welcome to hell, simps

A young girl paces before a line of statues in the Amazon. 

Her robe, blue, tattered, and blood-stained, billows behind her with each step. She worries her hands as she goes, chews her lip in apparent frustration. 

“It’s not working fast enough,” she mutters to herself, for no one is around to hear. 

She halts suddenly in the middle of the line. She jerks her body around to face a particular statue — a smirking young man standing ramrod straight, with a hairstyle to match. 

“Senku,” she begins, louder this time, as if he might reply, “Why?” 

Her little hands clasp onto that of the statue, rigid and still at its sides. The girl’s eyes, large and doe-brown, squint as she regards the figure. Tears gather and fall at her lash line, her breaths tear from her mouth in the form of quiet sobs. 

“I did everything you said. Please, just wake up and tell me why this is taking so long!”

She’s shouting now. Her grip on the statue has turned vice-like, her knuckles turning paper white with the effort. Her arms, her blonde head, her entire body trembles. 

The girl does not want to cry like this. She wants to be brave, like the man in the stone once was. Before he was this, he was hurt very badly and didn’t shed a single tear. She wants to be like that, for him, for all of her friends. 

But oh, she wishes he were here. She wishes he woke up instead of her. Everyone would already be together again if he had, she knows. 

She wouldn’t be all alone now, she knows, if only he had been at the base of the tower instead. 

“I’m so scared,” she whispers into the air, “So lonely.” 

The girl receives no answer. 

-——-

The girl has nightmares for a long time. Most nights, she flits back and forth between consciousness and sleep. And when she sleeps, the images of her dying friends are the only thing to greet her. 

Back when everyone else was around, there were ample opportunities for bedtime stories and songs, teas that made her sleepy, and big strong hands to rub her back as she drifted off to a calm slumber. Back then, her dreams were largely peaceful. Expeditions with her dog, new projects with her friends. No bloodshed, no cries of pain, no explosions in dreamland in the days before. 

While awake, she tries not to remember. It’s quite easy, too. The girl is very busy most days; there is always science to do, fish to catch, and fruit to gather. And in the rare moments when she’s idle, she talks with her statues. It doesn’t matter that they likely cannot hear, or that they definitely cannot reply. She knows what they would say, and that’s enough. 

But when everything goes quiet, save for the chirping of the bugs, it gets hard. The world gets so big and dark. The future falls away, just out of her line of sight. Then, she remembers again. 

-——-

Two trips around the Sun later, the girl looks at her reflection in the sea. 

She is changing so much, which is rather inconvenient. Her face contains a constellation of pimples, painful to the touch and quite unsightly in her estimations. Her underarms have started to grow dark, coarse hairs that tickle and itch. And she has grown everywhere all at once, and very quickly. Her legs can’t seem to take her where she wants to go without tripping sometimes — like her brain can’t figure out how to work them just yet. She keeps accidentally hitting her head on the roof of her hut in the morning because she forgets to duck, too. 

And while these are all problems, there is one that requires immediate attention.  

Her blue robe no longer fits. The task she has appointed herself today (outside of the endless, seemingly fruitless tending her nitric acid farm requires), is to fashion a new dress. One that doesn’t squeeze her chest, one that protects her better from the scorching sun and biting bugs. 

Fortunately, this is familiar work. The ones who came before her taught the girl the art of sewing a long time ago. One woman in particular even taught her to weave fabric. 

She’s not here now, that woman. Locked in stone like everyone else, and an entire sea away. 

The girl must do it alone, she knows well enough by now. But she also knows she is armed with all the knowledge she could possibly need. 

The girl tears her gaze away from her shimmering reflection and begins her search for scrap fabric. 

-——-

The girl feels a bit like her body is made of buzzing, angry bees. 

Two days ago, on a routine excursion for fruit, she tripped and fell into an unfamiliar plant. After a few hours, the side of her body that made contact with it started blooming pink. 

Today, it is all hives, all red, all agonizingly itchy and raw. She has torn the skin in several spots in her sleep already, unable to stop herself from relieving the itch, though she knows she should just leave it alone. 

She doesn’t know anything in this place that could help her aside from the sea. The saltwater stings her wounds a bit, but the coolness of it, the reprieve it offers, is infinitely worth it in her estimations. She finds herself floating on her back there more often than she should. 

There are other things that need doing, she tells herself, The farm won’t tend to itself. 

But she can’t find it in herself to leave. 

It just feels so… nice. The girl doesn’t get to relax like this anymore. In fact, she can’t remember the last time her muscles were so blessedly limp. 

And the motion of the water near her ears, the muffling and unmuffling soothes her just as much. Its soft, gentle rhythm reminds her of the only song she’s ever heard. 

The farm can wait, she decides. 

She spends the entire afternoon in the water. Her fingertips are more wrinkled than they’ve ever been, her ears slightly clogged too. The girl doesn’t complain. Instead, she resumes her work under the glow of a full moon. The farm did wait for her after all. 

-——-

The girl wakes up one morning to a sharp pain in her abdomen. Her eyes fly open to find her cot and underthings are soaked with dark blood. 

At first, she’s frightened, thinking that she’d been mortally wounded somehow. But then, she remembers. 

A friend taught her all about this while they were out at sea together. A lifetime ago, it seems to her at times.

So, the girl takes a deep breath and rises. She heads to the sea, strips down as she goes. She rinses herself and her clothes all clean. And she wraps her undershorts with a washing cloth before getting dressed. 

She catches her reflection in the water, even more changed than the last time she looked. 

“It’s official, I’m growing up,” she whispers to it, “Least that’s what Kohaku said.” 

That afternoon, the girl curls up on her cot, still damp from her attempt to erase the stain. She was warned this would hurt. She doesn’t know where to find the herbs that might ease her pain, nor does she possess the energy to find them. She only rises occasionally to nibble on fruit — a challenging task due to the roiling in her stomach. 

“It gets a little easier every time,” she repeats like a prayer, remembering the advice her friend gave her a lifetime ago. 

-——- 

Years pass, and the advice was good. It does get a little easier every time the girl recalls her friends, and how they are not here to guide her through the rest of her childhood. It gets easier every time she notices that some of it has been ripped away while no one was able to look. It gets a little easier every time there is a setback in bringing everyone together again — easier to persevere through the loss, easier to try one more time. The nightmares don’t come as often, and when they do, she wakes with a start and not a scream. By the end, she is no longer afraid of her own blood, and it does not bring forth the memory of the last time she saw other human beings. Instead, it reminds her that she is here, she is alive, and that people are counting on her. 

The day that the fruits of her long labor are finally born into her hands is the best of her life. She cannot run fast enough; it’s no question who she’ll free first. Her feet, now fully grown, swift and sure, carry her all the way to the middle of the line of stone statues she’s paced in front of so many times before. 

But when she finally arrives, she stops.

“Wait,” she breathes, “something’s missing.” 

Carefully, she lays the vial she carried at the statues feet. She goes to her hut to find it — a passion project of youth nearly forgotten. When she retrieves it from its home in the corner, the fabric is fuzzy from dust. She shakes it out in the air, smooths it with her clammy palms, then brings the object back to the statues. 

When she joins the cloth together at the statue’s collar, the image is finally complete. A cape, red and flying with the wind, for the girl’s saving grace. Her hero in a time so confusing and dark. She can think of no better way to honor him. 

With considerable effort and care, she lays him down on the earth. Then she takes the discarded vial in her hands and opens the cork lid. 

Finally, after a very long wait, she pours the contents onto the statue. 

And finally, after nearly half of her life, the stone encasing her friend cracks and falls away. 

The door to the bus opens gingerly, and Armin tiptoes through the crack.

“Oh! Hey, Eren! Great show tonight,” Armin greets, seemingly surprised to find Eren there.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Armin leans against the half-wall beside the door and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“So, you and (y/n), huh?”

Eren chokes on nothing. He thought that he’d been doing well hiding that, but he should have known better than to think Armin wouldn’t find out. Nothing has ever gotten past him, and nothing ever will.

“I’m sorry?” he sputters.

“I saw you give her a little peck in the wings before LOVESICK! went on. S’cute.”

Eren has a bad feeling about this. The condescending tone in Armin’s voice tells him that he’s not done.

“Thanks…” he replies, cautiously.

“I’ve just been thinking about it, though. How it could be bad for our image.”

“There it is,” Eren mutters under his breath.

“Let’s say this goes one of two ways. You could stay in the relationship with her, and it would inevitably get to the public. We’d lose a lot of fans, the ones who support cannibal because you’re a teenage heartthrob and not because they particularly like the music. I know that seems like a good thing, but we really can’t afford that right now, I’m telling you. Or, you could break it off now and save all of us a lot of trouble.”

Eren blinks. He really hates when Armin puts his “manager hat” on. It makes him so cold, so mean. Ever since they’ve started this tour, that’s all he ever sees from him.

“Listen, Armin, I really like her, and --”

“Remember, this isn’t just your career we’re talking about. Mikasa, Reiner, and Jean are in this, too. And, you know, me.”

“That’s not fair, dude.”

“I’m just saying--”

“What do you even know about being with someone, Armin? I’ve never even seen you talk to a girl like that.”

Armin sighs.

“You’re right, I don’t know anything about that. But, I do know statistics. Trends. You remember Levi from that band Trost like ten years ago?”

Eren nods, slowly.

“They were really big, and then it hit 2008 and no one ever heard from them again. You know why?”

“I don’t see how this is relevant.”

“It came out in some tabloid that he’s married to some guy. Teenage hearts across the globe were crushed in an instant. I don’t think it matters much, but a lot of people did. The band tried to go on tour again in 2009, and they couldn’t even make enough money to pay for the bus.”

“Ever heard of homophobia, Armin? Shit’s whack. And it’s not like I’m gonna propose to her or anything! We’ve only been dating for, like, two months!”

“My point stands, Eren, that stuff like this matters to teenage girls. A lot. That’s almost all of our fanbase.”

“(y/n)’s a teenage girl. Is it not important that it matters to her? That it matters to me? Your best friend?”

“You’re both young, attractive, famous people. It’ll be just fine. I’m working on making it so that it doesn’t matter who you date, but until then you could just hook-up with--”

“Jesus, STOP!” Eren shouts.

Silence settles over the bus. Eren can’t even bring himself to look at Armin. He’s disgusted. He’s conflicted. He’s angry.

Most of all, he can’t believe that he’s considering what he has to say. He knows Armin well — sometimes a bit too well — and understands that he cannot and will not hop off of this soap box until Eren obeys. Until then, he will pester, or worse, sort out the problem himself. He’s determined, dementedly so. Has been since this whole managing business started; since Eren gave him something to be good at. It’s only gotten worse as fame has reared its ugly head.

“If I do it,” Eren sighs, “will you drop this?”

“Yeah, I will,” Armin mutters.

“No, like, seriously. If I have to break up with her, I don’t wanna hear another fucking word about something like this. Trust me, I won’t even dream about dating anyone ever again.”

Armin nods, eyes glued to the carpet.

“Alright.”

Eren stands, making a beeline for the door.

“You’re doing it now? Maybe you should calm--”

“Do you want me to dump her or not?” Eren interrupts, nostrils flared.

After a moment of tense silence, boring holes through Armin’s skull with fiery eyes, he speaks again.

“That’s what I thought.”

(a/n): they said the name of the fan fiction in the fan fiction lol

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You’re so engrossed in your thoughts that you jump when his calloused fingertips brush against your cheek, brushing your hair away from your face.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice husky from sleep, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

You debate on whether or not to speak. While you fear that doing so would begin the chain of events that cause him to leave you, you also can’t help but want to continue hearing his voice. The latter eventually wins out.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you murmur, finally opening your eyes and peering up at him.

As your gaze settles, you think about how good it is to know that you didn’t miraculously invent the sensation of Kei’s body enveloping you. He’s wearing his usual pleasant smirk, amber eyes half-lidded with morning haze. Any casual viewer wouldn’t be able to notice anything amiss, but you’re able to notice the slight differences. His lips are still slightly pinker from kissing you, and the hold he has on you seems to have tightened now that you’re awake. Maybe, just maybe, he won’t run away this time.

“M’kay,” he coos, continuing to stroke your hair.

That dread you were feeling is slowly overpowered by a wave of hope and confusion. He’s conscious and sober, and aware that you are too, and he hasn’t made any sort of attempt to run away yet. You’re glad, no doubt about that, but the signals he’s sending are all out of whack. His usual contactless approach is far from what’s happening right now. As much as this baffles you, you don’t want it to end.

“This is nice,” you breathe.

Kei hums in response, his eyes searching your tired face. He seems to be contemplating something. Don’t go, you repeat silently, please don’t go.

You feel his core muscles shift beneath you, and your stomach immediately churns. You expected him to leave, to untangle himself from you. Instead, much to your delight, he simply leans forward to plant a kiss on your forehead.

Though it’s brief, it’s infectiously warm. His lips are feathery soft against your temple, blessing it with a short-lived, tantalizing fever. Your heart practically does a backflip in your chest. Before you can even breathe again, it’s over. He resumes stroking your hair, as if he didn’t just set your entire body on fire. It’s silly, the reaction you’re having to such a simple act of affection, but after last night -- no, after the past month, all of it is totally involuntary.

Your mind wanders to the night you met Kei. You remember how scared you were by the idea of him. Your heart knew before your brain could even try to understand; he was meant to be yours. Whether that was for a brief while or for the rest of time, whether it was platonic or not, it didn’t matter. It still doesn’t. You love him all the same, and you have from the moment you laid eyes on him. It feels important that you express this right now, while the tenderness allows for it, but you lack the facilities to. So, you settle.

“So last night was… something.”

His pleasant expression drops, and his hand pauses near the crown of your head.

“Something good, I hope,” he replies, a nervous edge to his tone.

“Oh, yes! It was good, yes,” you scramble, reaching for Kei’s hand and encouraging it to continue caressing you.

“Good,” he sighs, responding to your touch, “you scared me there for a second, birdie.”

“Birdie?” you question.

Kei had never called you that before. He usually either called you by your name or other choice terms. The ones that come to your mind are ‘big-head’ or ‘butt-face’. You questioned those at first too, but he insisted that he called you those things out of love. “If I mean it, you’ll know,” he said.

“Huh?”

“You called me ‘birdie’ just now.”

“I did?”

You nod slowly, biting back laughter.

“Well, that’s embarrassing for me,” he sighs.

You let your cackling loose, causing Kei to giggle too.

“Listen, it just slipped out!”

“It’s fine,” you reassure through your fit, “I thought it was kind of cute.”

“Yeah, your laughter really shows me that!” he fires back sarcastically.

“No, really!” you insist, “it was adorable and not at all something I’ll bring up every day for the rest of time.”

It seems like all the two of you do together is laugh, you think as the two of you devolve into uncontrollable giggling. It takes the pair of you a fair chunk of time to compose yourselves, but soon you’re wiping the tears away. With a long sigh, Kei tucks loose strands of hair behind your ears.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he declares.

“Yeah, I could go for breakfast!”

“Excellent,” he smiles, giving you a quick peck on the lips before getting up.

“Woah, woah, woah,” you contest, “hold on!”

“What?”

“That was lame as hell, Kei.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just a little smooch? Where’s the passion?”

You don’t really know where all of this is coming from. This situation is entirely foreign to you, so it’s natural to have new urges to act on. You never knew you were such a tease, though.

He cocks an eyebrow in response. The seconds of pause he’s taking are beginning to make you nervous.

“Oh?” he returns as he slinks back toward the couch, “I guess you’ll have to teach me, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A mixture of nerves and butterflies settles in your stomach. You’re pleased that he’s matching your energy, to put it lightly. You’ve never been in the position where you’ve had to make the first move, however. As he settles himself above you, supporting himself by planting his arms on either side of your head, you resolve to lie in the bed you’ve made for yourself. You bite your lip instinctually as you search his face. The smug look on it, the glimmering honey-pot eyes, the galaxy of faint freckles… it’s almost too much.

“Well?” he drawls.

“No,” you breathe, “this is part of it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You have to build tension,” you pause, reaching to meet him slowly, “Make them excited.”

As you approach him, you notice the breath fanning across your face start to quicken. You are starting to mirror his enthusiasm, but you continue at your glacial pace.

“You have to make them want it,” you finish.

Finally, you meet him. You take your time at the start, taking everything in. The difference between this kiss and your first one with Kei is remarkable. Last night, it felt like a bomb had been set off in the confines of your rib cage. This one feels more like a match dropped on a trail of gasoline. You see it in the movies all the time -- the villain drizzles the contents of a gas canister from their target to a safe distance away, they drop the lit match, and the fire starts. A perfect trail of fire travels to the unassuming building, lazily at first. Then the pace picks up. Then, without fail, the building catches fire and explodes. With your eyes closed and your lips leisurely exploring, the image of the trail of fire is clear in your mind. You match its careful pace, allowing the curls of the flame to guide the way you move your mouth. You realize that this plan is working when you feel Kei’s encouraging hum rumble against you, followed by his body shifting down to meet yours. With his hands free, they’re roaming you, seemingly making up for lost time. They are their own trail of fire, calloused fingertips leaving what feels like pleasant burns wherever they graze. You find your own fingertips tangled in Kei’s hair, your own legs tangled with his. He nips at your bottom lip, begging you to give him more. So you do.

And you do.

And you do.

Until the familiar chime of his phone ringing breaks the euphoria.

You’re alarmed at the speed at which you come hurtling back to the planet Earth, as you open your eyes and find Kei resting his forehead against yours. He’s panting and groaning.

“Now?” he complains.

“Duty calls, number two.”

“You know,” he says, reluctantly getting up, “I’ve heard that Americans call shitting ‘going number two’.”

“No wonder they’re so obsessed with winning,” you muse, earning a chuckle from Kei.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and his brow furrows upon seeing the caller ID. The atmosphere of the room, which was previously dense with excitement, is now immediately turned tense. You suddenly feel inexplicably uncomfortable looking in Kei’s direction, so you find your gaze shifted to the floor.

“I gotta take this,” he mutters, rushing to your balcony.

You simply nod, even though his back is turned to you before you can even register his leaving.

____________________________________________________________________________

There are thousands of different ways this could go; Keigo knows that. It seems too early for Dabi to remind him about the meeting he’s supposed to attend today. Hell, it seems too early for Dabi to even be awake. In the time between telling his little white lie and showing up at your doorstep last night, Keigo considered the possibility of the League finding him out, and planned accordingly. He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to tell another lie to cover up his original lie.

As he shuts the glass door to (Y/N)’s balcony, he inhales deeply and answers the phone.

“Yes?” he groans.

“You have a little too much fun at your… ahem… press event last night, bird brain?”

Keigo can practically hear the air quotes around the words “press event”. Even if it’s a simple deviation in Dabi’s speaking pattern, which happens occasionally to everyone, since he can’t see the body language of him, Keigo has to assume that he’s been caught. He wasn’t looking forward to enacting this plan, this second unnecessary lie, but a part of him is excited to indulge his inner child.

“No, I didn’t go.”

“Oh, is that so? Care to tell me why you didn’t turn up at our spot then?”

“I’ve got food poisoning. Didn’t think you’d appreciate me losing my lunch all over your fresh linens.”

“Should have brought a barf bag.”

“Then I would’ve needed a barf bag for both ends, if you catch my drift. I’ve been hanging out real close to my bathroom since about eight last night.”

“Eight seems a bit late for a press event to start, don’t you think?”

“The event actually started at six-thirty, but I was feeling nauseous. I figured a late arrival would -- hang on.”

Keigo holds his phone a reasonable distance from his head and starts making retching noises. Funnily enough, a brief section of the espionage training he received as a teenager was spent learning how to feign illness in a convincing manner. He never thought he would use it, though. As he returns the phone to his ear, he makes a conscious effort to make his voice deeper and more strained.

“Sorry, did you hear that?”

“You know, there’s a mute button on most smartphones.”

“I was a little distracted, forgive me. Listen, I haven’t forgotten about what you said last night. I’ll be there, just give me an hour to take a Pepto or something.”

“Good. Wear a fucking diaper if you have to.”

With that, the line goes dead. Keigo sighs, understanding that the worst is most likely over. He knows that the League will remember this, however. In order to make it up to them, and the HPSC, he can’t be absent from any more meetings. Even if he actually is puking his guts out.

Even if it involves you.

He gathers himself and prepares to tell yet another lie.

Upon reentering your apartment, he finds your spot on the couch empty. His stomach drops.

The possibility that the League employed surveillance on him that he hadn’t detected had crossed his mind, but he didn’t take that thought very seriously. They’re a small team, with moderate investigative skills. Enough to fool a lot of people, but not Keigo. If this is real, if this is actually happening, then they are much more skilled than he gave them credit for.

He’s broken from his spiral of thought when he hears the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen. Slowly, quietly, he rounds the corner.

There you are, turning on your rice cooker. Humming a tune. Not a worry in the world.

He swears that he will keep it that way, as long as he possibly can.

“Hey,” he sighs.

You look up from your task and beam at him.

“Hey, you! I was just about to make some food. Hungry?”

“Yeah, but uh…”

He doesn’t want to do this. He really doesn’t want to do this.

“That was the commission. It’s urgent. I gotta go.”

A look of concern washes over your face.

“I can’t really discuss it, but don’t worry. I’ll be just fine.”

He offers you a reassuring smile, the best one he can muster.

“Alright,” you concede, placing your utensils down and making your way towards him, “be safe.”

When you reach him, you place a soft hand on his cheek. Without thinking, he leans into the touch and closes his eyes. Meetings with Dabi put him on edge, and lying to you makes him hurt, but you seem to have a healer’s touch. You stand on your tip toes and plant a delicate kiss on his nose. It seems like that heals him a little, too.

“Woah, uh, hey everyone,” you stutter.

“It’s alright, no need to panic, I get that this is a lot,” a reassuring female voice on the other end pipes in.

Mikasa. God, you miss her. With your feelings about Eren on the forefront of your mind, you never stopped to think about how long it had been since you two have spoken. You two had such fun together once upon a time. She didn’t deserve your silence.

“It’s good to hear your voice, Mimi.”

She chuckles at the nickname.

“You too.”

“Anyway,” Armin redirects, “this is actually a business call. A better one than last time, I hope.”

Your stomach drops.

“I’m listening.”

“We just left Eren’s apartment. He’s in really bad shape, and he’s very angry at all of us. So angry that he just quit the band.”

“Wow… that’s tough.”

You don’t quite know what else to say. It’s not undeserved, at least when it comes to Armin, but this puts everyone else in limbo. Knowing how close Mikasa and Eren are, you can’t imagine she’s taking this well.

“We’re not giving up,” Mikasa asserts, “We’re gonna try to win him over.”

“How? Eren isn’t exactly a wishy-washy kinda guy. I’m sure he meant it,” you question.

“You gotta talk to him.”

“And say what exactly?”

Silence. You figured that they may not have thought very far ahead, as all of this sounds pretty fresh.

“I actually have an idea,” a new voice pipes in.

“Oh, great, more plans! We definitely don’t need any of that shit right now, Connie,” Jean grumbles.

“This is actually something I think will work, and to be honest I didn’t even come up with it. Our fans did.”

“Our fans?” you question.

“Yeah, they actually exist. They’re just harder to find because the big accounts are… extremely opinionated.”

“What’ve you got, Connie?” Armin asks, optimism injected back in his voice.

“People are looking at the release date and thinking that it’s on the same day because we have features from each other on the singles. The idea’s gotten some attention, good and bad. But from what Armin said to us earlier, it sounds like we wanna get rid of the people who don’t respect the art. I think this would be a good way to do that, and it would be a good way to squash the beef. And if we do that…”

“Eren might be back in,” you finish.

“If you’re in,” Mikasa affirms, “Eren will be too. We can all tell he cares about you still.”

“Yeah, pretty much all of our songs have been about you since he met you,” Jean adds.

Your chest flutters.

“All of it?”

“I wish I was kidding. Some of them made it on the last album, but the dude is constantly writing sappy lyrics about you. He refuses to write anything else.”

A part of you assumed Armin was exaggerating when he told you the ways in which Eren has dimmed since you two parted ways. You’ve come to expect that from him. Jean, however, has always been straightforward.

It was always easier to hate Eren, knowing that he hated you too. Over the years, it became a shield to hide your pain behind. Very few people know exactly how difficult his leaving was for you. Your discography displays some of that pain, but there are still parts of it that are unknowable to you. All around you are reminders of him, all the time.

It only was a few months of your life, but you’ve known for years that these small, every day pains would stick with you forever. Your reluctance to participate comes from a fear of facing it — a fear of making small pains large again — but it’s being slowly replaced with hope.

You inhale deeply, knowing you could easily come to regret what you’re about to tell them.

“I’m in.”

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“Can we play a different game, please?” he pleads, slurring.

“It’s not my fault that I’m a god, Kei!”

“If I wasn’t drunk, you’d be a goner.”

“You said five minutes ago that you aren’t even drunk!”

“I’m not!”

“Liar!”

“Different game!” he bellows, still throwing a tantrum.

You reach over and flick the back of his head. Even though you’re hammered, you still manage to land it squarely in the center. His head flies off the floor to face you, honey eyes narrowed.

“You’re dead, (Y/L/N).”

One of his feathers darts toward you, aiming directly for your exposed ribs. You know this game far too well, and while you could easily avoid his attack, you secretly enjoy this kind of attention. In a way, it’s like he’s touching you. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

You leap to your feet and begin sprinting in the direction of your bedroom, but the feather is simply too fast. Before you can even make it through the door, it’s teasing the sensitive area, causing you to convulse with defeat. You, unfortunately, are being tickled within an inch of your life.

“K-Kei!” you shout, breathless and laughing, “Stop it!”

“No, you flicked me!”

You crash into the wall and slide to the floor, feather never leaving your side.

“I’m gonna pee!”

“You shoulda thought of that before you flicked me, then!”

“I -- fuck -- I’m sorry!”

“What? Can’t hear you. Speak up!”

“I’M SORRY!”

“That’s what I thought,” he says, a fake threatening tone to his voice.

With that, the feather zips back into the fold of his wings, bumping into a lamp on the way. You stay slumped against the wall, attempting to catch your breath. Meanwhile, Kei has raised himself to a relaxed sitting position on the living room floor.

“Now, a different game, please,” he smiles.

“Fine, crybaby.”

“Watch it, or I’ll tickle you again!”

“Nooo!” you whine, returning to your spot on the living room carpet with a graceless thump.

“I have an idea!” Kei gasps.

“Shoot.”

“How about, um, Truth or Dare, but, like, with alcohol! Like you take a shot if you don’t wanna do your truth… or your dare… or whatever.”

“I didn’t realize we were sixteen years old.”

He calls a feather to hover dangerously close to your ribcage once again.

“Jesus, alright! Just put that shit away.”

He smirks with satisfaction as the torture device returns to its crimson plume.

“I’ll go first!”

“Hold on, let me get the vodka,” you grumble, hoisting yourself up.

As you hobble to the kitchen, Kei begins the game anyway.

“Truth or dare?”

“Let’s do truth,” you decide after a moment, returning with the bottle of vodka.

“You’re no fun,” he pouts, considering his options, “Hmm…. oh! Okay, so, you’ve got good aim.”

“Yeah. Truth or dare?”

“I WASN’T DONE YET!”

“I’m teasing, Kei! Someone’s touchy.”

“Leave me alone,” he growls, “I wanted to know what your quirk really is. Because I don’t think that’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s not all. All of my senses -- you know, sight, hearing, whatever -- are better than a normal person’s. Not all of them are the same amount of better though! My sight is the best, and then touch, then -hic- hearing, smell, and taste. It kinda sucked at first, but I worked really hard to make it worth something, ya know? I even got an ultimate move out of it!”

Kei’s mouth is hanging open in real, but overexaggerated shock.

“Really? Show me!”

“It’s not really something I can show you…”

“Oh. Well, can you, like, tell me about it then?”

At this, Kei scooches closer towards you, eyes widening even further.

“I just, um, focus more, and it makes my senses almost perfect. Like they’re great on their own, but with more focus it gets to the point where, like, I can tell what people are gonna do before they’re finished doing it. It’s like -- ‘oh, I can hear their pinky toe moving in their shoe, they’re probably gonna take a step’. It gives me a migraine when I’m done though.”

Kei nods and begins the long, arduous process of standing up.

“Okay, so I’m gonna get up and then I’m gonna do something totally unexpected. You gotta say what I’m gonna do.”

“I just told you it makes my head hurt, birdbrain!”

“But I wanna seeeeee!”

“You can see it later! I don’t think I can do it right now, anyway. I’m drunk.”

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest.

You learned from your last time drinking together that when Kei drinks, he often wants to play some sort of game. And when he’s drunk and playing a game, one of two things can happen. One, he gets extremely competitive. This is what happened last time, when he flipped your game of LIFE off of your coffee table. Or, two, he becomes a big, mopey baby, which is what’s happening right now. You know it’s all in jest, and while it’s slightly annoying, it’s mostly endearing. You can’t wait to remind him about this tomorrow. If you’re even able to remember, that is.

“Truth or dare?”

“I’m gonna pick dare, because I’m not a loser,” he mocks.

“Oh, now I’m gonna pick something terrible.”

You scan the room, drunkenly scrambling to find something hellish for him to do as revenge. You just did a deep clean of the whole apartment, so there’s nothing really gross around here that you can think of. You’re fresh out of mushrooms, otherwise you’d make him eat one. You know he would have hated that. You could make him wear one of your bras on his head, but that would require him to see it. Too embarrassing for you. Suddenly, a lightbulb pops in your head.

“Let me touch your wings.”

There are two reasons for this diabolical idea. Kei talks all the time about how he loathes when fans touch his feathers without his consent. But also, selfishly, you just really want to know what they feel like. You’ve felt individual feathers before, and they’re incredibly soft. Feeling multiple all at once sounds heavenly.

“No. Absolutely not!”

“Now you’re no fun!”

“They’re sensitive!”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“No, that’s wooorse!”

“How the fuck is that worse?”

In addition to the flush of Kei’s intoxicated cheeks, a new pinkess spreads across them.

“Either let me touch your wings for a few seconds or take a shot,” you urge him.

He locks hazy eyes with you, and you can see the gears turning in his head. Simultaneously, the gears are turning in your own. You can’t really gather how it would be worse for you to be gentle with them. Holding back on the pressure couldn’t possibly hurt him. In fact, that seems like it would be more pleasurable for him.

Your brain stops in its tracks.

Pleasurable.

Before you can stop yourself, you share your revelation.

“You don’t want me to touch them because you’ll like it too much!”

“No, I--”

“Don’t lie, Kei!”

“I don’t--”

“No, you do know!”

“FINE, TOUCH THEM!” he concedes, throwing his arms in the air.

You grin widely, feeling victorious, as he turns to the side. You use this opportunity to scooch closer to him, preparing to caress the plumes.

You could go about this one of two ways, you figure. You could make this as easy as possible for him. A quick stroke across a small section. Or, you could make this extremely difficult for him, running your fingers between the expanse of the whole wing. Something about the intimacy of the interaction, the inhibiting effect of the alcohol, and your burning desire to touch his wings, to touch him, make you pick the latter.

You wiggle beside his extended leg, facing the wing directly. Before you touch him, something possesses you to lean towards him and whisper in his ear.

“Remember, this game was your idea.”

All in the same motion, you draw your head back and carefully dive your fingers into his wings. As you run them along the surface, you suck in a breath. You expected them to be soft, but you’re taken aback. It has exceeded your expectations by a lot. Your fingertips tingle at the way each feather teases them. The fine barbs feel smooth underneath your touch. A strange sensation zips its way up your arm like it’s a live wire. You move at a sloth’s pace, wanting to savor this feeling for as long as possible, mesmerized. You’re only halfway across when Kei’s hand closes around your wrist, forcefully yanking it away.

His previously hazy eyes are now dark, met firmly with the wall directly across from him. His breathing is labored, shoulders heaving with each inhale and exhale. The previously pink flush in his cheeks is now beet red. Warmth spreads in your midsection, intoxicated by both the restraint he has you in and the downright primal look on his face.

“That’s enough,” he asserts, sternly.

You flounder, looking deep within you for some sort of snarky reply. There’s nothing left in your head; it seems that this interaction has wiped them all away. You feel redness creep up your neck and into your face. Your heart is beating out of your chest. You’re sure that Kei can hear it loud and clear. You swallow hard, and attempt to find your voice.

“Come on, that was nothing,” you offer, weakly.

Your gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips. They’re parted slightly to allow for his panting breaths. The image of him closing the distance between you, crashing them against yours, flashes across your brain. Working against them in expert fashion. Just like you’ve wanted for so long. You can practically feel the pressure of them, sucking on your bottom lip and lightly nipping. To satiate the need you suddenly feel, you take your bottom lip between your teeth, returning your gaze to the predator before you.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Keigo’s palm burns around your wrist. It’s taking everything in him to refrain from pinning you down on the floor and reenacting the images flashing in his head. Your heartbeat is drumlike, rapid, and even more inebriating than the copious amounts of liquor he’s had tonight. Your erratic breaths cause your chest to brush lightly against his forearm, the additional contact driving him further into insanity. After years of training, he knows that this is the ultimate test of his will. He’s losing.

A part of him consistently suggests that loving you isn’t a venture that’s destined to fail. The rest of him usually overshadows that, spouting endless excuses for his actions. Well, rather, inaction. Right now, he’s forgotten every reason he’d previously given himself. No matter how badly he wants to, how desperately he needs to, he can’t bring himself to look at you. If your expression is anywhere near what he’s imagining it to be, he won’t be able to stop himself. In his soul, he knows that if he acts right now, he will be completely unable to show anything resembling mercy. The already looming threat of going completely feral will swallow him whole, and he will fuck you into oblivion.

It’s appealing, the thought of releasing hold on his inhibitions. The only thing stopping him now is the thing that stops him from doing a lot of things these days.

He must, above anything and everything else, keep people safe. And you just happen to be at the very top of the list of people in the world.

This is as instinctual as breathing for him. A knee jerk reaction to outside stimuli. His outside might be extremely stimulated right now, but the core of his very existence will not allow this to continue. Not like this. If he’s ever presented with the opportunity to sleep with you, it has to be centered around you. It has to be considerate. It has to be gentle. The current state of things doesn’t equate to that at all. Of course he cares about you, about your safety. He also cares about being a decent human being, a decent pro-hero, even in the face of quickly reducing into an animal.

Finally, in the raging battle of Keigo versus avian instinct, Keigo emerges victorious.

In one swift motion, he releases his grip on your wrist and raises himself off the ground. Semi-rational thought slowly starts to flow back into his head. He knows that whatever the hell all that was effectively ruined the banter for the night. The way he reacted to your touch scared himself, and he can’t even begin to imagine how terrified you must feel. Moments like these reacquainted him with the fact that his quirk, combined with all of the meddling the Commission did to him, essentially made him a monster. He goes to great lengths to hide that from the rest of the world, but now he’s revealed the most ugly part of himself to the only person in the entire place that matters. You, his entire life, now know that even the most human of hawks are predators, too.

He stumbles to your balcony. In his altered mind, he believes that leaving would be the ultimate courtesy to you right now. It doesn’t matter that he’s plastered. It doesn’t matter that you’re already following him, begging him to stay. No one, especially you, deserves to spend another moment with such an unholy creature as Keigo Takami.

Without so much as a backward glance, he surges off of the balcony and into the night sky. His aim is to fly across the city, across the country, across the world. But, his double vision doesn’t grant him much aid in the darkness. Before he can make it even fifty feet from your apartment building, he clips the one across from you with his massive wing. In any normal circumstance, he would be able to recover from this without much issue. But he’s shitfaced. So, instead, he careens into the street below at remarkable speeds. With a yelp, he lands on the gravel and slides, scraping his entire left side. For a moment, his deafening, panic induced thoughts are quiet. It happens to be just long enough to hear you from your apartment four stories above.

“KEI!”

A pro-hero such as him should be able to take an injury like this like it’s nothing. In fact, he’s done it countless times before. Something about the drunkenness and the complete descent into self-loathing keeps him glued to the pavement. He knows you’re coming. He knows he’s going to have to face you. He knows that you’re probably worried out of your goddamn mind. He knows it’s all his fault.

For the first time in recent memory, Keigo feels entirely lost. Though he’s tried so hard, he knows now that you’ve found him out. In his perfect world, he hoped that you took his lack of affection and general emotional standoffishness as a sort of defense mechanism. In essence, that’s what it was, but he never wanted you to find out any of the myriad of things he was defending himself from -- defending you from. Now, there’s no way in hell you could view it as anything else. He wants you. Badly. And now, you know.

He hoists himself up into a sitting position with difficulty, both hands finding their way to his hair. The panic is starting to give way to crushing defeat. He’s already running through ideas on how to cope with the loss of your presence in his life. After the imminent rejection he’s about to face, he’ll have to cut off contact with you for his own sanity, at least for a little while. Maybe he can contact Kana and see if there’s any way she can assign another pro-hero to your case. Just as he’s running through candidates to recommend, he hears your sandals crunching against the gravel.

“Hey!” you call out.

Keigo inhales deeply and raises his head.

“Oh, thank fuck,” you breathe as you approach him.

You stumble slightly as you finally reach him, hands reaching out. You crouch beside him and begin to inspect his form, picking pieces of the ground off of it.

“(Y/N)...” Keigo sighs.

You shift your focus from cleaning him up to his face. As soon as you see the look of despair on it, your own face drops.

“What? Kei, what’s wrong?”

Is it possible that you aren’t as thrown off by this interaction as he is? Did this even phase you at all?

“Um.. you were there five minutes ago too, right? You witnessed the shit that I just pulled?” he asks, softly.

“Yeah, you jumped out of a fucking window! Of course I witnessed that, you idiot!”

Of course you didn’t care about the fact that he almost acted on his innermost desires in the most animalistic way possible. As always, you just wanted him to be okay. He should have suspected as much.

But, after tonight, he’s not sure if he’s physically able to keep the act up much longer.

“I meant before that.”

Redness creeps across your cheeks as you nod in recognition.

“Yeah, uh, I did witness that,” you whisper.

“And,” Keigo gulps, “did that… uh… scare you? At all?”

You laugh nervously. A flighty and musical sound. Keigo’s heart drums faster.

“No. I wasn’t scared. I was…” you trail off.

You suddenly groan and throw your hands over your face.

“God, Kei, don’t make me say this,” you cry.

His mind races. What could possibly be worse than making you scared by that? He can’t immediately think of anything, but whatever it is must be awful. He definitely won’t be seeing you ever again after this, but he needs to know. He has to prevent this from happening ever again. Not that it ever will, because he doubts that he’ll ever let his guard down like this from now on.

“You’re gonna have to. I’m not following,” he mutters.

You whine, and retract your hands. Your eyes are glued to his chest, as if that’s as close as you can get them to his eyes at the moment.

“I -- it kind of… turned me on.”

Keigo feels as if someone dumped a gallon of cold water over his head. In fact, if someone managed to do that right now, he would probably be less shocked. He can feel his mouth drying out from the amount of time he’s spent with it hanging open.

“See! I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” you groan, shifting to raise yourself up.

Without thinking, he wraps his hand around your wrist again, pulling you towards him. You fall to your knees, face inches away from his own. He searches you one final time for any sign of regret, but all he finds is a desperate, pleading expression. He somehow finds it in him to speak.

“Can I?”

You nod softly and he does what he’s been wanting to do for months.

The first thing he notices when his lips finally meet yours is the taste of strawberry vodka. The second thing, hitting him immediately after, is an explosion in his chest. It’s a million sensations at once -- flowers blooming, fireworks popping, the sun rising. Keigo has done a lot of things in his short life, but not one of them has even come close to the pleasure of kissing you.

What was a tentative, slow pace quickly evolves into something needy, something frantic. His hands shift from the soft grip around your wrist to tangle themselves in your hair, pushing you closer to him. Even though you’re practically on top of him now, you’re not close enough, and he doesn’t think you ever will be. His tongue swipes against your lips, begging for entrance. You happily oblige, and he delves deep into you. As your teeth crash together, Keigo begins struggling for breath. He doesn’t want it, maybe he doesn’t even need it. Now, he feels as though you’re the only thing he needs to survive. Just as he accepts that as fact, you break away to rest your forehead on his. You’re panting, giggling softly between breaths. As he collects his thoughts, his mouth moves before any of the rest of him can.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he whispers.

“You should have done it sooner,” you retort, still out of breath.

He’s beginning to regain control of his body now, so he pulls away from you just far enough to plant a soft kiss against your nose. Even though he would love to continue to feel the most unique and gratifying thing he’s ever felt, he recognizes that now is not the time nor the place. But, if he has anything to say about it, there will be plenty more opportunities, scattered across the rest of time. He pauses as that thought, at how a simple kiss has fixed the position he’d been saving for you since the moment he laid eyes on you. You, his first friend, his last love. He finds your hand and squeezes it.

“It’s getting pretty late. You should probably get to bed,” he suggests.

“You could stay with me, if you wanted. I wouldn’t want you to get arrested for drunk flying,” you chuckle.

The smile that sprouts on Keigo’s face is strong enough to break his cheekbones. It’s a miracle that they stay intact.

“You’re absolutely right. Always looking out for me, aren’t you?”

He lifts himself up and pulls you with him. As the two of you walk back to your apartment, your pinky fingers are linked together. It’s a small, almost lazy connection, but neither of you seem to be able to entertain the thought of letting go.

His heart hammers in his chest at the sound of your voice echoing through his head. In favor of texting, Keigo has taken to sending you a feather every day so that you can speak to him directly. When he’s working, it’s not very often that he can respond, anyhow. That, and he selfishly just wants to hear you instead of stare at a screen. He didn’t tell you that part. You were quick to send him voice snippets as soon as you two adopted this mode of communication. Little encouragements, quick jokes, anecdotes, updates, reminders. He usually hears from you a couple of times a day. It drives him mad for just a second every time he hears your voice, so soft and inviting, in his brain. He considers stopping by your apartment to see you during his patrol, since it was clearly going to be an easy day. Maybe he’ll even bring you a present. A trinket. A snack. A diamond ring. Who knows? Certainly not him.

His phone chirps in his pocket. When he fishes it out, he sees that it’s an email from the HPSC executive handling your case. The title line reads: RE: Trick Shot

Keigo has been exchanging occasional emails with her since the meeting with her three days ago. He’d worked out a vague schedule with her, outlining training, fittings, interviews, and the like. The goal was to have you out on the streets at the end of March; three months from now. It’s a good thing that you just had your last day at the tattoo shop, because the two of you are going to be incredibly busy until then by the looks of it.

He taps on the notification and reads the message.

Hawks,

I apologize for the wait, but I was able to find Trick Shot’s case file. Everything you need is attached.

If you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to get in touch.

Thanks,

Kana Enomoto

True to her word, Keigo sees the file at the bottom: Trick_Shot.zip. The reason he asked for your case file is bi-fold: one, he knows that there will be information and footage that will be beneficial in training you, and two, he is desperately curious and impatient. The idea of analyzing your performance in battle has intrigued him since learning about your stint as a hero. This way, he doesn’t have to waste any extra time. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, favoring his computer for such a task. He jets back to his agency.

He lands on the balcony connected to his office with a thump and saunters through the glass doors. The space is much like his penthouse: lacking sentiment and personality. He doesn’t do this consciously. In fact, he doesn’t really notice. He just didn’t grow up like that.

He plops down in his plushy office chair and turns on his double monitors. He quickly punches in his password and pulls up his email. The message Kana sent is already in the process of being buried by other, less important ones, but he hones in.

In your file, much like any other hero file, there’s an assortment of interviews, news clips, assessments, and contracts. He immediately notices that your file is more well-stocked than many of the others he’s seen. There are so many files here that he almost feels overwhelmed. He knows that there’s probably a more efficient way of doing this, but he decides that the easiest way to start is to find items that interest him, either personally or professionally. If he thinks of anything he desperately needs to see, he can cue them up later.

As he begins to peruse the videos there, one catches his eye immediately: Trick_Shot_Perf_Eval_2016.mov.

A performance evaluation is something that hero agencies sometimes like to do when a hero demonstrates a significant change, good or bad. They usually set this up with the HPSC. After a 230 rank jump in 2016, Keigo isn’t surprised one bit to see that you were pulled for one. He clicks on the video, and it opens to you standing in an expansive outdoor arena. You look remarkably similar, but there are a few noticeable differences. You’re clearly younger. Your nose is slightly wider. Your cheekbones are a centimeter lower. Your chest isn’t as filled out.

He mentally slaps himself at that last thought. Focus, Keigo, he scolds himself.

“State your hero name, please.”

“Trick Shot.”

Your voice is more different here than any of the rest of you is. It’s higher pitched, by quite a lot.

“We’re going to commence the assessment now. Act as if this is a real scenario. Begin.”

Your stance immediately widens, and you visibly become more focused and alert. Your hands hover above your utility belt. Your eyes scan the room, deadly serious. The camera angle changes to a wider shot, encompassing the entire training arena. A foam projectile is hurled in your direction from your right. Your head jerks in its direction in half a second, right hand employing one of your throwing knives. You toss it with ease, though the force of your throw pins the projectile to the wall from whence it came, about 30 yards away. Impressive. You use this opportunity to crouch, both anticipating the height at which the projectiles are being thrown and the need to load your gun. You’re able to prepare your weapon without even looking at it, opting to instead continue to scan the room.

“I need help!”

Your head snaps in the direction of the sound and you spot a civilian. He’s feigning injury for the purpose of the scenario. It’s obviously some guy from the commission, because he’s a terrible actor. You sprint toward him, projectiles flying your direction. Instead of attacking them, you’re able to maneuver around them with ease. You duck, weave, even flip over every obstacle in your path. When you’re three quarters of the way to the civilian, a projectile is threatening to drop directly over him. You leap towards it, left leg extended. You swipe it to the side, causing it to land on the ground 10 yards away. You land in a controlled crouch, directly beside the civilian.

“Hi there, I’m Trick Shot. Are you injured?”

A projectile is thrown to your back. Without breaking eye contact with the civilian, you turn your body to aim your gun towards it, shooting directly through the center. The impact crumbles the foam.

“My leg hurts!”

You do a quick scan of his leg and begin to operate under the assumption that he’s unable to walk.

“Everything is gonna be just fine. I’m gonna help you get out of harm’s way. A medic will check you over as soon as possible. Sound good?”

You wait for a nod from the civilian and begin hoisting him over your shoulder. Smart, since he’s taller than you. Keigo worries that you’ll struggle to pick him up, but just like everything else in this task, you barely even break a sweat. You swiftly and safely carry the man to the right of the arena, gently placing him back down on the ground. An alarm sounds, signifying the end of the first portion of your exam.

“You’ve completed the rescue section. Reset for combat.”

You make your way back to your mark, shaking your limbs out in preparation. As you reach your mark, you remain totally neutral.

“The combat section is about to commence. Act as if this is a real scenario. Begin.”

Once again, you drop to an offensive stance. Hands hovering over your utility belt. Serious eyes scanning.

Keigo is aware that this section of the test is at the end for a reason. It’s the most difficult part, and it has the most opportunity to have points deducted. The quirk that is displayed by the ‘villain’ is randomized, so you have to be prepared for anything. He’s trying to maintain an analytic perspective of the video, but he can’t help but silently root for you.

Another commission officer emerges to your left, clad in bulletproof gear. You hear him enter and whirl towards him, weapon aimed with intent.

“Stand down. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you make me.”

The stern nature of your tone is foreign to Keigo. He’s never heard you sound this commanding, this threatening. He feels redness creep across his face, and the familiar, but unexpected tingling of arousal. While Keigo is emotionally invested in protecting you, he can’t lie that women who can kick his ass excite him in the worst way. It’s even more exciting when it’s you. He blinks hard, willing himself to focus for a few more minutes.

Your opponent wastes no time on chatter and immediately attacks. He digs a gloved hand into the turf and launches a large patch in your direction. You spring several feet in the air, knees bent and gun drawn. As you descend, the patch of earth is dangerously close to your feet. Instead of it clipping you, as Keigo was expecting, you use it to propel yourself toward the enemy. Before he can even react, you’ve arched over his head. As you prepare yourself to land behind him, you unload two tranquilizer darts into his back. The alarm sounds once again. The exam is completed.

Keigo quickly pauses the video before the results section to check the timestamp. The entire exam took you five and a half minutes to complete, give or take. This is the first time that he’s seen anyone complete an evaluation of this caliber in less than eight. He’s shocked. He’s in awe.

He’s even more turned on.

He can deal with that problem later.

He presses play on the video again, eager to see the breakdown of the results. The grassy arena cuts to a black screen, white text outlining your performance.

Overall grade: 98/100

Rescue Section: 48/50

Combat Section: 50/50

Recommended Action: Further supplementation to suit/gear. Pair with rescue hero.

Damn right. Keigo knew that you were an excellent hero. If it wasn’t evident by your impressive rise in ranks all those years ago, then it was clearly evident now. He double checked the year and did some mental math. He’s even more fascinated when he realizes that you were freshly nineteen at the time of this test. You were ruthless. You were focused. You were determined. Same as you are today.

He considers the advice that the commission gave at the end of the video. Diversifying your arsenal was easy. He’d been thinking of creative and useful tools to give you already. You weren’t necessarily bad at the rescue portion. He imagines that you were deducted points off for overall speed. You could also only really attend to one person at a time in a situation like that. He could give you extra tools to make this easier, like some sort of anti-gravity tech or something.

Or, you could just work with him.

It makes a lot of sense, outside of the host of personal reasons Keigo has for wanting to partner with you. He has an excellent track record with citizen recovery. The nature of his quirk allows him to rescue multiple people at once with great ease and dexterity. You two also have an established chemistry, which is beneficial in a hero partnership. You have grown to be able to read each other well, from vocal cues to body language. It’s so eerie that Keigo has actually considered that you two share a few brain cells. This union is almost perfect. He just has to overcome the mountainous hurdle that is his romantic feelings toward you. That, and he has to resolve his new task of infiltrating a powerful, destructive organization of evil-doers. No big deal.

“Kei, hope you’re successfully kicking villain ass today. By the way, the store only had vegan nuggets, so I went home empty-handed. Sorry ‘bout your luck.”

As your voice bounces off the walls of his skull, his heart bounces off the walls of his rib cage. A giddy smile eases across his face, so wide that his cheeks hurt. Knowing that you’re thinking about him and cheering him on has him reeling. He imagines you’re lazing on your couch, wearing your comfiest clothes, holding his ruby feather to your mesmerizing lips. Whispering into it, soft breaths puffing against the down.

Or maybe, since you’re alone, you’ve ditched your sweatpants. Sprawled across the couch in a big t-shirt and panties.

Or maybe, you’ve ditched clothes entirely, trusting in the safety of your enclosed apartment to rid yourself of that pesky cloth imprisonment.

Or maybe, you’re still just fucking horny, Keigo thinks to himself. He sighs and drops his head in his hands. As he rubs his eyes, he tries to imagine something else. Cartoons. Paperwork. Kombucha. Something.

He opens his eyes only to meet with the persistent bulge in his pants. He sighs. He reminds himself that he’ll likely have some time to himself tonight after he’s off.

This whole ‘getting over his feelings for you’ thing might be more challenging than he thought.

His phone chimes. He lifts his hips to retrieve it from his back pocket. Of course, it’s you. It must be something that requires a response, otherwise you’d use his feather.

yo dude the weirdest thing just happened!! i accidentally wandered into the liquor store otw home and somehow this really delicious looking strawberry vodka ended up in my hands. i had no choice kei, i had to buy it. you should probably maybe definitely come by tonight after patrol to have some with me

Of course, he probably, maybe, definitely will go. If there’s two things he loves in the world, it’s you and the occasional boozefest.

that’s so weird!! wouldn’t want to let it go bad. i guess i’ll come over and drink if ur gonna twist my arm

Keigo’s plans for ‘self care’ often end up being interrupted. Normally, he would be pissed at the intrusion. But it’s you. His dick can wait.

His phone chimes again.

vodka doesn’t go bad, birdbrain

You’re the only one who can get away with calling him that. Then again, you could probably call him anything and he’d answer to it.

His eyes flick up to the corner of his touchscreen to check the time: 5:55pm. He’ll be off in an hour. He’ll fly to his penthouse for a quick shower. Then, he’ll be able to spend the rest of the evening with you. He hums at the thought.

shhh >:( i’ll be there at like 7:30 or smth. lmk if you need anything before then :)

Keigo returns his attention to his computer screen after sending his reply. Now that he’s got something to look forward to other than shameless self-indulgence this evening, he seems to be more focused. After scanning the items present in your file once more, he’s drawn to one even more important than the clip he just watched.

Buried amongst the plethora of other things is your career summary, crafted and curated by the HPSC. It’s the most current document in the entire thing, having been edited mere days ago. He usually views this document first when going through any other case file, but the excitement of this being your case file caused it to escape his mind. Just as his mouse hovers over the link, his phone goes off again. It’s a call, which can only mean two things: his villainous new side-piece, or worse, an HPSC rep . He groans, swiping it off of its place on his desk. An unknown number flashes across the display, telling Keigo that it is, in fact, the aforementioned villainous side-piece. He takes a deep breath and answers.

“Yello.”

Keigo always kind of hates it when people answer the phone like that, and perhaps that’s why he does it now for the first time. Even though there’s nothing societally wrong with it, he wants to inject a little bit of asshole-ery into this conversation. Just for himself.

“Meeting at the usual spot tonight at 7. Don’t be late.”

His heart drops. This is worse than the whore-ish plans he had for himself tonight, before you extended the offer to drink with him. Far, far worse. He knows that this call to duty should rise above any other plans he might have for the rest of his day, but since those plans involve you, he can’t bring himself to ditch them. His synapses start firing at a million miles a minute as he speaks.

“No can do. I’ve got a press event after work today.”

“So, I see you’re still whipped for the adoring fans, hero boy.”

“You know what this is about. I have to keep up appearances in order for this to work.”

“If you actually cared about the cause, you wouldn’t even bother.”

“Baby, don’t be so clingy! We can have our little date tomorrow, I promise.”

Keigo has often used this sort of tactic to diffuse situations like this. There are a few reasons for this: it catches the recipient off guard, and it eases tensions, usually. Mainly, he needs to make himself laugh right now, to remain sane.

“I don’t need to keep you around, you know.”

“Oh, but you do,” he replies, all lightheartedness gone, “because I have connections that you never will. Information that you never will. I want to help you, and I will, believe me. But if this is ever going to work for either of us, you need to trust me. I can’t just stop going to press events or people will get suspicious. That’s the last thing we need.”

Static and the sound of shuffling fabric taint the pause that follows Keigo’s borderline threat. Every passing millisecond further convinces him that he’s fucked this up.

“If you don’t make it here by nightfall tomorrow, I’m done covering for your ass.”

With this, the line goes dead. Keigo lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as his phone drops into his lap. His now empty hands run through his mane, pulling ribbons of tawny hair with them. The realization that he (hopefully) successfully lied to a man who holds Keigo’s entire life in his hands hits him like a freight train. He is both incredibly proud of and entirely ashamed of his ability to do that.

“Dabi,” he mutters to himself, “what the fuck am I gonna do with you?”

No one has heard from Eren in four days. Of course, Armin knew something like this would happen soon after their meeting, but he was hoping it would just be him that was left out in the cold. Unfortunately for him, Jean, Mikasa, and Connie were also a part of that and, naturally, became concerned for their friend. Which leads him to this moment: the band members shifting in their seats and Armin suffocating under their gazes.

Jean breaks the silence: “You promised us an explanation, man.”

“I-I know, just.. give me a second”

Armin inhales deeply. He wishes he had a screen to protect him like last time.

He spends the next several minutes explaining the worst idea he’s ever had. It’s reflex, robotic, and emotionless. It’s how he survives the shame.

He glances in the rear view mirror periodically throughout. The disappointment on Mikasa and Connie’s faces is plain. Unignorable. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see every sigh Jean lets pass his lips, even if the sound doesn’t quite make it to his ears. Yes, this is remarkably worse for him than last time. Yes, he knows he deserves it.

“I can’t believe that you trust us that little, Armin,” Mikasa mutters.

“It’s not that, I—“

“But it is, man,” Connie interjects, “If you did, you’d let us help you.”

“That’s definitely why Eren’s so pissed,” Jean sighs.

“What I don’t get is why he’s so upset with us,” Mikasa mumbles.

Armin can tell that Eren’s vow of silence has bothered her most. Based on the angry red rings around her eyes, she’s worried. Perhaps for his life.

When they arrive, Eren’s apartment is dark. There are Amazon packages on the stoop. It’s clear that no one has been in or out for a while. Shuffling up the walkway, Armin’s heart beats ever faster, afraid of what lies behind the door. He has never faced a consequence so daunting before.

Jean knocks on the door three times in rapid succession. They wait, praying for some sign of life. Nothing happens.

Jean sighs and tries the doorknob. Surprisingly, it’s not locked. They tiptoe across the living room, wordless.

Eren’s bedroom looks as though a bomb went off inside of it. There are bits of paper, torn and crumpled, strewn across nearly every surface. Splintered drumsticks litter the floor, and so do the remains of Eren’s cell phone. It’s clear he demolished it, it’s possible it was with his own two hands. Everyone’s eyes scan the room, finally landing on Eren’s bed. He lays there, face down.

Mikasa’s breath shudders as she nudges Jean forward into the room.

He clears his throat.

“Eren? Hey bro, you alright?”

A pillow flies across the room, landing squarely on Jean’s chest.

“Get out,” Eren asserts, voice muffled by his mattress.

“Really? Armin told us everything, he said he’s sorry, so just—“

“Oh, yeah, Armin’s sorry! Everything is just fine now because Armin’s sorry.”

Eren, now sitting up in his bed, looks terrible. His hands, cut and bruised, toss his comforter to the floor. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead. Bloodshot eyes, wide with fury, scan the posse of people standing at his door. With every heave of his chest, the smell of alcohol wafts closer to their noses.

“Oh, fantastic, you’re here too,” he mutters in Armin’s direction.

“I am sorry, Eren, for the record,” Armin adds, shakily.

Eren rolls his eyes.

“I don’t believe you, and it’s way too late for you to be sorry.”

He regards everyone, his expression unchanging.

“I quit. Find a new drummer, and go home.”

“You don’t mean that,” Mikasa stammers, through freshly brewed tears.

“I do, I really do.”

“So you were just gonna ghost your best friends instead of telling us you didn’t wanna be in the band anymore? That’s mature,” Jean fumes.

“We thought you were dead!” Mikasa cries.

“If you guys were my best friends, then maybe you would have noticed I was miserable enough to kill myself a little sooner.”

“Are you serious? You think we didn’t notice?,” Mikasa takes a breath to steady herself, “We thought that making more music would fix that.”

Eren stares at her, so intensely that she starts to shrink underneath his gaze.

“Nothing would make me happier than never seeing any of you again. Fucking traitors.”

With that, he returns to laying face down on his bed. The band shares a look — dumbfounded and heartbroken. All of them know how impossible it is to change Eren’s mind. In tandem, they leave his apartment, lifeless and defeated.

He’s not so sure about everyone else, but Armin can practically see his future crumbling in real time. It was once so bright and clear, but now it is nothing but darkness. He knew he would lose something today. He knew his pride was long lost. His relationship with this band, their trust in him, and his standing in the industry, hangs in the balance. Losing Eren, however, is losing his life. It’s losing all of it.

“Armin.”

Mikasa interrupts his mental flogging. All he can do is look at her.

“Do you still have (y/n)’s number?” she asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“I think we should give her a call.”

She’s right. If there’s anyone left who would get through to him, it’s (y/n).

He immediately fishes his phone out of his pocket and begins to dial.

“Put it on speaker,” she adds, “I want to talk to her too.”