Tumblr Vibing

For the revelation came astoundingly clear to you one day, when the fire scorched and nearly burned you alive: it’s easier to live as cold ashes than to roar furiously—recklessly. Because when sadness creates happiness, the reverse is bound to happen, where happiness creates sadness, resentment, and pain. It’s a way of protection, from being swallowed whole by the fire when you detach yourself from these emotions.

It doesn’t change how deathly cold it feels, but you do get used to it, the flicker of life that lacks inside of you. It gets easier with time because you notice it less the more you get accustomed to it.

It becomes your new way of living.

With your hood down, you walk the streets with your eyes pointed forward, but your gaze lingers on nothing. It’s rather cold today, the air hardening your bones in a way that lets you know it’s here to stay, unthawing and still.

It’s a feeling that you welcome.

At this time, the city is quiet, just barely waking up in its early morning hours. Few people are out and about on their way to work or on a stroll. They move with a direction in mind, with intention. You are here, with neither.

You keep walking. 

With one foot planted in front of the other, that’s as far as any of your direction goes. Clinging to the edge of the sidewalk, it should startle you when someone manages to bump into your body on the wide and empty sidewalk, but you barely bat an eye.

A grunt before you hear, “Watch where you’re going.”

Your eyes remain forward as your body sways, shoulder tingling from the impact. You don’t respond, not even when they grumble louder, something about how young folks don’t have any manners these days. It doesn’t garner a reaction out of you. 

So, you keep walking. 

One foot in front of the other, watching shop owners roll their gates up and briefcases swinging from stressed fists. 

It’s become a practiced mindset: the sounds all going in one ear and out the other, the motions all passing through your vision without any meaning to them. 

From up ahead, a newspaper boy skirts around frames, leaves of gray spilling from his hands. The papers bounce with his pace, fast and loose, and you almost think that it’s intentional when one slips from his stack—a meant-to-be occurrence in a rather sickening way. 

The paper flutters in the frigid air, blowing aimlessly until it lands right at your feet. It makes you pause, passively.

THE THREE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE GOLDEN EAGLE AGENCY, AND TWO YEARS SINCE THE RETIREMENT OF PRO-HERO MIST. HER SCANDAL AND LAST FAILED MISSION STILL—

Your eyes dart upwards, not caring to read the rest of it. Maybe two years ago, you would have. Maybe two years ago, your hands would have reached to the ground and crinkled the ashen paper in both curiosity and dread. Maybe that fire in you would have burned in either anger or disappointment.

There are a lot of maybes, but you don’t indulge in them. Instead, you keep walking.

You walk and walk and walk. With no direction, with no intention, with no meaning. You don’t linger on the words, because it’s easier to move when they don’t dwell restlessly in your head. Because moving has only become possible after you’ve numbed every and any attachment.

It’s the only protection you have that works; it’s easier to snuff out the emotions than to let yourself feel. Because feeling leads to caring, and caring allows too many opportunities for one to burn. Allows the flame to blaze furiously and vulnerably to winds and terrain you cannot control.

The bigger the fire, the more it’ll attract. And as long as there is no kindling to begin with, the embers won’t catch. Everything hurts less this way.

The only thing you allow to roam free is your body. At least, it’ll seem like there is direction, even if you know there isn’t. And eventually, it brings you somewhere to rest, somewhere high above the ground where there’s no longer a road for you to keep planting your feet in front of the other.

These are the only places that bring you some semblance of quiet, where the voices don’t dare to even reach you. And with an empty mind, you stay where the air feels the coldest—the stillest.

You stay until the sun dips below the horizon, and the next day greets you much the same.

—50/50

The first time you meet him, it’s on the roof of one of the highest skyscrapers in the city. 

In broad daylight, perched on the edge of the building with your legs dangling off the side. Your hands are tucked underneath your thighs, as your gaze sweeps over the tops of buildings and ant-like people swarming the streets below. 

A gust of wind breezes by, strong enough to sway your body, but it doesn’t faze you. If anything, this feels familiar—it always does, reminds you of the days when your feet would catch nothing but air, when you swung from ledge to ledge with rock-hard mist wisping from your palms.

Though it must be a scary sight to others. You don’t think of how this could look until you hear him.

“Miss,” a calm voice echoes from behind, and your eyes instinctively shut at the sound. 

It’s an easily recognizable voice to anyone in this day and age. A deep and low timbre you remember hearing during police debriefings. One that was never directed at you personally, but always managed to catch the whole precinct’s attention. Deep and clear-cut, with maybe an ounce of awkwardness in it.

People usually feel relief from hearing his voice, but in this moment, it only tells you that you’ve wandered far today. Far enough to the part of the city where his duty lies.

You don’t turn your head, clearing your throat before speaking your thoughts aloud to the sky in front of you.

“Should I consider it an honor that they sent the number two Hero? Or offended that they think I can’t handle myself this high off the ground?”

“Neither,” you hear the voice say, and the acute carefulness in it makes you laugh inwardly. It’s funny, you weren’t actually planning on taking any of his answers seriously. Not like there was genuine curiosity behind asking the questions.

But they really did send someone, you end up thinking. They really thought you would try to kill yourself.

You wouldn’t. Probably. The probably doesn’t help your case, but you simply allowed your body to roam freely. So what if it falls? In your head, there are only two choices—two percentages if falling was what you ended up doing, if you were ever at death’s door: 50/50.

A 50% chance that you’d accept it, that you’d let your eyes close as you free-fall knowingly.

A 50% chance that you’d save yourself, that furls of mist would release from your fingertips to catch your flailing body.

50/50. You would either die or live, and with chilling apathy, you think that neither outcome could go wrong.

Another gust of wind blows by. Goosebumps arise on your skin as you shiver, one hand sliding from under, scraping against the concrete, to rub at your bare arm.

“It is rather cold up here,” the man continues, steady and a little coaxing, as if approaching a wild animal and refusing to back down. Still a faceless voice from behind. “Would you like to come inside with me?”

“Do you think I’ll jump?” you ask absentmindedly.

“The elderly couple who called in thinks so.”

You shift your head ninety degrees, looking sideways. Halfway to seeing him, but not fully committing to it. Your eyes meet gray concrete instead. “I’m asking if you think I would.”

Silence, a beat too quiet save for the wind. It rustles your shirt before traveling chillingly underneath it. All before,

“I’d hope you wouldn’t.”

That’s a new line, you can’t help but think. Everyone else hopes otherwise.

A smidge of something close to annoyance breaks in your voice; you’re not exactly sure where it stems from, or why it’s coming out, but you try to contain it. “You’re not answering my question.”

Without hesitating, he says directly—plainly, “My answer is no…”

Not said as a hope anymore, but more as a fact. As if he knew in his bones that you wouldn’t.

It’s astounding how confident he sounds; he doesn’t even know you. It makes you finally turn your head fully over your shoulder, having to stifle your surprise when you realize how close he is, barely a foot separating you two.

The ledge you’re perched on is a raised wall that borders the roof, so you meet him squarely in the eye despite his tall height. There he stands, in all his heroic glory, wrapped in a sturdy navy blue suit.

Now, gray concrete is replaced by a gray iris, and another one of sea glass to pair with it on a rigid face. How notorious: that left side of red hair meeting the right side of white hair, split cleanly down the middle. You hold his gaze, not looking away, watching as red and white strands cross over his face from the breeze.

And in that low and clear-cut voice—one that was never directed at you personally, but is, without a doubt, in this moment—Todoroki Shoto, one of the nation’s prized heroes, says:

“…You wouldn’t.”

His answer makes you pause, because it wasn’t said as a taunt. It was said as a simple answer to a question. It was spoken as if he knew you, spoken with a belief that you wouldn’t, spoken with such clarity and confidence that it makes you wonder how you truly look in his eyes. 

…Who is this guy?

This wouldn’t be how he would coax someone who may actually be suicidal, right? Surely not. It’s brazen, even for him. It doesn’t even try to convince. 

Try me, you’re tempted to say. Partly because you know it would evoke a reaction. Partly because you're not afraid to prove him wrong.

You don’t, because you don’t care enough to do either. Instead, you bring your legs up from the ledge, twisting your front so that it faces the building. But there’s hardly any room to place them, so each leg settles on either side of his broad body, just hovering over his hips. 

It’s a disbelieving intimate position; you essentially cage him in, your bodies close enough to graze, and it takes an active effort not to touch him.

The Pro-Hero doesn’t move back, but you see his fingers twitch out of the corner of your eye. His peculiar, heterochromatic gaze remains steady on yours, refusing to break eye contact.

You tilt your head to one side. 

“Can you move,” you say monotously, leaning forward so your face is mere breaths away from his. A challenge that he doesn’t back away from.

You can feel his warm exhales from this close, can see the saturated flecks in his irises, and the texture of his burn scar. Another notorious feature of his. It borders the entirety of his left eye, thick discolored skin that healed with time but remained stubbornly bumpy.

People always said it was his most defining feature, and it takes a little more effort not to stare at it. “You wanted me to go inside, right?”

“No,” he says pointedly. “I asked if you—”

Before he can finish his sentence, your palms jerkily lift and lay themselves flat on his rigid chest, shoving hard. It forces him back a couple of feet more than you thought it would. The recoil isn’t bad either, and you hardly flinch as you bounce back a few inches, hardly fazed as if there wasn’t a threatening death of a two-thousand-foot drop behind you.

Rather, it’s his movement that makes you flinch.

The Pro-Hero’s arm flies up, grasping firmly onto your forearm as if you were actually flung backwards into the impending abyss, and tugs. Tugs you so hard that your breath hitches when he yanks you clean off the concrete ledge and into his chest, arms tight on either side of your tumbling body. 

The smell of smoke immediately engulfs you, his body hot and cold to the touch, even over his hero suit. You reflectively shove your way out of his embrace, looking at him with accusing eyes, and speaking with an even more accusatory tone.

“That was not needed—”

“You were going to fall—”

“Did you think that I’d want your help?”

At your question, his eyes turn hard, eyebrows pinched low. He seems frustrated as he pauses, opening his mouth to retort.

But you don’t bother to hear his answer this time, skirting your way around his body, opting not to shove him again. Because something told you that if you were push again, he’d probably pull, again. You don’t want to see it—to feel it, so you leave. You leave the number two Hero on the roof all by himself without so much as a glance back.

Your steps are heavy as the metal door slams shut behind you, echoing in the hollowness of the empty staircase. It’s only until you sneak out the back alley, away from the rest of his team waiting idly on the sidewalk, that you mull over what just transpired.

No matter how much you try not to think about it, his words repeat themselves in your head. A river that ends up right where it started. And you can’t stop the annoyance that comes with it—the minuscule size of curiosity that you refuse to acknowledge.

“You wouldn’t.”

The thought makes your eye twitch, your fists clenched tighter than you’d like to admit. Because who the hell did Todoroki Shoto think he was? To have his presumptions. To think you wouldn’t. To say it so definitively with such a confident look on his face as if it should mean something coming from him.

It’s irritating how two words, one sentence, can cause this much discomfort to rise inside you. It wound your muscles, squeezed your heart. To the point that your hand hastily crawled up to wrestle with the sudden suffocating fabric of your shirt.

The feeling sickened you, pointlessly so.

—50/50

You don’t truly remember much of what happened leading up to your retirement as Pro-Hero Mist. They say that if an event is traumatic enough, your brain desperately tries to protect you by blocking it out. You figured that’s why the past was a haze—a blurry mar in your cycle of memories. Frankly, you’re thankful for it; it's a wonderful thing not to be able to remember the darkest parts of your life.

Because now, two years had passed since then, and only your version of the story remains in your head:

You had quit being a Hero because there was no need to be one.

The fact is straight to the point. Clean-cut. Almost a saving grace in its simplicity when you think about what the tabloids still drone on and on about: 

Mist—you—were jealous of a rising young Hero, Golden Eagle, and tried to slander them by making false allegations that their new agency was selling civilian information to villains. You were resentful, delusional, and so in over your head that you became reckless and injured civilians in a sorry excuse of a rescue mission.

Your attitude was already unbecoming of a Hero—unkind and too blunt. Adding that on top of maliciously spreading lies and your wretched carelessness, it’s better off that you had quit. 

These two versions of the story couldn’t be more different, and it serves as a reminder of how the world turned its back on you in the blink of an eye.

Because the competency you were once praised for turned into being a dangerous threat to society. The renowned Hero that even managed to break the Top 20 in her debut year, Mist, died along with the flames of the last mission she did. Replaced by ashes that left a burnt taste in people’s mouths. A fire that once burned bright, that eventually became snuffed, as if it was never lit.

Mist, the Hero who could save anyone, turned into Mist, the disgrace of a Hero who has no shame.

Mist, the savior of our people, one rope at a time, turned into Mist, the Hero that doesn’t deserve a pedestal in our society.

Mist, the brave, turned into Mist, the delusional lunatic. The jealous bitch. The rising threat.

The Hero that the world is better off without.

If you put it like this, maybe you did remember far more details than you’d like. But you see it more as ghosts that used to haunt you. Now, you don’t pay them any mind.

Because it didn’t matter in the end. The people got what they wanted, and that was for you to step down. To retire. To quit.

You can admit that it hurt at first, felt like knives dipped in poison, stabbing you at every turn. No one really tried to believe in you, even when you claimed with your full chest that your evidence was real, that you were trying to protect and do your duty as a real Hero.

No one believed you.

On top of that, your reputation as a Hero was already unsteady: a Hero, but not quite heroic enough. A little too unkind. Reliant, but seemed heartless. According to the press, there was never anything resembling close to a smile on your face. People were intimidated by your infamous expression that looked like it could give less than a damn.

That scandal was just the nail in the coffin, a tipping point in the otherwise unstable scale that no one bothered to balance. They couldn’t care less. In fact, they probably reveled in your damnation, used the opportunity to finally put someone else in the spotlight. Someone that they felt was more deserving.

Those in your life turned their backs, and those on the side spat on you with venomous words. 

What can you do?

You remember hurting. You remember feeling stuck, like you were in this hopeless pit surrounded by vipers leering with their fangs at you. You remember feeling scared and thinking heartache can only happen when you care this much. And why should you care this much?

All of Japan practically threw you in after all, with nothing less than wisps of air to pull you back up. Maybe they thought you would be fine; it’s your quirk, you emit it from your very fingers, so why help? You’re tough, right? You didn’t actually care about being a Hero, right? You couldn’t have, not with that attitude.

Maybe you could’ve tried harder to fight back; after all, civilians' lives were at risk. But people often overestimate a Hero’s resolve. It’s hard to protect others when you feel like you can’t protect yourself. It’s hard to protect the very people who hate you, the very people who don’t want your protection.

It didn’t matter that you cared. You had heart, you knew you did. It just didn’t matter in the end because—

No one believed in you.

It hurt. So much.

In the face of vipers in this dark and meaningless pit, you chose neither to fight nor climb out. If anything, you knew you would be met with the same fangs even if you did climb out. And that would be after putting in the stinging effort.

So you sat, huddling in on yourself for survival, stilling your being to complete and utter silence. If you knew you were stuck, if you were going to get bitten, that you were going to die, why not spare yourself the terror beforehand? Why not ignore everything and numb yourself to complete indifference? 

It hurts to live, and it hurts to die. It all seemed the same at this point. So, you decided that death seems less scary if you don’t care about dying. And living seems less scary if you don’t care about living.

You realized that caring can become a choice too. So, you chose to stop caring. To numb yourself so that even if the vipers touched you, you wouldn’t feel the pain.

It all made perfect sense in your head. 

Perhaps in this life, you were simply unlucky to cross paths with that wretched Eagle, but at least now you knew the world’s true colors. In its darkening hues of black and grays, it revealed the heinous things one can do and say.

You can at least count your stars for that one.

—50/50

That pit is the reason why you like high places. For a second, you feel like you can breathe, and you can pretend that all that hissing and biting is beneath you. The escape is freeing, less suffocating in many different ways, if only for a moment.

The second time you meet him, it’s on a bridge that crosses over one of the largest rivers in the city.

In the cool evening chill, perched on the edge of the metal beam with your legs hanging in the air. Your hands are braced on either side of you, as your gaze sweeps over the soft ripples of the waves, the sun reflecting off the water in rows of glitter.

The sunset is nice here. The sounds, not so much. Tires rolling over the asphalt rush behind you in increments. And you saw from earlier: the car parked in the shoulder with its hazards on, the apprehensive look on the woman’s face behind the window, as she looked straight at you while clutching a phone to her ear.

It was only time before your quiet was interrupted.

“Mist.”

Your old name sounds brittle to your ears, calm but heavy with his voice. It causes your spine to perk up just the slightest.

Passively, you think: Him again? Your gaze doesn’t move from the water as his presence draws nearer. Only this time, he’s unable to come directly behind you with the beams barely having a platform to sit, let alone stand.

You like the distance it creates, and you listen to your own voice come out blank, a little bit hoarse. “Didn’t you hear? I told everyone I didn’t want to be associated as a Hero anymore. That name no longer exists.”

“It existed at some point.”

You turn your head over your shoulder to eye his figure standing where metal meets concrete. The Hero must see or feel something you don’t notice, because he cautiously follows up with,

“I won’t call you that.”

Your head swivels back forward, closer to ignoring than acknowledging him. It’s a few passing seconds before you hear a crystalline sound resonate from behind, and feel a chill not brought on by the evening. Ice quickly materializes next to you as your eyes flit over to his body, settling beside you on the beam.

“It is rather cold up here,” he states, looking at you with his mouth set in a straight line. As if on cue, a gust of wind breezes by. You sway, but don’t steady your position. Goosebumps prickle your skin, but you don’t rub at them.

“You’re here,” you say curtly.

“A civilian called. Claimed a woman is planning to jump from a bridge.”

You don’t blink. “A bold claim.”

“Would it be true?”

“Can’t say.”

He’s quick to respond. “I’m quite glad she called in.”

Still refusing to look at his figure, you question him absentmindedly. “Why? I thought you said I wouldn’t?”

The Hero seems to ponder over your question, silent. For a second, you think he’s about to make up an excuse, perhaps about how you never know or that he came just in case. But you flinch as something drapes over your shoulders, and it makes you quickly look down.

Fabric itches your skin; you see it fluttering around your body before comprehending what it is. It blocks the wind immediately, but that’s an afterthought as his chest hovers near you. 

The Hero fixes a stiff blanket over your equally stiff shoulders.

The warmth that no doubt came from his quirk is like a fireplace at your side. It makes you wonder if he did that on purpose: coming up on your right. You push the thought out of your head. 

His voice, low and smooth, speaks next to your ear before pulling back. A respectable distance. “Yes, I did say that, and I still believe in it.”

Why?

You bite your tongue before the question comes out, looking at him in that same accusatory manner as before. He’s only doing his heroic duties, but it's rather bothersome; a fake performance to a crowd that couldn’t care less.

The wind ruffles the standardized EMT blanket that he placed over you. You neither push it off nor try to keep it on, even as it’s on the verge of blowing away.

The scene flashes in your mind if it did. If the fabric lifted off of you and danced with the wind, flowing its way softly into the gentle waters below. It would probably land with a soft plop; you probably wouldn’t hear it from this far up. A body would be vastly different.

“What should I call you?” he interrupts your thoughts, still looking at you.

You don’t think before you say your name. It comes out unconcerned and emotionless. A simple answer to a simple question. He repeats it to himself a few times, quietly, and you deliberately ignore how natural it seems to roll off his tongue. As if he’s tasted it before. 

His quirk emanates from afar, an unwelcoming heat felt through the rough blanket.

His tone is still careful as he says, “First, a building. Now, a bridge. Why?”

“The sunset is nice here.”

“It is,” he responds, nodding. He breaks his view of you to look over the river, and you notice the way his two-toned eyes seem to gleam. Then suddenly, he asks, “Are there other things you find nice?”

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

You shrug, and the movement nearly sends the blanket off your shoulders. 

It surprises you when you indulge his curiosity, if only to placate him. “Nothing comes to mind.”

“We all have preferences.”

“I’m indifferent.”

A purse of his lips just slightly before turning to you. “How about soba? Do you eat them hot or cold?”

You wrinkle your eyebrows, blinking. Why on earth is he bringing that up now? “It makes sense to eat them cold when it’s hot. And hot when it’s cold. I do that.”

He nods again, his expression barely changing. “That does make sense. Though I eat them cold all year-round.”

“Okay,” you respond dryly, your face tight.

He’s as awkward as people say. Everyone’s probably heard of his cold soba obsession; it’s a well-known fact, you just don’t understand why he’s mentioning this now. More so, why you’re even having this nonchalant conversation about soba as if you both weren’t movements away from falling into a river.

Well, it might be obvious to him. He would catch himself easily. You still were at a 50/50.

“You do choose to eat soba, yes?”

“…Yes?”

He blinks at you. “Do you consider that indifference? I would say it is a preference.”

Irrational annoyance spikes within you, to a degree you haven’t felt in a while. Because sure. Sure. Anything is a preference, you want to bite out. It’s a preference to breathe, and a preference to eat. A preference to walk, and a preference to go in the first restaurant you see that just happens to serve soba. What of it? Why does he care?

You don’t say all this, but the way his gaze flickers for a split second tells you your face might’ve shown more than what you meant to. He doesn’t point it out.

“Why are you here?” you can’t help but ask.

“A civilian claimed a woman is planning to jump.”

“No,” you sigh, a little more impatient than you’d like to admit. “I mean, why are you here? I’m sure the number two Hero has better things to save. You said it yourself that you believe I wouldn’t jump. Could’ve sent someone else.”

So why waste your time?

The Hero is quiet for another moment. You’ve noticed that there’s this unpredictability with him: he either answers too quickly or too slowly. Either says what’s on his mind instantly or thinks too deeply about his next words. It’s an observation that makes you tilt your head; for what reason, you don’t know. In fact, you don’t want to know. 

Is not wanting to know a preference too?

After a few seconds of silence, he then looks at you with a downward angle in his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to talk to you?”

“To convince me not to jump?” you bait him.

He shakes his head, a small movement. “To talk to you,” he repeats.

“I don’t know why that’d be true.”

He shrugs. Another small movement. “I have my reasons.”

And what would that be?

You don’t voice the question out loud. Just in case he’d think it’s a preference to ask.

The Hero gazes out into the horizon. “The sun has set. Are you done here?”

You look in his direction and see that, indeed, the sun has gone down. Bright, warm rays replaced by the cool blue of the beginning night sky. 

Yeah, I am done, guess it’s time to jump, you’re tempted to say. Partly because you want to see his reaction. Partly because you think it would be funny.

You don’t. Instead, you bring your legs up from the beam, twisting your front so it’s perpendicular to the metal running alongside the bridge. You place your feet onto the bars and haphazardly push up, with little to no care for your swaying balance.

That crystalline sound chimes in your ears again, and you glance behind to see that he’s stood up as well, an emergency landing of ice formed underneath where you both stand now. An exhale forcibly escapes through your nostrils as you walk back to the cement of the bridge. You ignore the bystanders and his team from afar, and start back down the road from where you came.

The standardized EMT blanket that the Hero draped over your shoulders still hangs on despite ruffling wildly from the wind. You neither push it off nor try to keep it on, even if it was on the verge of blowing away.

You resist the urge to glance back. 

And the blanket miraculously held on the entire time, only off because your hands wrenched it away the second you got home.

—50/50

Sometimes, you forget what your own voice sounds like. 

Unless a person’s a fan of talking to themselves, people don’t realize how their voice barely gets used unless it's to communicate with someone, to express themselves to someone. And they don’t realize just how stagnant a throat can feel when that someone is no longer there.

It’s as it goes: people don’t talk to you, and you don’t talk to them. You stopped reaching out when your phone calls only ever ended with leaving a pathetic voicemail, until they didn’t go through at all. You stopped because disappointment hurts more when you keep hopelessly trying. 

So, you rarely talked. There was no reason to. 

Eventually, weeks would pass by without you using your voice, and when it did come out, it felt foreign in your own mouth: the pitch, the tone, the breathiness of it. That split second where you don’t even recognize it’s you who’s speaking.

You’re only reminded when a stranger asks you a question, and a simple head nod or shake wouldn't suffice to answer. Your voice would come out hoarse and scratchy, always having to do a little clearing of your throat every time. Only the gods knew the last time you had a conversation that was actually filled with life.

When was the last time you even used it?

…Probably when you talked to that Hero. The incident on the bridge was well over a month ago.

You haven’t seen him since. More so because you make it a point to not wander too far anymore, lest you run into him again. It’s the only direction you take note of now, a direction that your feet avoid. It works to keep his face out of your mind and prevents that uncomfortable feeling of curiosity from rising again.

But sometimes you can feel it bubble up like acid, crawling into your throat at the sudden sight of him on a billboard or magazine. Your reaction would be immediate: you swallow it down hastily and force yourself to move on with your day. You don’t think about it, you don’t linger.

Today, your feet bring you to a grocery store across town, prompted by one look into your empty fridge this morning. 

There isn’t a fancy list to go off of; usually just rice and any kind of protein. You used to love trying out new ingredients and recipes. Now, you cook what you know, what is easy. The drive to put in effort seemed to have lessened over time.

You shop for a bit. Walk the streets a bit. People watch a bit.

Then, you go home, kicking aside the pile of worn envelopes lying in front of your door, sent by unfamiliar names. They always are, and they’re more unassuming than they look, but you know what’s inside. You learned early on that it wasn’t a good idea to check those anymore, and they’ve piled up high now. An inky, toxic gate you have to pass before you can finally head inside.

You cook. You eat. You shower. You sleep.

It happens on autopilot; you hardly need to think about it, and it borders on a nearly out-of-body experience. As if you're watching from above, watching an NPC moving in a game, never straying and mindlessly doing what it's programmed to do.

The next day greets you very much the same.

—50/50

The third time you meet him, it’s on a cliff that overlooks the entire cityscape, a dense line of trees separating you and Musutafu beyond. 

It’s three months after the first encounter, and so early in the morning that dew still clings hefty on leaf blades. You’re perched on a ledge of rugged rocks with your legs swinging in the air. The terrain is rough, jutting out precariously with free space underneath your platform-made seat. Your hands fall in your lap, as your gaze sweeps over the fog shrouding the forest.

It’s quiet here except for the few hikers milling about, taking advantage of the sunless sky. It only takes one though—one person with one phone call—to hear that peculiar, deep, and frank voice again; a cautious voice above all else.

This time, it comes in the form of your last name. Your ears twitch at the call because you don’t remember the last time you’ve heard it laced without resentment.

He almost makes your name sound soft, almost needed.

“Do you normally like to hike?” the Hero asks from behind.

You don’t turn around, and he’s met with silence because you choose not to answer either. Your lack of response is mostly due to you not knowing how to respond. It’s not that you necessarily like to hike… your feet just brought you here, wandering like they usually do. 

It’s odd, you thought this area would be far enough away from his patrol route. At least, it should’ve been.

The Hero speaks again. “Is it your preference to hike in the mornings?”

Now, this makes you peek behind your shoulder, finally acknowledging his presence—his presence that is quickly becoming a bother. You ask stiffly, fighting through the scratchiness in your throat, “Why do you keep bringing up my preferences?”

“Does that bother you?” he asks coolly, cocking his head to the side, the red strands of his hair crossing over the white ones. The sight makes you bite your cheek, not knowing if he’s feigning innocence or if he’s just that thick. Maybe it's the latter.

You turn your gaze back to the forest, but your vision just can’t seem to focus on anything. Blurs of green and brown, while your ears raise at the sound of scuffling, suddenly too aware of your surroundings. Small pebbles of rock bounce off your lower back as you blink aimlessly in front of you.

A thick fabric drapes over your shoulders, alarmingly like last time, and your spine straightens. The heat of a body floats above your head as you glance down to see—

A black jacket.

“It is rather cold up here,” he says from above, a little too close for comfort. It causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up pin-like.

You don’t move, akin to a deer in headlights. “What is this?”

“My jacket.”

Another twitch, this time in your fingers. “I see that. Why?”

“Because I always find you in places that are cold,” he glances around, “High up, too.” 

You’re caught in a moment of silence as your eyebrows slowly crinkle at his answer. Completely taken aback, you can’t help but think to yourself, why?

What he’s insistently doing, intentional or not, goes beyond a Hero’s obligation. So, why is he doing this?

Why is he acting so nonchalant with you? Asking about your preferences as if that matters, putting jackets on you as if your non-existent relationship called for such familiarity. The attention is both unsettling and painfully bothersome.

Sighing, a breath leaves your lips in a continuous cloud, and you ignore the way he settles in beside you. Mimicking you by hanging his legs off the little platform you’ve wordlessly claimed. You have to stop yourself from flinching when his body twists forward to face your front, big hands coming up to adjust the collar of his jacket.

Chest to chest, he messes with it from his awkward angle; his face nearly obscures your whole vision, but you make it a point to look past him. You don’t move an inch during his ministrations, focusing on the forest behind him. His hair blows haphazardly, its colors contrasting the greens of the forest and the blues of the sky.

From this close, you can smell him. He actually does have the natural scent of a warm fireplace during the winter—smoke and fire, mingling with crisp cold air.

Eventually, he decides his jacket is secure enough to withstand the wind and promptly draws away. From the corner of your eye, you see he’s rigid. Back as straight as a needle, palms steady on his knees. Not quite figuratively on edge, but most definitely attentive.

You don’t want to see it, so you force your gaze away.

Silence envelopes you two. It would’ve been awkward or uncomfortable if you allowed yourself to dwell on it. You choose not to.

Vaguely, more scuffling can be heard from behind, and you already know his team is waiting in the line of trees that borders the cliff, dutifully waiting for a sign from their boss. You can feel their hawk-eyes pecking you from afar.

He seems to realize that you noticed and mumbles, “I tried to convince them to give us some privacy.”

You reply blankly, “They’re doing a bad job at it.”

“They like to take precautions.”

You shuffle a little in your spot, a crumble of rock rolling next to you from the movement. It rolls and rolls, tumbling down into the green abyss below. You stare after it, as if you could follow its path.

“How are you?” the Hero mutters quietly, asking as if you two were old friends who randomly stumbled upon each other on the street. A question asked out of obligation, but still too familiar for your liking. 

“Good,” you reply blankly, not giving it much thought.

“Did you eat breakfast yet?”

“No.”

“Would you like to join me?”

“No, I—”

Before your sentence finishes, he reaches behind you, miraculously producing a tied plastic bag. Takeout, it seems. And for whatever reason he had that on standby, you really don’t want to know.

“I brought soba,” he declares, as if it should mean something. You stare as he works to untie the bag, graceful fingers maneuvering the taut plastic. He coils one end, then pushes it through the hole from where it looped through. 

He takes out the containers one by one, lays them side by side on the rocks between you two. “It’s cold soba,” he then tells you.

Not a word leaves your lips. In fact, they’re pressed shut together. Tight. Tense. On guard.

Chopsticks are then brought out, and he takes the liberty of splitting yours and handing you them along with a container. The takeout tray splits into two sections: one filled with buckwheat noodles and the other filled with a dark tsuyu.

Your hands feel obligated to take them, and you almost hate the nod of approval he gives to himself.

Then, in this unwelcoming turn of events, Japan’s number two Hero starts eating cold soba next to you while sitting precariously on a cliff.

You’re motionless. You should’ve refused the tray to begin with, but you didn’t, and five full minutes pass before you finally decide to move. You eat, because that is the only action that is familiar in your mindless program that has strayed, in the midst of whatever ridiculousness this Hero has brought with him.

You take a bite. You chew. You take another bite. You chew again. All while the Hero keeps glancing to the side to look at you. Observing you. Studying you. And for the first time in the past two years, you find yourself fighting to keep your tightly-held emotions at bay. Your fingers trembling as the thought repeats itself over and over in your head:

You know what he’s doing, and you really, really hate it.

The noodles taste like sand in your mouth, and you nearly spit them back out.

It hits like rapidfire, the emotions from all these odd, unnecessary occurrences of meeting him, this stranger. It rolls into one big ball of vile frustration because what Hero actually goes this far?

You hate that he keeps talking to you as if you two knew each other. You hate that he keeps bringing up your preferences as if they matter. You hate that he noticed it was cold and put his jacket over you. You hate that he brought food and that it’s cold soba. You hate that he’s checking to see if it is truly indifference as you’re eating his cold soba in the cold weather. 

You hate that it’s been him who finds you here, where the air feels the coldest—the stillest. It has happened three times too many.

Acid bubbles in your gut, and you know it's not just your stomach reacting to the food. No, it’s that uncomfortable feeling again: the unwelcoming curiosity. That unbearable warmth that seems to heat up your chest and settle disgustingly behind your ribs.

It all feels too much, and you sense yourself tensing up, huddling into yourself with round shoulders, around a heart that feels much too warm. It reminds you of that flame again, that wretched fire that used to burn inside you.

With shaky hands, you quickly set your container down on the rocks, not caring if the tsuyu splashes over the edge. Then, with swift movements, your feet climb up onto the platform, body hoisting itself upright before promptly turning away from the forest view.

Rock crunches underneath your shoes.

You hear him do the same, not wasting a single moment, lifting himself up faster with even swifter movements. A cool palm places itself on your shoulder before you throw it off wildly, turning to him with hard eyes.

His eyebrows—one white, one red—immediately pinch in the middle, guarded and confused.

“Was the soba not to your liking—?”

“You are not to my liking,” you state bluntly. The Hero doesn’t blink at your outburst, only hovers his hand in the air for a second before it falls to his side. He purses his lips, and you find yourself speaking again.

“Stop bothering me,” you grit out, finding that with each second passing, your annoyance only grows stronger. Amplified when you look at his worried face.

Why is he so nosy? Why is he so worried?

You fail to notice the vibrations that start from where your shaky feet stand. 

And your tone is icy when you say again, “Stop bothering me. And the next time you get a call about Mist—”

You fail to notice the bits of debris that start falling towards the edge, the subtle cracking of the earth splitting, even as the Hero starts looking around in alarm.

He reaches for you with that stupid warm hand. “Wait—”

You toss his open hand aside and throw his jacket to the ground, your head hot with rage that hasn’t been felt in years. “—whether it’s on a cliff, a bridge, or a building, tell them it’s fine—”

You don’t even notice your own voice rising, too caught up in tearing off the concern this man has persistently shown you. Concern that you find is incredibly unnecessary and utterly smothering.

Your voice echoes across the forest, “—and tell them that she’s not trying to kill herself. Oh, but I bet they would be real sad to hear about that—!”

The Hero urgently grabs onto both your shoulders—heterochromatic eyes blown wide—with heavy palms trying to push you. “Wait— We need to—”

His touch scorches you in that same unbearably warm way like before, traveling from your chest to where his hands touch your body. It sickens you, and you throw them off in a fury, steadying the swing of your body with two harsh feet.

You don’t notice. Anything. Only feeling the irrational spike of anger that has pooled since your first encounter with the number two Hero. You know it’s just the tip of the iceberg, and you know it’s unfair to let it all out on him. But then again, maybe you want to push him away.

The trickling of emotions that emerge when you’re around him are enough to scare out any living daylight left inside of you.

You point an accusatory finger at his chest, pressing hard. “No. You need to—”

…Crack!

Your heart stops as you stumble hard, then lurches out of your chest as the once-precarious now-turned threatening ledge breaks from underneath you. A gasp barely escapes your throat as you quite literally lose your footing, your foundation crumbling beneath your feet within seconds.

You don’t have time to register anything except that the ground—the cliff is cracking. Collapsing. Falling. You’re falling. And the world slows down within those prolonged seconds as you forget whatever insult that was about to come out of your mouth.

Lightning-quick, the two choices strikes in your mind as your body is suspended in the air:

Two choices—two percentages if falling was what you ended up doing, if you were ever at death’s door: 50/50.

A 50% chance that you’d save yourself, that furls of mist would release from your fingertips to catch your flailing body.

A 50% chance that you’d accept it, that you’d let your eyes close as you free-fall knowingly.

50/50. You would either die or live, and with chilling apathy, you’ve always thought that neither outcome could go wrong. 

Because both choices are painful: it hurts to live, and it hurts to die. Because both choices are terrifying, and death is less scary if you don’t care about dying, living is less scary if you don’t care about living.

Because you don’t know what’s worse: staying in that devastating pit of vipers, or crawling out with your flesh raw and bleeding just to be met with even more venom. With more resentment. With more hate. 

Because sometimes, you can still hear it in your head, the ghosts that used to haunt you, that still haunt you:

You don’t deserve to act all high and mighty.

You don’t deserve to be a Hero.

You don’t deserve to live knowing what you’ve done.

You should just die.

You wanted to, but then you didn’t; you couldn’t pinpoint why you were conflicted, so then you decided to let life choose. To let it bring you to whatever direction it thinks you deserve. Like this moment now.

Japan’s number two Hero—Todoroki Shoto—looks at you with wide frozen eyes, his face shrouded in panic and twenty other emotions you choose not to decipher. Not like there’s any time to.

You fall first since you were closer to the edge, slowly, along with the debris and the winds. You hear crystalline noises, the same ones that have tried to be a safety net in the past, back on that bridge when you could’ve fell.

Todoroki Shoto’s mouth is open mid-shout, but you don’t know what he’s yelling about. You can only stare back.

His hand reaches out, warm palm and all, searching for yours.

All you have to do is reach out the same. All you have to do is grasp his hand, the other half of the 50/50.

And in that split second, you know which 50% has won when your arm doesn’t move.

Your eyes shut.

And you let yourself fall.

—50/50

ending notes. thank you for reading! :) a couple of things i wanted to point out is that since this chapter is from reader’s pov, her inner monologue may come across as rather emotionless and stoic. which was actually quite a challenge to write because i’m used to a lot of /emotions/ in my works haha. oh and also she really only addresses/sees shoto as just a hero right now, so that explains the lack of his name in this chapter (which, too, is such a challenge to write!!! LOL)

“Mom, that’s not fair! I’m old enough! I’ve trained with you guys so many times! I can take care of myself!”

His voice cracks at the end, like it always does when he knows he’s pushing it but won’t back down.

You take a deep breath. Your quirk stirs under your skin—a faint crackle in the air that only Shoto would notice if he were here. But he’s not back yet from his last shift. And you’re on maternity leave. Again. This is the second time.

“Touya,” you say as calmly as possible, “your dad said no. And I agree with him. A patrol isn’t a training ground. There are real villains out there. And you’re twelve.”

“But Dad was my age when he was already training with Grandpa Endeavor! And he pushed him way harder than you guys ever push me!”

The name Endeavor is rarely spoken in this house. And when it is, never positively. You see Touya immediately realize his mistake. His shoulders slump a little.

“I… I just mean… I just want to come along. Just once. Please.”

You shake your head. “No. End of discussion.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t get it. You treat me like a baby!”

“Touya—”

“No! Always no! Always too dangerous! I have a quirk! I can fight! But you never let me do anything!”

He turns and storms up the stairs. The door to his room slams so hard that the dishes in the cabinet rattle. You sit there for a moment, hand on your belly, feeling the little one kick. As if to say: Mama, calm down.

The front door opens. Shoto comes in, still in his hero costume, his white hair strands lightly frosted. He pauses in the hallway, hearing the too-loud silence.

“…Same topic again?” he asks quietly, having immediately assessed the situation.

You just nod.

He takes off his boots, comes over to you, and places his hands on your shoulders from behind. His left side warm, his right cool. Always that perfect balance that has calmed you from the start.

You sigh. “He hates us right now.”

“He hates the situation,” Shoto gently corrects. “Not us.”

You both fall silent for a while.

Then Shoto says: “…Maybe I should take him along just this once. A quiet patrol. I’ll stay with him the whole time.”

You turn to look at him. “Shoto.”

“I know,” he says, raising his hand. “I know what I’ve always said. But… he’s like I was. And he reminds me of Touya… That stubbornness. If we always just say no, he’ll go out on his own one day. And then it’s really dangerous.”

You look at him for a long time.

He’s right. You both know it.

You nod slowly. “Just a quiet route. And he wears the tracker. And stays in sight at all times. And—”

“And I’ll watch him,” Shoto finishes the sentence. “With everything I have.”

The next evening, Touya stands in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting the hoodie you specially got him—dark, inconspicuous, with small reflective strips. His red hair still glows like a signal fire.

He’s trying to look cool, but you see his hands trembling as he zips it up.

Shoto kneels in front of him. “Rule one: You stay with me at all times. Rule two: If I say ‘down,’ you drop into cover immediately. Rule three: No quirk use unless I explicitly say so.”

Touya nods eagerly. “Got it.”

You stand in the doorway, hand on your belly again. You wanted to come along, but Shoto gently but firmly refused. “You stay here and rest,” he’d said. “We’ll be back in three hours.”

Now you bend down to Touya and press a kiss to his forehead. “Be careful and listen to your dad!”

He grins crookedly. “I will!”

Shoto places his warm hand on your cheek for a moment, kisses you softly. “We’ll be back soon.”

Then they leave. Father and son. One with white-and-red hair, the other with just red. Both with that calm but unyielding look.

You close the door and stand there for a moment before sighing and turning to find something to occupy yourself.

Three hours later—exactly to the minute—you hear the key in the lock.

Touya bursts in, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “Mom! Mom, you won’t believe what happened!”

Shoto follows, much calmer, but you catch the small smile at the corner of his mouth.

“What happened?” you ask, heaving yourself up from the armchair.

Touya starts talking immediately, words tumbling over each other: “We were downtown and there was this guy trying to rob a store, and Dad stopped him and I got to call the police, and then a little boy couldn’t get his cat down from a tree and Dad lifted me up and I got the cat and everyone clapped and—”

He talks and talks until he’s out of breath.

Shoto steps beside you, arm around your waist. “Quiet patrol,” he says softly. “Almost.”

You look at Touya, now sitting on the couch, eyes shining as he recounts how cool his father was.

Maybe it was exactly the right thing to give in just once.

Maybe he needs that—to see that his father doesn’t just say no, but also protects. That being a hero isn’t just about fighting, but about responsibility too.

Touya looks over at you both. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For letting me come.”

Shoto just nods.

You smile and hold out your hand. Touya runs over and hugs you carefully around the belly.

Shoto wraps his arms around both of you—warm on one side, cool on the other.