shoulder as he leaned in to look at something you'd written. He pressed close to you during your lessons, his chest almost against your back, his breath warm on your neck as he inhaled your scent. He twisted strands of your hair around his fingers idly, a gesture so intimate it made your skin prickle.

And then he kissed you. It was after a particularly successful lesson, when he had read an entire short story you'd written for him without stumbling over a single word. He had looked up at you with a triumphant, boyish grin, and then his hand had cupped your jaw and his mouth was on yours. It was surprisingly gentle, his lips warm and coaxing. You allowed it, your heart beating a steady, unimpressed rhythm. When he pulled back, his eyes searching your face for a reaction, you simply looked at him.

"If you possess such great magic," you said, your voice perfectly even, "you could send me back home."

His expression flickered, the warmth in his eyes cooling. "I told you. My shadow refuses to obey that order."

"Then make it obey. You're Peter Pan. Doesn't everything on this island bend to your will?"

He pulled back, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "The shadow brought you here for a reason. It doesn't do things without purpose. Maybe," he said, his voice lowering, "you're meant to be here."

You sulked. You couldn't help it. The unfairness of it all crashed over you in a wave, and you turned away from him, your shoulders hunched. You expected anger. You expected punishment. Peter Pan was not a creature known for his patience or his mercy. But the punishment didn't come. There was only a long, tense silence, and then the soft sound of him disappearing, leaving you alone with your fury and your stubborn, unbroken will.

He had learned, it seemed. Punishing you only made you bitter. When he had tried, in those early days, to cage you or deny you food or set Felix on you with extra training drills, you had responded not with fear or submission, but with a cold, simmering spite that made you even more unmanageable. Your fear of him was real, but it was a cautious, rational thing, the kind of fear one felt for a dangerous predator in the woods. It never grew into the cowering terror he was used to inspiring. It was always quickly overshadowed by your anger, your defiance, your icy indifference.

You didn't even seem to fear death. He had hinted at it once, a veiled threat wrapped in a charming smile, and you had looked at him with such flat, unimpressed disdain that he had actually laughed, a surprised, genuine sound.

You were nothing like poor, docile Wendy, whose spirit he had broken and whose story he had twisted. This girl, this strange, impossible creature from another world, was made of something harder.

You had run away from home, he knew. You had told him as much during one of your lessons, the words offered up with a shrug, as if it were a trivial detail. A typical story, he had thought. Children ran away. Boys found their way to him. But you had a destination. A grandmother. A plan. You weren't lost in the way the others had been lost. You weren't abandoned or forgotten or wishing for a new life. You had been heading somewhere with purpose and hope.

Why had his shadow snatched you up?

The question gnawed at him. It was a splinter in his mind, an anomaly he couldn't explain or control. The shadow had always been an extension of his will, a dark servant bound by their ancient bargain. The boy who would be Pan, tired of being an adult, tired of caring for his little brother while their father drank away their coin, had made a deal. The shadow had brought him here, to eternal youth, to power, to a world where he answered to no one. All he had to do was leave Rumpelstiltskin behind. It had been the easiest decision of his life.

But now the shadow was defying him. It had brought a girl. It had brought you. And it refused to explain why, refused to take you back, refused to obey. The mystery festered, and so did his growing, possessive obsession with you.

You demanded to speak to the shadow yourself. You cornered him one evening, your arms crossed, your chin lifted in that defiant way that made him want to kiss you and shake you in equal measure. "I want to talk to it," you said. "Your shadow. I want to ask it myself why it brought me here."

"No." The word was immediate, sharp.

"Why not? It's my life. I have a right to know."

He knew what you would do. You would demand the shadow take you home. You would beg it, bargain with it, command it. And if it listened? If it obeyed you where it defied him?

The thought made his stomach clench with a cold, unfamiliar dread. He didn't want to part with you. Not anymore. The answers to the mystery be damned; he wanted to keep you, with your floral scent and your sharp tongue and your stories and your stubborn, unbreakable spirit.

But you wouldn't let it go. You argued. You reasoned. You used that maddening, logical tone that made his head ache. You wore him down, day after day, until his refusal became a weary, frustrated silence. And eventually, he agreed.

"Fine," he snapped, his eyes flashing a dangerous green. "You can speak to it. But I will be there. Supervising. And if you try anything..."

"You'll what?" you interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Kill me? You've already established I don't care."

He had no response to that. He simply stared at you, his jaw tight, his ancient eyes burning with a mixture of fury and something far more vulnerable. Tomorrow, he would take you to the skull cave. Tomorrow, you would speak to his shadow. And whatever answers it gave you, whatever you asked of it, he would have to find a way to keep you here, on his island, in his world, by his side.

The Skull Cave was exactly as its name suggested. Carved into the face of a cliff at the island's heart, its entrance was shaped like a massive, gaping skull, the eye sockets dark and hollow, the mouth a jagged maw that seemed to swallow the light. The air that breathed out of it was cold and dry and carried a faint, mineral scent, like old stone and older magic.

Peter led you inside without a word. His hand found your elbow as you stepped into the darkness, his grip firm but not painful. Torches flared to life along the walls as he passed, green flames that cast dancing shadows across the rough stone. The cave opened into a vast chamber, and there, at its center, the shadow waited.

It hung in the air like a tear in reality, a man-shaped void that absorbed the torchlight rather than reflecting it. It had no face, but you could feel its attention on you, weighty and unnerving. The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop by several degrees.

"Speak, then," Peter said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, his posture deliberately casual, but his eyes were sharp and watchful.

You stepped forward, your heart hammering in your chest. The shadow didn't move, but you felt its regard intensify.

"You brought me here," you said, proud of how steady your voice sounded. "I want to know why. I wasn't lost. I wasn't alone. I had a destination, a family waiting for me. I wasn't like the others you've taken. So why me?"

The shadow was silent for a long moment. Then it spoke, and the sound of its voice made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It was like a rasp drawn over gravel, like wind through dead leaves, like the echo of a scream heard from very far away.

"No."

The single word was flat, final. It offered no explanation, no elaboration.

"No?" you repeated, a flare of anger cutting through your fear. "That's it? You took me from my life, you dragged me across the sky, you stranded me on this island, and all you can say is no?"

The shadow didn't respond. It simply hung there, implacable and silent, a monument to your frustration.

"Take me back," you said, and now your voice was harder, more demanding. "If you won't explain, then undo it. Take me back to where you found me. Take me to my grandmother. Take me anywhere but here."

"No," the shadow said again, and this time there was something almost amused in its rasping tone, as if your demands were a source of mild entertainment.

You took a step closer to it, your hands balled into fists. "Why?" you demanded. "Why did you even bring me here in the first place? What was the point?"

The shadow shifted. It was a subtle movement, a turning of its featureless head, and you realized with a chill that it was no longer looking at you. It was looking past you, at the figure leaning against the cave wall. Its arm lifted, a dark slash against the green torchlight, and one long, insubstantial finger pointed directly at Peter.

"For Malcolm," it rasped.

The name hit the chamber like a thunderclap.

You turned, confused, and saw that Peter had gone absolutely still. The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale as bone. His green eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and for the first time since you had met him, he looked genuinely, utterly shaken. The arrogant boy was gone. In his place was something older, something rawer, something that had been buried for a very long time.

"Malcolm?" you repeated, looking between the shadow and Peter. "Who is Malcolm?"

Peter didn't answer. He was staring at the shadow with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. Rage, yes. But also something that looked almost like grief.

"Nobody," he said finally, his voice rough. "Nobody has called me that in a very long time."

Understanding dawned, slow and unsettling. "Malcolm is your name," you said. "Your real name. Before you were Peter Pan."

He pushed himself off the wall, his movements stiff and controlled. "We're done here," he said, and his voice brooked no argument. He grabbed your arm, his grip tighter than before, and began to pull you toward the cave entrance. The shadow made no move to follow. It simply hung there as Peter dragged you back into the light.

He didn't speak as you walked. The jungle closed around you, thick and green and humming with life, but the silence between you was heavier than any words. You could feel the tension radiating off him, a coiled, restless energy that made the very air around him feel charged.

It was only when you reached a small, sun-dappled clearing with a waterfall cascading into a crystal pool that he finally stopped. He released your arm and walked to the water's edge, his back to you. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clenched at his sides.

"My name was Malcolm," he said, his voice flat and distant, as if he were reciting a story that belonged to someone else. "A long time ago. In another life."

You didn't speak. You sensed that any interruption would shatter whatever fragile openness had taken hold of him.

"I had a father," he continued. "A drunk. He spent what little coin we had in the tavern, leaving me to look after my little brother. Rumplestiltskin. He was just a baby. Crying, always crying. Needing to be fed, to be changed, to be held. And I was just a boy myself. But there was no one else. So I became the parent, the provider, the one who had to be responsible while our father drank himself into oblivion."

He paused, his voice growing harder. "I hated it. I hated him. I hated the weight of it, the endless, grinding burden of having to be an adult when I was still a child. I wanted to play. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be powerful and youthful and make my own rules, not spend my days scraping together coppers for bread while my father wasted our future on ale."

You watched his back, the rigid line of his spine, and something in your chest tightened. You knew that feeling. The suffocating weight of responsibility. The desperate, clawing need to escape. You had felt it yourself, in the house you had fled, with the mother who had never understood you.

"The shadow came to me one night," Peter said. "It offered me a deal. It would take me to a place where I could be a boy forever, where I would never have to grow up, never have to be responsible for anyone but myself. All I had to do was leave my brother behind." His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "So I did."

You moved then, stepping closer to him, your footsteps soft on the mossy ground. "What happened to him?" you asked quietly. "To Rumplestiltskin?"

"Three weaver women," Peter said, with a dismissive wave of his hand that didn't quite hide the tremor in his fingers. "I left him in the cottage. They took him in, raised him. I told myself that was enough. That he was better off without me. That I was too young, too selfish, too broken to be what he needed." His voice hardened again, the mask sliding back into place. "I don't regret it. I made the right choice. I got what I wanted. I got Neverland."

You stood beside him now, close enough to see the profile of his face, the way his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes were fixed on the waterfall as if it held the secrets of the universe. He was lying. Maybe he believed his own lies, but you could see the cracks in them, the places where the truth bled through.

You didn't judge him. You were surprised to find that you couldn't. You had run away too. You had left your own family behind, your own responsibilities, your own suffocating life. The difference was only in degree, not in kind. You understood the desperation that had driven him, even if you couldn't condone the choice he had made.

You should have been angry. You should have raged at the unfairness of it, the cosmic injustice of being stolen from your life to serve as some kind of gift for an immortal tyrant. But standing there in the dappled sunlight, watching the waterfall cascade into the pool, you found that your anger had drained away, leaving something quieter in its wake. Resignation, perhaps. Or something more complicated.

You hadn't judged him aloud. Perhaps he had seen it in your eyes anyway, but he had chosen to ignore it. His mood suddenly improved. The shadow wouldn't take you away. That was all that mattered to him. He kissed you freely, his hands cupping your face, his mouth warm and insistent. "Make peace with it," he had murmured against your lips. "Living in Neverland. With me."

That night, he had stayed. He had stretched out beside you on your narrow cot, his lean body pressed against yours, his face buried in the curve of your neck. He had nuzzled your soft skin, inhaling your floral scent with a contented, almost purring sound, and had fallen asleep with one arm draped over your waist. You had lain awake for hours, your mind churning, the weight of him both oppressive and strangely warm.

Then, at midnight, the shadow came.

You had finally drifted off, exhaustion dragging you under, when a cold draft woke you. Your eyes snapped open. The leaf-window was dark, the moonlight thin and pale. And there, standing at the foot of your cot, was the shadow. It was a silhouette of absolute blackness, its edges sharp and flickering like a flame made of darkness. It raised one hand and gestured to you, a beckoning, urgent motion.

Peter slept on, his breathing deep and even, his arm still heavy across you. He didn't stir. He didn't sense the shadow's presence at all.

Slowly, carefully, you slid out from under his arm. The shadow didn't wait. As soon as your feet touched the woven floor, it lunged forward, its cold, insubstantial hands gripping you under your arms. You didn't scream this time. You barely even gasped. The tree house, the camp, the sleeping island fell away beneath you as the shadow shot upwards into the star-scattered sky. The wind whipped your hair around your face, cold and sharp, and you squeezed your eyes shut against the dizzying speed.

When your feet touched solid ground again, you opened your eyes to a place you had never seen before in the skull cave. It was vast and cathedral-like. The air was thick with the scent of earth and something else, something ancient and decaying and faintly sweet. In the center of the cavern stood an enormous hourglass. It was taller than three men, its frame wrought from what looked like twisted, petrified wood. Sand trickled through it, a steady, whispering stream, but the sand was not sand. It glowed faintly, each grain a tiny ember of dying light.

The upper chamber of the hourglass was nearly empty. The sand was running out.

The shadow stood before the hourglass, its form flickering in the gloom. It raised one dark arm and pointed, not at the hourglass, but at you. Then its voice came again, that same rasping, distorted sound that scraped against your eardrums like fingernails on slate.

"His time is running out," it said. "And so is Neverland's."

You stared at the hourglass, at the dwindling stream of glowing sand, and a cold, creeping dread settled into your bones. "Explain," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the soft hiss of falling sand.

The shadow did. Its voice was halting, fragmented, as if speech was a difficult and unfamiliar effort, but the meaning was clear. Neverland was not meant to be inhabited. It was a place people only visited in their dreams, a fleeting fantasy, a wisp of imagination. Peter had broken that balance when he came here, flesh and blood and magic, and he had broken it further with every Lost Boy he brought to the island. The magic of Neverland was not infinite. It was draining, bleeding out grain by grain into the void. Time did not stand still here, not truly. It only moved more slowly, imperceptibly, a clock winding down towards zero.

"When the sand runs out," the shadow rasped, "Neverland will die. And Peter is connected to it. Its magic is his magic. Its life is his life. He will die with it."

The words hit you like a physical blow. You thought of Peter's ancient eyes in his boy's face, the way he commanded the island with a flick of his wrist, the way the very trees seemed to bend to his will. He had tied himself to this place, or it had tied itself to him. Either way, the cord could not be severed.

"There is a way to stop it," the shadow continued, its empty face somehow managing to convey a grim urgency. "The heart of the truest believer. In your realm. If Peter finds it, and if it is willingly given to him, the clock will stop. The magic will be restored. Peter Pan never fails." The shadow's voice held no admiration, only a cold, factual certainty. "Felix says it often. It is true. He will find it."

You swallowed, your throat dry. "Then why did you bring me here? If he's going to find this heart anyway, why am I here?"

The shadow was silent for a long moment. When it spoke again, its voice was softer, almost reluctant. "Because there is another way. The most powerful magic of all. True love's kiss."

The words hung in the air, shimmering with a meaning you didn't want to understand. The shadow pointed at you, its dark finger aimed at your chest.

"I saw you in Storybrooke. I sensed the potential, seized the opportunity, brought you to him instead of the boy. True love's kiss could save Neverland. It could restore the magic, stop the clock, break the curse of dying time." It paused, and when it spoke again, its rasping voice was heavy with a bitter, knowing irony. "But you do not love him. And Peter barely knows what love is."

A choked, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. Love. The shadow had brought you here, ripped you from your world, because of some theoretical, magical potential for love? You didn't love Peter. You were fascinated by him, perhaps. Repelled by him, often. You pitied the desperate, abandoned boy he had been, and you were wary of the dangerous, manipulative creature he had become. But love? The word was a foreign, impossible thing in this context.

"He doesn't know," you breathed, understanding dawning. "You didn't tell him about the true love's kiss part."

The shadow shook its head, a jerky, unnatural motion. "He would not understand. He only knows the heart of the truest believer. That is the path he walks."

Before you could ask another question, before you could demand more answers, the shadow stiffened. Its form flickered, its edges blurring. "He wakes," it rasped. "He searches. You must go back."

The flight back was a blur of cold wind and streaking stars. The shadow deposited you silently at the base of your tree house and melted away into the darkness, leaving you shivering and alone. You climbed the ladder with trembling hands, your mind reeling, and had barely pulled it up behind you when the air crackled with green light and Peter appeared in the center of your small room.

His hair was disheveled, his eyes wild, his chest heaving as if he had run across the entire island. The moment he saw you, the wildness in his expression shifted, relief and fury warring. "Where were you?" he demanded, his voice cracking with an anger that was almost panic. "I woke up and you were gone. I searched the whole island. I thought..." He stopped, his jaw clenching. "What did it do? Did it try to take you away?"

"It showed me the hourglass," you said, your voice flat. There was no point in lying. He would see through it, and you were too exhausted for games. "In the skull cave. It told me your time is running out. That Neverland is dying. That you'll die with it."

Peter went still. The wild panic in his eyes cooled, hardening into something sharp and defensive. "It shouldn't have shown you that," he hissed. "It had no right."

"It said you're looking for the heart of the truest believer," you pressed, watching his face carefully. "That you need it to stop the clock."

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the tension bled out of his shoulders. He stepped closer, and reached up to tuck a strand of wind-tangled hair behind your ear. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

"Is that what you're worried about?" he asked, and there was a hint of his usual arrogance creeping back into his voice. "Don't be. I will find it. I will find the heart of the truest believer, and I will take it, and the clock will stop. Peter Pan never fails." He smiled, that charming, predatory smile that never reached his ancient eyes. "There's nothing to worry about."

He made it sound so simple. So inevitable. You wanted to believe him, or at least to take comfort in his unwavering confidence. But the shadow's words echoed in your mind, a dark counterpoint to his golden assurances. You do not love him. And Peter barely knows what love is. There was another way to save Neverland, a way that had nothing to do with truest believers or willingly given hearts. But it was a way that neither of you could reach, a door that was locked from both sides.

Peter misinterpreted your silence. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips cool against your skin. "Come back to bed," he murmured. "You're shivering."

He led you back to the cot, pulling you down beside him, wrapping his arms around you with almost desperate tightness. He buried his face in your hair and breathed deeply, as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still his. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his body relaxing into sleep.

You did not sleep. You lay in the darkness, wrapped in the arms of a boy who was running out of time, and you thought about love, and sacrifice, and the dying grains of sand falling endlessly in the heart of a cave. The shadow had brought you here for a reason, a reason Peter didn't know and couldn't understand. But knowing the reason and fulfilling it were two very different things. You could not force yourself to love him. You could not magically manufacture a true love's kiss. And even if you could, even if by some miracle your heart softened, what then? Would you be trapped here forever, a living battery for a dying island?

You had run away from one cage. You had no intention of being locked in another.

a/n: To be continued... Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. <3

Even with Enten sheathed, Chihiro felt your energy vibrating through the thick bamboo wood of the swords cover. Your heart pulses like a drummer banging his instrument. Fingertips digging into the handle like you wanted to imprint yourself into it.

Chihiro rids himself of the thought of you standing anxiously on the other side of the room, watching him carefully so that he could keep his vision from blurring as he shuts the journal and inspects the outside.

Worn down. . . Used.

The binder of the brown leather journal has an initial carved into it — C.R.

Every bit of your personality sparks the journal in Chihiro's hands. You've made it into your own, and it strikes a massive interest in his core.

"Sooo.." You clear your throat. Chihiro turns his head to glance at you, and he instantly spots the way your pulse jumps on your neck. "S-so, do you.. like my room? Isn't it cool?"

In a fit of nervous energy, you give a small spin to gesture the room.

Chihiro opens his coat to 'casually' and carefully hide the small journal marked C.R. in his pocket before you can see him doing so as if he wasn't going to read through the pages when he was alone.

His breath catches in his throat at how anxious you seem before he nods wordlessly. He could see himself coming in here often. It smells like you. A soft, soapy smell fills the air, and he can't help the way he leans into it because it reminds him so much of you.

You bite at your inner cheek to hide a satisfied smile and take a half-step towards him, only for him to take a step back. His shoulder bumps into the lampshade placed beside the desk with the action.

A weak, shaky smile is placed on your face. You could only manage enough composure to hold out Enten for him— he had prompted you to hold onto it while he used your restroom and didn't ask for it back when he decided to inspect your room too.

"Here." You tried to hide the way your heart broke at his distance.

Chihiro has always been like this with you. Quiet, and... and cautious. He keeps his distance despite knowing so much about you. In spite of him knowing how much you liked him and why you do so.

Chihiro is like this with you.

He just is.

Because with everyone else; he seems more comfortable. He acts with his heart and his head. With you, it seems to be his head and his body.

And his body never hides his discomfort.

It confused you immensely. You were his as he was yours. Why did he feel the need to tense his shoulders when you walked in?

The red eyed boy nods and steps up to grab it carefully, "Thank you, [Name]."

"Yeah." You reply breathlessly.

"Let's get going." Chihiro orders as he loops Enten in his halter. His fingers clench around the handle in a nervous habit before his left hand reaches out to grip your wrist lightly (he feels your blood pumping through your veins at the touch) to lead you out with him.

He's embarrassed. . . You noted as you watched the back of his head. To anyone else, he would have just been dragging along his friend outside with a blank expression. To you, he is your boyfriend who rarely touches you, but he doesn't mind leading you head first in case danger striked. He's confident in his ability to protect you and it shows that much but he isn't confident when it comes to holding your hand — which is why he resorts to holding your wrist instead. Why is he always so embarrassed?

"...Can I ask you a question, Chihiro?" You lips part when your voice comes out shaky. Chihiro's ears perk up, much like a kittens, pausing in the middle of the hallway to place his focus on you. "... Uhm, uh-..."

With his eyes on you and his grip still warm and tight, you loose your train of thought. It felt like crickets were chirping in the back of your head and they all decided to band together to eat away at your brain — all they'll taste is your worry anyway, not much need for concern really...

Chihiro waits patiently.

He blinks slowly, lashes fluttering with every blink, and brings his bottom lip in between his teeth, chewing softly. He's never looked quite guilty as that before.

Your eyebrows shoot up upon further notice.

"Why do you look like that?" You asked abruptly.

Out of context, yes, you can understand why that would cause someone to be offended. You weren't the greatest at picking out your words (quite the contrary to Chihiro). But, within context, you simply wanted to know what was on his mind to figure out why he gave you such an expression.

Heat rises to Chihiro's face and he looks to the side, genuinely caught off guard by your question. His eyes shift from the carpeted floor, to your shoes pressed up to the furthest corner of the room before they finally dropped to his coat. His pocket is heavy with your journal.

When his grip loosens off your wrist, you were quick to backtrack, "I mean. You have this look on your face- not, it's not ugly. You're not ugly, dear me, not at all. Sorry for how it came out, I'm wondering why you look like that?"

You send him a boyish smile to cover up your stuttering nature, too cute for chihiro to not gaze at. His glare is heavy. Heart pounding. But it doesn't last long as he turns to walk again, his fingers weakly digging into your veins to feel your heart beating beneath his touch.

"... Thanks." He replies to your compliment (if one could call it that), but he does not mention that he's got your journal tucked away in the confinements of his coat. "You don't often ask me things. I've come to that realization just now.. it makes me wonder what you really wanted to ask me..."

"Oh." You shrug lightly. "Sorry, it's - it's a habit, i guess. I wanted to ask why.. why did you happen to look so tense? Did you need a massage or what? I can help you out, Chihiro -"

He reaches the door for you and slids it open with such delicate silence that you were almost afraid of breaking it. Surely, he can hear you swallow nervously...

Chihiro briefly considers your offer, but that is not why he is so tense. The sun hits his face as he steps outside your family house with you in tow. "I didn't realize you've noticed."

The rays of sunlight peak through his spiky hair and warm his scalp. He's been growing it out because you mentioned it looking good on him. He remembers it clearly — 'Do you style your hair? I like it like this.' — it was the first time you ever played with his hair, the light tugging of your hands in his hair left him feeling breathless.

"I notice a lot of things about you, 'hiro." His breath hitches at your words. In an almost reverent nature, you smiled down at him as he turned to you, startled. You held such a tender grin on your face that you can see the effects it has on him.

His body goes tense again, and his hands drop to his side, clenching and unclenching his fist like he can still feel your pulse under his.

You almost wanted to push more affection onto him to test why he seems so afraid of you. But you knew that could possibly drive him further away, so you bear the pain of his discomfort to keep him as close as he can let you.

"..." Chihiro frowns in confusion, his nose scrunching with the expression. "Shiba, Hinao, Char... they're waiting on us for dinner..."

Right... You've all agreed to eat dinner like normal people. Like the son of Rokuhira Kunishige wasn't on a revenge mission and that everyone else wasn't hiding secrets about themselves (more like you're starting to feel bitter about Chihiro's coldness).

You bought him in your home in hopes of letting him have an insight into your life — to look at your photographs on the wall and to maybe meet your family, but they just happened to be busy. Maybe you hoped for something more, something far more precious, a side of his vulnerability, his weaknesses and his strengths, his body, his mind, and his soul.

Instead, you were a desperate frog trapped on a sinking water lily with clueless fish surrounding the lake who poke and prod at you.

"...Okay." And yet, you still didn't question the way his breathing stuttered in relief.

. . .

November 1st,

i bumped into a boy while getting ice cream. he was so pretty that i believed he was a dream. his eyes were breathtaking as were his lashes, they were dark. his eyes were red btw. red. and his nose, oh, if i could give birth, i would give birth to a bunch of his kids with his nose structure. and he had this scar on the side of his head. it was a big contrast against the sharpness of his features but i believe it suited him.

November 6th,

i've seen him again. i really hope he doesn't think i'm a stalker. wait, i'm getting ahead of myself. he probably doesn't remember me. it's whatever. so, i see him walking down the street with his little sister(?), i think. they didn't really look a like, but siblings come in different shapes and sizes? and she wants ice cream, and i think to myself me too! so i follow after them. maybe i was hoping to talk to him. yeah, i was. did and done. i wonder if he even likes ice cream, i saw him being ice cream, and i rambled to him about my favorite flavor, and he sticked around and listened. i think he was trying to be polite. i liked it, so i pretended we were friends already and that i knew him.

at first, i could see the confusion of it. he tried to remember me then he admitted that he doesn't recognize me. this. this is where my plan starts to work out, his little sister helped me out by saying his name; chihiro. argh, even his name suits him. so chihiro, his sister and i eat ice cream together in tense silence. did he have friends? oh no, what if he didn't and he thought i was poking fun at him?

November 9th,

his little sister found me. she keeps doing this. i don't even know her name but i know that she's got a big appetite for such a little body. she asked me superficial questions- i'm not a fan of them but what a kid doesn't know won't hurt them. there was something in the pit of my stomach that warned me to stay away from her. she's a cute thing but, things weren't adding up. especially when a random man appeared in the middle of my kitchen, he teleported inside and ate my food and took her away! what normal kid goes along with that??

Chihiro smiles to himself, and the tips of his ears burn harshly. He can just imagine Char's joyful nature as she was being fed by a total stranger. He flips through the pages, aware that he only ever has limited time by himself whenever the world slept. When he catches sight of his name- he stops to read with wide eyes.

November 22nd,

chihiro is much more observant than i can even begin to explain. he sees when a hair is out of place on shiba's very slimy head and when the cornea of an eye is off centered. but he's also so blind to my feelings. i didn't expect myself to be this taken by him. i can't help it. he's just kind. he's very kind and thoughtful, but he's distant and cold at the same time. i want to go beneath those walls, not to benefit me, but because i have seen how he is... i would like for him to have someone he can be himself with. that if he wants to cry, he can go ahead and do it. if he wants to laugh and get angry a second later, he should feel safe to do so. i am not opposed to that being me.. however, chihiro is blind to this, even when i tell him honestly, on my own life, what i would like.

November 31st,

i've asked him out. i'm pretty sure my face was redder than a tomato and that my voice was shaky. it was embarrassing as much as it was exhilarating. he's been so busy with other things that I really doubt he'd even consider it, but he said yes?? i'm so confused, but i'm so happy. i've planned the perfect date with him.

Unknown,

i can't remember the date. i can't remember the time, i can't remember what happened exactly, but chihiro kissed my cheek. his lips were cold, which wasn't a problem considering how hot my face became once i realized the reality of the situation. he kissed my cheek goodbye before he left for a mission. i regret not asking him why he felt the need to do it when he always returns..

Chihiro, on the other hand, remembers it clearly. He was overwhelmed with an urge - it was strange, and it made the pit of his stomach tingle. He didn't expect himself to do it.

The last time he kissed someone... it was his dad (and he was also extremely young). His lips only know the taste of copper from his blood, the salt of his sweat, and the savory taste of food.

But, before he left, he lingered in your space. Your eyes kept holding his gaze as if you were waiting for him to leave, and he remembered how his eyes welled up with unshed tears before he blinked them away.

You told him in a whisper: 'Come back soon, Hiro.'

And instead of a nod or a ghost of a smile as he usually does, he leaned into you and pecked your cheek with a racing heart. It was a quick one. The type Chihiro gave to his dad when he was embarrassed about it. But the feelings were different here. It was intentional and heart pounding, to him, at least.

He wanted to reassure you in the best way possible that he will return and that... that there is more of him than just a straight face.

That now, his lips know the sweet taste of your skin.

December 5th,

it snowed when chihiro walked with me. i've heard fairy tales that say the first snowfall with a lover will be the one to keep forever. i sure hope so. i'll keep the memories of chihiro forever, and if i were to lose them all, i would love to go through it all again. but i don't ever want to forget the sight of a snowflake falling on the bridge of his red-tinted nose. he was cold, i could tell, but he never mentioned it and denied it when i asked. so i wrapped my scarf around him silently. thinking about it now, it was very cheesy, but i was honored to know that he kept it on even after he was in the comfort of hinao's warm home. he never gave it back either, i hope he forgets it's mine. i like him and i like when he carries something of mine.

December 30th,

every time he sits beside me, he goes tense and quiet. but when he's with hakuri, things are more natural. does he even know i dream about him? ahhh!! that's probably it. at least.. maybe he doesn't hate me?

i think i may be jealous of hakuri.

January 16th,

i dreamt about him. it was different from the rest of dreams- like, a lot different, and i feel guilty. i shouldn't be thinking about him like this. i really shouldn't, but i don't know what to do. he -

Chihiro flips through more pages, confused and uncertain. The handwriting becomes more... frustrated, they turn into scribbles, and it's hard to distinguish the letters. Like you rushed through your emotions and patience all at once.

He grips onto your journey tightly, his nails digging into the leather as he tries to find something sensible until — the most recent page, a page numbered 71.

Chihiro presses his thumb into the recycled paper material like it would help him understand you. The ink is fresh. . .

April 1,

i'm too nervous with him.

every night, every day, any time i think of him, i want to love him until he realizes that there is no one else for him.

today i dreamt about him again. about how he would sound if i pressed him into my mattress. would he be whiny? grunty? whimpery? is that even a word?? is he a crybaby —

Chihiro shuts the journal. He quickly glances away from the book with a wide, wavering gaze. He feels his mouth go dry in shock.

His once sturdy and scarred hands are shaking.

He quickly sets the journal down on the couch and stares at it as if the devil created it himself. By the skies, the sea, and the trees; he would have never seen this coming from you, too.

Chihiro is good at observation. He has his father's eyes, both figuratively and literally. He can spot shiba's hair from miles away. He can spot an off centered piece of art. But he did not see this coming.

He keeps his warm heart tucked away beneath a blade he carries around that is painted in his enemies blood. His heart has never touched another's without intention. He does not give himself easily, and he does not plan to do so without genuine commitment.

He understands what it means to lurk around someone like him. All the dangers, the coldness, and the instability of his life. His world is corrupt and dark.

He thought...you were too good for someone like him..

You, in an extraordinary way, never pushed him for anything else but to be himself.

You strive for the things you want. You're responsible and respectful and patient.

So patient that you've been waiting on him to give in to what he wants too. So, he stares at the book, silently assessing it.

Should he continue reading? Should he let his curiosity win?

Chihiro swallows quietly and picks up the book with one hand, holding it away from him as if it'll come to life and start barking at him. If he keeps reading, what will happen next? Will he be able to look you in the eye and pretend he doesn't know what you're thinking about?

Too immersed in his thoughts and worries, he doesn't hear the lights click on until he's able to see how one of his hands is clenching tightly onto his pant leg, and his body flinches slightly at being caught.

"—Chihiro?" His red eyes flint to you. There is that flicker of guilt again before it's washed away, again.

You stand by the entrance of the kitchen with a glass of water, watching him carefully. You glance to the journal in his grasp, and that guilty look suddenly makes sense. "Is that mine?"

Chihiro's gaze drops to his lap as he sets the journal down beside him.

You catch the initials 'C.R.' carved into the binder.

Chihiro Rokuhira.

The journal you created for him alone.

"Oh." You make a pathetic noise lost between a squeak and a huff. "I see..."

There's a tight grip inside of your throat clawing at your esophagus to keep you from throwing up and blurring in your vision as your eyes glaze over with a thin layer of water.

Oh, this can not begin to describe embarrassment.

Your face burns terribly the more you think of it. All those times where you've written your wet dreams in hopes of pushing out your sexual frustrations into something other than your palm.. the pages upon pages describing your feelings for him, the memories dating back months ago — your jealousy.

Chihiro awkwardly shuffles to his feet, covering his shaky hands by clenching them into sweaty fists beside his stiff body. He looks up at you through fluttering lashes before his gaze drops to the floor just as quickly as the glance comes.

A guilty pang thumps at your chest, eyes softening at his struggles.

He's uncomfortable.

You clear your throat and drink the remaining water in your glass cup to rid yourself of the dryness in your mouth, "..S-sorry about that.. I never meant for you to read that.."

In the history of relationships, ever, from when the first humans decided to get together, bang it on, and move onto the next (or whatever goes on in relationships) — there has never been someone who's felt quite as lonely and starved for affection while standing in the same room as their lover as you do.

Or maybe you were just being dramatic.

But he didn't look at you. He stared down at the floorboards, tracing the pattern of wood in his head until it burned behind his eyelids.

He didn't step closer to comfort you like he would've done with anyone else.

He didn't even move as you watched him carefully, a look akin to desperation crossing your features as you hoped he would tell you that he didn't hate what he read.

Please don't be weirded out. . .

Chihiro lets out an air from his nostrils, not quite a sigh, something akin to a laugh and breathes deeply. You watch as he inhales calmly, his fingers finally relaxing at his sides, his knuckles regaining their tan color.

"No, [Name]. I'd like to apologize." Chihiro says. He speaks in a quiet voice. The rumble in his chest no more. It was replaced with a delicate whisper reserved for you alone. "I'm sorry for invading your privacy. I. . . I got curious at the potential of this being written about me. I wanted to know your thoughts and feelings for so long that. . . it didn't matter how I found out. If I had been more upfront with you, you wouldn't have had to suffer all on your own."

You opened your mouth to butt in. However, Chihiro continues.

"But -" He lets out a shaky breath and takes a step back, retracting into himself. He hides in himself again as he tries to find the carefully crafted words he's known for, but that's not what you wanted. You want to scream at him and shake him around until he finally understands that you just want him to be. Without limits or restraint. "But I'm a coward when it comes to you, [Name]."

You gulp and set down the glass on the coffee table by his feet. "How come?"

Chihiro nearly flinches at your question. Like he didn't expect the genuine curiosity in your tone. He raises his head to look at you — your face begged for sleep, but your eyes screamed at him to continue.

"Because I was too afraid to hear them from you; yourself." He is a coward. He's afraid of you and your emotions.

You're wonderful — "It's different with you," — You're special — "It's a little overwhelming." — But I don't hate it.

He presses his fingers together to feel warm again. To shake off the numbness his body has collected over the years of his youthful life.

"Someone like me shouldn't bring you down in my hardships and errors -" Chihiro said, "I tried to distance myself, but I realized that I kept sticking to you in my own selfish ways. And I still want to know about you even when I'm afraid because I will continue to lay my sword and duties aside to have just a second with you."

The room fell quiet except for the heavy exhale you released, your chest rising and falling in a steady motion. He could hear the bed creaking as someone toss and turned around in their bed. He thinks it could've been Char. Or maybe Mr. Shiba...

You watch him with wide eyes, a deep burning taking over your body and shooting down to the very place you prayed for the gods to ignore.

And then, your shift your hips to make the pitching tent less noticeable, but in the still room, there's no denying that Chihiro has spotted it.

His gaze drops to your crotch, his eyes widening by a fraction.

Damn it. . .

You cleared your throat, "Sh-shoot, sorry- I've, I never thought you'd break - I knew what I was getting into when I chose you - I think I need the bathroom —"

"— Let me take care of it." Chihiro cuts in. His own eyes widen at his words before he plays it off by walking closer to you — a newfound glimmer of determination in his eyes. Like he was ready to prove himself.

What.

". . .What?" You smile sheepishly, "What do you mean?"

He steps in front of you with a small tick in his brow. He doesn't know what he's talking about. He glances to the side as the tips of his ears burn a harsh red, "I want. . . to do the things you dream about. I want to prove to you that I can do better."

"This," you take a half-step back to give yourself some space and bring your hands to your lap to provide some coverage. The soft feel of your sweatpants felt tight now. Too tight at his offer. "This is no way to prove it — you can start by.. by just being yourself."

Chihiro frowns lightly at your soft argument, his fight dying just a little because to him, you said no, and he will respect that. "I need a bath. I'll be right back -" You said that, but you still find yourself in the same room with him and the urge to lunge at him with desire. Chihiro shakes his head softly, "No, you don't have to. Let's head to bed together. Can I stay with you?"

(In Chihiro language, this translates as 'I like how you smell, don't wash it off')

You pause, "You want to go to sleep? With me like this?"

Chihiro tried his hardest not to glance downwards, and he repeats his earlier request, "It's not a bother to me. . . I can take care of it."

You make a small defensive noise. Absolutely not. Nonono, this is just a wicked dream. One that hangs your desires right into front of you with a cruel smile.

"Chihiro-" He blinks and waits for you to continue, but your argument dies out. There is no way this is real, right? "... Are you serious?"

You'd be stupid to pass up an opportunity like this.

Dumb, and desperate. That is all you. Needy and clingy. It is also you. So when he says he'll 'take care of it', potentially jerk you off for your pleasure. . . you made your brain forget how to speak.

You don't know the sensations. It's always in the back of your head, but you do not know how it really feels to be touched by another— "I am." Chihiro defends his statement with determination, his eyes twinkling lightly. "...I think about you, too."

"I-" You gulp thickly as your face heats up terribly, "I should wash myself beforehand-"

You're sweaty, bacteria accumulating over your body through hours of sleep but Chihiro likes it. He shakes his head again, "I don't mind it. It's normal..."

"Uhm," You start.

"There will be another time, [Name]." Chihiro finishes with a straight face. like he's reassuring you about not smelling good(???). He steps up with a silent flinch - battle scars are probably ten times better than embarrassment of stumbling around in a moment you've been dreaming of, you think. "Would you... like to do it with me, too?"

You didn't expect him to be so bold.

Or maybe you've blinded yourself.

You gave a jerky nod.

"Yes."

. . .

"Hnng.." You groan in a pathetic way, mouth dropping as your thighs shake around his shoulders. Despite the tremors overtaking your body, you push through to roll your hips deeper into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat, knees sinking into the couch as you hold your hips over his face; your presence pinning him down to the couch.

The back of his head softly hits the cushion as you repeatedly thrust back inside the warm cave of his slimy mouth. Gosh... He's producing so much drool for someone lying on their back..

"So warm haahhh-"

Your shaky fingers thread through his sweat damped dark hair to lift his head just right for him to swallow you whole, his teeth lightly grazing around you in the effort of keeping his jaw loose, "Watch your teeth, 'Hiro. Soften your tongue— yeah, just like that.."

He did it like it was a mission. And all that mattered was that he helped you complete yourself, quote on quote "I'll give you everything you want."

Chihiro — oh, he was so good. So limp beneath you and yet trying so hard to give you something worth of your memory.

He opens his teary eyes to take in the sight of your pleased smile, a dazed look in your eyes as watch him.

You're pleased.

You're feeling good.

Chihiro feels a warmness in his chest, his heart slamming wildly in his chest to recover from it all.

Your thumb slides down from his scalp to meet his scar. You feel the wet liquid of his sweat lining up at his temple as you wipe it away and Chihiro whines.

A low and rumbling noise from an action he thought to be incredibly sweet.

It's a pleasuring vibration that purrs against your wet cock and makes you suck in a sharp breath.

Then, you hear a small gargle, and Chihiro's chest starts to jerk up with the pressure inside his throat, the walls of his throat convulsing wildly around you and squeezing, his eyes shut tight to stop the tears from leaking. You panic and pull out, the tip of your hard, pulsing cock pressed against his chin as he recovers with a cough, his drool trailing down his lips and sticking to his chin as he swallowed heavily — an empty feeling in his throat. "Ack-"

He reaches out to touch his lips, like his mouth has fallen numb, and he has no clue what to do about it.

"Are you okay??" You panic, hands trembling as you press them against his heated up face. His head pounds with the smell of you, and he can't resist the shiver that runs down his spine.

"Yes... keep going." Chihiro murmurs more to himself, a small huff of desperation leaving his tingling lips before he grips at your hips and guides you back inside, his tongue lolling out to welcome you in again.

Your eyes widen at the new feeling.

His throat is pulsing.

His eyes are hungry.

His tongue slid messily, inexperienced, against the underside of your cock.

"Ngh.." You moan quietly. You tilt your head as you thought about how he seems too eager to please you, your hands instinctively gripping at his hair as he silently lays on his back.

His face is hidden beneath your hips, ears flushed red, and his fingers are clenched around your body loosely. His figure is tensed to the fullest degree. You're not sure you've ever seen someone as stiff as him before.

He keeps you buried inside his throat until the tip of his nose is buried in your pubes. He exhales and inhales sharply through his nostrils, humming quietly as he releases his hold on your hips to let you take what you want.

"A-ah.. you're the prettiest thing ever -" It slipped out before you could stop it. His eyes widened at your words. The living room is heated with the smell of sex and the echo of his saliva being pushed back into his throat as you push yourself to the very end to hit every inch of gummy walls. "Dreams disappoint against the real thing. Against you. You have no idea how I've been wishing for this. On your knees, in the bed, riding me - Chihiro, I want you in every sense and in every way -"

When you pull out abruptly, your hands are quick to shoot out to apply pressure on his jaw to keep his mouth wide open with no problem, "I'll cum if you keep this up- ughhh, your lips are so soft-" your thumb slids to his mouth to run over his pink lips gently, "your tongue is so wet, your face is so cute- I love you so much, Chihiro, yes, I do."

Chihiro's hips jump.

An involuntary twitch.

A defiance of his own control over his body. A reaction he can't help.

And he liked it.

Your thumb pushes into his mouth, pressing down on his slimy tongue as drool starts to accumulate around it. You meet Chihiro's wavering gaze. His wide, red eyes shine as they stare up at your curiously. He doesn't move, surely doesn't even think of moving either...

"You like getting your throat bruised?" Chihiro's breathing hitches sharply at your teasing muse. You're not even talking directly at him, more so, cooing at him like a cute kitty on the street.. but he didn't mind it.

In fact, his mouth falls shut, your thumb trapped between his lips as he sucks on it gingerly. That's a yes. At his confirmation, you remove your hand off of his scalp to wrap your fingers around yourself — cock glistening in his saliva and your precome. . .

Your hand moves frantically over his face, hips thrusting into your warm palm as you jerked yourself off over him. Chihiro pressed his thighs together as he felt sticky liquid drip onto his cheek.

"Mff-" He swallows with your thumb still in his mouth. You push it further in as his face begins to contort, and his trembling thighs squeeze shut again.

You noticed this time.

How his hips tremor just the slightest bit underneath your weight, his dark pants hiding his desire...

"Hah- you're so cute," you say, voice low with affection. "I'm gonna come on your face, 'Hiro."

Your breathing starts to quicken, and your balls go taut against his chin as you pointedly press the head of your cock into his cheek, a loud muffled groan leaving you as you bite your lip harshly to quiet yourself.

Spurts of white come coat his face, his eyes squeezing shut immediately when a droplet strikes his brow with short puffs of air escaping his nostrils in surprise.

You smear your twitching cock against his cheek as he swallowed thickly around your thumb, you pull your hand away from his mouth to brace yourself against the arm rest his head laid on, chest rising rapidly and thumb wet with his drool. His lips parts so his tongue could dart out to lap at you again.

You wince and your hips twitch back, barely having enough time to think of recovering. "One second, Chihiro."

He slowly peeks an eye open, the heavy feeling of something warm on his eyelid weighing the other one down.

His cheek squished up against your cock as you meet his eyes.

It's a sight that would have had you hung in hell.

His father would probably drag you off of him and demand you never touch his 'innocent' Chihiro again. His father would conduct a baptism and an exchange of bands between the two of you before you go any further — or not, you never met him but from Chihiro's words, he seemed like he loved his son.

Regardless, your semen clinging on his handsome face; it was a holy sight.

You lean back with a heavy sigh before getting off from atop of his face on shaky legs. You could feel his eyes on you, watching for any discomfort — "... Are you okay?" He asks with a wavering expression, his voice is hoarse and thick with something that sounded a lot like need.

You huff heavily and send him a dazed smirk that leaves him red. "Better than okay."

He gave a small nod.

His expression is unreadable, but the air around him feels... charged.

He wants to ask something. You can see it in his gaze. It's written all over his glassy eyes. You settled closer to him until you were kneeling timidly on the couch cushions in between his legs.

Chihiro lifts his upper body to prop himself on his elbows, his head spinning and throat bobbing as he swallows around nothing.

Whatever it is that he wants to say, he doesn't speak it, and you glance down, disappointed.

You thought — immaturity running through your head — that he would at least feel a little. . . need for you.

That he wanted you to show him what you've dreamt about. To make him an experience and an experiment.

The thought leaves your eyes teary and exposed to the cold air chipping at your sweaty skin. Your, previously half hard, cock twitches as it softens against your stomach.

A small nudge against your thigh makes your racing mind hit the breaks.

Chihiro pushes the bottom of his shoe into your clothed front of your thigh. His eyes begin to soften when your gaze flickers to him.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He knew you were getting too deep into your thoughts and he pulled you out before you could spiral.

He cares.

He knows you.

He sees all of you. Him reading your diary, probably, helped too.

You place your hands on his thighs, keeping his legs spread apart as you place your body between them. The smooth material of his black slacks makes a soft noise against the warmth of your palms. You rub at his inner thighs to hear the satisfying sound again.

Your touch on his inner thighs was electric. Claiming, almost. To him, at least.

He leans back into the sofa's armrest to cross his arms over his chest, a blockage (a denial really) of his desire, suddenly finding the sticky substance on his face far more interesting.

"Does your throat hurt?" You asked softly, eyeing the way his throat swallows as he wipes at his face.

"Nothing I can't handle." See. There it is. A closure you can never get from him — his true feelings are still calculated. Hidden.

But it's strange.

Because you also understand why.

He wasn't given the safety to process and release his emotions. He didn't have the time right now, so he shuts it off to quickly keep some composure.

You understand because you do the same when he gets like this.

But it's tiring.

Emotions are made to be complicated when they don't have to be, so you force yourself to ignore the burning embarrassment of your face and neck to lean your upper body above his chest- his body jolts slightly and he removes his hands from his face, your semen no longer coating his pretty features- "You did so well, Chihiro. Thank you."

You nuzzle your nose against his collarbone to maybe seek the smell of arousal if you can't see it in his eyes.

His pecs twitch in surprise as you tilt your head far enough to press your lips to his collarbone, "A-ah?"

You still, bitten lips from your own teeth pressed against his skin.

Was that a bad or good sound?

You could feel every pulse of his blood and flutter of his heart beating alive inside of him.

You could hear the change in his breathing — slower, heavier..

He's trying to regulate his heart rate.

"No." Your stern denial makes his heart jump beneath your tingling lips, "Just relax. Feel it all. I want you to feel."

His throat works to force another swallow done. From this distance, you can see how his jaw clenches, and you can hear the slight grit of his teeth.

You press yourself even closer, your lips trailing repetitive pecks over his neck without thinking. Kisses so sensual — so heated that Chihiro can't help his instinct to melt underneath them all.

"Nnh. . .'' Most of his weight falls onto the armrest as he begins to fall limp, his lips parting in a huff. A huff that sounds...

Was that a whine?

It was quiet. Soft. Expected from his voice but not expected from him.

You slow your kisses this time. The sound of the tame suctions from your mouth nipping against his skin filling his ear drums.

It sounded considerably louder since you worked long, slow kiss from his clavicle bone up his throat, his hips rolling slightly into your hips when you stopped to leave a lingering kiss on his Adam's apple and he gasps.

A startled gasp at the feeling.

You grind back down against his hips, groaning into his neck as you feel a stiff bulge press back by pure instinct. He's hard.

He's actually turned on by this (hopefully by you too..)!!

You smile against his skin, teeth shining with drool as you part them to let your tongue loll out against his skin.

Just a taste. . .

"It- [Name].." Your eyes flutter open at his shaky call. "Slow down please.."

Slower?

"Hm?" You hum for more clarification at his request. The noise brings vibrations down his bones that make him shake with nerves.

This is slow. . .?

His pulse jumps under your paused tongue. He can feel your shiver as you glide your wet muscle against his adam's apple subconsciously, like you couldn't control the need to do so.

Chihiro's body resists a shudder at the feeling.

"Ah... I'm not sure how to react?" He says in a shaky voice.

You pull away from him, your lips wet with your own saliva. Your eyes meet as you hover above him, your hips slotting perfectly against his, "I just want you to let yourself feel it, 'hiro... Can you tell me how my hands feel?"

You let one hand slip beneath his shirt while your other arm held you up. Your palms — warm and... simply warm make goosebumps raise over Chihiro's body as if the cold had touched him.

Chihiro nods firmly and glances down at your hand. Your grip feels possessive in the way you caress his hip. But he only knows how to describe the ache in his chest that brings him comfort along with your touch; "Warm."

It feels strangely intimate in how your thumbs start to rub circles into his skin, "It tickles..."

"Yeah?" You smile tenderly at him, your eyes soft and pupils blown wide to the point of total darkness. "You feel.. hot. Very hot to the touch. Your muscles are tense, but I can also feel your heart beating."

Chihiro swallows nervously. His eyes flutter shut when your hand reaches his waist, tracing over his muscles to soothe him.

His knees press together before he lets them relax and fall apart from each other as if he isn't sure if he wants to close himself off and open himself whole.

You watch as his shoulders pull up into himself, like he wants to shrink away from your touch, but he back arches to have more..

"Why are you always so tense.." You finally ask quietly. Your voice is soft and undeniably confused. "Do you- ... do you want this?"

His head turns to hide into his own shoulder, his nose scrunching up at your question. "I do."

"Then, please relax," you whisper in a plea. Maybe it came from deep down inside because he never has been with you — not really. but you also wanted him to feel good.

Chihiro makes a noise crossed between a soulful sigh and an adorable 'hmph', "I can't-"

"Why not?" You emphasize with a sigh. Your hand stops as you lean back on your heels, giving him enough space to leave if he wants to.

"..." Chihiro adjusts himself to lay further down on the couch, sprawling out with his hands pressing down on his lap to give himself some decency from your prying eyes. "I like it and I don't know how to take it."

"Oh." You exclaim dumbly. Your lips open and close as you wait for words to just spill out of your mouth to no avail. "I, uhm, I thought you- that maybe you didn't like me?"

Chihiro frowns lightly, "I don't have the time to waste.."

Ouch. That stung you. So maybe you were dumb for thinking that even when your conscious told you that wasn't the case..

"I feel warm with you-" That was his way of saying 'I like you', "Sometimes too hot that.. I can't keep myself relaxed."

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

"Oh." You exclaimed once more. He stares up at you with a slow rising smirk — it's tiny and practically nonexistent, but with his feelings hidden behind a stoic expression, it's easy to spot. "You- you're.."

He waits patiently.

"You're so-" You take a deep breath to think of a word to describe him. Why.. why is he just watching you fumble around? Does he like you like this?? "-rational?"

Chihiro tilts his head.

"You know how to control yourself very well, and you know what to say and do to make me nervous and sweaty and ticklish all over that I almost want to hate you," You groan out as you let yourself fall limp on top of him. Chihiro grunts quietly when the air is pushed out of his chest, but he welcomes your weight. "I wanted to make you feel the same that I bottled my feelings to keep you close but all this time.. you were doing the same."

He just hid it better...

His hands drift from covering his lap to slipping around your waist, his warm calloused hands tethering between the fabric of your shirt and your shivering skin.

This talk didn't simmer down your body's natural response to being on top of your cute boyfriend. And it betrays you by slowly rolling your hips down onto his, his body tensing again but this time, you know why.

Because he likes it.

His grip tightens on your waist as he stuffs his face in the crook of your neck, his forehead feeling overwhelmingly feverish when it meets your skin.

He pushes back to reciprocate the feeling, his cock jumping in the restraints of his dark trousers. He grinds experimentally upwards to meet the same friction you gave him with a small gasp of air, his ribs expanding as he sucks his breath in, his abdomen going taut.

"A-ah," Chihiro grunts softly, the sound is so soft and shocked. He got a taste of it before, but now.. now it felt stronger. He lifts his hips up again with knitted brows, confused in how he should feel.

When you thrust down again to meet him, a whine tumbles past his bitten lips. He licks at his lips to wet them, tongue coated with the taste of you.

You moan at the sound of his pleasure, ears tingling to hear more. He's whiny.. he's really whiny.

That answers the question in your dreams and your journal.

Without wasting much time, you shuffle around to push your sweatpants out of the way, just enough for your cock to pop out and slap against your stomach, your fingers fumbling around to purchase the button of his pant, pausing to ask him a silent question; do you want these off?

And Chihiro gives you a firm nod.

You get to work. His hips lifting up higher to help you pull his pants off, momentarily stilling when you reach his shoes.

... They're staying on.

You smile with giddiness at the thought of his shoe prints on the couch the following morning.

You shove his sweater off of him, his coat pooling beneath him as the rest of his clothes disappeared, excluding his socks and shoes. Chihiro flushes deeply, his eyes darting away to the side.

You take him in.

Chihiro; strong and sentimental, quiet and kind-hearted — his body is just as beautiful as his soul. Strong and sturdy, trembling with a hint of vulnerability, covered in scars from late night practices.

"You're a treasure, Chihiro," you whisper softly as your warm hands caress his sides, thumbs carelessly flicking over his nipples, watching in awe as he shudders.

Chihiro bites his tongue and stays as still as he can for you.

It felt incredibly intimate.

To be beneath you in the full nude...

His face tinted red, and his eyes shaky as he waited for you to make the next move. But you just kept looking at him as if he were something precious. Someone to adore and hold.

Chihiro never thought of himself that way.

If someone were to ask him, 'Who's the most important person to you?', he would give his father's name. 'Dad is.'

He wouldn't have considered himself.

But you always have.

You tell him and you show him and he's afraid of it but he wants it so bad. .

He feels a strange sting in the back of his eye, burning and messing with his emotions.

Like the burning sensation of tears he's suppressed when he thinks of good things, things that could be good, things that could have had a future.. and he believes you could have a future with him too..

It's intimate and strangely confusing how he finds this more emotional than anything..

Chihiro's eyes meet yours briefly, a complex mix of emotions swirling in those red irises of his—pain, pleasure, affection, reluctance, confusion...

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he feels an inexplicable connection forming between you two in the mix of this opening and humiliating act.

"Can I turn around?" He asks politely. He wants to hide his face. He wants to hide his tears from you so that you won't worry.

You nod and lean back to give him space for him to reposition himself onto his stomach, his face pressing into the couches' pillow. The only thing on his face you could see is the edge of his ragged scar peaking near his hairline and the crinkles around the corners of his eyes as he shuts them tight.

Your hips lean down to press your cock in between his thighs.

His hands clench tightly into the cushions, knuckles white as he tries to maintain some semblance of control, "Ngh..."

"Wha-" you stop yourself with a swallow. What do you do now? In the videos you've seen, they just stick it in. Do you stick it in?

As you stare holes in Chihiro's back, your hands adjust his legs to give you enough space to loom over him, your cock poking against his backside.

"Um, I'm- I'm going in." You mutter, raising a brow at your own sentence before aligning the head of your cock blindly, not even bothering to spread his legs further apart to see what you're doing.

Chihiro gives a nod, face hidden in the sheets.

Your mouth falls open in an 'o' shape as you push in. He's tight. Chihiro immediately tenses, clenching down shut and stopping you from pushing any further. Not realizing it could be hurting him, you try to push past the rim again, only for his breath to hitch in the effort.

He reaches behind him to hold onto your wrist that settles on his waist, his nails digging into your pulse.

Chihiro flinches when you keep trying to push inside of him, barely even getting an inch in before a shaky cry leaves his throat. It's muffled by the pillow, but you still catch onto it.

You freeze, eyes wide, as you wait for his response or reaction.

"That... hurts." He finally grits out. He wants it. He does. But it hurts. Is it supposed to hurt? Is that right?

"Oh, I-I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to -" You rush to pull out, wincing when he whimpers at the dry extraction. "I don't know - I've never done this with a man - or.. anyone, give me another chance -"

Chihiro lets go of your wrist and spreads his legs wider, nearly pushing his leg off of the small couch, which makes you hold onto the front of his thigh to keep him steady. His shoe catches onto the fabric of the couch, holding his foot at an awkward angle.

A shaky laugh, that sounds more like a quiet pained sob, escapes him.

Your heart clenches at the sound.

It must've hurt badly. . .

"I'm sorry, Chihiro." You lean down to pepper soft kisses to his shoulder blade, squeezing his thigh gently to comfort him. "I wish I had the experience to make love to you properly, but I am learning, please, will you give me another shot?"

His upper body leans into your kisses, his chuckle dying out with each meaningful touch of your lips.

"Yes." He nods once, turning his head to the side to breathe properly. His cheek is pressed against the pillow as his eyes land on Enten by the coffee table.

"Thank you." You whisper in gratitude as you press a kiss against his nape. "I won't disappoint."

You never do — Chihiro wants to say, but his tongue doesn't want to work with him when your hand leaves the support on his thigh, making his leg shoot down to hold himself up. The sound of the bottom of his leather dress shoe tapping the floorboards ring in his ear as a reminder that he should keep quiet in Hinao's home.

You open his cheeks to use your thumb to gently soothe the irritated muscle, your heart clenching at his sigh, not quite desperate but needy enough to want more of your gentle touches, "I've heard that it could hurt, but only for women, but... I may have an idea? I know that... women do it to help make the process smoother."

"But I'm not a woman...?" Chihiro questions, tilting his head as he listens to you.

"I mean-" you shake your head, dumbly staring at his anus, the pink muscle is a tight ring that will probably be extremely uncomfortable for him if you push in your finger without warning, "I know that, just that.. I need to loosen you."

"Loosen?" Chihiro asks curiously, his face back in the pillow.

"They-" lubricate, obviously self, bodily fluids that come out when stimulated. See, you did pay attention in Sex Education in Middle School. Men don't produce that... "Play enough to make themselves wider and... more comfortable?"

You gulp as you explain.

"I've seen them in some magazines.." You try to explain yourself, not knowing how bad that sounds to Chihiro. Chihiro frowns and nods into the pillow, making a mental note to look even deeper in your room to find any magazine so that he can slice them up.

At his approval, you lean down and purse your lips over his hole, letting an accumulation of your drool and spit slide out of your lips. When the first drip of your warm saliva hits the rim and slides downwards, Chihiro shivers and pushes his face deeper into the pillow.

You prop his hips higher into the air, his knees scrambling to hold himself up. In the shift, his shoe scraps against your sweatpants, and he puffs out a sigh.

"I'm going to use my fingers, okay?" You warned him meekly, your voice cracking slightly as you realize that you're actually about to do this.

His ears burn red, "Go on."

Should I touch him some more beforehand? You second guess yourself. You glance down at your dominant hand. Which finger do I use? The middle finger is the longest.. will he like that?

You measure the size of your cock with your fingers and decided to go for the middle finger, just to be safe...

The tip of your finger catches onto his spit slicked hole, and his body automatically stiffens, his toes curling in his shoes, "Try to relax, hiro.. can you do that for me?"

He sucks in a sharp breath through his nostrils when your middle finger tentatively rubs at the rim.

"I'm trying...'' he whispers softly, tears appearing from the corners of his eyes and soaking the pillow.

He tries desperately to obey your words, forcing his rigid muscles to relax as you push your finger deeper inside him. He lets out a shuddering breath, his face flushing dark red with the humiliation of being fingered open using your spit.

Your finger breaches his entrance, the slickness of your spit making the slide smooth and humiliating. It's not as smooth as you would've thought, but it's what you had on hand at the moment.

"Very good, Chihiro." You encourage softly and lean your chest against his back, your hard cock pressing against the back of his thigh, breath hitching when his hips involuntarily buck backwards onto your finger at your praise. "You're taking it very well..."

His cock bobs pathetically between his legs, gravity pulling his testicles down and weighing them heavier than usual, the exposure to the cold air has his cock glistening and ultra-sensitive.

"Almost there, handsome.." Your mouth falls open as you watch with hawk eye vision. The tip of your finger disappears inside of him, his insides feel warm and fluttering, and you slowly sink the rest until your knuckle reaches the rim, the rest of your fingers wiggling almost like they know they're next. A soft moan leaves your lips at the feeling.

If it feels this good and interesting around your finger... you can't wait until you can stick yourself inside..

"Mnn-" Chihiro cuts himself off in the middle of an almost silent whine. His heart is beating too loudly in his ears that he could hardly hear the noise.

You reach in between his trembling thighs to wrap your fingers around his cock.

Chihiro's breath comes in ragged gasps against the pillow, muffling any noise he can't quite suppress. His hands claw weakly at the cushions, fingers twisting the fabric as your fingers grip him tightly.

"Ah—!" The sound escapes before he can stop it. He bites down on the pillow, muffled and desperate. His leg twitches, shoes catching on your sweatpants.

His body stiffens abruptly as you peel back the foreskin of his uncircumcised cock, revealing the sensitive, pink glans beneath. Every instinct screams at him to fight and to squirm away, but he tells himself to stay still and to just feel it as you wanted.

"My body is tingling -" you describe to him, "I want you so bad, Chihiro. Your cock feels so hot and hard to the touch and your insides, God, you keep clenching back. It almost feels like a heartbeat.."

His hole clenches desperately around your finger as you push your finger in deeper and then pull it out, his cock throbbing desperately in your other hand, raw and exposed with his foreskin pulled back, precum begins to leak down the cushions.

"Feels good?" You mused, cocky.

It shocks Chihiro that you could turn into such a person in bed. He would've never expected it. Never. But... he's not complaining. He quite likes you confident.

"Good..." He mouths, the word barely coherent behind the pillow.

Chihiro shuts his eyes tightly, his body clenching around your finger as you wiggle it inside him to gradually spread him open. His cock twitches weakly again, leaking a small amount of precum. His back back arches into the couch, and his hips lift higher into the air — onto your finger — as you simultaneously pump the tip of his cock, squeezing and pinching the foreskin together soothingly, and curl your finger downwards.

His left hand shoots down to grip at the hand around his cock.

His dominant hand claws desperately at your wrist, trying to pull your hand away, only to grip it tighter a moment later. His thighs fall open wider, and his spine arches into the couch as he pushes back against your fingers in tiny, jerking motions.

You chuckle, grinning wickedly at the sight. The sound vibrates through the quiet living room. It makes him whimper pathetically, his skin overheated by the compromising position.

He can feel your finger curling inside of him, as if you were inspecting the inside of him home.

His thighs shake, unable to hold his own body weight. Why? He's fought for hours on end, starved himself, broke bones in his body, and pushed himself for much longer than this and his body seems to be responding to you shamelessly.

His hand goes limp, and with him no longer holding your wrist, you were able to stroke him in the same way you'd do to yourself when you thought of him; the constant wet noises coming from his cock made him want to hide away with shame but he still bucked helplessly into your hand.

You decide it to be time for the second finger.

His body tenses, the stretch sharper now. The pillow muffles his choked-off gasp as you work a second finger alongside the first, scissoring slowly, patiently. His thighs tremble around your wrist. "S-slow—"

His hole is spreading open around your fingers like he's trying to swallow it whole. And then, your finger curls just right, and his entire body seizes up. "Ah!"

"Ah.." Your grin deepens, "Found the spot?"

Judging by his trembling thighs and the little bundle of nerves pulsating underneath the pad of your finger, you were certain of it.

His hips shift slightly, pushing up against your fingers, seeking more friction.

"More," he whimpers into the pillow, voice muffled and broken.

"More?" You ask with a teasing lilt in your tone. "Do you want more fingers? Or something else? Something bigger? Hotter?"

His breath hitches at the whispered tease, instinctively pushing back against your cock resting on the back of his thigh.

Do you think he's ready?

"It won't hurt, correct?" Innocently asked Chihiro, not understanding why your cock twitches by his leg, "You've spread me well enough?"

You wiggled your fingers inside, scissoring them open for you to watch his cute hole flutter and suck them back in. "I think so."

He trusts you immediately, "Okay.."

You tug his shoulder back lightly like a baby asking for more milk, your fingers popping out of him and letting go of his cock, "I wanna see your face.."

Never one to deny you (and maybe a little tired of carrying his weight), Chihiro immediately shifts onto his back, the position making him feel safer and less afraid of slipping off.

When your [color] eyes catch his, his body calapses into the couch with a confusingly relieved expression. His muscles melt and force his body to go limp at your mercy, his knees spreading wider for more of your ministrations.

His hole flutters shut to soothe the slight sting of not having anything inside. You're really doing this with him. . .

"Please be gentle.." He requests. His voice is strained, that rough edge of his usual calm disappearing into something breathless.

You nod frantically, "Always."

He nods back. A signal to insert yourself.

His arms wrap around your neck to bring you flush to him.

"Thanks for understanding," He utters, his fingers brush against your lips, gentle and caring.

He's grateful for you.

He's gateful that you understood him even when he failed to notify you of these habits of his. He's over the moon that you like him, that you love him, and it was him that got to be loved by you.

Your hand gently cradles his head, lovingly, in a way that makes Chihiro make a noise of appreciation, as you lined your sticky, hard cock up to his puckering hole. You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, giving him such gentle kisses to prepare your cute boyfriend for what's to come, now lined up to his rear.

Your eyes were dark and surprisingly intense, your usual gentle and awkward nature shifting into an effortlessly endearing cocky charm.

You pushed forward slowly, the thick head pressing against his hole.

His rim spasms around the intrusion, his body trembling violently from the intense breach.

Chihiro's body trembles at the sudden stretching, his fingers clawing into your shirt as he burries an embarrassed cry against the fabric.

"Breathe in," you tell him quietly. When you feel him sucking in air, his spongy walls squeezing around you with the expansion of his lungs was the biggest telltale sign for you, your hips push deeper inside, "breath out.." Chihiro exhales sharply as you bottom out, the stretch burning but feeling strangely full in a way that makes his cock twitch strongly. His hips begin to wither forward, his sensitivity reaching its peak when you rub circles into his hip with your thumb.

His face was buried in your neck, his breathing ragged as he waited for the rest of the impact.

It's not as tight as last time. . .

Feels.. much better, more spongy...

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, one hand still cradling his head tenderly while the other gripped his hip tightly, "Okay?"

He hissed in satisfaction as you throbbed inside of him, rocking deeper with a slow, steady thrust.

"H-hot.." He pants out, word muffled into your shoulder.

Hot?

"What is?" You asked breathlessly. A feeling of worry crawls into your heart and yanks at your soul. Is it supposed to be a good hot or a bad hot?

Chihiro opens his mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lip, unintentionally lapping at your neck with the motion. "My body.. is hot as is your.. your p-penis."

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh at the shy way he uttered 'penis'.

"Yeah..." You agree, nodding and cradling his head further into your neck, "just means I really needed you..."

"Ah..." Chihiro voices. His legs shake with pleasure in ways that fear could never possess. He feels himself relaxed around you as he lets out an exhale, his eyes fluttering open as he stares at the ceiling. "I'm ready. I'm sure of it."

His hips stutter insistently, back arching into you for more warmth, more weight — more of you.

I'm not — you argue mentally, taking a deep breath before hissing in satisfaction at the way he tightens up.

You pant, ragged and done for. You know you're not going to last, oh god.

"Argh.." You try to voice out as you gave a jerky thrust. Your body jolts, and your thigh muscles stiffen. "You're so hah warm."

Chihiro makes a 'mmn' noise, something between a hum of acknowledgment and a sound of embarrassment. He pushes his face further into your neck and his hands tug at your shirt to make you move.

You take the hint once he tugs, and you hear the stitches of your shirt tearing in the silent living room. With a shaky breath, you pick up your trembling hips to grind inside of him, groaning loudly when he instinctively clenches down on you, his hold on your shirt tightening.

His hips twitched helplessly beneath you, trying to buck up away from the sudden fullness but held back by the weight of your body. He holds his breath as he feels your heated, pulsing cock stretch him open completely.

You grunt when he holds his breath, feeling his insides cling onto you with the motion.

But you persist, suddenly thrusting again.

"Ah!" He cried out against your shoulders, sending a shockwave of pleasure through his entire body. Oh. It felt good to let his voice out...

The sudden, brutal sensation made his entire body lock up, muscles straining as he struggled to stay silent in Hinao's home.

You grinned mischievously, squeezing your eyes shut as you rolled deeper. One, two, three times — eliciting three choked whimpers against your shoulder for each thrust.

"Yeah? I'm making you open up pretty wide for me, huh?" Your voice dropped low. Chihiro was losing his mind beneath you, your words making him grind down onto your cock, finally able to form a thought. Your thick head poked and prods his walls. It feels like a constant pull that yanks at his stomach, tugging it lower and lower.

He bit your shoulder so hard it hurt, his hips bucking wildly now, chasing that brutal pleasure as you ground deeper inside. He was mindless. Lost. Swimming in the sensation. "Yeah..."

His hips jerk downwards, burying your cock even deeper inside of him.

The sharp poke against his lower belly made his breath hitch. That was... that was hitting something deep, something that you hit when you used your fingers on him earlier. His walls clenched involuntarily as his back arched slightly.

Chihiro's expression is a perfect picture of pure, agony, and desperate need. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking out the corners as he bites down on his tongue to keep from whining out loud. His thighs are trembling above your thighs, his hole gaping around your throbbing cock.

The sight of the usually stoic and tense man, now vulnerable and weakened, has taken your breath away.

"That's it, Chihiro. Enjoy my cock.." You say with a groan as you watch his body jolt and bounce with each jerky and inexperienced thrust of your hips, "Take it all, it's all yours. Just for you..."

The praise makes him shiver, his body arching up into yours, arms holding your tighter against him. His eyes flutter open. They're half lidded, pupil blown wide with desire, and he's trying so hard to be quiet, but every movement you make pulls tiny gasps and whimpers from his throat. "Please," he breathes out, barely more than a sigh. "Please..."

"What is it?" You rasped out.

For a moment there, he was paralyzed with the feeling of you inside with no barriers. It made his cock twitch pathetically.

"Ahh- ngh!" His words died in his throat as your hand wrapped around his twitching cock, stroking him with trembling fingers.

His hands flew to your wrists, gripping desperately as he felt your cock stretching him open — is it- did you just get bigger inside of him?? But then your finger pinches his sensitive foreskin together and he let out a broken whine, forgetting about the stretch.

You pull back to look him in the eye, smiling when he peers up at you with glassy red eyes.

Your cradling hand ruffles the back of his hair, and you tug very lightly with each thrust.

The smile you gave made his heart flutter, his cheeks heating up even more. Somehow, it felt so right in this moment - like it was all that he needed for him to finally feel his balls draw up tightly.

You moan out as you feel him squeeze you tighter, your own orgasm approaching rapidly, "You gonna cum for me?"

He presses his forehead to yours, dark lashes fluttering shut. "Mmph... mmmmm...!" He whined and nodded against your forehead, his face contorting with pure pleasure as he felt his orgasm creeping up.

His hips snapped up into your hand desperately, his cock throbbing wildly as he chased after your warm grip.

His cock, already so sensitive from being focused on the glans and foreskin, erupted messily against your stomach and hand. His face scrunches up, lips parting as he forgets how to make noise — he holds his breath.

Your hips bucked up helplessly, your cock throbbing inside you, leaking precum down the shaft. You were so close already, your thighs trembling violently under his.

You frantically pulled out your cock, his hole staying slack and gaping for a moment before slowly clenching around air when your hand left his cock to jerk off above him using his cum on yourself.

Embarrassed, he brings you closer to bury his face into your shirt.

He let out a deep, muffled exhake against your shoulder, his nose pressing deep into your sweaty skin. The sight went straight to his softening cock, making him twitch violently against nothing but the space between your bodies.

"Hah- hahhh-" Your breath is ragged as you try to speak, lost in the pleasure. "So whiny.. you're so whiny- gonna cum—"

Your entire body locked up, eyes squeezing shut as you feel an overload of electricity shocking your body and spraying all over chihiro's body. "Arghh.."

Your cock was still buried in your grasp, twitching weakly as you rode through your orgasm. You cradle his head again and whispered into his ear, your voice guttural;

"Don't hide now. Not from me," you whispered against his ear, your hand drawing out every last spasm of pleasure. "Every thought, every action, every word... they all belong to me."

Don't deny what you are and how you feel when I've accepted them, Chihiro. Don't fight it. Accept yourself.

He nods obediently, his own throat sore as he finally shakes his shoe out of the leg of your sweatpants. "I won't hide from you."

Your eyes glint with relief. Yes. Yes, you're so happy to hear that.

Your body went completely limp above him, eyes rolling back before closing. The orgasm had been too intense, too overwhelming. It was combined with the earlier orgasm, the pleasure, and the emotional turmoil. You'd finally reached your limit.

Chihiro's breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly as your heavy body melted onto his, his legs shaky as he held you tight.

. . .

The following morning, you woke up alone, but the scent of Chihiro lingers, so you don't mind. In fact, you're more than happy to cuddle into his side of the bed and stuff your flushed face into his pillow.

Then.. you freeze.

You're on a bed?

You sit upright, heart dropping to your feet.

Whose bed is this??

"[Name]." A voice calls from the corner of the room. Your eyes immediately flicker over to the voice, and a sigh of relief deflated your body.

Chihiro.

His eyes softened considerably now.

His face is also lightly flushed from memories of last night and.. he seems to be scribbling something down inside your journal, and he lays it bare of the desk.

But most importantly, his shoulders are relaxed. His posture screams open and vulnerable as he doesn't even bother to put on his shirt — the one you removed off his body last night.

"Shiba found us." He blurts out casually. He walks around the room as his scarred body twitches with aftershocks. Your eyes open wide with shock. "He scolded me about doing.. doing that on the couch, and he wants you to replace the couch."

If Chihiro was being honest, he would've mentioned how Shiba pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought of a way to teleport your body to your room without having you vomiting in your sleep because Chihiro's body was too weak and shaky to carry you himself.

You gulp, "I'll.. think about it."

Couches are expensive.

Chihiro sends you a ghost of a smile, his ears burning red as you stand up, the covers falling from your hips as you stretched.

You round the edge of the bed to meet him at the desk.

This felt strangely domestic to Chihiro. Watching as your nude body worked into a relieving stretch like you have all the time in the world, his own body shirtless and on display in his own comfort...

"Are you hungry?" He asks gently, his fingers fiddling with his belt as he fastens it. "Let me make you breakfast.."

You glance down at the desk, your journal with the initials C.R. faced up — "Okay.. don't let Char help you. She left an egg shell in my omelet yesterday."

Chihiro flexes his shoulders as he finally reaches for his sweater. "She will learn.."

When you catch a glimpse of what he wrote in your journal, your body warms up.

I think I love you too. I am struggling to truly accept it however, don't doubt that I don't want it because I truly do want to open my heart with you. I'm sorry for asking you to be patient than you have already been. I am trying.

- Chihiro.

. . .

Sometimes multiple people. Emi’s always there, and Aizawa’s either there or standing nearby for reasons unknown to you. The hospital social worker you met the last time you were here swings by at least twice, the second time accompanied by a blond guy with a tiny mustache who really wants to be your lawyer. You’re too dopey to figure out why you need one, so you reach for his card, forget you’ve got an IV in, yank it out by accident, and pass out at the sight of your own blood. When you wake up, the card is on your bedside table, along with a cookie package from the vending machine. “The card’s from him,” the social worker — Shirakumo — tells you. “The cookies are from me. You really need to eat something.”

The next time you’re awake, you pick at them. It gives you something to do that’s not talking to the reporter or the TV news research assistant or the Hassaikai Corp lawyer, who gets a sentence and a half into his pitch before Aizawa throws him out. You watch, bemused. Emi’s more impressed. “Would you throw guys for me, too, Shouta?”

Aizawa leans back against the wall. “With luck, you’ll never come across guys like that.”

Emi has her own opinions on guys like that, all of which come to the forefront when you get a visitor you haven’t seen in almost a decade. He shows up and she blocks the door to your room. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Spinner. I just want to check and see how she’s doing.”

“And how do you know her?”

“I knew her in high school,” Spinner says, puzzled. “She and my best friend were dating.”

It’s quiet for a second. “The guy from the photo,” Emi says suddenly. “Are you out of your mind? She just got rid of one creep. You think I’m letting a second one get in here? Get out of here, and tell your stalker best friend to —”

“It’s okay.” You struggle to get the words out, and you can barely produce enough volume to be heard. “Emi. It’s okay. Let him in.”

“If he does one freaky thing —” Emi breaks off. “I won’t ask my future husband to throw you out. I’ll do it myself.”

You glance at Aizawa to see how he’s taking the future husband thing. He’s either asleep or pretending successfully. “I’m not here to do anything,” Spinner says. Emi steps aside, and you get your first look at Spinner in a long time.

He’s grown up — just like Himiko, just like Tomura, and although he’s still got a set of headphones around his neck, he looks even more professional than Tomura did in his suit this morning. Whatever he’s up to, it suits him.

His eyes widen when he sees you, and he rocks back a step. “Holy shit,” he says. Emi glares at him. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you — no, that’s dumb. What happened? Fuck. I shouldn’t make you talk about it, but — what in the hell —”

He might look like a business guy, but he’s still awkward. It makes you feel better, somehow. “Breathe,” you say. “How have you been doing?”

“Me? Great. Me and Shigaraki just launched our newest game a couple months ago. Detnerat just branched into game design last year — I head up the department, Shigaraki’s on the board — and I was gonna take a vacation but now they want a Hassaikai raid video game — it just happened today —” Spinner breaks off, gives you an incredibly guilty look. “I guess you know about that.”

You nod. Nodding hurts. “Toga and Shigaraki wanted to come visit,” Spinner says, “but they’re both still at the site. The prosecutor’s such a nut job that they’re doing preliminary depositions on everybody who helped with the sting. And Dabi would have come too, except the headquarters were apparently, like, booby-trapped. Did you know about that?”

You shake your head. You knew Kai was careful, but that’s taking it really far. Maybe it isn’t, though — you don’t actually know what Kai or Hassaikai Corp did to trigger this kind of response. “Yeah,” Spinner continues. “So Dabi is helping with that. Since he’s a firefighter now. Did Shigaraki tell you that?”

You nod again. “It’s weird.”

“It’s all kind of weird,” Spinner says. “Me and Shigaraki at Detnerat, and Dabi as a firefighter, and Toga helping take down Hassaikai Corp —”

“Yeah?”

“She’s the whistleblower,” Aizawa says without opening his eyes. “She’s been feeding Hassaikai’s internal documents to the police for the last year. That was what triggered the initial investigation.”

“And they dug up all kinds of weird shit,” Spinner says. “That’s when Shigaraki got Detnerat involved. Toga was having a hard time getting access to the really incriminating things, and Shigaraki figured dangling a business deal in front of Overhaul would be a great way to —”

“Overhaul?”

“That’s his handle in the underground,” Aizawa says. He opens his eyes long enough to give you an odd look. “Based on our previous conversations, I know you were unfamiliar with your husband’s crimes until today, but it’s hard to imagine that you were unaware of his true nature.”

You’re foggy on pain and painkillers, but you don’t like the sound of that. “I saw his true nature a long time ago,” you say. Aizawa inclines his head. “I don’t know about anything else.”

Emi reaches across your bed and smacks Aizawa’s arm. “That wasn’t trauma informed. Don’t be mean,” she says. She looks at you. “I’ve been doing research.”

“On what?” Spinner asks, interested. “Were you in on the bust too?”

“No,” Emi says. She gives Spinner a weird look, just like the one Aizawa gave you. “I didn’t know about that until today. But this isn’t the first time Captain Asshole’s put his wife in the hospital. I’ve been researching how to help with that.”

Spinner looks shocked. Spinner’s not a good actor. Did he not know? “Is that true?” he asks you. You really don’t know how to answer that. What does it look like is kind of a mean thing to say to someone who hasn’t seen you in years, and Spinner answers his own question. “Shit. I thought it was just — fuck, that’s bad. I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”

That warrants a What does it look like, but you can’t get the words out. You’re too struck by the look on Spinner’s face, the clear pity and horror, and it occurs to you that this is your life now. This is how everyone will see you. Weak, pathetic, useless — and stupid, now, because your husband’s apparent criminal activities were miles off your radar. You’ll get up and walk out of here. You could move away and leave all this behind. But you’ll never be out from under Kai’s shadow. When people look at you, this is what they’ll see.

You can’t think about it any longer. “Did Tomura send you?”

“He wants to know how you’re doing,” Spinner says. “And if you want him to visit, once things wrap up over there.”

“Yes.”

It feels like it should be a harder question to answer than it is. After all, you’re in here because — not because of Tomura, but because of how Kai reacted to the downfall Tomura orchestrated for him. That reaction was predictable. Tomura should have believed you. And at the same time, he’s not the one who did this to you. He’s the one who understands what it’s like to live under someone else’s thumb. You repeat yourself, ignoring the weird looks you’re getting from Emi and Aizawa. “Yes.”

Spinner looks relieved. “Oh, good. I only got ahold of him for a second, but he sounded really worried.”

You nod. “Can I tell him what’s going on?” Spinner asks. He gestures awkwardly at you. “I mean, that you’re awake and talking and everything.”

“That’s fine.” You can tell Tomura the rest when he gets here.

The police get here before Tomura does. They bring a photographer with them to document your injuries, and you sign a release that allows them to access the photographs from your last visit, too. The photographer notices the scar on your shoulder. She snaps a photo of that, too.

Your actual interviewer is the green-haired guy who tried to talk Kai down. “This is just a first pass,” he assures you. “Tell me about what happened today. Start at the beginning.”

Something occurs to you as you’re opening your mouth. “Can I borrow your phone? Mine is —”

The investigator, whose name is Midoriya Izuku, smiles and nods. He hands it to you unlocked, and you glance over at the lawyer’s card on your bedside table. Yamada Hizashi, attorney at law: Pro bono is my passion. Works for you. You dial the number, and he picks up on the first ring. “Yamada Hizashi here. What can I do for you?”

“You gave me your card earlier,” you say, conscious of the look Midoriya Izuku is giving you. “I’m the one who —”

“Who passed out, yeah.” Yamada was engaged before; now he’s focused. “Are the cops there?”

“Yes.”

“Say no more. Literally. I’m on my way!”

You hand Midoriya his phone. He gives you a reproachful look. “I just wanted to talk,” he says. “You don’t need a lawyer if you’ve done nothing wrong.”

That sounds like something Kai would say, right before he opened your mail or checked your search history. You keep your mouth shut, and approximately forty-five seconds later, Yamada Hizashi breezes into the room. “Hey there, Midoriya! Long time no see. How’s the family? Good? Good. What do we have here?” Midoriya opens his mouth, and Yamada cuts him off. “I know you aren’t trying to question my client while she’s under the influence of painkillers after emergency surgery to deal with the injuries her husband caused during your raid.”

“N-no,” Midoriya stammers. “The only person who saw Chisaki between when he left the conference room and when I apprehended him was her. Her injuries occurred during the time period where nobody else had eyes on him. I need to know —”

“How the injuries occurred? How do you think? Do you think she choked herself and shattered her own arm?”

Yamada Hizashi is a motormouth. You kind of appreciate that. You’re mostly lost for words. “No,” Midoriya says firmly. “Chisaki is under arrest. His lawyer is leaning on the judge to set bail. We have multiple witnesses ready to attest that he’s violent, but the person he’d pose the greatest threat to if released on bail is his wife. If you can tell us what happened, that should give the judge cover to hold him.”

“I see. For her own safety, huh?” Yamada has a notebook. He’s writing fast. “I hope you’re adding a protection order against anybody from Hassaikai Corp who wasn’t in on the operation? Give me that and we’ll talk.”

“Done.” Midoriya nods to one of the people with him, a tall guy with glasses who excuses himself to make a call. “Okay. Mrs. Chisaki — um, sorry. Let’s start at the beginning —”

“Nope,” Yamada says cheerfully. “Workplace only. Everything else is privileged. For now.”

Midoriya’s smile at you is only slightly forced. “What time did you arrive at work this morning?”

“Around eight-thirty.”

“Were you alone?”

“No,” you say. “Kai drove us both to work.”

“I see. Once you arrived, what did you do?”

You stumble through the morning’s events. Kai using you as a stress toy, Himiko announcing that the Detnerat executives had arrived, the short elevator trip to the conference room. Midoriya asks if everyone was there when you arrived, and you say no. “One person from Detnerat wasn’t there. Kai waited for him to start the meeting.”

“Who was absent?”

“Shimura Tenko.”

Midoriya nods. “Had you met Shimura Tenko, also known as Shigaraki Tomura, before that day?”

“Yes,” you say, praying he won’t ask how.

He doesn’t. “To the best of your knowledge, had your husband met him before?”

“Yes,” you say again. “Kai recognized him.”

“How do you know?”

The sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. The way Kai stiffened in his seat. His hand — “He had his hand on my leg,” you say, shifting the blankets aside. “When he saw Tomura, this is how hard he grabbed me.”

Midoriya’s eyes widen. The photographer snaps a picture, and you flinch. You knew it hurt, but you didn’t realize just how visible it would be. Kai’s fingers are outlined in black and blue on your thigh, the imprint of his left ring finger and wedding ring even darker. Yamada pats your hand carefully. “After your husband recognized him, what happened?”

“Kai made me leave. He told Kurono to take me up to the executive suite. Kurono locked me in.”

Midoriya looks surprised. “Did Chisaki order him to do that?”

“I don’t know.”

Midoriya asks you some more questions about what you did in the executive suite before Kai came downstairs to kill you. The only one you stumble over is the one about the vase. “Your husband didn’t break it?”

You shake your head. “How did it break?”

“I was holding it when the intruder alarm went off,” you say. “I dropped it.”

“Why were you holding it?”

“Don’t answer that,” Yamada says to you. Then, to Midoriya: “Don’t ask bonehead questions. Try again.”

Midoriya looks like he’s counting to ten. “What happened next?”

“I heard an elevator go off. I didn’t know the executive suite had one.”

“Neither did we,” Midoriya says. “Who was in the elevator?”

“Kai,” you say, and everything blurs out.

You can hear yourself talking, responding to the questions with a handful of words, but in your mind’s eye you’re watching it happen. Seeing what it must have looked like as Kai broke your arm, fractured your cheekbone, wrapped his hands around your throat. You’re strangely fascinated by how your face contorts as you struggle for air, how quickly blood vessels burst in your face, how ugly you look with your eyes bulging. You wonder how anybody can stand to look at you. How Kai didn’t just break your neck and be done with it.

“Okay, we’re done for the day,” Yamada announces loudly, and his voice — a voice that has no business anywhere in that memory — snaps you back to some form of awareness. “Gotcha, Midoriya. You’ve got lots of questions. But my client is dissociating, and I’m pretty sure you’ve got enough to prove that Chisaki would present an immediate danger to my client if released on bail. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Midoriya says reluctantly, “but —”

“Then we’re done for the day! I’m sure we’ll be hearing from you soon.” Yamada makes a shooing motion at Midoriya and the others. “Nice work, by the way. Other than the fact that you almost got my client killed, that bust was a thing of beauty.”

Midoriya shuffles out, looking incredibly guilty, and once the police are gone, Yamada turns to you. “I’m really glad you called me,” he says. “Midoriya’s a good kid, and nobody here is going to screw you, but the National-level prosecutors are going to try to tar as many people as possible with the Overhaul brush, and given that you’ve theoretically been the beneficiary of his illegal actions —”

“I don’t even know what he did.” You’re surprised by the bitterness in your own voice. “Just what he did to me.”

“Let’s keep you in the dark about his criminal charges as long as possible. When they tell you in the deposition — and they’ll move fast with it — I want that to be the first you’ve heard of it.” Yamada is making notes. “We’ll go over the details as soon as I’ve got them. Assuming you’d like me to continue to represent you.”

“Yes,” you say. “I have money. Not a lot, but —”

“Nope! Pro bono really is my passion. Next to none of my clients pay, especially not the ones in your position.” Yamada smiles brightly at you, then answers your next question as you’re opening your mouth to ask. “I was born with a severe case of silver-spoon-up-my-ass. The only cure is doing something good with it. And between you and me, sticking it to guys like your husband is kind of my specialty.”

You don’t want to stick it to Kai. You want him gone for good. “I need a divorce.”

Yamada’s jaw drops, and he bursts out laughing. “Damn right,” he says. “You can’t do the DIY trustee-visit special, not with him in jail. How likely is it that he’ll fight you over it?”

Really likely. So likely that your stomach ties itself in a knot at the thought. “He’ll fight it,” you say. “As long as he thinks there’s a chance he’ll —”

The door opens, and you jump. Yamada looks up, shoulders tensing, but he relaxes almost immediately. “The man of the hour. Shimura Tenko, right? Yamada Hizashi. You don’t need a lawyer, do you?”

“I have one. Or ten.” Tomura sounds awful. “They’re everywhere.”

“I bet. You look like a man who just got deposed within an inch of his life,” Yamada says. “You’re here to see my client?”

“She said I could.”

“Hey, I’m not questioning it. My client knows what’s best for her, even when she’s sky-high on the best painkillers the medical establishment can offer,” Yamada says. He glances back at you, eyebrows raised, and you nod. Yamada smiles at you. “Okay. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. If the police stop by again, call me. If any of your husband’s friends show up, call the cops. We’re going to get this taken care of. Ya dig?”

“I — dig.” Your lawyer is kind of weird. “Thanks.”

Yamada zooms out of the room, skidding past Tomura, who sidles in looking about as awful as he sounds. He’s still wearing the same dusty suit as before. The misery on his face deepens when he sees you. “I thought Spinner was kidding. When he said surgery.”

You shake your head. “Something weird happened to my arm when it broke. They had to fix it. I’m going to be okay.”

“Don’t,” Tomura says. You blink. “You warned me, and you were right. Don’t try to put a happy face on this. I should have called it off the second I realized you were in the building.”

“I was always going to be in the building. I go where he goes.”

“Not anymore,” Tomura says. His eyes are burning, even as his expression crumbles into desperation around them. “You’re never going with him again. I should never have let you go in the first place.”

“Letting me go would have been the right thing to do,” you say. “That’s not what you did.”

It’s quiet for a second. Tomura leans against the door. He looks so tired. You’re tired, too. Of everything. The words leave your mouth in the horrible rasp that’s all that’s left of your voice. “I made him do it.”

This time, Tomura doesn’t need to ask what you mean. He looks up. “Why?”

“I thought he’d won,” you say, and that’s all.

You don’t know how to explain the rest of it. Maybe you’ll never be able to, and maybe that’s okay. Nobody should ever have to feel the same bleakness and despair that’s been shrouding you since Friday night, or face the kind of future Kai had in mind for you. You don’t want to live with this. You don’t want Tomura to live with it, either.

Tomura approaches you carefully, sits down in the chair Yamada left. “You got a lawyer.”

“The police came to see me. That Midoriya guy,” you say, and Tomura makes a face. “You know him?”

“Yeah. He was the one we were coordinating everything through. The cops, the investigative bureau, your old job, Detnerat.” Tomura runs his hand through his hair, sending up a cloud of dust. “I should have told you about it. The Detnerat thing.”

“I think you were trying,” you say. “Then I put my head on your shoulder and — uh —”

You trail off, thinking of the times over the weekend when you were convinced that your records-room hookup with Tomura was the last good thing that would ever happen to you. “We kind of — changed topics.”

“Yeah. Fuck.” Tomura runs his hand through his hair again. “All weekend I’ve been thinking about that. Thinking about how good it was. Thinking I’d fucked up so bad, and he was going to hurt you again because of me. And that’s exactly what happened — except it’s not because we slept together. It’s because he saw me.”

“No. I made him —”

“He was letting you go.” Tomura’s hands come up, one to claw at his neck, one to cover his face. “Midoriya had EMTs. They were supposed to go with him to get you. But they got stuck in the conference room — Overhaul fucking tear-gassed it — and he told me to come with him instead, so I could help get you. Overhaul was letting you go. When he saw me, that’s when he tried again. It’s my fault.”

“No.” You don’t have words for how much you don’t want to hear this right now. Or ever. “I baited him, and he chose to strangle me. Just like he chose to hurt me every other time he did it. I’m done letting him off the hook. I don’t want anybody else to, either.”

Tomura looks up at you, startled. “You’re starting off better than I did,” he says. “It took years before I could think like that.”

“I’m older,” you say. “I just want my life back.”

What life, though? Your adult life’s been marked by the whims of two men, one of whom tried to kill you today and the other of whom is sitting next to you, watching you like he’s always done. What does getting your life back actually look like? A job. Your old job back, if Mr. Sasaki was serious about that. Therapy. A divorce. Somewhere to live that feels safe. And people again, friends again — friends like Emi and Aizawa and Himiko and Spinner. And Tomura.

You can’t blame anybody for Kai’s actions, but you can’t say the stress Tomura had you under didn’t influence your decision to start a relationship with him. Letting a guy who stalked you for years back into your life is a terrible idea. Except — you were only in high school, but you were happy with Tomura. You didn’t break up with him because you stopped loving him. If getting your life back means having what you want, you want Tomura to be part of it, one way or the other.

“Do you have somewhere to stay when you get out?” Tomura asks. “I could — I mean, it’s kind of soon —”

“Emi offered to let me stay with her,” you say, and Tomura nods. “It would be kind of soon for us. You’re right.”

“Himiko and Magne said I shouldn’t mention it,” Tomura says. “Dabi, too. I just thought — I should offer. Not to make you. So you’d know.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Being really blunt worked out okay for you last time.”

Tomura looks surprised for a moment; then he smiles. “Yeah, it did.”

Back in high school, Tomura didn’t ask you out with any degree of smoothness. He tripped and fell into it headfirst. You weren’t even thinking in that direction when you complained about a school dance all your friends had managed to snag last-minute dates for. We were going to go as a big group. Now it’ll just be me, and I hate dancing by myself. I always feel stupid.

Tomura was quiet for a little while. The two of you were in the library, supposedly studying, but you kept talking instead — talking, then getting aggressively shushed by the librarian. You should go with me, he said finally. That way, you’ll know you won’t be the one who looks dumbest.

Right. You hate dances. You figured he was joking, or you wouldn’t have laughed. You wouldn’t be caught dead —

I would if I was with you. Tomura’s eyes were averted. He missed the way your jaw dropped. I hate it, but if that’s the only way I can go out with you, that’s what I’ll do.

It was silent between you — truly silent, for the first time since you sat down together in the library. You had no idea what to say. After a while, minutes, Tomura spoke up again. Toga and Dabi said to be subtle. I didn’t want you to get confused.

How long have you liked me? you asked, and got a shock when he answered. I don’t think subtle is your problem. I didn’t know until you said that about the dance.

And? Tomura glanced at you, and you realized he was blushing. What do you think now?

I don’t want to go to the dance with you, you said. Let’s do something we both like instead.

The way Tomura’s eyes brightened still makes you smile to remember. When?

The same night as the dance, you said. I’m still going to wear my dress.

You wore your dance dress on your first date with Tomura, to the roller rink and arcade. It got covered in dust, because Tomura kept falling down and taking you with him, and it smelled like popcorn, because you’d gotten some to eat while Tomura tried to impress you by knocking off the top score on every game in the arcade. You had more fun than you’d ever have had at the dance, and you and Tomura ended the night by losing Dance Dance Revolution so badly that the game crashed. It’s still the best first date you’ve ever gone on.

Tomura didn’t comment on the dress until the two of you were on the train, heading home. You look pretty in that.

Even though there were no butterflies yet, you blushed. Do you like it?

Yeah. Tomura reached for your hand, and you gave it. I like anything if it’s on you.

Tomura’s holding your hand in the present, too, more than a decade and a lifetime away. “I think we have a lot to talk about,” you say. “I want to see you and talk about it.”

Tomura nods. “Things are going to be stupid busy while we gear up for the trial,” he says. You still don’t know what happened, and per your lawyer, you’re not going to ask. “I got you something so we can talk whenever you want.”

He reaches into his pocket and produces an iPhone — the same model as your old one. “Yours is in an evidence locker somewhere, so this one will help until you get it back,” Tomura says. “I did most of the setup for you. Here.”

You lift the phone out of his hand gingerly, reeling a little bit. You hadn’t really thought about how complicated your life would be without a phone — and without a computer, because that’s at home, too. But since Tomura gave you the phone and took care of the setup, there are some things you need to check up on. Just to be safe.

“What are you doing?” Tomura asks. You show him. “Hey. I never tapped your phone. Or your internet.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t think about it?”

“I thought about it,” Tomura admits. It says something about you that you’re proud of him for owning up to it. “But there was stuff I didn’t want to know. And doing that felt like a line. There were always lines for me.”

He glances at you. “There still are,” he says. “I’ll prove it.”

You think he will. You know Tomura, same as you know Kai. You know just how many differences there are between the two of them. Kai’s spent the last four years making them clear, and you wonder if he knows just what he’s done. If he knows that making himself Tomura’s opposite in every way pushed you straight back to Tomura’s side.

A nurse comes in to check on you, notes that it’s been a while since your last painkiller, and gives you another, which threatens to knock you off instantly. “I can leave,” Tomura says as you yawn so widely your jaw pops. “You need to sleep.”

You nod. “That’s why you should stay.”

Tomura doesn’t argue. He drags his chair as close to the bed as possible and takes your hand in both of his. The thought occurs to you as you drift off that none of this is real. You imagined it all, somewhere in the moments between when Kai’s hands closed around your throat and your heart stopped beating. If this is your dying dream, it could be worse. Getting to go to sleep for the last time believing that things might be okay — there are worse ways to go.

The doctors wake you up at five in the morning for rounds. Tomura is still asleep in the chair beside your bed.

<- Chapter 7

Your injuries were bad. Worse than the ones you have now. You and Spinner took on Sensei together, using your quirk-canceling bullets to weaken him however you could, but you both knew it wouldn’t be enough. Sensei had too many quirks, too many ways to retaliate. He targeted you first and used Rivet Stab to put five holes in your chest and stomach. By the time Tomura got there, Sensei was already after Spinner, and you were bleeding out in the mud.

Tomura knew you could heal yourself. He gave you Overhaul so you could save both of you, but your hands stayed at your sides, your eyelids falling half-shut, then closed. You were going to die. You were choosing to die. You’re only still here because Tomura made you stay.

It’s not even the only thing that’s wrong. The first time Tomura took your clothes off after the first war ended, he couldn’t believe how many new scars you’d picked up. At first he thought the heroes had tortured you. He’s pretty sure you only told him the truth so he wouldn’t run off and start the war all over again. Why would you hide things from him? You’d be furious if Tomura hid things from you, so why do you get to do it to him? Tomura adds that question to the list of things he needs to ask you when you wake up.

He can hear the chaos in the rest of the hospital scaling up, and after a few minutes, Spinner comes back to report. “All Might’s here,” he says. “He wants to speak to you.”

“Why the fuck would I want to talk to him right now?” Tomura can’t believe Spinner’s even asking. “I’m not leaving her. And All Might can’t see her, since we’re pretending she’s dead. Tell him to fuck off.”

“Tell — All Might — to — fuck — off.” Spinner pretends he’s taking notes. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell him yourself? You’d get more out of it than I would.”

Any other day, Tomura would love the chance to insult All Might to his face. He hasn’t forgotten the way All Might treated him at USJ, belittling him and swatting him aside to protect a bunch of privileged brats. But the most privileged of those brats is on the bottom of the heap now, thanks to you and the bullets you made. The power’s not in All Might’s hands anymore. All Might didn’t do this to you, so All Might doesn’t matter right now. Tomura can deal with him later.

“You tell him,” he says to Spinner. Spinner nods. “I’m staying here.”

A few minutes after Spinner leaves, one of the doctors exits the operating room. A moment later, the door to the observation room opens. “I’m here to provide an update on Saintess’s condition,” he says. “We’ll be closing soon.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ve fixed the damage we’re able to through surgical means,” the doctor says. “When Saintess awakens, she can use the quirk you gave her to repair the rest.”

“So she’s going to make it,” Tomura says, and the doctor nods. Nobody’s told him the plan yet, so Tomura has to. “The heroes are here. They brought their healing quirks. I want you and everybody else to act like she’s dead.”

“What?”

“Act like she’s dead. Like she died at the scene, or like you couldn’t save her.” Tomura’s mouth tastes like bile. “Pick what you want. Don’t let anyone know she’s alive. Tell your team.”

“Yes, Grand Commander.” The doctor looks uneasy. “If I may ask — why?”

“If they think she’s dead, they’ll stop trying to kill her.” Tomura means it, but it’s not even close to the only reason. He’s faking your death for propaganda purposes. To enrage his own side. To scare hero Japan into submission. He’s using you. It feels disgusting. “Spinner and the rest of the League know the truth. When you need to update me about her, tell them and they’ll tell me. Do you understand?”

The doctor nods and turns to leave. “Wait,” Tomura says. “If she makes it —”

“I believe she will.”

“Then I owe you,” Tomura says. “Doctors, nurses — whoever. All of you.”

The doctor inclines his head. “And Chronostasis,” he says. Tomura grimaces. “Without him, she would have died of her injuries before we could reach her.”

Tomura believes that. He’s sure enough about it that it settles into his bones. He owes Chronostasis. No way around it. At the same time, there’s no way in hell that he’s going to ask for Overhaul’s release from prison — but maybe that shouldn’t be his call. Tomura adds another question to the list of things to ask you.

He should have asked the doctor when you were going to wake up. Where did he go? Tomura tries to go back through the door the doctor left through and finds that it’s locked. Fuck that. He’s about to put his fifth finger down and Decay his way through when the other door to the observation room opens behind him. Tomura turns and finds All Might silhouetted in the doorway.

Either someone on Tomura’s side slipped up, or All Might’s rule about killing villains isn’t quite as absolute as he wants everyone to think. “What are you doing here?”

“Your friends said you didn’t want to see anyone, but —”

“They weren’t kidding. Fuck off before I put another hole in your stomach.” Tomura waits a second, then another. “I know you’re old. Are you going deaf, too? Get out.”

“This cannot wait,” All Might says, and actually takes another step into the room. “I wanted to express my condolences. I’m so sorry about —”

He says your real name, but Tomura blanks it right out of his head. “Don’t call her that,” he snaps. “You don’t get to call her that. You don’t get to start acting like she’s a person to you now that it’s too late.”

“She has always been a person to me,” All Might says. He shuts the door behind him. “I met her during her captivity. I was the one who argued for her release back to you.”

You told Tomura that. You kept a lot about what happened while the heroes had you quiet, but you told him who convinced them to let you out. “You let her out because she was useful. Because she was a tool you could use to carve Sensei out of me. That’s not the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” All Might’s a better actor than Tomura remembers him being. “I conducted research into the two of you while she was our captive. I wanted to understand what could lead a civilian to side with you, and in the process I learned that your suffering began well before you came into All For One’s possession. That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

“No shit.” Tomura grits his teeth. “If you’re just going to stand here and tell me what I already know —”

“I’m telling you what I told her. It was my job to protect you and I failed,” All Might says. Tomura’s throat slams shut. “She protected you instead. As much as she could, for as long as she could. I’m here to return the favor. Er — Kurogiri —”

Before Tomura can ask what the fuck All Might thinks he’s doing giving commands to Tomura’s friends in Tomura’s fucking country, a warp gate opens and someone steps through. Someone small, who’s clutching a toy that looks familiar. “I’m sure you remember Eri,” All Might says. “Her quirk allows her to —”

“I know what it does.” Tomura’s stomach rolls, twists. He curls his hand into a fist so he won’t rip it out. “Why are you here?”

“You were nice to me. She was nice to me.” Eri’s red eyes are tearful. She wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “I don’t know if I can, but I want to try.”

“Try what?”

“Bringing her back,” All Might says. “If Eri rewinds the clock on Saintess’s body —”

He trails off. If you really were dead, Tomura would jump at the chance. He’d grab Eri and activate one of his speed quirks, tearing off through the hospital until he found your body so she could try to bring you back to life. But you’re alive. You’re going to live. And because you’re going to live, Tomura’s not going to hide the truth. “She doesn’t want to come back.”

It’s silent. In the operating theater, someone comes into clear the mess away. Wipe up the bloodstains. Throw away the gauze and tools. Make it so you were never here. This was your job when Tomura was getting the quirks transplanted, what the doctor made you do. What Tomura made you do, because he’s the one who wanted you to be there. Just like he made you live.

Guilt claws at him, harder than he’s ever scratched himself, but Tomura can’t be the only one who did this to you. He can’t be the only reason. The real reason is standing right here. “This is your world. The one that cares more about heroes’ feelings than villains’ lives. The one where quirks are all that matter. Your world was so fucking awful that she’d rather have died than keep living in it. I promised her I’d make her a new one, but I was too late.”

It’s All Might’s fault. All his fault, just like Sensei always said. But the kid’s still standing there, tears running down her cheeks, and she’s not the one who did this to Tomura. Or to you. Tomura wrenches his eyes away from the operating theater and crouches down to face her. “She’d be really proud of you for wanting to help people,” he says. Eri nods. “She’d want you to go help the people who can be helped. Those are the ones who need you.”

“Saintess —”

“She’d want to rest now.” Tomura knows you’re alive. Knows you’re asleep somewhere in the hospital, waiting for the anesthesia to wear off. Why’s he still fucking crying? “I love her. So I have to let her go.”

“She would never have let you go,” All Might says, and Tomura’s guilt almost swallows him whole. “That’s what love meant to her.”

“Because she’s a hero,” Tomura says. “I’m not.”

He knows you’d argue with that. You think Tomura is a hero, too. Your hero. And he really is just like a hero, because he let you down. “If you want to do something for her, go save some people. That’s what she’d be doing if she was here. Since she can’t anymore, it’s up to you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Eri whimpers. She hugs Tomura, the corgi plush that looks like Mon-chan caught between them. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t you,” Tomura says. He puts up with the hug for a little while, then pulls away. “Go.”

The door shuts behind them. Tomura takes a deep breath, then another, hating the way they get caught in his throat. Everything he said to them was true — but so was what All Might said to him. You’d never just let Tomura go. You’d fight for him, like you’ve always fought for him, even when all you were fighting was his certainty that there was nothing worth living for. When did Tomura change his mind? How did you make him believe?

He needs to remember. When you wake up, he’s going to do the same for you.

Spinner doesn’t come back to report, but Magne and Inada do. “The heroes are scared shitless. They don’t buy that you’re not going to retaliate.”

“I never said I wasn’t going to. What else?”

“They’re really going plus ultra, from what I can tell.” Inada makes air quotes with red-painted fingernails. “They’re terrified of patients dying on their watch. They don’t see this as just saving people here. They’re trying to save Japan.”

“Our lives only matter when saving us means saving someone else.” Dabi slunk into the room when Tomura wasn’t looking. “Same old, same old.”

Tomura wonders if you’ll see it like that. Or if you’ll just be happy that lives are being saved. “I told you to keep an eye on the heroes, too. What are they doing?”

“Shitting themselves in terror,” Dabi says. “And they’re getting a lot of angry phone calls. Apparently All Might made that offer without asking the civilian government first. Get a load of this.”

He takes out his phone and shows Tomura a video of some civilian politician bitching All Might out for assisting a hostile power, while All Might keeps trying to point out that hero Japan and Japan Nova aren’t actually at war. About forty-five seconds into the video, All Might loses his temper, and Tomura gets to watch the former Number One hero and Symbol of Peace tell a government official to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Magne cackles at it. “I’ve never seen him get riled up like that outside a battle. He’s committed.”

“He brought the kid here. Eri,” Tomura says, and they turn to look at him. “He thought Rewind could help.”

“Yeah, I saw her running around. She regrew somebody’s leg,” Dabi says. His gaze sharpens. “He brought her here for Saintess. To bring her back to life. What the fuck?”

“You said no, right?” Inada demands. “Tell me you said no.”

“Of course he said no. She’s out of surgery, and we’re pretending she’s dead.”

Tomura doesn’t think that’s what Inada’s talking about. Inada has a good read on you even when she’s not using her quirk, which means you wanting to hurt yourself or die didn’t come as a shock. She knows you, like Tomura does. Enough to know that you stopped wanting to live at some point. “It’s good that the kid is helping. Nobody else on the heroes’ side can do the stuff she can.”

“Agreed, but — holy fuck. They’re pulling out all the stops,” Magne says. “Saying she’s dead was the right call. They’re going crazy.”

“No, they aren’t,” Inada says. “They’re acting like her.”

Right. You healed people during the last battle. Heroes. You helped heroes during the ceasefire, too. The world thinks you died trying to help people, and because you’re dead, they’re trying to take your place. Save the people you would have saved. Prevent the war you would have argued against. Follow your example. Inada’s right, but Tomura’s with Magne. The heroes have lost their minds. Stain would be proud.

A high command meeting gets called at some point, hosted in the hospital because the hospital’s full of heroes and not even the Freedom Alliance would be dumb enough to bomb All Might on purpose. Your ex tells everyone that the Freedom Alliance expected Tomura to attack hero Japan in response to the bombing, which would have provided justification for an expansion of the war. As it is, the bombing isn’t playing well in the court of public opinion. A bunch of countries have issued condemnations, saying that bombing nonmilitary targets is never acceptable, not even if the civilians are citizens of a country full of villains. The Freedom Alliance has an answer to that, too.

“It’s a military target because Saintess was there?” Re-Destro repeats. “Is this a joke?”

“She’s a member of our leadership. They’re also saying that there’s no such thing as a civilian in Japan Nova, because we’re a rogue state and they all chose to live here,” Spinner says, scanning the statement. “Basically, they didn’t do anything wrong.”

“According to my reading of the Geneva Convention, they committed multiple war crimes,” your ex says. He looks tired. “But we’re discussing the most powerful nations in the world. International condemnation means nothing to them.”

“Neither does the Geneva Convention,” Re-Destro snaps. “What are our options for a response? Our allies —”

“What allies? No one is going to challenge them —”

Japan Nova doesn’t have any allies. It’s got some nonaggression pacts that you were able to negotiate, and some trade deals with countries that care more about their bottom line than they do about the Freedom Alliance being pissed at them, but that’s about it. There’s nobody who’s going to jump to their defense. Even hero Japan —

That’s it. Tomura and his friends might not have allies, but hero Japan doesn’t, either. The people who claim they’re helping hero Japan deliberately risked the lives of every person who lives there, just to give themselves an excuse to broaden the scope of the war. Hero Japan just learned the same lesson Tomura and his friends learned a long time ago: Their lives don’t matter. The people with power can just throw them away.

When Tomura realized that, he was furious. His friends were furious, too. And he saw that same fury on someone else today. Tomura gets up and leaves the meeting. Once he’s in the hall, he calls Kurogiri. “Can you get me Present Mic?”

“Hizashi?” Kurogiri’s expression shifts. “Why?”

Last Tomura heard, Present Mic is in charge of the new Heroes’ Public Safety Commission, which still makes up most of the government. “I have a plan.”

“Zashi makes good plans,” Kurogiri says. It still weirds Tomura out to hear Kurogiri talk about heroes like they’re his friends. “One moment.”

Tomura’s never talked to Present Mic one on one. Sometimes when he’s bored he daydreams about torturing Present Mic, since that’s what Present Mic wanted to do to you. Right now he’s got something else on his mind, and once Kurogiri sets Mic down in front of Tomura, and Tomura gets right to the point. “They want us dead, and they don’t care if they get all of you killed to make it happen. That means we’re on the same side.”

“No, it just means we’re fucked,” Mic snaps. “They’re going to go through us to get to you. There’s nothing we can do about it. If we do nothing, they’ll wipe us out. If we attack you, you’ll wipe us out. If we help them, they’ll still wipe us out. There’s no way we come out of this alive.”

“There’s one way,” Tomura says. “Help us instead of them.”

Mic’s jaw drops. His mouth is fucking huge. “Help you?”

“We helped you before,” Tomura says. “You couldn’t have beaten Sensei alone.”

“You stole half the country and ran away, and now you want our help?” Mic laughs. “You’re out of your mind. She really was the brains of the operation, huh?”

“I should kill you for that,” Tomura says. He probably would, if you were really dead. As it is, he sort of appreciates it. At least Mic is being honest, instead of pretending that you matter to him as anything more than the reason why Tomura didn’t murder everyone in hero Japan. “Sometime today, the Freedom Alliance is going to ask you to send heroes to help them. I want you to tell them no.”

“Why would I do that?”

“They fucked you over pretty hard. Did they even warn you about this strike ahead of time?” Tomura sees Mic’s eyes flash behind his stupid sunglasses. “If I’d retaliated right away, you wouldn’t have even had time to grab your support gear. Why would you want to help them after that?”

“That doesn’t mean I want to help you.”

“I’m not asking you to fucking help me,” Tomura snaps. “I’m asking you to stand down. Our ceasefire is still in place. Do you really want to be the ones to break it?”

Mic doesn’t answer. Tomura’s not as good at reading people as you are, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad at it, and he can see Mic thinking things over. “What are you planning to do to them?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“Because it’ll change my answer,” Mic says. “Are you attacking or retaliating?”

Tomura rolls his eyes. “What’s the difference?”

“What you’re hitting. Are you fighting a war or punishing them for killing your girlfriend?” Mic asks. “I thought for sure you’d be the vengeance guy. You ripped Japan apart the last time you thought she was dead, and now that she’s actually dead, you’re –”

Mic interrupts himself. A slow smile crosses his face, one that Tomura would deck him over if he didn’t need someone to carry his message back to hero Japan. “You know, maybe she’s not the only brains of the operation after all.”

Shit. Tomura keeps his expression blank. He’s not giving Mic a hint one way or the other. “This is what she fought for. Somewhere people like us could be free of people like you. I’m not burning down the world she wanted just so I can have revenge.”

Tomura wonders how he’d feel if you were really dead. If you’d been stiff and pulseless and cold when he found you in the wreckage. Thinking about it makes him want to claw open his throat.  “The Freedom Alliance is going to ask you for help. Turn them down. Or I’m coming for you when I’m done with them.”

“So that’s what this is,” Mic says. “If we don’t help them, you’ll leave us alone.”

“Right now I don’t have a reason to kill you. You can decide if you’re going to give me one.” Tomura stares Mic down. Mic stares back. “Your choice. Kurogiri?”

Kurogiri doesn’t even have to show up to create a warp gate, but he does anyway. “Hizashi –”

“I’ll tell Shou hi from you.” Mic steps through the warp gate, but not before firing back at Tomura one last time. “Oh, by the way. My condolences. If you need them.”

The warp gate closes, and Kurogiri looks to Tomura. “Did you tell him?”

“He might have guessed. I didn’t tell him.” Tomura’s limbs are starting to hum with anticipation. “Stick around. I’m going to need you.”

He heads back to the conference room, Kurogiri behind him, and gets right in the middle of the argument between Re-Destro, Skeptic, Spinner, Magne, and your ex. Your ex is the one he needs, but if you wake up and find out that Tomura’s forced him to overload his quirk, you’re going to be pissed. “How many more searches can you handle today?”

“It depends on the size of the search. For a large search, three.”

Which means one. Tomura only needs one. One and a half. “Find out what they’d use for a first strike,” he says, and your ex nods. “Then find out exactly where it is.”

Your ex raises his hand to his temple right away. At least you didn’t date an idiot before you dated Tomura. Tomura’s friends aren’t idiots, either. They pick up on his plan without having to ask stupid questions. “How are we going to do that?” Spinner asks. “Kurogiri and Toga for transport, obviously, but we don’t have anybody else on your power scale.”

“We still have Nomu, don’t we?” Re-Destro doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll gather additional forces. Strike teams of eight to twelve should do, depending on the target. How many targets can we –”

Your ex shakes his head sharply, interrupting the question. He’s writing things down. Tomura sees at least two sets of coordinates. “What about the heroes?” Skeptic asks. “If we send our best to attack the Freedom Alliance, we’ll be vulnerable to hero Japan.”

“Shigaraki spoke to Present Mic,” Kurogiri says. “I believe they will stand down.”

“Even if they don’t, we’re not exactly defenseless.” Magne cracks her knuckles. “You’ve been hogging all the glory, Shigaraki. It’s our turn to get some.”

“He’s going after the Alliance’s nuclear installations. He’s still going to get most of it,” Spinner says. His eyes narrow. “You’re really going to go? What about Saintess? If you get hurt –”

Tomura’s stomach twists. “I won’t.”

You’re in recovery right now. Every doctor who’s worth anything is keeping an eye on you. Tomura can leave instructions with somebody – Toga, maybe – to go grab the Rewind kid if it looks like you’re starting to go downhill. And this can’t wait. The Freedom Alliance thinks they can do whatever they want. They think Tomura’s going to pick the easy target, not the right one, but Tomura’s done playing their game. He wants you to wake up to a world where you have a second or two to breathe. Where Tomura’s hands aren’t tied by the threat of getting fucking nuked. This has to happen now.

Your ex’s hand falls from his temple. “There are fewer sites than I expected. The countries with first-strike capability are still reserving most of that capability to use against one another, and it will take time to reorient. In order to remove the enemy’s first-strike capability against Japan Nova, you will need to target two aircraft carriers, two silos in the nearest allied countries, and three nuclear submarines.”

Seven targets. It could be worse. Tomura looks at Re-Destro. “How fast can you mobilize?”

“Within the hour.”

“Make it half an hour.” Your ex’s nose is bleeding. “If they’re made aware of a shift in our strategy, it won’t take long to respond.”

Tomura hands over planning the attack to the others. He’ll show up where they tell him to and destroy what he’s supposed to destroy. Between now and then, he wants to spend as much time as possible with you.

The doctors have closed off one room on every floor to use as a makeshift morgue, and they’ve banned the heroes from entering them. You’ve been hidden in the one on the maternity floor instead of the ICU, in case any of the heroes ignore the rules and go looking for your body. Tomura picks his way through a sea of nurses and balloons and flowers and crying babies until he finds the fake morgue, already dreading what he’ll see inside. He steels himself and opens the door.

It’s not as bad as he thought. You’re still hooked up to a lot of machines, but there’s not a tube down your throat any longer – just one under your nose, linked to an oxygen tank. One of your hands is visible, lying at your side with an IV sticking out of the back of it. The other’s under the blanket, out of sight. Tenko lifts the blankets and sees that your hand is resting on your bare stomach between multiple rows of stitches. He wonders if you’re healing yourself.

Your face isn’t bloody any longer. Someone’s wiped it away, although Tenko can see specks of it drying in your hair. Your face is ashen and you’re lying still. But you’re breathing on your own. If it wasn’t for the bandages and the heart monitor and the IVs, Tenko could convince himself that you were only asleep.

He wants to climb on the bed with you, but now he gets why you were always so hesitant about it when he was the one having surgery. There’s not that much room. He doesn’t want to damage anything you need. Tenko settles for pulling up a chair instead, picking up the hand outside the blankets and holding it carefully. Your fingers are limp, but your hand’s warm. When Tenko presses his fingers against the underside of your wrist, he can feel your pulse.

“I told everybody you were dead,” he starts. “They’re all losing their minds. Especially the heroes. They’re so scared I’m going to kill them that they started acting more like you.”

Tenko imagines you laughing. He’ll hear you laugh again soon. Maybe even by the time he gets back from this mission. “The thing is, nobody needed to scare you. Saving people no matter who they are is just what you do. You’re a better hero than the rest of them will ever be. You were even before you had quirks.”

Getting quirks just made it easier for you to be a hero. Tenko knows you would have kept doing it anyway, no matter how hard it was. He didn’t think you were scared of hard things, but maybe he doesn’t understand what’s hard for you. “We have to talk about some stuff once you’re awake,” he says. “We can save some of it for when you’re better, but we have to talk about it.”

You’d be looking away. Changing the subject. “None of it is bad stuff. Just not easy stuff. I mean, some of it might be easy.” Tenko sounds like a moron, even to himself. “Some girl this morning asked if we were getting married. That part should be really easy to talk about.”

For a moment, Tenko thinks he feels your fingers tighten around his. But your eyes aren’t open. You don’t speak or even turn your head. “I promised we could play a new game, but I have to finish this one first. When I get back, we can do anything you want. Even if you want us to be farmers.”

The door opens slightly. Twice squeezes through, followed by Compress – followed by Chronostasis. Tomura’s temper flares. “What is he doing here?”

“Contingency,” Compress says. “If Saintess’s condition takes a turn for the worse, he’ll slow her down again –”

“And Mister will Compress her, too. That way she’ll be easy to move, and nothing worse will happen until the doctors can get here,” Twice says brightly. “Don’t worry, boss! She’s safe with us!”

Tomura trusts them. He doesn’t trust Chronostasis. “She’s the only one who can give Overhaul back his arms,” Chronostasis says. “I need her alive.”

“Tomura-kun?” Toga’s in the doorway, dressed in her mission gear. She’s holding Tomura’s, too. “We need to go. Kiyohara says it’s time. Like, now.”

Tomura wants to say something else to you. Anything. He wants to kiss you, even though there are people watching. But there’s so much he wants to say to you that there’s no way for him to sort through it all in time. He’ll have all the time he needs after he ends the war. Tomura pries himself up from the chair at your side, squeezes your hand once, and lets go.

He thinks he feels your grip tighten around his hand as he pulls away, but there’s no time to turn around and check. All he has to go by, as he gears up for the mission and finds out where his first target is, is the phantom sensation of you slipping through his fingers.

<- Chapter 34

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it didn't hurt you. you expected it. but you knew you had to clear your name in case your intentions were twisted. communication is better than nothing. at least you were able to convey your side of things.

it's two a.m, you're tired and have to sleep asap before you go to your classes tomorrow. honestly, you can't deal with bullshit right now.

bullshit has a way of following you though.

as you're walking down the pavement, a bunch of guys are gathered by the side. they seem similar to your age. nevertheless, men huddled around at night meant bad news.

you were about to cross the road to avoid them.

too late.

"hey, miss!"

don't look, don't look—

"oi, miss, don't do that to us! you know we're talking to you!"

cars speed down the road, giving you no access to the crossing.

they're walking over to you.

it's hard to see, but there has to be about five of them. of course, you're immediately terrified.

the pedestrian light turns green and you're ready to run. just as you're about to step on the road, a maroon car bolts down the road.

you don't notice who's it is, having nearly lost your life.

you cross the road.

unfortunately, those guys are walking behind you. taunting you, trying to get your attention and laughing like dickheads.

a honk captures all your attention.

the maroon car from earlier is coming towards you. you feel all your worry disappear in an instant as soon as it pulls up next to you. he rolls down the passenger window. he doesn't have a chance to say anything because those guys are already heading the other way.

"fuck, it's sukuna!"

"guys, run."

"we can't get into this."

the guys run off into the distance.

you laugh, watching them, "pull up your pants, assholes! they're dragging on the ground!"

sukuna actually chuckles at your remark.

you turn back to him, "thanks."

he's staring at your face. blank, yet intimidating as ever. then, "what are you waiting for, dumbass? get in."

you cross your arms, "aren't you still mad at me?"

"i'm not gonna ask again," he says, facing the front.

"damn, okay."

girl, you flew into that car.

he starts driving, "put your address in the gps."

you play around on the gps, entering your address. ten minute ride. okay. you can do this. make conversation—do what you're the best at.

"you didn't have to do that," you say.

"unfortunately you're my brother's friend. i have a responsibility for you whether i like it or not," he answers.

you didn't expect that.

you're riddled with surprise in the passenger seat for a few moments. until your unresolved issue comes to mind.

"are we gonna address it?" you ask.

"no."

"you're being difficult."

"yeah."

yeah, no.

"stop the car."

he scoffs, "no."

"stop the car or let's talk about it like adults," you say in all seriousness.

it seems as if you keep puzzling sukuna because it takes him a while to speak, "you got a mouth on you, you know that? gotta put it to work."

"nah, you're not gonna play with me. i'm being serious right now," you reply.

you're also pissed.

you have every right to be.

"fine," sukuna finally sighs. then, it comes, what you've been waiting to hear all this while, "my bad, shouldn't have yelled at you and put you down like that."

"thank you."

"happy?" he grunts.

"very. wasn't so hard, was it?" you say.

"it's not going to happen again."

"yeah, you're not gonna talk to me like that again," you answer.

"i mean, apologising. but whatever makes your delusional ass happy."

"right. you're so mad all the time," you tell him. "what's with that?"

"just how i am."

"hm, different from the poem you wrote," you say, rubbing your chin.

his expression falters a little. he grips the steering wheel slightly harder, almost unnoticeable but you notice the increase in tension, "don't."

"i didn't know you could feel those emotions."

"stop."

"seriously, your writing is beautiful."

sukuna sighs, rubbing his temples as if to evade frustration.

you continue, "stop being mad all the time."

"you always make me angry," he answers lowly. "just shut up."

"aww," you tease, facing your body completely to him. he doesn't spare you a glance. "i can make you feel something. how about...other things?

he slams on the brakes, "get out."

your apartment complex stands idly in the dark, inviting you to sleep. you smile at sukuna, "thanks. and, i appreciate your apology."

no answer.

you digress, thinking that's all you're gonna get for tonight. it's plenty coming from a guy like sukuna.

you get out of the car, start walking to the gate of your complex.

a honk makes you jump.

you look over at him.

the passenger window is rolled down.

he's smirking at you, one hand on the steering wheel, drumming his fingers on it.

you clench at the very sight.

"turn around for me," he instructs you.

you do it instinctively, thinking nothing of it.

you peer over your shoulder. sukuna's eyes trail down your figure, stopping at your ass, "yeah, think you could make me feel more than anger, sweet ass."

"what the fuck—"

sukuna drives off, leaving you wordless.

PREV | MASTERLIST | NEXT

SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.

PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader

CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!

FIRST TAGLIST ★ @b4tm4nn @love-d-luxe @in-aa @kurtcobaingirlie @hannahzg8 @goopzzz @therealmikeross @izakyun @jjkslvt @strwbrrysatoru @kmhsjy @honeysilkdawn @moonmintedx @charlisflyingangell @4rm-the-mf-concrete @chiizuyu @colortheoryrocks @chosoissohotugh @getosuguwife @cl3xr @satorugooner @cosmosspace @marija4674 @snowstriper101 @wqsrs @arithemod @yanelis-world @ehcilhc @ilunita13 @b9nii @ilovetoes @mo072806 @vampshxde @deeeeexx @hushkuna @salad85 @dabi-vakarian @marscars237 @ejk31 @lxne-moon @iluvmegumiiiii @emluvsgetou @tsnmmhrz @mxchiii @akiw0 @blu3berryies @whaddupbaby @kagstobioisthelightofmylife @ackermanandsukuna @gothicbeastgirl 

SECOND TAGLIST OPEN!!

Usually he chirps or huffs in response. This time his mouth works strangely, and the voice you’ve heard only a few times rasps out. “G-good. M-m-ornin-g.”

It’s halting, inflected strangely, but you know exactly what he’s saying. You know it’s just mimicry, that he’s got all the equipment to simulate human speech without any of the accompanying knowledge, but it still spooks you. You don’t respond, and it takes around three seconds for Tomura to get nervous. “Good morning,” he repeats, the words smoother this time. “Good morning? Good morning –”

“You said it right,” you reassure him. “I was just surprised. Surprised isn’t a bad thing. It just – is.”

Tomura looks skeptical. You smile at him, and that helps a little. He smiles back. Then he starts patting down your sleeping bag, grabbing here and there, until you wrestle your arm out and extend it for him. He seizes it with both hands, then holds it against his face, like he does every day, multiple times a day. You know he’s smelling you. You’re just not sure why. You’re not sure why Tomura does most of the things he does.

Some of them make sense, at least as far as things animals do. He goes looking for food and comes back, bringing some back to you each time. He fusses with the arrangement of his belongings, particularly the ones you’ve already arranged to suit you. Sometimes he goes digging through the bone pile, scattering them across the floor, only to put them all back later when he’s finished with whatever he’s doing. You wish you had a better handle on what he’s looking for when he does that, but you can’t exactly ask him.

In the context of stuff animals do, Tomura makes sense. When it comes to how he responds to you, he doesn’t. He brings you food, but he also brings you what you can only describe as presents, and then he watches carefully to see what you do with them. He spends a lot of time touching you, mainly with his feelers, sometimes with his hands. He sniffs you a lot. He’s always over your shoulder. When he’s outside the cave, you have peace and quiet. When he’s inside it, you have a shadow.

It’s not how he was before the night you took off his radio collar. Maybe it’s because you did him a favor that he’s more comfortable with you now, or else he’s trying to return the favor in some way. But no matter how friendly he is to you, he can’t give you what you really want: Answers. About what he’s doing here. About who’s watching him. About what they really want. And why they haven’t come to help you.

Tomura lets you have your hand back, but he starts patting your shoulder impatiently. “I wish you didn’t get up so early,” you say. More patting. “Okay, fine. I’m up.”

You have a morning routine here, now. You read in one of the survival books that having a routine helps. Your particular morning routine is as close to the one you have at home as it could get, now with a moth-man following your every move. Almost every move. You shoo him away when you have to use the bathroom. It took a few times, but after repeated shooings, he’s learned just to leave you alone for that part. Otherwise, he watches everything, including you changing clothes. You were weirded out by that at first, until you reminded yourself that the operative word in his species is moth, not man.

You’ve only got a few sets of clean clothes, and you don’t sweat much up here, so you only switch them out every couple of days. It’s cold enough that you change into the clean set before washing the old set in the stream. At least that was the plan. When you turn back to grab them, you find that Tomura’s got ahold of them, sniffing them intently. “Hey,” you say. “Give those back.”

He doesn’t even look up. He’s too busy turning your shirt inside out to inspect it closer, pressing his face into it so hard that he practically inhales it. He keeps it balled up in one hand while he goes for the old pair of pants, sniffing them, too. You’re fine with that – it’s just weird Tomura behavior, something you can write down in one of your notebooks – right up until he turns the pants inside out and buries his face in the crotch.

Your face goes up in flames. “No,” you snap, and snatch them out of his hands. “No, Tomura. That’s – no. No.”

He makes a puzzled sound, then reaches for them again. “No,” you say. You tuck them behind your back, like that’s going to help anything. Like he can’t just knock you down and take them if he wants to. “No. Don’t do that.”

Tomura huffs. You think he’s annoyed. He gets to his feet and stalks back to the main cave, taking your shirt with him. When you come back from giving your old pair of pants the most thorough washing you’ve ever given anything, you find Tomura face-first in your sleeping bag, struggling to free himself. Part of you is tempted just to leave him in there. Serves him right, for doing – whatever he was doing. Then again, you’d be stressed if you were trapped in a small space like that, especially if you didn’t understand how to get out. You grab the zipper and pull it, peeling open the sleeping bag to set him free.

Tomura blinks up at you. His hair is messy and his feelers are twitching. “You’re being so weird today,” you say. Tomura trills. “No. Weird isn’t good. Weird is weird. This kind of weird is bad.”

He has a handle on “good” and “bad”, and you watch his expression shift from puzzled to pouty. “I don’t like it,” you continue. “Stop.”

You can’t see what he did with your shirt, and you decide to just give up on getting it back. Instead you make your way over to your supplies and start sorting them in search of breakfast. Whatever weirdness Tomura is up to today, you’ll be better equipped to deal with it on a full stomach. Usually he sticks close to you while you search your supplies, but today, he gives you space. When you look up to see where he went, you realize that the cave is empty. He’s gone.

Huh. You should be relieved that he’s left already. That’s downtime you can use for things like looking for your shirt, hiding the rest of your clothes, trying not to think about whatever Tomura was sniffing for and why he was so interested in it. Do you stink or something? Or have an infection? You don’t think it’s a yeast infection or UTI. You know what those feel like, and it’s not this. Tomura must have woken up in a weird mood today and decided to make it your problem. You decide that you’re going to make it his problem again by not thinking about it any more.

Tomura left early, but he comes back early, too. And he doesn’t come back emptyhanded. When you make your way to the front of the cave, following a lot of chirps and trills and low huffing sounds, you see that he’s brought back food. A lot of food. And a bunch of different rocks. And a whole backpack, not even bloodstained, as though it was lifted cleanly off of someone’s shoulders.

You stare down at it for a second, baffled, then look up at him. “What is this?”

Tomura usually looks pleased with himself when he brings you stuff. Right now he looks anxious. “Good?”

“Do you think I’m mad at you or something?” you ask. You know it’s pointless to try to have full conversations with Tomura, given that his understanding of human language is limited to a few words he’s heard you say and whatever he can get from your facial expression, but you’ve gotten into the habit of talking to him anyway. “I’m not mad at you. I’m stressed out. I don’t know why you were doing that and it made me feel weird.”

Is weird the right word? You have a feeling it’s not, but you’re not going to go looking for a better one right now. “It was nice of you to get me all this stuff,” you say, “but you didn’t have to. And I hope you didn’t kill anybody for that backpack.”

If he’d killed somebody, there’d be evidence, right? Tomura’s kind of a messy eater. You study him, but there’s no blood on his face or drying in his fluff. He’s gotten extra fluffy recently, probably because it’s so cold up here, and you’ve caught yourself thinking about how soft and warm it must be a little too much for comfort. Tomura pushes the backpack towards you, then picks up some of the rocks and holds them out until you extend your own hands to take them. He pushes the food towards you, too. “It’s nice,” you say again. “Thank you.”

Tomura hums, but you know it’s not a happy noise. He’s stressed. So are you. It’s not a good feeling.

You kept Tomura’s radio collar, and over the next few days, you spend a lot more time looking at it. You have a feeling that somebody smarter than you could get something out of this, rework it into a transmitter that will let everybody know where you are, not just whoever’s monitoring Tomura, but all you can do is poke at it. Study the tech, trying to figure out how old it is. Reread the inscription on the side a few more times, like that’ll help: Project Aegis, Subject 001: TOMURA.

It helps a little bit, maybe. The fact that Tomura is Subject 001 tells you that there are more like him, and the kind of organization that expects to be able to keep an eye on a three-digit number of moth-people is probably the kind of organization with a lot of funding and a lot of people involved. A governmental agency, maybe? You know the American government isn’t scared of doing things behind its citizens’ backs. And the name of the project – Aegis. Shield. A shield from what?

It doesn’t make sense. Tomura’s the thing that haunts this part of the Pacific Crest Trail. Tomura’s the one with a pile of bones in his cave. Tomura’s the one who fights bears and then eats them. But he wasn’t really eating the bear, was he? Thinking about it makes your stomach lurch, but you force yourself to consider what was really happening that first morning in the cave. He wasn’t shredding the bear’s spine for kicks. He was chasing down the thing that was inside it. The worm.

Something about that should make sense to you. You can feel it yanking at the corner of your mind, close to the edge of your understanding but not close enough. With winter almost here and the weird tension between you and Tomura, you’ve got other things to focus on. Your ankle’s almost fully healed, at least enough that you could make a break for it if you could get down from the top of this cliff. But you keep hitting the same problem. You don’t know how much rope you need, and if you go for it and don’t have enough, you’re dead.

So you’ll make more rope. Whenever Tomura’s away from the cave, you get to work shredding fabric, braiding it together for strength and tying piece after piece. There’s a lot of spare fabric lying around, stuff you don’t need and won’t use. Blankets, mainly. The occasional fleece jacket. The only things you don’t touch are the ones that look handmade. Even if the person who owned them is long dead, part of the nameless graveyard at the back of Tomura’s cave, you can’t picture destroying something they loved enough to devote backpack space to.

You shred fabric for rope. You also need it for another reason. You didn’t get your period last month, but you’ve got it now, and you’re not planning to free-bleed all over the cave. You don’t want to remind Tomura that you’re something to eat. You cobble together some reusable pads and get back to work, trying to ignore the cramps. You’ve only got so much ibuprofen and acetaminophen in your supplies, and you’re saving it for your escape.

When are you going to escape? When you have enough rope. Which means when you’re done making rope. You’re fine with having too much rope. There are worse problems to have, like being trapped in a cave with a moth-man all winter long.

Tomura’s back to getting in your space. He’s not as touchy with you as he was before, but you can’t describe how he’s acting as anything other than fussy. He knows when you usually eat meals, and he brings food over to you before you can go get it yourself. He refills your water bottles, which would be totally unhelpful, except he’s figured out which ones have a built-in filter, and worse, how those filters work. If you’re sitting still for too long, he comes back with blankets. Whatever you do with the blankets, he doesn’t seem to think it’s the right thing, because he keeps bringing you more of them. It puts a kink in your rope-making plans, if you’re being honest. If you keep shredding blankets, he might wonder where they’re going.

One day, he comes back later than usual. He drops off the food he brought back for you, gives your wrist a cursory sniff, then makes his way to his side of the cave. Rather than doing his usual routine, Tomura unfolds one wing and starts poking at it, his expression twisting into a grimace. “Are you hurt?” you ask, and he looks up at you. A low growl issues through his teeth. “I helped you before. Do you want me to look at it?”

He growls at you again, louder this time. He raises his hand and begins to rake it against the soft membrane of his wing, like he’s scratching or something worse. Something white falls to the floor of the cave. Something that moves when it hits the floor and keeps moving with surprising speed. Then another, and another. You rise to your feet and go closer for a look, wondering how Tomura could possibly have gotten maggots on his wing without you noticing. They’re moving faster than you’d expect.

You take a step closer, then another, and that’s when you realize. They aren’t maggots. They’re worms.

You suck down a breath, and it’s as if they’ve heard you. They were crawling in no particular direction before, but now they change course, headed your way, faster than they should be. You back up a few steps, then a few more. If you had on shoes, you’d stomp on them, but your feet are bare. “Um, Tomura –”

Tomura moves just as fast as you remember from the night you met him. In an instant he’s between you and the worms. He scoops you up one-armed, keeping your feet well clear of the floor and reaches down, crushing the worms in his free hand. Then, as you watch, he shoves the still-squirming handful of worms into his mouth.

A memory flares to life in the back of your mind, and a pair of images connect themselves in an instant. Tomura swallows the fistful of worms, gagging slightly. He gagged on the worm he pulled out of the bear’s spine, too. That one was a hundred times larger than these, but you’re suddenly certain that they’re the same. You’ve never seen or heard of anything like the worm infesting the bear’s spinal cord. Then again, you’ve never seen or heard of anything like Tomura, either. And whatever the worms are, Tomura eats them.

Something about that clicks in your head, makes sense in a way you didn’t expect, but you don’t have time to think about it harder. Tomura lets you go, then shoves you away hard, hard enough that you trip over your own feet. “No!” he barks at you. You cower on instinct. “No. No.”

Inside the cave, his voice echoes endlessly. He looms over you, expression twisted with anger, mouth bloody. Where did the blood come from? “No,” Tomura says again. He shakes you. “No.”

“Okay.” Your voice comes out in a whisper. Your heart is hammering, every beat knocking air from your lungs. “I’m sorry. I understand. No.”

He’s angry with you. Not angry enough to hurt you – you don’t think – but of all the moods Tomura’s displayed over the time since he kidnapped you, his anger feels the worst. You don’t understand why it feels worse, and you don’t understand why he’s angry with you. You’re not an idiot. You wouldn’t have even thought of going near the worms if he’d just explained. But he can’t explain, any more than you can explain any of the things you’ve gotten frustrated over. There’s no way for you to reach each other on anything more complicated than yes or no, bad or good. You might go your whole life without ever talking to anyone again.

Tears well up in your eyes at the thought, and you turn your face away. You’re still in Tomura’s shadow. You hear his wings shift, think you feel the brush of an antenna across your cheek, and you extend one hand towards him. You’ve tested this before. Even if he’s already sniffed your wrist, he’ll do the same thing again if you stick your arm out a second time. Tomura’s still there, within reach. If you reached out a little farther, you could touch him.

He never touches you. All you feel is a rush of wind, and when you look up, you’re just in time to see him disappear out the cave entrance and into the sky.

He doesn’t come back.

Not at midday, not in the afternoon. Not at nightfall, and he’s always back by nightfall. You can’t even remember the last time you saw him return after the sun went down. The only night you’re sure he was out all night is the night he kidnapped you and brought you back to his cave. He went out again after dropping you off here. What if he’s gone to kidnap someone else?

The thought brings a sense of relief at the idea of an ally, someone you can team up with in your efforts to escape – but at the same time, you don’t have unlimited resources. Maybe that’s why Tomura brought you the backpack earlier. It’s more supplies, in preparation for the new arrival. How long has he been planning this? How long was he planning to kidnap you before he did it? As always when it comes to this, to Tomura, you’ve got more questions than answers. And even the answers you can guess at aren’t answers you like.

He doesn’t come back tonight. It should be the best sleep you’ve had since he kidnapped you, but it isn’t.

You’re uneasy when you wake up, because you wake up on your own, and the first thing you remember is that Tomura’s gone. You tell yourself it shouldn’t bother you. After all, you’ve got plenty of food, and you’ve got clean water. You can make your rope in peace instead of worrying that you’ll get caught. Nobody’s going to sniff your clothes or wake you up by rubbing their feelers all over your face. There are lots of reasons to be happy that Tomura isn’t here. Except that you don’t know where he went, or why he hasn’t come back, and as the morning slips by, the knot in your stomach grows tighter and tighter.

You hear the first squawks just past noon, and at first, you can’t place why the noise grates on your ears. You used to like birds, in another life, so why do you wish you could snap this one’s neck? Maybe because it’s so loud. It’s so loud, and a lot closer than you want it to be – but it’s the first bird call you’ve heard in months, so you should be happy about it. You try to make yourself be happy about it, until you figure out why it’s the first bird call you’ve heard in months. There aren’t birds around Tomura’s cave. They steer clear of it because of him. If there are birds here and Tomura’s not –

You grab a pair of binoculars, get to your feet, and make your way to the mouth of the cave, crouching down again to crawl the last few feet and peer over the edge. The sight of the drop down into the valley below still makes your head spin, but you grit your teeth against the nausea and try to focus your eyes. The cliff isn’t sheer. There are enough crags and small ledges that someone who isn’t you could probably have a decent shot at climbing down. You scan the ledges, looking for the birds, and finally spot them. A vulture and a couple of big crows, crowded around something big that’s not moving. Something white.

Your stomach drops. “Hey!” you shout, your voice thin. “Hey! Move!”

The birds don’t even look your way. They keep jostling each other, leaning down to peck, and you look around for something to throw at them. What could you even hit from this distance? Nothing, probably. You’d be more likely to hit Tomura than the birds. You need to scare them away, and you need them not to come back. They’re scared of Tomura, not you. You think about all of Tomura’s sounds, the chirps and trills and growls, and think about the ones that scare you the most when you hear them. They’re stuck in your memory, sending a chill down your spine as you recall them. You pick the worst one, clear your throat, and mimic it, as loudly as possible.

The birds scatter instantly, leaving puffs of feathers behind and giving you a clear view of what they were pecking at. Tomura’s sprawled across a small ledge, his body twisted, his wings limp. You lift your binoculars with shaking hands, but no matter how you focus them, you can’t see if he’s breathing or not. You think his antenna might be moving, but it could just be the wind. Or wishful thinking. What happened to him? You watched him kill a bear. What in the world could do this kind of damage?

It doesn’t matter what did it. Whatever it was, Tomura got away from it, and made it this far up the mountain. You wonder how long he’s been down there. Overnight? It was freezing, so cold that you could tell yourself it was the reason you couldn’t sleep. Tomura might be ridiculously fluffy, but if he’s alive down there, you can’t picture him surviving another night out in the open. Before you can even frame the question, you’re already in motion, and it’s not until you’ve almost gathered your gear that you stop and ask. What are you going to do? And if the answer is “help him”, why?

You can’t quite face the answer to that question, so you tell yourself that it’s a trial run. You almost certainly don’t have the rope to reach the valley floor, but you’ve got enough to reach the ledge, so it’s a great time to try out all the equipment you’ve gathered and all the techniques you read about in Rock-Climbing for Dummies. From the ledge, you’ll have a better idea of how much more rope you’re going to need. And while you’re doing your test run, you might as well check if Tomura’s still alive. When you think about it like that, you feel a lot less insane.

You’ve got all the tools you need to make an anchor for your rope. You decide to use your climbing rope, since you know you’ve got a few hundred feet of that, and you borrow some long-dead climber’s harness to tie into. The backpack you take with you is heavy, full of climbing gear and first aid stuff – definitely for you, in case you slip and scrape your knee, definitely not for Tomura – and on a last-minute whim, you throw in a lighter. You’re not sure why you need it, but better safe than sorry.

The anchor you build has enough redundancies in it that you’d have to saw through the rope yourself to make it fail, but you’re still wary as you start your rappel down. No one’s here to save you this time. If you fall, Tomura won’t catch you – you’ll plummet to the valley floor, probably bouncing off a few rocks on the way, and wind up as nothing more than a smear of blood and tissue on the ground. But you’ve read Rock-Climbing for Dummies cover to cover so many times that you’ve practically memorized it, and before you do anything, you triple check it. Triple check it again, and check everything else, too. Acting on autopilot gets people killed. You’re not going to die today.

It takes you almost an hour to get down to the ledge, more than enough time for the birds to come back. You hear them cawing when you’re still forty feet away, and it takes all your self-control not to speed up. Acting on autopilot gets people killed, but so does rushing things. You’re not going to be any use to Tomura or yourself if you lose focus, fall, and die. You keep your mouth shut and descend the last forty feet. Only once your feet are firmly on the ledge do you turn on the birds.

Shooing works for the vulture, but the crows hold their ground. There are a lot more of them than there are of you, but you’re bigger. And you’ve got a secret weapon. You clear your throat and copy Tomura’s scariest growl again.

The crows aren’t dumb. They know you’re not Tomura. But your growling makes them nervous, and when Tomura stirs in response to the sound, wings ruffling, head slightly lifted, the crows take flight in a dusty, foul-smelling crowd. Your path to Tomura is clear. So is your path over the ledge and down to the valley floor.

You stare, temporarily paralyzed by your own stupidity. You don’t need enough rope to get you all the way down to the valley floor. You just need enough to get you from ledge to ledge, where you can set up new anchors, feed the same length of rope through them, and lower yourself down again. You don’t have to wait any longer. You can escape right now. Today. Best of all, Tomura can’t chase you. Whatever happened while he was gone, it messed him up so badly that he can barely lift his head. If you leave him here, he might die.

Are you okay with that?

You try telling yourself that you’re not actually leaving him to die. The people who put the radio collar on him will come looking for him – except they don’t know where to look, because you took the collar off and let Tomura break it. Tomura might look fragile, but maybe he’s resilient. Just resting, regaining his strength, and he’ll be good as new in a few hours. But when you look closer, you know it isn’t true. Tomura’s wings have hidden some of the damage, but he’s bleeding from somewhere, and when you lift up one wing, you find a series of jagged gouges along his ribcage. Claw marks. He was fighting again. With what?

Some instinct leads you to peer over the ledge, and fifty feet down or so, you see it. Not a bear this time, but a mountain lion, or what’s left of one. You peer through your binoculars at it, seeing that its throat’s been opened by Tomura’s hands or teeth, wondering why the birds were so fixated on Tomura when something actually dead was lying right there. A dead mountain lion can’t wake up and start snapping birds’ necks, so why –

Something moves within the mountain lion’s shredded throat, something white and writhing, with an arrow-shaped head and a long, sinuous body. Your hands go nerveless, numb with terror even though there’s fifty feet between you and it. Your binoculars fall away into the abyss, but you don’t need them anymore to know what you saw. It’s another worm. Just like the one Tomura pulled out of the bear’s spine.

You lose your footing and sit down hard. “What is that?” you say aloud, as if there’s anyone who can answer. “What is that? What the hell?”

A hand grasps weakly at the back of your shirt, tugs a few times. You look back over your shoulder at Tomura. He’s managed to roll onto his side, his wings shifting to reveal another set of wounds, and his face is even paler than usual. There’s blood around his mouth again, but you’re not sure whose. The huffing sound he makes is raspy, weak. You wish it didn’t yank on your heart this way.

“It’s okay,” you say to him. The two of you haven’t done “okay” before. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d probably look confused. “Everything’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”

The worm isn’t your problem. Now that you know how to escape, you can do it at any time, after you’ve gotten Tomura back to his cave and taken a look at his injuries. The question is how you’re going to do it. You read something in Rock-Climbing for Dummies about ascenders with foot loops, and you’re pretty sure you brought one, but you need to make sure you set it up right. Tomura tugs the back of your shirt again, twice. “I’m working on it,” you say. You pull Rock-Climbing for Dummies out of your backpack. “Just a second.”

Tomura’s long fingers close around your wrist. You let him draw it to his face and keep looking for the book one-handed, trying not to feel too relieved.

You do have an ascender, and a foot loop. Tomura watches you set it up. His eyes are half-closed, his antenna twitching weakly, and you shove aside the question of just how you’re going to get him to hang onto you. You describe what you’re doing out loud, as if it’s going to make any sense to him. Maybe it’ll help him to have something else to focus on. Something other than how much his injuries hurt. How awful it must have been to lie here, trapped, knowing that home was close and knowing he couldn’t make it.

Okay. It’ll be okay. You say it over and over again, trying to convince yourself as much as him. Everything will be okay.

Once you rig everything up, it’s time to confront the problem you’ve been avoiding. “I need you to hang onto me,” you say to Tomura. He tilts his head, confused. “Like, um – like I held onto you, when you brought me to your cave. Or not like that. You’d be in the way. So, uh – maybe if you hang onto my back. Put your arms around my neck – not hard or anything –”

You try to demonstrate, but it just looks like you’re strangling yourself. “We can’t stay out here overnight,” you say to Tomura. “I need you to be able to sit up and hang on.”

He just looks at you, blank or confused or tired or all three, and your patience snaps. “I’m trying to help you! I could escape right now if I wanted, and you can’t stop me, but you saved me, so I have to save you. Why are you making it so hard? Why is everything hard? I want to go home!”

Home. Where is home for you, these days? Osaka didn’t feel like home. The place you were going to live here wouldn’t have been home, either. When you think of home, are you still thinking of the place you grew up? You’ve never felt at home anywhere else? All of a sudden you’re homesick for it. The way the air used to smell. The sound of your mom’s voice. The sound of any voices but your own. You’ve been speaking English and only English for months now. You miss Japanese.

It doesn’t matter. Tomura can’t understand you. You turn away from him, trying to breathe, and switch back to Japanese to talk yourself down. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can make a harness. Or a sling. I know there’s something about it in the book. I don’t need him to hold on –”

“That’s what you want?”

“I thought so, but now I think it’s too –” You get most of the way through the sentence before you realize what just happened. You turn to look at Tomura. “Did you just talk?”

“I can always talk,” Tomura says. His voice is raspy, rough. “You were just making sounds. Now you make sense.”

“You don’t speak English,” you say. Tomura shakes his head. “You speak Japanese.”

“I speak this,” Tomura says. “You want me to hold on?”

“You speak Japanese,” you repeat. You’re in America, so you assumed he was an American monster, even though his name didn’t sound American – and Americans only speak English. It never occurred to you to try Japanese? How are you this dumb? “We could have been talking this whole time?”

Tomura nods. “I want to talk,” he says. “Up there.”

“Oh. Right.” He wants to go to his cave. You also want him to go to his cave. The sun’s slipping behind the mountains now, taking what little warmth there was with it. “Um, if you think you can hang on, we should probably do that. Can you sit up?”

Tomura’s arms shake as he pushes himself up, and you reach out to steady him. Your hands sink into his fluff and practically vanish. “Do you always get fluffy in the winter?”

“More this winter. I don’t know why.” Tomura’s arms wind around you, his head dropping into the curve of your shoulder. “You’re warmer than me.”

“I’m not losing blood.” You get to your feet, pulling Tomura with you. It’s a good thing he’s light. “Okay, I need you to hang onto my back, not my front. Like – okay, you got it. Just hang on and don’t let go.”

You move your backpack to the front of your body, and Tomura’s arms wrap loosely around your torso, a sharp contrast to the way his legs lock tightly around your waist. With all his weight on you, he’s heavy enough to cause trouble if you were having to climb the rest of the way up. As it is, all you’re doing is ascending. One step at a time, one jerk of the rope after another, as the last of the sunlight fades. By the time you’re hauling yourself over the edge into Tomura’s cave, it’s almost entirely dark.

Tomura slithers off your back and crawls a few feet before crumpling down in a heap. Your arms are heavy and sore, and the muscles in your thighs are burning, but you force yourself up. You promised Tomura you’d help him. You take off your backpack, wriggle out of your harness, and turn to him. “Your injuries. Let me see.”

He turns gingerly from his stomach to his side, then onto his back. He keeps his arms wrapped over his torso, but lets you move them away. The smell of blood is overpowering, and the sight of it staining his white fluff makes you want to gag. It’s on his sides, but his belly, too, and when you part the fluff with your fingers, you find deep gouges, even deeper than the ones on his flanks. You imagine the mountain lion getting its back paws between its body and Tomura’s, kicking and flailing in its death throes. You saw that on a nature documentary one time. Tomura’s probably lucky he wasn’t eviscerated.

A mountain lion did this. You’d find that easy to believe, except you’ve seen the types of things Tomura’s capable of killing. “You fought a bear,” you say. “How did this hurt you worse?”

“Faster.” Tomura coughs, and more blood oozes from the wounds. That’s not good. “Not as sick.”

“It was sick?” you repeat. Tomura nods. “Are you sick?”

He shakes his head. “Neither are you.”

The two of you look at each other for a moment. Your feet are on solid ground again, but you feel unsteady, your mind crowded with memories of the last two months that are begging to be reevaluated in the face of what you know now. Tomura’s not just sentient, he’s sapient. He’s not an animal. He’s a person. Nothing you’ve seen him do makes sense anymore. And nothing you’ve done in response makes sense, either.

You don’t want to look at him right now. You open your first-aid kit to give yourself something to do and start sorting through antiseptic sprays and bandages. “I’m glad we can understand each other now. I have a lot of questions.”

“I have questions,” Tomura says. He can ask first. You need more time to get your thoughts in order. “Only one right now.”

“Okay. Go for it.”

“Your name,” Tomura says. “You know my name. I want yours.”

You’re introducing yourselves. A little late – a lot late – but this is normal. People introduce themselves when they meet for the first time. You tell Tomura your name and he repeats it a few times. Then he says something else. “Good. Pretty.”

“You don’t have to use English anymore,” you say. “We can just talk like this.”

“I need to learn it,” Tomura says. “It’s what they speak.”

They. “The ones who put your collar on,” you say. Tomura’s lip curls in a snarl, one that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. “Okay. We don’t have to talk about that right now. Don’t get upset. Just rest.”

You unwrap a clean gauze pad, moisten it with filtered water from your water bottle, and start cleaning blood away from Tomura’s wounds. Tomura’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t be scared,” he says. “You aren’t sick. You won’t get sick. You’re safe with me.”

Safe with him? Or safe from him? “I’m not scared,” you lie, and he gives you a skeptical look. “I’ll be less scared once I know what’s going on. You should rest. I’ll take care of these and get you some food, and then we’ll talk.”

He still hasn’t let go of your wrist. You swap the gauze to your other hand so you can go back to work, and Tomura pulls your hand up to his face again. You said you wouldn’t ask questions, but you can’t let this one go. “Why do you do that?”

Tomura doesn’t answer. But before he lets you go, he lowers your hand slightly. Just enough that his chapped lips skid across your skin as you pull away.

He’s never done that before. It sends a chill down your spine. You stuff it away with the rest of the things you’re not thinking about, and you take your time cleaning Tomura’s wounds. Being thorough. Being careful. Not skipping a single detail. It could take you all night, and it still wouldn’t be enough time to get your thoughts in order. For months now, all you’ve wanted was answers. Now that they’re at your fingertips, you don’t know what to do.

Yes, you do. When you’ve finally wiped the last of the bloodstains out of Tomura’s fluff, helped him sit up and brought him some water, you sit down cross-legged in front of him. “I’ll go first,” you say, and he nods. “What are you?”

Tomura’s silent for a long time. “Human,” he says, and your stomach lurches. “Like you.”

<- Chapter 2

Because two boys, who appeared older (not to mention louder), were dragging a long white net across the floor, stretching it right through the space you’d claimed as your own for the past few weeks. And honestly, the scrape of it against the worn down scooters made something ache in your chest. 

Maybe it was because your once predictable atmosphere had turned incalculable. Maybe it was because you couldn’t fathom how the gym teacher would allow such preposterous energy to enter this space during your quiet time. Or maybe it was because you were wholeheartedly, unexpectedly, thrown into a lion’s den; mind racing with possible conversations the two boys could conjure up. 

I mean, of all days for someone to take over your spot. Of all people for Mr. Nakamura to say yes to. You were irritated; Infuriated, even. So rightfully vexed that you were preparing yourself to turn around, maybe even say something — something dismissive, something that would make it clear the situation irked you. 

Until one of them looked up.

His short hair was a mess, eyes narrowed in concentration as if the world around him didn’t matter as much as the unfolded net. There was something almost stubborn in his expression. A flicker of indignation that gleamed in the rounds of his eyes. 

And just like that, the irritation fizzled out as quickly as it had come, replaced by something far worse — heat creeping up your legs, blood quickening through your veins. 

He was cute.

“Hey!” You flinched at the sudden outburst, irises glancing over to his friend. It was odd, the way they differed so distinctly from each other. The taller one was clean-cut; an innocent smile glued to his face. There were no narrowed brows, no sense of exasperation. Just a young boy oozing with confidence. “Think you can toss some balls for us?”

Your heart jumped at the query — shit, this wasn’t part of your scenarios. Not once did you anticipate that they’d ask you to join. But rehearsed or not, it didn’t matter. Because that meant staying. That meant being closer… and maybe, just maybe, the cute boy would look at you again. 

But then the voices echoed. The cynical notions that would always find a way to etch itself into the grooves of your brain, replaying at a constant rate until every pragmatic counter argument became nothing but fibs: What if you messed up? What if your throw was awful? What if you embarrassed yourself? What if he noticed — and not in a good way?

Your throat tightened. “I—” Yet nothing came out. All that remained was the suffocating silence and utter confusion written on both of their faces. 

So, you did the only thing you could at eight years old: You turned on your heel and bolted. And by the time you made it outside, your vision had blurred, tears slipping out before you could stop them — frustration and embarrassment were the sole embodiments of your existence. I mean, why did something so small feel so overwhelming?

All you could discern was the fact that you hadn’t even learned his name. And next time — next time you weren’t going to freeze up. In fact, you’d never let a situation like that cause such panic ever again. 

Which was why the second time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were different. You had spent the past nine years of your life forcing yourself to talk more, smile more, throw yourself into conversations before doubt could catch up. And it worked, mostly. 

At least, until he appeared again. 

You were mid-conversation, attention narrowed entirely on the blonde in front of you — the one currently rambling about the science project you’d just been paired on. Normally, you wouldn’t have given such undivided attention to a mundane conversation. But he was cute. And you’d be damned if you got another A- in this course. 

“I was thinking we could do reaction times,” Haru continued, completely unaware of the advantage he had just by existing the way he did — longer strides, effortless pacing. You noticed it immediately, the way you had to step forward, then quicken, just to stay beside him. “Like, testing how different stimuli affect reflex speed. It’d be fun. There’s a ton we could do with that!” 

You nodded, keeping pace as best as you could. “I agree.” 

“Oh good! I knew choosing you as a partner would be a good idea…” You didn’t notice the chair. Nor did he. At least, not until your shin collided with cold metal; the impact sent a sharp jolt up your leg, your balance pitching forward before you could catch it, allowing a sliver of moment to let your head collide with the edge of a table. The pain was instantaneous; a flourish of heat ruminating the left hemisphere of your forehead. 

“Oh fuck, are you alright?” You tilted your head upwards, vision spotting at the edges as you forced your eyes open… Oh. Weird. This guy’s hair looked so similar to the same unruly mess you took note of in 2nd grade. “I’m so sorry,” he was already crouching beside you, voice tight in a way that didn’t quite sync with his otherwise steady movements.  “I should’ve made Lazykawa push his stupid ass chair back in.” His hands came up without hesitation, steady and warm as they framed the base of your neck, tilting your head just enough to check you over. Haru hovered somewhere beside him, still mid-panic. 

But it was too much: The noise. The neverending cycle of murmurs building around you, the sharp inhales, the shifting bodies, the way attention became positioned at every angle. You wanted it to go away. You wanted this whole ordeal to be a forgotten memory. So, you braced your palm against the boy’s shoulder, pushing just slightly to give cue of your pending sense of rise. “I’m,” your first word was hoarse, a hint of agony still laced deep in your throat no matter how hard you tried to smooth it over. “I’m okay, don’t sweat it.” 

Haru leaned further into your line of sight, his expression warping as he took in the small stream of crimson cascading down your brow. “You’re bleeding!” 

No. No, no… Please no. 

Your right hand removed itself from the student’s broad shoulder; fingers brushing up toward your forehead. The second you felt it, the damp slick, you froze. “I’m so sorry.” Honestly, you didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.

“Sorry?” The boy’s tone shifted after that; his sentences now edged with something closer to irritation as if that was the last thing you should be saying. “Yeah, no. We’re not doing that.”  And before you could respond, before you could even explain your reasoning behind such nonsensical verbiage, his arm slid behind your back, the other hooking beneath your legs. You gasped at the sudden lift, your hand instinctively grabbing onto the front of his shirt as he adjusted your weight against him. “I’m taking you to the nurse.” He said, already moving, stride steady as he turned down the hall.

Haru scrambled after him, still talking — still panicking. But you barely registered it; too fixated on the drops of red pooling in your palm.

“If you’re just going to ramble, get out.” Haru blinked, clearly caught off guard, his mouth parting as if he had some sort of rebuttal towards the boy’s directness. Still, he didn’t seem like the type to delve into confrontation. So, Haru just nodded, demeanor a little more flustered now, bowing once toward where you sat.

“Sorry — yeah, I’ll, uh, I’ll text you later. Make sure you’re okay.” His words tripped over themselves on the way out, fading as he backed toward the door. And just like that — he was gone.

Honestly, you felt bad for Haru. Anyone in this situation would’ve panicked. One second you’re talking about a project, the next there’s blood running down the side of your face like something out of a thriller. So Haru wasn’t wrong for freezing up. If anything, he handled it well for most people’s standards. 

Which is why you were already opening your mouth — ready to say something, anything, to the boy in front of you. Because did he really have to be so… taut about it? 

But then the door clicked; and everything else went with it. The chatter outside dulled, footsteps became distant. Even the weight of people watching seemed to be categorized as unimportant — peering eyes blocked by the tall wooden door. All that remained was the faint hum of the cheap fluorescent lights and the quiet rustle of fabric as you eased your palms back onto one of the beds. 

Finally… you could breathe.

“That your boyfriend?”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly despite the dull throb that followed. “What?”

“If it is,” he continued, tone more matter-of-fact than anything else. “Sorry for grabbing you like that in front of him. He didn’t look like he was going to handle the situation well.”

Your brows knit together, confusion flickering through the lingering haze. You shook your head. “No. He’s just my new science partner.”

“Oh.” The brunette leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest as his eyes dragged along the curve of your cheek. “Alright.” 

Alright? 

The corners of your lips tipped downwards, canine dug deep against the tissue of your cheek as you observed the boy in uniform. Truthfully, something about him was weird. Not in a bad way — just… off.  Like trying to recall a dream you know you had, but can’t quite piece together no matter how hard you focus. But you didn’t dwell on it. You did just have your head slammed into. 

“Well,” you started. “Thanks for bringing me.”  Your gaze soon flicked toward the door, subtle but intentional, giving him a clear out to the situation he had unexpectedly found himself in. Except, he didn’t take it. Didn’t even move, really. He just continued to lean, still watching you in that same quiet, almost absent way — like he wasn’t trying to stare, but couldn’t quite stop himself either. Honestly, it was making your demeanor border diffident more than anything else. A sense of unease that hadn’t appeared in your vocabulary since you were eight. “Guess I should really watch where I’m going, huh?” You added, a weak attempt at humor slipping through. 

Fuck. Why was he making you so… Awkward?

His expression remained stoic, a slight sigh escaping his nasal. “Yeah.” You almost whined in pure embarrassment at his response. I mean, that was it? Not even a courtesy laugh — just that dry, practical agreement like your attempt at easing the situation hadn’t even registered as a joke. 

“C’mon man. The least you could do is pretend that was funny.” You muttered, warmth already creeping up the base of your neck. 

Sadly, he didn’t bite. “But I agree. Watching where you’re going would definitely help.” 

Yep, you wanted to disappear; drag the thin, crinkling sheet over your head and hope that somehow, miraculously, you’d phase out of existence. Because what was this? Why was this happening? And more importantly — where the hell was the nurse?

She’d stepped out not long ago; something about a call, leaving you behind with gauze pressed to your forehead and that stupid wrap snug around your head. Frankly, her being here would’ve helped. At least then there’d be something to focus on. Something to fill the thick stretch of silence that made every aching second worse.

Your fingers twisted into the sleeves pooled around your hands, fabric bunching as you tried to steady yourself; tried to find that version of you that didn’t get like this. Because you didn’t — not anymore. You’d worked too hard for that: You knew how to hold conversations, how to stay present, how to keep your thoughts from spiraling into something unmanageable. You were good at it.

So why was it unraveling now?

Your gaze flicked up before you could stop it. And of course, he was still looking at you. “You seemed like you were pretty into that conversation.” 

“Huh?”

“With him,” he clarified, nodding vaguely toward the door. “Before you ran into the desk.” 

Normally, a query like that would signal some underlying intention. A sliver of inquisitive wonder to get some sort of information. But for some reason, his tone didn’t have an ounce of accusation to it. “Oh — yeah. We were just discussing an upcoming project.” 

“What kind?”

“Reaction times,” you said; voice a little steadier now that the topic made sense. “We’re thinking of doing experiments on reflex speed. Different stimuli, stuff like that.” He hummed once: Not fully impressed with the reasoning behind your lack of awareness, but not dismissive either. “I think we need people for it, though,” you added. “Like actual participants. Not just me and him. And I’m not sure how we'd even round anyone up for that.”

The boy cleared his throat, back straightening as his shoulders returned against the wall. “Volleyball players would work.”

“What?”

“They’ve got fast reflexes,” he said simply. “More consistent results.”

Huh. That actually… made sense. But how in the hell would you get a whole team to participate in such a random quest? You opened your mouth to respond, ready to dig deeper into his thought process, yet the door slammed open, a soft voice quickly following suit. “Iwa-channn, I got wind from Hanamaki that you snapped and started hitting people other than me. I’m impressed. But also a bit annoyed because I thought I was the only one—” The boy faltered, eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he peered down at you. It was Oikawa. Now he, you knew — your friends could never really shut up about him and his unparalleled beauty. “Oh,” he said, goaded tone immediately shifting to intrigue. “It’s you.”

You scrunched your nose. “Me?”

“Mhm.” His smile came easily, a sense of confidence etched into his stance as he rested an elbow atop of his friend’s shoulder. “You’re friends with Matsuda, right? I noticed you always hang around her in the hallways whenever she drops by my classroom.”

Yeah, this was not helping your current state of mind. Your fingers lifted, the pad of your pointer pressed against your temple as you tried to recall moments of passing. But everything seemed fuzzy; at least, everything regarding Oikawa. The only faint memory was Matsuda goggling at a few of the volleyball teammates in class 3-6, but you didn’t really pay much mind to that. I mean, why would you? You only ever stayed around that room for a few minutes before darting off. 

Iwa-chan (at least, that’s what Oikawa called him) exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiver of irritation evident in the way his nostrils flared. “Why are you here, Oikawa?”

“To visit my dear teammate, obviously,” Oikawa alleged, sliding his elbow away and stepping further into the cramped room without a hint of hesitation. “And to meet the head-injury victim.” His gaze flicked back to you, lingering just a second too long for your comfort. 

“Oh. I’m fine.” You said quickly.

“Good,” he replied. “You’re pretty, so I'd hope you were okay.”

Your brows pulled inward immediately at that. For two people who seemed so different, they both had this same problem — talking like their thoughts didn’t need filtering. The difference was that Oikawa’s bluntness landed somewhere between observation and flirtation, which only made your posture tighten, shoulders drawing in slightly as heat prickled the tips of your ears. 

Iwa-chan’s expression tautened immediately. “Oikawa.”

“What?” he said innocently, hands lifted in mock surrender. “It’s true.” The air notably shifted at his reluctance to back down. Subtle exchanges between the two boys had become increasingly common. Like something in the room had been recalibrated, off-center, and they didn’t quite know how to work it out yet (with words, at least). But you could see the way Iwa’s jaw tightened. And you could see the way Oikawa noted it immediately. His expression changed — camera-ready grin softening into something more calculated, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Anyway,” he resumed. “I did happen to hear something about the volleyball team. If you ever need the team, I can make that work: The team… Me… Whatever you need!”

Iwa-chan’s patience visibly snapped. “Shittykawa,” he said flatly, stepping forward just slightly. “We’re trying to help her. You offering yourself up sounds less like helping and more like you just want attention. Fucking idiot.” His hand raised, palm smacking against the back of his friend’s scalp. 

Oikawa gasped dramatically, clutching his skull in effort to dull the radiated pain. “How cruel. I’m offering resources.”

“You’re saying you are the resource.” 

“And a very valuable one!” Oikawa added immediately. You stared between them, unsure where you were supposed to land in this conversation — if you were even meant to be part of it at all. But Oikawa’s attention drifted back to you again.

“As I was saying. Think about it.”

The third time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, it was in the high school gym.

And boy was it… different. Your once solidified memory of predictability and contentment had no longer meshed with the word gymnasium. Because this one was louder: Shoes screeching against the once polished floors, sharp echo of volleyballs colliding with hands at each corner.

This wasn’t your space. Not like before, at least. And yet — you had still walked in. Because, somehow, you had agreed to this. Agreed to the arrangement that now had you standing just near the entrance, fingers curled back into your sleeves, eyes trying hard to ignore the chaotic movements of rowdy boys.

Yeah…No. This wasn’t going to work. 

Your heels dug into the wood, fully prepared to swivel your body out the door before anyone could take note of your appearance. But you could feel it; the vibrations of Haru behind you. And there was no way in hell he was going to let you walk out. “This is perfect,” he beamed, already pulling out his notebook. “Do you see their form? Their reaction speed? This is exactly what we needed.”

Of course it was. Of course he was thrilled. Easy volunteers, controlled environment, data that would probably carry the entire project on its back.

Oh, Haru had won. And he knew it.

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting across the gym in reluctance — only to catch something familiar. Or, more accurately, someone: Iwa-chan stood across the court, a volleyball resting loosely in his palm as he listened to something one of his teammates was saying. 

Yet, for a second, his gaze flicked up, meeting yours in an instant. And you couldn’t help it; the center of your chest tightened, warmth shedding your entire body. It was the same feeling you had at eight years old. 

Oh god, please don’t run away and cry.

But his lingering gaze soon turned into a subtle gesture; a small tilt of his head toward the court, like he was telling you to come closer without making a big deal out of it. And this was what you had prepared for all those years ago. The rare moment that would allow you to refine your past into something more ameliorate. You took a big gulp and pushed your weakening feet forwards. 

It was difficult though; finding a reason not to bolt. The sounds only sharpened the deeper you got in the gym: Their voices became more disordered, their serves became a little less predictable — near misses to the side of your head inevitable. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly, gaze flicking from one player to the next, trying to map out where you were supposed to stand — where you were supposed to even exist in this environment.

“Oi, Iwaizumi…” The voice drifted off the second he saw you. And there was no subtlety to your intrusion anymore — just pure dubiety written across everyone’s faces as you turned to the brunette for any sort of repose. “Uh, who’s that? New manager?” 

“No,” Iwaizumi shifted his jaw around, thumb hooking around the collar of your shirt as he tugged you forward slightly. “She’s here for a project.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to settle his teammates' questions before it could spiral into a mountain of more queries. The group nodded in understanding, attention fixed neatly on you as they awaited more clarity on their pending participation. Yet, you couldn’t move. I mean, who knew volleyball players could be so… intimidating. Iwaizumi stepped closer, finger still hooked within your fabric while the ball in his right hand tapped once against his palm before he stilled it. “Head okay?”

“Yeah.”

His irises narrowed, a look of uncertainty engrained in the crease between his brows. But he didn’t push it. That wasn’t really his place. “Alright,” he noted, glancing past you briefly — probably toward where Haru was still hovering near the entrance. “Get whatever you need to set up.”

Right. Setup. 

You turned slightly as you waved Haru over. And he didn’t need much convincing (unlike you) — already halfway across the floor before you fully gestured, notebook still clutched in one hand, the other digging through his bag for whatever materials he had insisted on bringing.

“This is fantastic,” he breathed, eyes darting everywhere at once. “We can start with baseline reaction tests, then move into variable stimuli: auditory, visual—”

“Keep it simple today.” Iwaizumi cut in.

Haru stuttered. “Simple?”

“Yeah. Don’t overcomplicate it.”

Haru nodded quickly. “Right. Yes, okay, we can do that.” You glanced between them, then back toward the rest of the team who were still watching, some more subtly than others. It was peculiar, observing the intensity Iwa possessed when discussing with Haru. For anyone on the outside, it would seem as though the volleyball player harbored hatred towards the blonde. 

Huh, maybe it was because of the way he reacted this morning. 

No matter the cause, it would appear that you had, unbeknownst, become the best mediator in the situation, the one who would oversee communication between the players and Haru. Although, one particular team member deemed it a necessary obstacle you’d have to overcome. 

“Hey l/n-chan!” You turned, watching as Oikawa stood just a few steps away — one hand rested on his hip, the other lifting in a small, easy wave. “You made it. Nice bandage too. Looking cute!” It was a simple comment; a declaration followed by his warm and inviting smile. But that wasn’t what caught you: It was your name, and the way it came out so easily for him. Not to mention the honorifics he added to the end of it. “Oh, wait,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “It is l/n, right? I asked Matsuda earlier.” 

Yeah, Matsuda was definitely going to give you an earful about this later. 

Iwa, however, looked like he was two seconds away from combusting. His finger, still hooked lightly beneath the collar of your shirt, tightened just enough to tug you back — to pull you out of the center like you didn’t belong there in the first place. It was subtle: Controlled. But it still made you feel like a ragdoll being repositioned without warning. 

“Yeah. It is.” You answered, slower this time. Honestly, you weren’t sure if that was the right response. Or if you were supposed to correct him, say something about the honorifics, tell him not to use it so casually. But maybe that’s how Oikawa was. So who were you to shut down his playful mannerisms? Yet with the way Iwaizumi lingered, the way his finger kept a firm grip on your clothes, it felt like that was the wrong decision. And it was becoming painfully clear that Iwa wasn’t going to be your sense of relief anymore. 

Unfortunately, that left Haru. Who, completely oblivious, was already across the court trying to line up a ruler with one of the players’ hands like none of this was happening.

“Perfect!” Oikawa continued, completely unfazed to his teammates' death glares. “For a second I thought I had it wrong. That would’ve been embarrassing, huh?” 

You let out a polite laugh, something to fill the uncomfortable silence that threatened to build. “Yeah.” 

Iwa didn’t budge to the fibbed innocence. He placed his right leg in front of yours, the ball resting in his hand thrown roughly against the chest of the captain. “Unbelievable,” Oikawa squealed, hand pressing to his sternum. “You always resort to violence!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were smart.”

Yeah, you needed this to end — It was becoming painfully uncomfortable. “Why don’t we start?” You asked, palms clasped together in an effort to cut through whatever that was trying to become. “We’ll just start with something simple. Reaction timing.”  A few of them straightened slightly, attention shifting back. “We’ll start with you all catching the ruler when it drops. That way, we can measure the distance and convert it into reaction time.”

“Cool. Sounds easy enough.” Someone mentioned.

“I can go first.” Your head turned instinctively: Iwaizumi. He stepped forward without hesitation, rolling his shoulders once before holding his hand out, palm hovering just below the ruler. “Like this?” he asked.

You nodded, stepping closer to position it properly. “Yeah, just don’t grab it until it falls.”

“Got it.”

You adjusted the height slightly, trying your hardest to ignore his bicep brushed against your shoulder. But with the way the tension in his arm pressed against the fabric, muscles set in preparation — you almost let the ruler slip. “You, uh, ready?” He nodded once and that was all the confirmation you needed; anything to get him and his body away. So, you let go, observing as his fingers snapped shut around the ruler instantly. 

What the fuck. That was fast. 

A small scoff came from somewhere behind you two, a tall figure looming within your peripheral vision. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want accurate data, y/n.” You shivered at Oikawa’s address: It was one thing to add honorifics to your last name. But your first name? That was something you were definitely going to have to get used to. “Right, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi’s posture shifted, tongue pressed tight to the inside of his cheek as your name echoed within the group. He needed to control himself, to restrain himself from smacking Oikawa so hard he’d forget his own birthday. So, he resorted to gripping the ruler, knuckles white from the tension. “Shut up, Shittykawa. Or I’m making you run laps.” 

Yep. You were absolutely turning red — you needed Haru, and stat. 

“You can’t do that! I’m captain!” Iwa-chan narrowed his gaze, earning a small whimper from the boy to the side. “How about I just try?” Oikawa puffed his chest out as if that statement alone justified everything that had come out of his mouth — hand already reaching for the ruler like he had every right to take over. Iwaizumi, however, was swift to smack it away before his fingers could even brush the plastic.

“No.”

“Wow. Again, violent. In front of a girl too,” Oikawa muttered, rubbing the back of his hand before flashing you a grin that didn’t quite rival the look of irritation in his eyes. “See what I deal with, y/n?”

There it was again: Your name. You swallowed, ignoring the grunt that escaped Iwa’s throat at his incredulous friend. “I’ll adjust. Hold it higher to match inconsistencies in height.” You stated, stepping back half a pace — anything to create space from the touch of Iwa’s bicep.

“Do it again.” Iwa stated.

Your head lilted innately, a few blinks fluttering at the newfound abruptness. “What?”

“The test,” he clarified, holding his hand out again. “Do it again.”

Oikawa dragged his tongue across his lower lip, cheeks puffed out at the frustration iwaizumi was putting him through. “You’re acting like you didn’t just ace it.”

“I said do it again.” 

The tone was enough to silence Oikawa, forcing him to back away, hands pressed against his shorts while his lips thinned into a tight line. “Fine, fine. I’ll wait my turn.”

Yeah, the hit to your head was definitely getting to you. “Alright then, ready?” A nod. And just like before, his fingers caught it instantly. “Okay, yeah. That’s, uh, consistent.”

“Told you.” Oikawa chimed in from behind, far too pleased for someone who hadn’t even participated yet.

But you ignored his commentary, your focus now fixated on the line of participants you needed to get through. How many rounds of experiments until you were able to escape such a fever dream. “Oikawa.” you waved him up, stepping a full pace away from the wing spiker before he even had the chance to pull you back into whatever invisible radius he seemed to keep you in. 

And just like that, the rhythm picked up. Haru scribbled frantically beside you, muttering calculations under his breath as he eyed the measurements. It wasn’t until dusk had arrived, most members of the team gone, that time had caught up with you. 

“I’m going to go home and get this data written out coherently before I forget,” Haru tipped forward, blonde hair framing the sides of his ears. “Please get home safe. I hope your head doesn’t hurt too much.” 

You gave a smile, a gentle reminder to your science partner that you were, indeed, feeling loads better than the last time he saw you. Haru gave a weak thumbs up after that, scrambling out the door and into the night. 

It was funny, really. The way you’d somehow ended up back in a gym alone. Only this time, the walls weren’t lined with those chipped scooters you used to wait for. No quiet corners carved out solely for you. Just buckets of volleyballs stacked along the edges, the faint scent of socks and varnished wood lingering heavier than it did a few hours ago. 

“You’re still here.” You whipped around, watching as Iwaizumi stood near the bathroom door, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges, shirt clinging slightly from the perspiration of today’s training. 

“Sorry,” you started, already backing up on your heels, fingers curling tight around the strap of your bag as the exit crept closer behind you. “Haru and I were just going over the results — like a debrief. I was about to leave.” 

His gaze didn’t follow the explanation, though. It stayed on you; traced your face like he was looking for something specific — before dropping, settling on the bandage still stuck stubbornly to your skin. “I’ll walk you home.”

Your brows pinched together. Walk you home? He didn’t even know where you lived. What if you were on the complete opposite side of town? You opened your mouth, ready to question it, to at least clarify, but he already grabbed his bag in one smooth motion. No hesitation, no second thought, no reason for you to decline his declaration. 

So, the fourth time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi — it was intentional.

You’ve seen it yourself—the anxious buzz that surrounds campus whenever entrance exam season rolls around, the way the local hotels get all that more busy every January. The truth of the matter is that students from all over Miyagi flock to Shiratorizawa just for the chance to attend. 

Shiratorizawa is a prestigious school. It only takes the best of the best. 

All that to say, with the high school being so picky about who gets to wear its colors, you’d like to argue that everyone could be considered a bit of a local celebrity in their own right. After all, you’re always brushing shoulders with rich kids and geniuses and athletes who’ll probably go pro. Even the most boring kid at Shiratorizawa is excellent in some way. 

So, you think, seething silently, it would be really awesome if people could switch it up and stop confessing to the same guy!

“You’re killing your mochi,” Tendou observes, peering over your shoulder.

You blink and look down at your hand where you’ve crushed the snack—sticky, sweet red bean paste stuck between your fingers. “It was always like that.” 

Tendou just digs around in his bag and hands you a wet wipe. “Like the milk bread from last week? Or the onigiri from the week before?”

You shove the remains of the rice cake in your mouth and viciously scrub your hands clean, eyes flicking back up to glare at the two students standing at the other end of the hall. “The cafeteria had it on discount.” 

Tendou follows your gaze to where the last member of your little trio stands, patiently waiting for a blushing girl to hand over the chocolates she’s got behind her back and say her piece. You know her; she’s that cute soccer captain from Class 3-B. You’ve seen her around at tournaments, cheering loudly whenever Ushijima scores, and you rip the wet wipe apart in your hands because you also know exactly what she’s about to say. 

“I like you, Waka-kun! Please go out with me!”

Tendou exaggerates a wince at that and sneaks a glance back at you. Your eye twitches slightly at the nickname but you stay your hand. Your mochi will be the only casualty this afternoon. 

(A pity. He’d been hoping for something more drastic. He’s still got that bet going with Semi and Tendou’s been looking forward to cashing in that win for weeks now.) 

It’s a bit difficult to hear exactly what Ushijima says—between the three of you, he’s always been the quiet one—but that doesn’t stop you from craning your head to listen anyway. If you concentrate, you can just make out that familiar rumble of his voice as he bows his head politely to the poor girl. 

“I am sorry, but I cannot reciprocate your feelings.” 

It’s not like his response is anything new—it’s all part of the same script that he follows each time another confession comes up (“I appreciate your efforts… thank you for your support…” and so on and so forth), but that doesn’t stop the small sigh of relief that escapes you anyway. 

At least the worst part of this whole song and dance is over. All that’s left is for him to excuse himself from the heartbroken captain and make his way back to where the two of you are waiting. Then the three of you will walk back to your dorms together and yeah, it’ll be awkward for a second but Tendou will go and say something stupid and it’ll be shocking enough to distract you from the lingering jealousy that curls in your chest. 

What’s important is that the moment will pass and you’ll be able to put this all behind you. That’s how it’s always been, and so long as Ushijima keeps turning down confessions, how it will always be. In fact, you’re already turning back to Tendou, ready to change the subject in anticipation when he shakes his head and jabs his finger back where Ushijima is still standing at the end of the hall. 

“He’s still talking.”

You whirl around and watch in horror as for the first time ever, Ushijima deviates from that perfectly practiced script and says something new. 

“I cannot reciprocate your feelings because I have someone in mind already.”

For all intents and purposes, Ushijima might as well have just set off a bomb. Faintly, a part of you registers that he and the soccer captain are still talking, but they might as well be speaking a different language for all you care. You’re not listening anymore. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears as you turn those three words over and over again in your head.

‘Someone in mind.’ 

Ushijima has feelings for someone. He’s been turning down confessions, not just because he doesn’t reciprocate, but because his heart’s already taken. By someone else. Someone who isn’t you. 

You’re going to be sick. You might actually throw up. 

“Tendou,” you say slowly. “Does Ushijima have a girlfriend?”

Tendou stares at you for a long time, his sharp sweeping gaze studying you with such focus, you can’t help but suddenly remember that he’s known for his otherworldly intuition, the one that lets him predict a move before you make it. The one that makes him such a monstrous opponent on the court. 

It’s unnerving, seeing it turned on you all of a sudden. You’ve got half the mind to backtrack when he blinks and something clicks, some kind of understanding that dawns on him and leaves a strange sort of giddiness in his eyes when he realizes you’re serious. “Hmm. Dunnoooo. It would explain a lot, though, wouldn’t it? Some kinda secret girlfriend.”

“...I see.”

“...You’re making a really scary face right now,” Tendou says, poking at your side. “See, this is why Semi assigned us jail bail days.”

You shoot him a look, wriggling away from his relentless attack. “What? What the hell does that even mean?”

“Goshiki thinks you’re going to go to jail. He wouldn’t stop crying till Semi set up a schedule to make sure someone’s always gonna bail you out.” Tendou pauses and squints at you. “You weren’t supposed to know that part. Don’t tell him I said that.” 

You wrinkle your nose, briefly distracted by the admittedly hilarious vision of Goshiki wailing at poor Semi during practice, before you shake it off. “I’m not going to jail!”

“Never hurts to be prepared,” he chirps. 

You don’t bother dignifying that with a response, simply huffing when he laughs at you. Whatever. Your efforts are best spent elsewhere anyway, like in turning your attention down the hall to dig for whatever scraps of information you can get. 

You see, the thing that always shocks people the most about your unorthodox friendship is when you tell them that, between the two of you, Ushijima has always been the one to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

Of course, no one ever believes you. They’ll pause and their eyes will flick between the two of you standing side by side—the loud, eccentric manager and the taciturn statue beside her. But it makes perfect sense to you. Ushijima is blunt and never minces his words—it’s why you’ve had to come to his defense more than once on the playground back in primary school. Ushijima believes in saying what you mean and doing what you say. He sees no reason to pretend otherwise. Is it really that unbelievable that he would be this honest about his feelings too? 

Perhaps your insight is because of your proximity to him: having grown up side by side, you know him in the same way you know that the sun will rise and set, and that hayashi rice is delicious. You can see it even now, that imperceptible shift as the tension leaves him, the way his shoulders relax and drop ever so slightly when he looks up and sees that you’re still waiting. 

You’ve known Ushijima Wakatoshi since childhood. You can read him better than anyone else. This very skill that you take such pride in is how you know that, despite your wishful thinking, Ushijima has never suddenly fallen head over heels in love with you the way you have with him. You would’ve noticed the change otherwise. 

So how could you have missed this? This apparent secret girlfriend of his, these feelings that he’s kept to himself all this time. He’s always with you or Tendou—so when did he find the time to fall in love without you? 

Perhaps you just don’t know him as well as you thought. 

Tendou blows a raspberry at the sight of your sulking. “Eh? What’s wrong with you? Not like you to give up so easily.” He pokes at your side again, exaggerating a sigh. “I thought you liked to win?” 

You tense at that. While you might not have known Tendou since childhood like you have with Ushijima, the two of you have been friends long enough for you to realize when he’s up to something. It doesn’t take a genius to see through him, especially when he’s sporting that cheshire grin of his. 

He’s teasing you. Goading you. 

The worst part is that it’s working. Tendou’s right—you know it, and he knows you know it. You do like to win. It’s what makes you such a good manager, and it’s why Coach Washijo keeps you on the team even when your competitive nature has been a subject of debate between the two of you. 

(“When I said look for weaknesses in our opponents, I meant physical ones—volleyball related ones—not that their libero was bullied in middle school!”)

Hah…fine. You can admit that Tendou has a point, even if he’s making it up for his own hidden agenda. You can’t give up this easily, not when you have something worth fighting for, right? So maybe Ushijima has feelings for someone, some kind of secret girlfriend—that’s fine! Everything’s fine! You’ve got a plan.

Clearly, there’s only one reasonable thing left to do. You can’t spend the rest of your life burying your infatuation, hoping you won’t accidentally let it slip out some day. You need to be brave and rip off the bandaid, find out the truth so you can move on. You need to confront your feelings. You’ll do it— you’ll really make a move this time.

As it turns out, it’s much easier to break into Ushijima’s room than it is to confess that you’ve been in love with him for the past year. 

The door unlocks easily with a satisfying click! and you dart in, slamming the door behind you. The hallway was clear the last time you checked, but you don’t want to push your luck. For some reason, you have a feeling that the disciplinary committee won’t take “it’s not breaking-and-entering if I had a key” as a valid defense. 

You slip the spare key back in your blazer, tucking it safely in your pocket as you wander around, peering curiously at every nook and cranny.  

Ushijima’s room is just as neat as you remember it: textbooks organized alphabetically on his bookshelf, a few pictures on his desk, his volleyball tucked in the corner of his bed where it meets the wall. If you’re being honest, it’s always been a little too empty for your tastes: a little too minimalist, a little too boring. Though you suppose that this technically could be considered an improvement from when you were both children. At least there are pictures now. 

You still remember visiting his home for the first time, wide-eyed and eager to finally see what the inside of such a grand estate would look like: something like over a dozen places to hide in hide-and-seek, a bedroom the size of your living room back home, even a swimming pool. With how large the place was, surely there must’ve been a room dedicated to volleyball—no, an entire court in there somewhere!

You also remember being disappointed when you walked in and there was decidedly no secret indoor volleyball court that he’d been hiding. You’d been right about the size of his bedroom, but it just reminded you of one of those sample rooms in those fancy magazines your mom read from time to time. A little too pretty. A little too lonely. 

You’d never said anything about it, chalking the whole thing up as one of his quirks, something from his more traditional upbringing, but you did start bringing stuff over from your room to leave at his. Nothing huge—just some plushies you’d won in crane games, a few toys from gachapons, a couple drawings you’d doodled in class—but you’d sneak them in in a bulging bag and scatter them around his room when he wasn’t looking.

In hindsight, you probably weren’t very inconspicuous, being clumsy and loud and eight, but if Ushijima ever had a problem with you decorating his room, he never said anything. Every time you came back, all your baubles were still there, exactly where you left them. 

Some of them are here in his door room now. Your heart does a funny flip at the sight of those cheap gachapon figures sitting on his bookshelf. It’s been years since you first bought them, and yet none of them show any signs of standard wear and tear. It’s like they’ve been handled gently all their lives.   

You jump as your phone chimes loudly with your reminder that training’s about to start. 

Right. No more reminiscing. You need to focus on what you’re here for: the secret girlfriend. 

Realistically, you’ve only got an hour before someone’s bound to walk in. You’ve timed it perfectly—you know Ushijima’s just finished class and he’s got training next. As the manager, you don’t technically need to be there for that, so your absence shouldn’t be that suspicious. And since Tendou needs to be at training too, there’s no chance you’ll be interrupted by him either. It’s the perfect plan.  

You waste no time digging through the bookshelf, rifling through textbook after textbook, drawer after drawer. Embarrassingly enough, you’re a little uncertain what to look for since you’ve never really had any admirers yourself. For whatever reason, no one’s ever really confessed to you. 

It used to sting when you were younger but you’ve since learned to shrug it off. It’s not like you were an outcast during things like Valentine’s Day. Thoughtful as he is, Ushijima always bought you something. Plus, you’ve read plenty of shoujo manga before. Surely that’s pretty much the same thing.  

To no one's surprise, Ushijima isn’t hiding any love letters in his math textbook. You kick at the ground when your search through his drawers comes up empty too. There’s not that many places left to look. Even though Ushijima lucked out this year and got his own private room, the dorm rooms still aren’t anything luxurious. There’s really only the closet left (which ended up just being a collection of his uniforms—boring) and whatever he keeps in the storage units. 

You eye the tiny space under his desk and sigh. Well, you’re already here. No sense in doing half the job.

You shrug off your white blazer, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on Ushijima’s bed, and wriggle into that cramped spot underneath the desk. It’s tight and distinctly uncomfortable—you swear you can feel something digging into your shoulder and your leg—and you’re briefly granted a moment of clarity as you contemplate if any part of this, this whole adventure, is genuinely insane. 

You’re this close to giving up, to swallowing your pride and pretending like you didn’t just spend half an hour searching for something that apparently—doesn’t exist—until you catch sight of something in your periphery. 

There! Right there, under his desk, there’s an old box neatly tucked away in one of the dorm shelving units. At first glance, it doesn’t look like anything special, just one of those cheap plastic containers from Daiso. You and Tendou have one too—you know Tendou’s using his to keep all his Jump magazines in one place, while yours is home to a collection of your favorite guilty pleasure: romantasy manga. So unfortunately, it’s not the groundbreaking find you were looking for. You’re ready to move on, already squirming to move out of the uncomfortable position you’ve squashed yourself in except—

Except that worthless plastic container—it has Ushijima’s name on it. He’s written it down himself. You’d recognize that handwriting anywhere—you’ve seen it before, scattered around his home. His old volleyball. His first sketchbook. His father’s novels. You know better than anyone that he only does that with the things he treasures most. And if that's the case… what could possibly be in the box? 

It has to be the evidence you were looking for. Something incriminating, like trinkets that belong to his secret girlfriend. There can be no other explanation for why he would need an entire container to store something so special to him. 

You did it. You found what you were looking for. 

So why aren’t you satisfied? 

You heave a great sigh and reluctantly pull your gaze away from the familiar scrawl of Ushijima’s handwriting, crawling back out from under the desk. Should you really even be doing this? Using the spare key that Ushijima trusted you with to rummage through his stuff—is this really the right way to go about things? What would Tendou say?

He’d say to listen for anyone outside the door before you open the box, your brain supplies helpfully. 

You shake your head, absentmindedly swatting at the air as if batting the temptation away. If Tendou of all people would be encouraging you, that should be all the reason you need not to do it then. 

Besides, you know it's not right. You know it’s none of your business who Ushijima dates or who he has feelings for. You’re just his childhood best friend— no more, no less. In fact, what you should really do is just clean up the mess you’ve made before someone notices and pretend like you never even saw the box. 

You swallow and move to stand, to gather the papers you’d scattered all over his table in your frenzy, when your eyes catch the framed photo sitting by his lamp. It’s an old photo; one your mother snapped back from a time when the two of you were still the same height. 

You’d been coming home from your first summer festival together, dressed in your matching yukatas. The two of you had spent the night hand in hand as you eagerly dragged him from stall to stall, chattering away. By the time the festival came to a close, you were dead on your feet, sluggishly letting Ushijima guide you back home. 

You’d felt bad about it at the time, the kind of worry that comes with thinking you’re being a nuisance, the kind of nonsensical, childish guilt that you’d failed him as his (self-proclaimed) senior. You’d wanted to impress him, to show him something as cool as volleyball, but here you were hours later, so tired that you could barely muster another word, let alone figure out how to get home. 

Kids that age are fickle. You know without a doubt that he must’ve been exhausted too, running after you all night. It would’ve been all too easy for him to excuse himself and go home early. You would’ve understood if he did. There was certainly no expectation for him to walk you all the way back home, especially since his house was much closer to the festival than yours. 

But because he’s Ushijima—kind, gentle, dependable Ushijima—the thought of leaving you behind had never even crossed his mind. He’d just taken your hand and matched your snail’s pace, slowly maneuvering you through those crowded, winding streets. And then when you’d nearly tripped over your own two feet, he’d simply stopped and offered you his back. Your mother had opened the door to find him standing there with you wrapped around him, dozing off with your face tucked in the crook of his neck, and snapped the photo without hesitation. 

You pick up the picture and softly trace the borders of the frame. It’s an old photo and yet—it’s in perfect condition. There’s not even a smudge on the glass.

You don’t want to lose him.

The thought comes to you unbidden, that ache in your chest growing heavier as you gingerly set the picture back down where it used to be. That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? You’re just his childhood friend—no more, no less, but god—you don't want to be. 

You don’t want to lose him, not to someone else— never to someone else—but the truth is half the jealousy you feel every week is just envy. Envy, because even though you might seethe quietly at the audacity some of these admirers have, using affectionate nicknames and professing their love when they don’t even know him, at least they can confess. Unlike you, they’ve got nothing to lose. Unlike you, they’re not bound by this invisible boundary that they can’t cross. 

The truth is you wouldn’t be able to bear it, even though you knew it was only a matter of time before your luck ran out. The only thing worse than someone else having his heart would be you taking the gamble and losing it all. 

You glance back at the photo, at the way Ushijima held you so easily even then, as if it was second nature to have you by his side. He wasn’t looking at the camera either, you realize. He was always looking at you. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides and then you’re looking back only once to check the door before you throw yourself back under the table, reaching in, twisting your arm in an awkward angle to snatch up the box and drag it back out to the center of the room. 

The white plastic stares at you accusingly as you trail your hand across the lid and huff out a laugh. There’s not even a layer of dust. Typical. You really shouldn’t be surprised—Ushijima has always been diligent about taking care of the things he loves. 

The things he loves. You curl your fingers around the corner, digging them into the space where the lid meets the container. It’s a bad idea. All of this. Even if you were successful in your impromptu investigation, what would be the point? It’s not like you could confront him about it—you can’t without explaining how you found out to begin with.

You should put it away. Once you open it, there really will be no more going back. 

But you would finally know the truth.

Your eyes flick back to that picture of the two of you and you pause only a moment before you give in and finally rip that damn lid off.

…

Oh. 

It’s you. 

It’s all you. 

You’d been bracing yourself for the worst—love letters, pictures, gifts too precious to keep out on display—but all that’s staring back at you in that stupid, worthless plastic tub is a lifetime of memories you’d almost forgotten about. 

There are the notes that you used to pass to him during lectures, back when the two of you were still lucky enough to be in the same class, safely tucked away in a plastic sheet and organized by year. Your little doodles are still there, ink smudged slightly on the paper but in otherwise pristine condition. Behind them are the messy, half finished polaroids you snapped of the two of you, with handwritten dates for each one. Bottles, wrappers from the late night konbini runs. 

And there, in the center of it all, is the flower you gave him at recess, the Japanese camellia you shoved into his hands when you made him promise to play with you forever. 

He kept it. He kept all of it, this collection of trinkets, and pieced it together into this haphazard mosaic of the story most precious to him: the story of the two of you. 

You carefully reach in and cup the camellia in your hand, tenderly running your thumb over the dried petals. It’s smaller than you remember. When you first snatched it from your neighbor’s garden, clambering over that fence while she hollered at you, you’d been giddy with your stolen prize. You didn’t have the words for it back then, didn’t understand the dizzying, overwhelming affection you felt for your best friend. But instinctively, some part of you recognized that with those pretty, pink petals that seemed to spill past your fingertips, your gift could do all the talking for you. 

You know better now. Perhaps even back then, that too, was love. 

You smile wistfully. You needed two hands to hold it back then. Where did the time go?

“Nice flower. What’re you doing in Wakatoshi’s room?” Tendou chirps as he leans over you. 

You yelp and shove the flower back in the box, slamming the lid back on top. “Tendou! God— nothing! I’m just waiting for him to be done with class!” 

Tendou squints his eyes, staring at you and the plastic box that you’re currently trying to discreetly kick back under Ushijima’s desk. 

“Eh? It’s already 5. Class was over an hour ago. You missed practice—you never miss practice. Washijo thought something happened to you. Goshiki wanted to search the nearest holding cell.”

The box makes an unhappy thud when you shove it again and it ends up wedged between the desk and the shelf. There’s a brief lull in conversation when you and Tendou pause to stare. You cough loudly and stand up, dusting yourself off. “You know how it is. I just lost track of time.”

“...This is about today’s confession, isn’t it,” he says slowly, inching closer. 

“No!” you blurt, throwing your hands in his face. “I mean— why would it be? Hah! Wakatoshi gets confessions all the time! It’s no big deal—” 

Tendou easily dodges your attempt to blind him and just gives you a satisfied, impish grin. “So you’re not trashing his room to find his secret girlfriend’s stuff?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” you sniff. Tendou just waggles his eyebrows and you narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Hang on. Don’t change the subject. What are you doing here? Don’t you guys still have training?”

Tendou yawns and throws his hands behind his head. “I left early cause I had a feeling you were gonna do something stupid.”

“And you wanted to help me?”

“And I wanted to be there to see it,” Tendou corrects.

You take a deep breath and bravely resist the urge to just grab him and stretch him like taffy. “Thanks.”

“Ehhh, don’t look so mad! You should be glad I’m here~”

“And why’s that?” You force out. 

Tendou gleefully waves his phone in front of your face. “How else would you know that Ushijima just sent me a text. He says he’s coming over to find us.”

Your head shoots up so fast you nearly smack Tendou in the face. “How much time do I have?”

Tendou checks his empty wrist. “Probably like ten minutes.”

You let out a particularly creative string of curses as you frantically sort through the mess, shoving books back on shelves and papers back in drawers. 

(Tendou plops himself down, gangly limbs draped over Ushijima’s chair, and rests his head in his hand as he watches you fuss over the pile of clothing you’d made when you tore through Ushijima’s wardrobe. 

He wonders if you can see it—you, in a room that only you have the spare key to; a room with the trinkets that you bought for Ushijima as a child; a room he decorated with your favorite colors. If you’ve noticed the way that Ushijima always brings his jacket to the gym, even when he’s going to be playing, because you get cold easily. If you’ve ever caught how, instinctively, whenever someone confesses to him, the first place he always looks is toward you. 

Though, given that you’re here in his room frantically trying to cover up the minor crime you’ve just committed, probably not. 

Ah well, he thinks, idly scrolling through all the other messages Ushijima’s sent about you. She’ll figure it out eventually. It’s only a matter of time.)

author's notes: so. this was in fact supposed to be a short 2k piece that would give me a break from working on Without Apology. as you can see it did not end up being 2k. anyways. I had a lot of fun working on this piece and even though it was supposed to be mostly comedy, I think I slipped and accidentally wrote something really earnest. I’m sure you will make fun of me for this later Liya.

I think ushijima really shines in these “dense x guy who’s been in love since he was six” tropes because he’s very much an “acts of service” kinda guy. In that sense, reader’s right—if he was in love, it would be really obvious because there would be special treatment. She just doesn’t realize she’s getting special treatment because it’s just how Ushijima has been for as long as she can remember.

I also think it’s really funny that this is supposed to be an ushijima fic and then I basically only had him appear in the beginning and say like 10 words. And then none of those words were directed at reader lol. It’s just like real Haikyuu.

Anyways. My beautiful wonderful beta readers. Thank you to @sun-snatcher for reading like 5k words about a guy you don’t even know and hyping me up anyway. And of course, a big thank you @yuechihua for being so thorough with your edits.I know you absolutely despise ushijima so it means a lot that you would sit down and read 4.9k words of fic dedicated to my beast. I love you hehe!

As always, if you enjoyed, let me know :3c

Tag list: @syynon, @takeyourhands

“What are you doing?” All For One’s voice rings out behind you, and you startle so badly that you almost tip Ragdoll’s gurney. “I must say, Aspera, I’m surprised to find you here, given that you apparently recommended that Tomura and the others vacate their hideout.”

“I want to help,” you say weakly. “The heroes are looking for her. If we give her back, they might go away.”

“I doubt you’re so naive,” AFO says, and your blood turns to ice. “The counsel you give my successor is too prescient for that. I almost wonder —”

He breaks off, studying you, silent so long that panic shatters your self-control. “Sir?”

“If you have some foresight as to how events will unfold,” he says. “What makes you so certain that —”

The far wall of the warehouse explodes inwards, the roof crumpling, and the air displacement knocks over you and the gurney in the same moment, sending you and Ragdoll flying. You’re conscious, so you’ve got some control of how you land, but Ragdoll doesn’t. It’s your fault she’s out here, unprotected. You twist yourself in the air as best you can and grab her, trying to shield her head and neck. But in shielding her, you’ve left yourself exposed. You have one second to realize you’ve fucked up before your head strikes hard against something and the lights go out.

Your head hurts when you wake up, and there’s the taste in your mouth that says you had a seizure. Did you talk again? What did you say? Who did you say it to? The questions blur through your head, vanishing as you register the noise around you, the chaos and shouting and ripples traveling through the air. Someone’s shaking your shoulder, voice pitched up and anxious. “Wake up! Come on, you have to! We don’t need you but you’re distracting everybody!”

“Twice?” You open your eyes and find him staring down at you, shaking hard enough now to rattle your brain and increase your headache by a factor of twelve. “What happened?”

“All Might and Shigaraki’s sensei are fighting and it’s crazy! There are heroes everywhere and we need help — Shigaraki’s about to lose his shit —”

Yeah, you bet he is. “The kids?”

“We still got ‘em,” Twice says proudly. “Both of them. Come on, get up! Can you fight?”

No, you want to say. “Yes.”

“Good!” Twice seizes your arm and hauls you to your feet. “Let’s go get All Might.”

You’ve got no plans to go get All Might, and once you get a good look at the battlefield, you realize you can’t — not without hitting your own side at the same time. Calling your attack won’t get you very far. It’s too loud, and a bright enough flash can disorient even people who’ve shut their eyes. You can’t do any good in the fight. You focus in on the League.

They’re in weird shape, based on what happened in canon. Dabi’s still conscious, which means your warning had them prepped for the heroes’ attack — or that Kamui Woods’ death left the heroes without a way to restrain him and the others. Both kids are loose. Bakugou’s about two seconds from getting Compressed again, and Monoma’s done the smart thing and taken shelter with Toga behind some wreckage. Magne’s up; Rappa’s up; Chrono’s up. What the fuck are Rappa and Chrono doing here? Twice is fine — he’s the one who grabbed you. Spinner’s on his feet, knives out. Where’s Shigaraki?

It only takes you a second to find him. He’s way too close to the fight between All Might and All For One, and worse, you see someone headed his way. Gran Torino, who doesn’t give a shit about hurting All Might or Midoriya, let alone a villain. Gran Torino is fast. There’s only one thing you know of that’s faster.

No time to call your attack. You throw yourself forward, tackling Shigaraki to the ground so the kick Gran Torino aimed at his head won’t connect. Shigaraki lashes out, but he’s facedown and can’t get to you. You have to get up, and once you do, you’re squarely in Gran Torino’s path, another kick in the head coming with your name on it. You’ve had enough head trauma for the day. You duck sideways, keeping your hand up, and throw a flash in his face.

It’s not a strong one. About the same as you used on Aizawa, except Aizawa wasn’t speeding through the air at dozens of kilometers per hour. Gran Torino veers off-course and plows into the ground, leaving a meters-long skid. Not your problem. Shigaraki’s picking himself up off the ground. “I told you to stay out of this.”

“You said I’m a sidekick, not a minion. I’m taking initiative.” You grab Shigaraki’s arm and drag him away from the fight with All Might, noting as you do that Kurogiri’s unconscious — because Edgeshot’s not dead, and he could still seriously injure Kurogiri. That means you’re only getting out of here if All For One decides to get you out. “We have to go. You’re not doing any good here. It’s just a distraction. It —”

It feels like everything happens at once. All For One reactivates Kurogiri and warp gates open up. All Might’s true form is revealed for the first time — you can tell by the way the battlefield, the world, falls silent. And you see a weird shape arcing through the sky. Midoriya, Iida, and Kirishima. Here to rescue their fellow students.

All For One’s not as good with the warp gates as Kurogiri is. They’re opening in weird spots, forcing the League and the two Hassakai members to navigate the wreckage to reach them. You yank on Shigaraki’s arm, pulling him towards the nearest one, and he yanks back hard. “No! I’m not leaving with nothing!”

The students. He means the students. One more yank and he’s free of your grip, leaving you to chase him — but you’ll both be too late. The rescue team is at the apex of their flight, Kirishima’s hand outstretched, Bakugou and Monoma seconds away from escaping. Just like in canon.

And it really is just like in canon. Bakugou launches himself skyward. Alone.

He left Monoma. For a moment you’re stunned into stillness, and so is Shigaraki. Shigaraki recovers faster. Fury flashes across his face, and he lunges forward at Monoma. One arm around Monoma’s shoulders, fingers carefully lifted, he steers Monoma towards a warp gate. You get a single glimpse of the confusion and hurt on Monoma’s face before he’s out of sight. And that’s when it clicks for you. You told Monoma that the heroes didn’t care about him. The heroes just proved it.

Fuck them. Shigaraki is shouting at you, ordering you to get through the warp gate, but instead you square up. Shigaraki’s same rage is coursing through you, and unlike him, you’ve got an outlet. You raise one hand, holding it outstretched in the direction the heroes went, your quirk burning hot at your fingertips. Turn around, you little shit. Look back.

Either you have psychic powers or Bakugou must have a conscience somewhere in there, because he looks. You light up all five fingers, ready to throw a flash — and then something weird happens. The flashes shift, consolidating from the tips of all five fingers to your middle finger, and on instinct, you form a finger gun. The brightest light you’ve ever generated arrows out from your middle finger, straight towards Bakugou. You know you’ve hit him. Before the flash destroys your own vision, you see him clap one hand over his eye.

“Come on!” Shigaraki’s voice is in your ear now. He’s got you, yanking you back through the warp gate, and the noise of the battlefield vanishes in a heartbeat.

It’s replaced by somewhere that echoes, where you can hear everyone’s rapid, panicked breathing. Someone’s crying — Monoma? Your vision starts to come back, and when it does, the first thing you see is Shigaraki’s face, right up close and personal with yours. “What the fuck was that?”

“I —”

“I told you to leave. Did your ears stop working? If Sensei hadn’t kept control of Kurogiri, you would have been —” Shigaraki breaks off just long enough to take a breath, then starts back in on you. “And that special attack you’ve got? Where was that? If you’d used it on All Might —”

Special attack? The finger gun? “I didn’t know I could —”

“Sensei would have won, and we wouldn’t be in the fucking sewer right now!” Shigaraki’s got you by the lapels of your coat, almost shaking you. You should be panicking. Why aren’t you? “What the fuck is wrong with you? We could have won. And you just —”

“I didn’t know,” you snap. “I never even thought about if it was possible until —”

“Until we already lost?” Shigaraki spits. He’s looking at you like he hates you. Why aren’t you scared? “That’s what it took? And you couldn’t even point it in the right direction —”

“They left him!” Your voice explodes out in the silence, and Shigaraki jerks back a step in shock. “You saw the same thing I did. Those kids are supposed to be his friends. They fucking left him! What was I supposed to do, let them get away with it?”

Shigaraki’s staring at you now. Behind him, you see the rest of the League. They’re staring, too — everybody but Monoma, and the sight of him with his head down and his shoulders hunched brings your anger to life again. “They had to pay for it, so I made them pay. I don’t know how I did it, I just did — and if you’d listened to me when I told you they’d found us, none of us would ever have been out there in the first place. This is on you as much as me, so get the fuck out of my face!”

Shigaraki stares at you for a second longer, his features twisting in a way you haven’t seen before. Then his hands fall from your jacket and he storms past you, checking you hard with his shoulder as he disappears down the tunnel. He’s gone. You’re still standing. The rest of the League is still staring at you.

It lasts a lot longer than you’re comfortable with. “What are you guys looking at?”

“You,” Magne says. No shit. “The boss is out of it. Aren’t you his second in command?”

No, that’s Kurogiri — but Kurogiri’s down, too. “He puts you in charge of shit all the time,” Dabi says from where he’s leaning against the wall. His blue eyes pierce through the gloom, evaluative and almost malicious. “What’s our next move?”

“Turn ourselves in?” It’s absolutely the wrong time for a joke, but a few people snort. “Give me a second.”

A few things come to mind. “We need to figure out where we are,” you say. “Does anybody still have cover?”

“You,” Spinner points out. “Chrono, maybe?”

Chrono nods. “I could,” Toga chirps. “But I don’t want to stay in the sewer. We need a new hideout.”

“Yeah, this won’t work long-term.” Or short-term. You rack your brains. In canon, the League’s on the run after Kamino, dirt-poor and without allies — but this isn’t canon. You look to Chrono. “We need a place to hide, and I know the Hassaikai has a compound. Time for your boss to hold up his end of the bargain.”

“I can take you there, but there’s no guarantee he’ll let you in,” Chrono says. Is there a note of regret in her voice? You can’t say for sure, and she’s inscrutable behind the mask. “This alliance is no longer as beneficial to him as it was before.”

“You know what really won’t be beneficial to him? Me telling the cops about his quirk-canceling bullets,” you say. Chrono chokes on thin air. “I know enough to sink him, and I’ve got just enough cover left to alert the authorities without getting caught. Either he lets us in or I sell him out. His choice.”

“We still have access to significant financial resources.” It’s Kurogiri’s voice. You turn to find him sitting up. “It is All For One who has been captured, not his bank accounts. There is much to recommend a continued alliance.”

He might be bluffing. In canon the League had nothing, but Shigaraki’s a lot more impressive at this stage than he was at this time in the original story. The Doctor might be more willing to help. Chrono looks from you to Kurogiri. “I will lead you to our compound,” she says, and you breathe a sigh of relief. “But it’s not safe to move now. The heroes will be out in force looking for all of you.”

“You, too. Those cameras got a great look at your tacky outfit,” Compress remarks. “We should remain hidden for now.”

It’s quiet for a second. “I’m hungry,” Toga says. “Does anyone have food?”

Compress does, apparently — it looks like he stole half a convenience store. There’s medical supplies, too, for anybody who’s hurt, but people mostly have scrapes and bruises. Kurogiri waves you away when you check on him, and that leaves you with two people to worry about. One’s Monoma. The other’s Shigaraki.

One of them is a kid. A kid who just got abandoned on live TV, in front of the entire country. Monoma needs help more than Shigaraki, who’s a damn adult, who just chewed you out in front of everyone for something that’s not your fault. Still, though — you feel a weird pull towards him, something harder to resist than it should be. You shake it off and turn towards Monoma.

Dabi, of all people, blocks your way. “I got it.”

“What?”

“I got it,” Dabi repeats, arms crossed over his chest. “Heroes letting people down? I’m the fucking expert on it. I got him. Go deal with the boss. Not like he’s gonna listen to anyone else with Kurogiri down for the count.”

Right — because with All For One and Kurogiri out of the picture, you’re the one who’s known Shigaraki the longest. It should be you. That doesn’t mean you want it to be you. Or that you have any idea what you’re supposed to be doing. You steel yourself, light up one hand, and start off down the tunnel, looking for Shigaraki.

He didn’t go far. He’s just out of sight around a bend, sitting down with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. You make a lot of noise on your way towards him, but he doesn’t look up. Shigaraki looks miserable, and seeing him like this yanks on you in a way you didn’t expect. A way that scares you, just enough to get you moving. He looks cold, shaky. You shrug off your coat and settle it around his shoulders.

He looks up at you. “Hey,” you say, like an idiot. “Are you okay?”

Shigaraki doesn’t say anything. He’s somehow picked the grossest possible place for a meltdown, but there’s a space at his side. “Can I sit down?”

He shifts sideways a little bit. You decide to pretend that it’s a yes and sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush. You’ve sat closer to him than this. On the way back from the Sports Festival, arm in arm, his head tipped to your shoulder. After Stain paralyzed you, when he was sitting next to you, his hand covering yours. You’re sitting with him, after he tried to blame you for what went wrong today, when you did everything in your power short of giving yourself a seizure to try to avoid it. What are you supposed to do now? What do you want to do?

There’s only one thing you can think of. “I have my Shuffle,” you say. “Can I play you a song?”

Shigaraki nods once, and then you have to go fishing in the pockets of your coat — which he’s now wearing — to come up with your headphones and the iPod itself. “I don’t get to pick which song it plays. And the skip button doesn’t work. It’s just going to — do whatever. So, um — sorry. In advance.”

“I don’t care.” Shigaraki’s voice is rough. “Anything.”

“And I have to listen with you. Or it won’t play.” You wipe off the headphones as best you can and offer one to Shigaraki, who tucks it into his ear. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Shigaraki adjusts your coat around his shoulders, pulling it tighter. “Just play it.”

You get your own headphone in, get comfortable, and brace yourself. You have no idea what’s coming, but whatever it is, you’re almost certain you’re not going to like it. You press play, and the first strains of guitar come through softly. It could be any song, but then two high, clear pings sound, and you know even before the lyrics start. Taking over this town, they should worry. But these problems aside I think I’ve taught you well—

You want to strangle your Shuffle. Any song. It could have played any song except this one, up to and including Rasputin, Blurred Lines, or fucking Slow Hands. You’d have taken any one of them over this, because it’s a two-person song, this one. You know how it sounds to you, how it feels to you. It feels like you’ve made a colossal mistake, and you didn’t realize it until right now.

Howling ghosts, they reappear in mountains that are stacked with fear, but you’re a king, and I’m a lionheart. Shigaraki started out the song tense, shoulders stiff and rattling, but as the first chorus ends, he starts to settle down. It reminds you of how he fell asleep on your shoulder on the train home from the Sports Festival. Is this how early it started? Is that when things fell out of your control? Why didn’t you notice earlier?

You know why. Every realization you’ve had since you got here is something you’ve ignored until you can’t any longer. Why would this be any different? And as the world comes to an end, I’ll be here to hold your hand, ‘cause you’re my king and I’m your lionheart — your lionheart — your lionheart —

It takes all your self-control not to rip the earbud out of your ear and run, and a second later, it becomes impossible. Shigaraki’s little finger crosses over yours, hooks it, and instead of pulling your hand away from his, you tighten your grip.

This is fine. In canon, there was nobody comforting Shigaraki after Kamino, and in canon, his plan failed even worse than this. All you’re doing is pushing the storyline a little further away from the ending where all the villains die. If you’re holding Shigaraki’s hand, in the only way it’s possible to safely do so, it’s only to save his life. No other reason.

The song draws to a close, but Shigaraki doesn’t let go, or take the headphone out of his ear. This time, your Shuffle doesn’t beat you over the head with it. It switches songs. We’ve got work to do. Better dig in, dig in, dig in, dig in deep this time — “What is this?” Shigaraki asks, turning to look at you. “Did you pick it?”

“It’s broken. I can’t control what it plays,” you say. And in our ears and on our minds, beyond your years your rallying cry is calling us out again, calling us in again — “It just does what it does. It doesn’t mean anything.”

We watch you draw their frightened fire, you’re keeping calm, you’re aiming higher. Summoning all the rest, more power than we knew we had, and we’ve got a light to see our way by — “Look,” you say, holding up the Shuffle so he can watch you click the skip button and see how absolutely nothing happens. “It’s just — doing that.”

“Fine,” Shigaraki says. We’ve got what we need, ‘cause we got you…

You thought you were the only one who got lectured by your Shuffle. Apparently it also feels fine lecturing Shigaraki — or trying to pump him up, or something. You show him the useless Skip button again, just to make it clear that you’re not responsible for this. He studies you for a second longer, during which you realize how close your face is to his, then looks away. He’s still holding your hand. If you can call linking your little fingers together holding hands.

The song comes to an end, and Shigaraki pulls the headphone out of his ear. “What’s happening back there?”

“Medical treatment. We’re waiting until the heat dies down, and then we’re going to Overhaul’s.”

“He won’t let us in. You said he’d sell us out.”

“That was before I threatened to sell him out first,” you say, and Shigaraki lets out a little snort that might be laughter. “I was thinking. If I can get Rappa or Chrono to describe a room inside the Hassaikai stronghold — like, in a ton of detail — do you think that would be enough information for Kurogiri to warp us in, even if he’s never been there before?”

“Maybe,” Shigaraki says. “Half of us go knock on the door, and the other half are already inside. Can you get one of them to talk?”

“For sure,” you say. Your first thought was Rappa, but maybe Chrono is a better bet. Her weird thing for Overhaul is probably something you can use against him. “Want to go back?”

“In a second.” Shigaraki doesn’t stir. “That song. Can you play it again?”

“Maybe.” You wait for him to tuck the headphone back in. “We might get lucky.”

Your Shuffle might like lecturing Shigaraki, but it also just likes him. It plays the same song again, and Shigaraki doesn’t let go of your hand until it’s over.

Once his hand is clear of yours, you tuck the Shuffle away and get to your feet, turning to help Shigaraki up. He’s most of the way there, but he takes your hand anyway. And he doesn’t offer you back your coat.

That’s okay. You weren’t really expecting him to. And now you see why. As he walks ahead of you, back along the tunnel, the coat billows out behind him, and you see the familiar silhouette from the manga. Shigaraki Tomura, Symbol of Fear. He’s down a hand and up a stolen mask and scarf, but it’s him. And he got here in this kind of shape because of you. You did this. Whatever happens next, it’s on your hands.

You used to like BNHA’s ending, didn’t you? It’s getting hard to remember why.

<- Chapter 11

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