river

office au

part 1

9:37, Friday, 02.08.

Wall Street:

Kimi rushes into the building's lobby, nearly falling because of his terribly slippery shoe soles, pats down his pockets, and freezes, his face changing instantly. The guy coughs into his fist, an awkward smile sliding off his face, and he approaches the reception desk. Behind the counter sat a middle-aged man, Alonso, whom Antonelli deeply respected, but in turn, Fernando just kept shaking his head, sighing heavily and scolding Kimi in a warm manner.

"Hey, old man Fernando…" Kimi leans on the counter with his elbows.

"Young man, your pass, please," Alonso leans over the computer and the office pass documents, checking dates and client names.

"Please, just let me through, I swear this is the last time I forget my pass," Kimi puts his hands together in a pleading gesture, trying to make the guiltiest face possible. The man sighs heavily and presses the button, opening the turnstile.

"But you owe me some of your mom's pastries, little Kimi," Fernando winks at the young man and immerses himself back in work. Kimi, for his part, runs to the elevator. Normally he wouldn't care, but today his presentation was first at the meeting. He was constantly getting heat from George anyway, who jokingly called him "Toto's favorite": after all, the director forgave Antonelli any mistake that not everyone could afford. In the office, some whispered, calling him "daddy's boy," and that it would be easier for Toto to fire the whole department than to lose Kimi. No one understood why him. Some said: "a genius," you rarely see that kind of talent, but...

But in Oscar's opinion, Kimi was quite the slacker. Speaking of Oscar, who worked in the analytical department and was one of the office's top marketers, lately he'd been staring too much at Antonelli, watching how this idiot walked around the floor past clients in Crocs, completely unbothered, because "well, Toto allowed it, said anything goes if it helps the work atmosphere." But that wasn't the only reason. Sometimes they exchanged a few sentences during coffee breaks, and Antonelli didn't seem as empty-headed as he could have been. Yes, he looked at most things as if he were mentally still a child, although Kimi was a child. They had just recently celebrated his twentieth birthday with a close circle of colleagues. It's just that Oscar was used to it. Used to taking responsibility where he didn't need to, where nobody asked him, but he considered it necessary, afraid that everything would crumble if he didn't keep an eye on it. Oscar himself was in the prime of his youth, but sometimes he was too serious, so much so that he could rival Alonso in grumpiness. Lando, who worked in the same department and was basically his childhood friend, constantly tried to drag Piastri to a bar on weekends saying, "Hey, Oscar, man, come on, why are you so old?" — to which Piastri would just hang up and return to his hated paperwork. Oscar hated dealing with documents in the office so much that it was easier to leave it all for the weekend and do it at home. He lived for work, sometimes it seemed too much. Oscar valued that freedom and childishness in Kimi. He wanted to allow himself to be like him. When he was twenty, Oscar only thought about how he needed to get to work as soon as possible, submit his coursework, and pass all his exams. After university, he immediately got an offer for a junior assistant manager-analyst position at Toto's company and agreed without hesitation. His whole life consisted of boundless perseverance and effort; he desperately needed wild, carefree rest, he needed Andrea Kimi Antonelli.

"And thus, we will gain more investors and can raise our shares by two percent. What do you think, colleagues?" Kimi adjusts his sunglasses, which have slipped down his nose, and points a pointer at the electronic board, apparently showing important aspects of the presentation.

Oscar, to be honest, wasn't listening to the younger colleague's presentation at all; all this time his thoughts were directed towards him, but not in that way. When Lando tugged at his jacket sleeve, he turned his head towards him, looking questioningly.

"Oscar, are you even with us? Toto asked you five times what you think about Kimi's presentation."

"Ah," Oscar fumbles with his fingers awkwardly, thinking how to answer better. Not like he was going to admit he hadn't listened at all. "I think it's a great idea. If we develop some catchy advertising for it, I think it will take off, and we'll, as always, end up on top. We are the 'Silver Arrows'."

Kimi looks happily at his colleague. Most people approved of his idea, which means once again his project proved successful.

22:34, Saturday, 15.08.

Somewhere in a bar:

Kenny hated memories. He hated their shared past, hated thinking about Butters and what had once connected them. Now he was in college, now he was far from his hometown. But Stotch still continued to live in his heart. The nighttime walks for which he literally stole Leopold from his parents' house, their fights over Mysterion and Professor Chaos, where during the day they would fight, and at night they would press against each other in a narrow alley, kissing as if it were their last, and their lives depended on it. Every time he closed his eyes, Kenny pictured Butters lying on his chest, wrapped in an orange hoodie trying not to freeze at the McCormick house, where the heat was constantly shut off for unpaid taxes, to which Stotch could only bury his nose deeper into the other's neck, warming himself.

It was hard to see those blue eyes before him after the breakup. Somewhere inside, the cats weren't just scratching — they were tearing each other's throats out. Even though they had agreed to stay "friends," like before, each realized how impossible and painful that was. During their last year of school together, Kenny stared too long at Butters' retreating back, and Butters, in turn, held his gaze on McCormick unbearably long during class.

In ancient Greek, Au!SHIGADABI. Tomura is a deity and Dabi is a human.

Divinity is indisputable. Blasphemy is a sin. The godless are madmen. This is what everyone in the city said. His entire family insisted that disobedience and denial of the true, spiritual, divine was the gravest sin. Dabi wanted to crush the kylix in his hand until it shattered, breaking the delicate vessel adorned with intricate patterns that sprawled across its surface, forming a cohesive image. His hand trembled, not from fear of his parent, but from an all-consuming rage. Yes, Dabi was a blasphemer; he cared nothing for gods and the laws invented by men. He did not want to believe in the illusion of divinity, the existence of which no one had ever proven. The habit of sneaking out of the house developed as swiftly as the unbearable teachings of his father, which grew more intolerable with each sunset. The desire for inner peace prevailed; the most sincere thing he truly wished to hear in the darkness of night was the rustling of swaying trees and the splash of the sea. Perched on a protruding root of a tree, Dabi adjusted the himation that threatened to slip from his hand onto the sand. The sky wove constellations from fragile points of light, like glass, that reflected brightly on the water in the night gloom. It seemed that if he reached out, he could grasp one and tuck it away in his bosom. But alas, such a thing was not destined to be.

Every time dusk descended upon the city, Dabi came here. He marveled at the intertwined stars, moving his hand through the air, speaking aloud to himself about what was where.

— And they want to say that those damned gods created all this? What a fairy tale... — The stars in his blue eyes burned brighter than any sun that night. Dabi jumped in surprise when a pale, blurred silhouette appeared in the sky. A young man (the word "adult" felt inadequate to describe this person) propped his chin on his hand, looking down at Dabi. Long white hair, slightly tousled, swayed as if the very wind wished to carry such exquisite beauty away with it that night. Touya thought perhaps he had indulged too much in wine earlier that day and was confusing reality with dreams. But if he squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and finally pinched himself—the image of the disinterested silhouette remained somewhere in the sky. Dabi cursed under his breath.

— Come now, mortal, — an unfamiliar voice echoed, causing the trees to rustle and the water to ripple violently.

— Will you still deny your own divinity even when I stand before you? Such a bold act for a for a human child

One thought echoed in his mind: who is this? Or rather, "what is this?"

— What are you? — The man in the air, whose face was barely discernible—impossibly white like moonlight reflecting off water—raised an eyebrow questioningly.

— I am Tomura—the patron of night and death. I am the end of day, the very essence of the conclusion of every life. — The silhouette vanished for a few seconds; before Dabi could rise, a youth appeared before him, looking about his age.

— Mortal, your words and thoughts are too sharp for one whose life spans at best five decades. — The voice no longer echoed across the slope; it had become calmer, yet a hint of arrogance was still palpable.

toga x ochako

“Uraraka, do you think I’m cute?”

The spoon clatters to the floor with a clang. Uraraka jumps, snapping back to reality, and bends down to pick up the utensil, but as soon as her fingers touch the cold metal, she freezes. It has been five years since Toga's death. Uraraka has long graduated from U.A., embarked on the path of a pro hero, a girl who always extends a helping hand to those in need. She has become a role model and a source of pride. Her life is filled with friends, a beloved job, countless hobbies, and, in short—happiness. But there is one “but.” A disgusting, sorrowful “but” that turns everything inside out and leaves behind waves of nausea and tears.

The adult Uraraka could come to terms with everything. Everything except for her death. Subconsciously, she searched the crowd for a familiar silhouette, soft blonde hair, and the sweetest smile of her life.

The adult Uraraka continued to visit the grave of the sweetest villain in her life every month. Kneeling down, she could talk to her for hours. Gently tracing her fingers over the stone, as if that touch could somehow reach her. What would she feel? That somewhere out there, Toga Himiko is finally happy—that they are happy.

“They” exist.

When faced with a heavy choice, the first person she consulted was Toga. Her photograph always lay in her wallet. Uraraka couldn’t allow herself to forget her face—her sweetest face, those beautiful bright eyes, and that wonderful smile. Occasionally, Toga would visit her. Uraraka understood that it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t normal to see echoes of her beloved, her silhouette, and sometimes even hear her voice. Waking up at night from dreams where they were happy, where Uraraka could influence Toga’s demise and save her. The burden she carried for years only grew heavier. How could she let her go? The one who kept her alive, the one who allowed her to breathe and feel.

— Well, gentlemen? I'm going all-in,— Chance nudged his chips closer to the center of the table, casting a sardonic glance at his opponents. Some of them squinted distrustfully, thinking he was bluffing, but he wasn't particularly concerned, considering they were the ones who had long since exited the game.

— Fold,— Two Time tossed his cards away, fully aware that since this man decided to raise the stakes to the maximum, risking the remainder of his chips wasn't worth it.

— Likewise, fold,— Mafioso clenched the cigar tighter between his lips, trying to suppress a satisfied smile. He had always managed to surprise even someone like Sonnellino. Knowing how closely luck followed Chance, one had to be either a confident daredevil or an absolute fool with nothing left to lose.

Sonnellino discreetly glanced at Itrapped, who, like Chance, loved risk too much — either by his own assumptions or in an attempt not to concede, sometimes sacrificing his position too much, even reaching absurdity.

— Call,— the man adjusted his velvet glove with a nonchalant air, pushing forward his chips. He looked at the cards — this time he was sure he would win. The dealer for this round, Azure, surveyed the entire table and cleared his throat.

— Well then, Mr. Chance and Mr. Itrapped, since Don Sonnellino has decided to abstain, I suggest we reveal the River and find out who is today’s winner.

Azure picked up the top card, setting it aside with the others that had been discarded, then drew the second card and placed it on the table.

— Queen of Spades. Chance, since you went all-in, please reveal your cards first.

—No problem,— he smirked as he flipped over his cards: King and Ace of Spades.

— Oh...

— Chance.

Itrapped gritted his teeth, crushing his cards in his hand, crumpling them and tossing them aside. — You bastard.

— Ha-ha, looks like someone is having a rough day,— Mafioso looked at the Nine and Eight of Spades that had been discarded from another's hand.

— Ahem, Mr. Chance– you have a royal flush, while Mr. Itrapped has a flush straight. The winner is obvious; congratulations.

— Oh please, no need for thanks,— the gambler approached his friend, patting him on the shoulder and smiling. — Don't worry; next time will definitely be your turn!

Itrapped clenched his fist, holding back a strong urge to punch that smug face.

— Yeah, next time, — he only gritted his teeth, adjusted his jabot, and walked away.

— I suggest we wrap it up; I still have business at the mansion.

— As you say, Don; your word is law, and you are indeed the host of tonight’s event — how can we argue?— The man laughed loudly, shaking off the ash from his cigar.

— Oh come now, I'm sure you and Two Time have plans for tonight that are far more interesting than mine,— Mafioso winked at Azure, who immediately blushed from the ambiguous implications.

—Let’s go, boys.

The Don left gracefully but impressively, much like his own words that were always sweet as honey yet inspired only boundless respect and a hint of fear.

— Well then, I guess I’ll be off too; don’t miss me too much, boys! See ya,— Chance waved goodbye, collected his well-earned winnings, and left the establishment.

The cold wind felt pleasantly refreshing against his face, especially considering that the Mafioso casino was located by the sea; the night breeze only added charm to what was undoubtedly a perfect evening that nothing could ruin. No way, no one, nothing would make this day worse; if Chance decided it would be so—then so it would be.

Mafioso saw people through and through. And not just saw; he read every gesture, every glance, and every sigh, knowing who would do what, what they would say, and what their motives were. The Mafioso knew that no secret and no little shadow would ever escape him because he was the embodiment of those words, the cornerstone of the family, as strong as a metal wall that sheltered not only family members but also their friends. But one day, a person appeared in his life whose actions and deeds he could not decipher, and following him, like an elegant exhibit, he revealed to the world for Mafioso, him. Itrapped.

They were so different, yet Chance seemed to truly value his friend, laughing sincerely at rare jokes, being unpredictable in words and actions. The Don never knew what card this person would play this time. Chance was born under a lucky star, under the blessing of Lady Fortune herself; sometimes it felt like he was luck incarnate. Every gesture of his was accompanied by the ease of a person who knows nothing of loss, pain, or defeat, a person who does not understand how hard many things in life can be. He truly was born with a golden spoon in his mouth.

Itrapped was also unreadable, but for entirely different reasons. He was cold as ice, rough as steel; every gesture and movement were honed to perfection. It was as if Itrapped had stood for hours before a mirror, learning when and how to raise his hand, how the fabric would fall when moving to one side or another, how to tilt his head back to expose his pale neck, when to adjust the cuffs and collar of his shirt, to smile, and what tone of voice a particular person liked. Itrapped was perfectly polished, as if his entire life depended on it: if he were not perfect—the universe would collapse, a meteorite would fall to Earth, destroying all living things, including the man himself. Chance was a bright sun warming with its rays; his laughter was infectious, and even the craziest ideas became reality. Itrapped was the Moon, a prince whose gaze was enough to leave one buried in ice forever; hands that accidentally touched were so soft yet cold—they cut through the mafioso like a knife through butter.

The icy prince, the centerpiece of the table, Chance's personal treasure that he had hidden for as long as he could, like a dragon hoarding gold.

One evening, when the air was filled with the scent of expensive perfume, fingers gripped a faceted glass, and a cigar slowly smoldered, the Don found himself alone with him. As befits a "Prince," Itrapped descended the stairs with shoulders thrown back, perfect posture, and an equally perfect drape of his shirt's fabric, quietly clicking his heels.

— Don,— slightly tilting his head in a welcoming gesture, not allowing himself to address the Mafioso by name; he did not know that man's surname—only the title combined with a name allowed exclusively to close family members. Sitting down in an adjacent chair upholstered in velvet where patterns flowed like waves adorning expensive furniture, he took a glass of champagne, swaying it from side to side while watching the droplets slide down the glass.

— Mr. Itrapped, it's good to see you. How are you? — The Mafioso took out a cigar from its case, offering it to his guest.