I'd Give Eraserhead

the bottles of water he dumped in your lap are now scattered by your feet. the couch creaks as you sit up to retrieve the closest one. the lid cracks and unscrews, and you down that sucker in less than two tries.

something twinkles at the corner of your eye.

your keys are on the balcony, right where he threw them.

fuck. that was decent of him.

you should really say thank you.

but not now. like, maybe in a few hours. when you feel like a human being again. honestly, you can't imagine looking anyone in the eye at the moment, much less the relative stranger who basically tucked you into bed.

the morning passes.

you chug water. you shower. you find some electrolyte powder packets at the back of your pantry, and you drink more water. your lunch is a box of half-stale cheese crackers and a can of coffee. you spend a good three hours huddled in bed rewatching comfort shows on your laptop and dozing.

by 5pm, you're hungry enough to drag yourself out of bed.

one glance in your fridge tells you you've got fuck all to cook with, so you decide on the shokudo two blocks up. the owner is a nice old lady who always brings you big portions and talks to you like a grandmother. you take an extra second to fix your hair and change into clean clothes; anything less, and you know she'll fret.

you head for the door, patting your pockets.

phone. wallet. keys--

no keys.

right.

your keys are on the balcony. where responsible adults keep their keys. obviously.

you grab the half-empty bottle of water from the coffee table on your way past, figuring you might as well water the plants while you're out there. the door opens with a breathy whoosh.

Musutafu is nice, at this time of day. late afternoon. early evening. things are still bustling on the streets, but not quite at full frenzy.

you step over your keys and make the plants your first priority. there's some brown leaves. some unadvantageous growth. you prune them haphazardly with your thumb and forefinger and drop the culled fronds over the side of the balcony.

the wind blows west, then east. with it comes a familiar smell.

"You're alive," remarks the man on the balcony to your right. tobacco crackles and burns as he inhales, and holds it.

you freeze like a raccoon that's just been caught rooting through the trash. you recover as smoothly as you can, but honestly, you've got no hope of this guy ever thinking you're cool, so what's the point in trying now?

"S' debatable. I'm upright, anyway."

he hums. "That's something."

"Yeah."

you dump the last of the water into the saggy monstera and toss the empty bottle back into your apartment through the open sliding door.

Aizawa says nothing, seemingly content to blow smoke through his nose and watch the city shuffle along far below his balcony.

you could go back inside right now. you could say nothing and spare yourself from yet another semi-bizarre interaction with your neighbor. Aizawa certainly doesn't seem like he expects or wants anything from you.

and yet...

your mouth acts before your brain does.

"Hey," you call over. his eyes slide in your direction. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry. Wanna grab food? Like, with me?"

you feel like a kid on the fucking playground. how the hell are you so out of practice at making friends? it's not like you never talk to people. you're not an antisocial person. just, something about this feels weirder than making a casual workplace buddy, which is the only type of friends you seem to have these days.

maybe this is what getting older is like, you think. you kind of hate it. making friends gets weirder, and eventually you just stop having any.

you wonder if Aizawa's got friends.

you wonder if he wants friends.

or-- when's the last time he went on a date? a good date, a bad date, doesn't matter.

better yet-- when's the last time you went on a date that didn't end in bitter fucking disappointment?

you think, is that what this is? am I asking him on a date?

Aizawa regards you in steady silence for a moment. this is the first time you've seen him properly, in full daylight. last night on the stairs, you'd been too blitzed to make heads or tails of his features. now, you can see him.

he's younger than you thought. he can't be older than 32, maybe 33, underneath the insomniac eye bags and the unkempt stubble on his cheeks. his face is clean, as is his hair. today, he wears it tied back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck.

maybe that's why he looks suddenly so much younger-- something about the fact that you can see the crook of his jaw and the delicate shape of his ears.

there's no telling what he sees when he looks at you. you're honestly not sure if you want to know.

only a few moments have passed since you made your ask. you can see him thinking about it, weighing his options.

he blows smoke, then says, "Depends. Are you buying?"

you just have to laugh. an hour ago, even a chuckle would have made your head throb. now, you're feeling a little better.

"Yeah. Fuck. Sure, why not. I'll buy." you finally stoop to grab your keys from the floor, rattling them in his direction in acknowledgement. you sort of owe him, anyway. a free dinner is a small price to pay for getting you home safely.

"Meet you downstairs?"

"Alright," he says.

he draws in another drag from his cigarette, seeming content to finish it at his own pace. which is fine. it'll give you time to brush your teeth again and triple-check that you remembered deodorant. it's too late for you to make a good first impression, but the least you can do is not embarrass yourself further.

and you can manage that, right? ...right?

𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏

less than ten minutes later, you and Aizawa are side by side, walking down the street towards the shokudo.

he hasn't asked where you're going for dinner, and you haven't told him. it probably doesn't matter to him either way; free food is free food.

"So," you say, because you've got to say something. "You get in any more fights lately?"

he exhales shortly, which you suppose is good enough for a laugh.

"A few," he answers.

"I'm guessing you won those, this time."

the cheekiness in your tone does not go unnoticed. he looks your way.

"Just saying, man," you go on. "You were looking pretty rough last time. Or was it a 'you shoulda seen the other guy' type deal?"

he hums. "If I'd lost that fight, I would have been dead. Do I look dead to you?"

"Well, maybe halfway." you point to your under eyes with two fingers.

"Brat," he huffs.

you walk in silence for a moment. there aren't too many people out walking; your neighborhood isn't known for being especially safe, and folks don't tend to stroll around for the fun of it.

you think about what he said.

"So... does that mean you killed someone?"

he looks at you.

"Just, you said that if you'd lost, you'd be dead, right? But you won. So does that mean you had to kill the other guy?"

"I never said that."

"So what happened to him?"

it's insane how casually you're able to talk about this.

maybe it's because, from where you're standing, it all feels like make-believe. you've never been in a fight. your life has never been in serious danger whatsoever.

hell, the most confrontation you see on a day-to-day basis is when you yell at Aizawa to snuff out his cigarettes in the middle of the night.

and maybe it's because, despite the faintest purple hint of a bruise still healing on his jaw, it's hard for you to imagine someone so blasé fighting so earnestly for his life. it just doesn't seem possible.

"He's dealt with," is all Aizawa will say. "He won't hurt anyone else again."

𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏

the restaurant is just as empty as the streets. a pair of tourists sit at the Western style tables near the front. they pour over a Japanese phrase book while they eat beef udon. it smells delicious.

Aizawa leads you directly to the back, where he sits cross-legged on the tatami behind a long, low table. he chooses the seat facing the door, you notice, and you wonder if it's a tactical cool guy decision, or if he's just a paranoid bastard. eh, could be both.

the granny who owns the place sends her daughter over to take your orders. you go first, ordering hot udon and a small plate of chicken tempura. then, on an afterthought, an ale. Aizawa quirks his brow your way, skeptical of your beverage choice. you shrug and say, "Hair of the dog."

that, and. well. you're more nervous than you thought you'd be, sitting here with him.

Aizawa places his order after yours-- sans alcohol. the daughter nods expectantly as she jots everything down. he must come here a lot, you realize.

then, you're alone together.

fuck.

you didn't think this far ahead.

what are you actually supposed to talk about?

dammit. for the amount of dates you go on, you should be better at this.

then, Aizawa surprises you by speaking first:

"Why were you drinking so much the other night?"

again, you've got to laugh. it comes out high and strained.

"Jesus, man." groaning, you sag against the table and rub a hand across your face. "You couldn't start with a softball question?"

"Like?"

"I don't know. Like what do you do for work? Or does your family live nearby? Shit like that."

he offers another noncomittal hum. "Do you want to talk about those things?"

"Not really."

"Then--" he gestures with his crooked fingers, indicating the center of the table and the question he's laid before you.

you drink deeply from your beer, stalling. Aizawa watches you without blinking. his eyes are red, irritated.

serves him right. maybe if he didn't stare so much, his eyes wouldn't itch.

weird-ass man.

you set down your glass with a muted thunk. the foam sloshes mildly against the side.

"I went on a shitty date," you finally declare.

"Oh?" he doesn't look surprised.

"Yeah. It was bad. Well-- it wasn't the worst date I've ever been on, but it was ugly. Sobriety was not an option."

"So why didn't you just leave?" suddenly, his eyes flash, then narrow. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

your mouth drops open. "What--? No, dude. No. Nothing like that." you wave your hands. laugh awkwardly. "I've got pretty bad taste, but not that bad."

Aizawa looks at you skeptically again.

"I'm serious. I didn't tough it out because I was scared, or anything. I--" face warming, you grab for your beer. Aizawa waits for you to continue. "I guess I stayed cause I kept hoping it'd get better, you know? Like maybe he was just nervous, and that was why he kept saying all the wrong shit and acting like an asshole."

he hums. "You're an optimist."

"You mean an idiot. I know."

"I wouldn't go quite that far."

"You're only saying that cause I'm buying dinner."

his mouth twitches. "Well." he shrugs.

the food arrives, which gives you both an excuse not to talk for a few minutes. you offer him one of your tempura, and he shares his edamame. when you finish your beer and order a second, he concedes, and orders one for himself, too.

the bill might wind up being more than your weekly budget can handle, but that's fine. it's worth it, even. you haven't shared a pleasant meal with anyone in a while.

you catch yourself sneaking glances at him while you eat. he moves with purpose, taking each bite at his own pace. he's self-possessed in a way you find refreshing, if not a little intimidating.

some guys you go out with, they stress about filling the gaps in conversation, to the point that neither of you actually get to enjoy your food while it's still hot.

sometimes, you stress about the same thing. you babble and yap, running full-tilt through questions and topics, like you're somehow failing if you don't learn everything about your date in one sitting.

this time, though. you don't feel that pressure. you guys can just... share space.

it's... huh. it's something.

again, Aizawa is the one to break the silence. another surprise. he speaks while looking down into his bowl, chasing tofu cubes with the edge of his spoon. you're briefly distracted by how pretty his fingers look, holding it so carefully. you don't even mind the bends.

"I'm sorry that my smoking wakes you up at night," he says.

"You are?"

you must sound as surprised as you feel, because Aizawa manages a laugh. however dry and breathy it is, it's still a laugh.

"Contrary to how I might present myself, I'm not a complete asshole." his eyes find you as he brings the spoon to his lips. he drinks, and you watch him. the back of your neck feels tingly and hot.

still, despite the apology, he doesn't vow to cut down on his midnight smoke breaks. even if he did promise, you wouldn't believe him.

"Smoking is a bad habit, you know."

"So is excessive alcohol consumption." he tips his head towards your beer glass, which is almost empty. his own --still only his first round-- remains roughly half full.

"Got me there."

as if in defiance, or maybe like you're hiding the evidence, you knock back your last swallow of ale, then set the glass aside. you're done, after that one. your nerves have settled down, and besides, you're not looking to repeat today's hangover.

"Will you tell me where you go at night?" you ask, before you can think better of it.

he sets his spoon into the bowl, which is empty now but for a quarter-inch of broth at the bottom. his body stretches, leaning back with his palms pressed flat on the tatami. he supports his weight with his arms, his shoulders relaxed. it's a casual pose, and totally incongruous with the intense focus of his gaze.

"Why are you so curious?"

you shrug. "My life is pretty boring. Guess I'm wondering how the other half lives."

"I thought we decided that I'm a villain."

"No, I asked if you were, and you dodged the question."

he stares at you. you stare at him.

eyes narrowed, you plant your hands on your knees like a sumo and lean in. holding your ground.

there it is again. at the corner of his mouth. one of those smiles that's not really a smile.

Mona Lisa motherfucker.

"I'm not a villain," he concedes.

"But you do have a quirk," you assume.

"Don't you?"

"Well, yeah. I do. But it's nothing useful. Like, I could never be a hero with it, or anything."

he doesn't ask what your quirk is, which is yet another surprise. most people would.

instead, he says: "Do you want to be a hero?"

"Huh? Why do you ask?"

he brings his left shoulder up to his ear. a strand of dark hair slips from the knot at the back of his neck and drifts across his face. he leaves it there.

"Most people want to be heroes," he says. "It's a common fantasy."

with a hum, you rest your elbow on the table and put your chin in your palm.

"Nah, I've never really wanted to be one. Sounds like a lot of pressure, you know? Having to care about everyone all the time. I mean, I do care about people, but... sometimes I just don't. Which is kind of awful, I guess."

he hums. neither a confirmation or a denial. you go on.

"And if you're a hero, then like, what happens if one day you just stop caring-- what does that make you? A villain? An asshole?"

"Maybe just a bad hero."

"Exactly. Which is why, yeah. I've never wanted to be a hero. Not even when I was a kid."

he chuckles, then reaches for his beer. "You thought about it that deeply when you were a kid?"

"Oh, fuck no," you laugh. "As a kid, I was just a chicken. Plain and simple. I'd flat-out cry on the spot if anyone yelled at me. No way I wanted to go up against bad guys. Too scary."

"And now, look at you." he gestures your way from top to bottom. "You date assholes for fun." he hums. "How far you've come."

"Get fucked." you laugh, and he laughs with you.

𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏

in the end, Aizawa picks up the tab.

you're actually not sure how he manages it. one second, you're rooting through your wallet for your cash. the next, he's slipping the owner's daughter a credit card as though he's just pulled it from thin air. close-up magic, yet again. his finger dexterity is... impressive.

wait-- no. don't think about that. you've already spent too much of the evening thinking about this man's hands.

his card is made of sleek black plastic, and it looks heavy.

you blink.

"Make a lot of money being a villain, do you?" you say.

he rolls his eyes but says nothing.

the air is sticky and humid when you emerge, full of food and ready to fall into your couch for a lazy evening. the sun has dipped out of sight, leaving only the faintest blush of orange in the sky.

damn. you were in the restaurant for longer than you thought.

without awkwardness, you trek back up the street together. Aizawa walks closer beside you, this time, almost to the point of touching you.

at first, you think it's his attempt at romance, like maybe he wants to hold your hand. but then you see his eyes; the way they shift around the street, moving from face to face as people pass you by. he's alert. bracing for threats.

you nudge him with your elbow. after a moment, he drags his dark eyes down to you.

"You going out tonight?" you ask. "Y'know, out?"

you make a looping gesture with your hand, vaguely drawing the shape of his weird, ropey scarf around your shoulders. he's not wearing it now, and his neck looks longer without it. you can see the tendon flex as he clenches his jaw.

"Yes," he answers. "After I walk you home." you feel oddly disappointed.

recovering quickly, you crack a smile and tease him. "Does it count as walking me home if you live there too?"

"Oh, shut up."

he pushes your shoulder in a surprisingly playful gesture. you trip over your feet with a loud laugh.

he's right there to catch you by the elbow before you fall.

𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏𓏏

"Well... good night, I guess."

you're standing in your doorway, and he's in his. parting ways.

the night is over for you, but his is, apparently, just getting started. you find yourself wanting to drag this out as much as possible, not ready to say goodbye.

"I had fun tonight," you add, which is such a lame fucking line, you grimace at yourself. "I mean-- It was nice. Getting to, you know. Actually talk, for once. To you. With no blood or puke involved. Hah."

Jesus fucking Christ. this is why you never get laid.

Aizawa, by some miracle, looks amused.

"It was... not the worst way to spend an evening."

"Wow. Be still my heart," you deadpan.

he huffs. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I guess."

that should be it. the night should be over. you should say goodnight and let him leave. quit while you're ahead.

instead, your feet don't get the memo. before you can stop yourself, you're moving towards him.

it's only a few paces between his door and your own, and then you're in his space, close enough to make out the lint on his shirt and the horizontal scar below his right eye.

the scar looks deep. jagged. it looks like it hurt. you wonder if a doctor patched him up, then, or if he'd got himself through that on his own, too.

he sucks in a shallow breath as you draw near and stands a little taller, his spine pressing against the doorframe. he says your name in that low, rough rumble of his, and fuck-- no one has ever made it sound the way that he can.

your eyes meet.

high on his cheeks is a faint spray of pink. he presses his lips together. swallows. his keys jangle in his fist; he's squeezing them tight.

and then, you're kissing him.

or he's kissing you.

hard to say who closes the distance, in the end.

from the very first touch, you want more. so much more.

you want him to hold your face in one of those big pretty hands.

you want to press against his chest, want to find out for yourself if he's really as skinny as those oversized clothes make him out to be.

you want to feel his hair pass through your fingers and you want to pull on it, just a little.

you wonder, would he moan, if I did?

your body burns. aches. craves. you think you might be going crazy. you fear you might actually start to beg.

but Aizawa doesn't touch you. not with his hands, or his body, or his hips. he doesn't moan. he barely even opens his mouth.

it's still somehow the best kiss you've had in ages.

his lips are dry against yours. a little thin, a little chapped. he tastes like beer and bone broth, and when he sucks your bottom lip against his teeth, it's you who can't hold back a sound.

why are you so fucking weird, you think at yourself.

just as you're summoning the courage to press a hand against his chest, he's pulling away.

your fingers barely manage to brush the cotton front of his shirt before he's out of reach.

he looks composed. unaffected. as though you've just shared something banal, like a handshake. a half-hug. a fucking high-five. nothing worth getting flustered over.

for a moment, you're not just disappointed. you're crushed.

fuck. are you really this desperate?

then, you look up into his eyes. they're brown black. lidded. maybe he's more affected than he lets on. at least a little.

it's a small comfort. like, microscopic.

you already know what he's going to say.

"I have to go now," he mutters.

of course. fuck. what were you expecting?

you nod once, a jerky movement, and force yourself to back away. once you're out of his orbit, it becomes marginally easier to breathe, but it creates space for humiliation to come flooding in to fill the gap.

"Yeah. Right. Your, uh. Super secret" --you wave a hand, stammering-- "whatever the fuck you do. Cool, no. I get it."

he says your name. it doesn't sound as good as it did before.

you have got to get out of here.

you retreat to your door, which hangs open. the sanctuary of your crappy apartment beckons; a safe haven, where you can crash out in peace. you turn your back while you jimmy your key free from the lock.

"I'll see you around, alright?" you say over your shoulder. still talking. always talking. you should learn to shut up. "Tonight was-- Yeah. Uh-huh."

before you can make a full retreat, he catches you by the arm.

he doesn't squeeze. doesn't shackle. but the hold is firm; you won't escape until you've heard him.

"Hey. Look at me."

you look.

his face is serious. the flush in his cheeks is still there, clinging to the surface of his skin.

"I'm telling you I had a nice time tonight. I had fun, even. Which isn't something I do very often." he cracks a faint, self-deprecating smile.

"Then... stay?"

fuck. you hate how pathetic you sound.

his gaze softens around the edges. regret, you realize. he's got real regret in his eyes.

"I have to go," he says again, as much for himself as for you. "I would stay if I could, but it's--" he sighs shortly. "It's out of my hands. But I would like to see you again."

he looks as surprised to say it as you are to hear it. your heart swoops.

"Alright," you answer quickly. maybe too quickly.

he searches your face for any doubt. "Alright?"

"Yeah-- I mean, I'd like that. A lot. Seeing you again. Another time."

"Another time," he confirms.

then, again, you think: that's the end of it. a better ending than you could have hoped for, really. you hit a snag there in the middle, but maybe you don't need to feel so hopeless after all. you can leave things here for now and feel content.

but then, this man. this asshole. this complete bastard--

he pulls you in one last time, and presses his lips to yours.

it's as short and sweet as the first one had been, but this time. this time. you feel him smirk against your mouth.

"You should know..." he murmurs. "I don't start things I don't intend to finish."

the low pitch of his voice slips under your skull and tickles your damn brain.

and that's how he leaves you: your back pressed to the doorframe and your belly full of heat.

he flashes you a brief, black-eyed smirk before he disappears into his apartment and shuts the door behind him.

less than a minute later, you're flopping face-first into your messy bed.

you lay there for a minute, feeling your breath heat up the sheets. your skin is still tingling all over. flustered. that's what you are. completely and totally flustered.

you lay there, and you wonder--

exactly what does he mean by 'finish?'

-> part one <- | -> part two <- | -> part four <-

your date tonight was a bore, and kind of an asshole. which, you can't be both, dude. pick a lane.

it was two straight hours of red flags and sub-zero chemistry, and at the end --at the end-- this complete douche whistle had the nerve to ask when he could see you again. the fuck.

and yeah, maybe you should have stopped after one cocktail. you definitely should have stopped after two. and the third one? well, listen. you've never claimed to be, like, the most responsible person out there, even at your grown age.

you're nose-deep in your phone as you make your way up the stairs, already set on blocking your shitty date from your socials. normally, you're not the ghost em type (you like to think you're more mature than that) but there's only so much unfunny negging a person can take before they go full scorched earth.

the guy was rude to the wait staff. he was condescending to you. literally the only thing he did correctly all evening was pick up the tab. so, he's getting shit-canned.

be gone, dick fish.

you tap BLOCK with the pad of your thumb and think, yeah. all is right with the world.

then, your toe catches on the fourth stair from the top.

the next thing you know, you're falling forward-- and fast.

it's karma, you think, that you're about to break your damn nose right after using some moron for a free meal and a triple-decker of fancy cocktails.

but before your face can make contact with the edge of the step, someone catches you by the shoulders.

the voice you hear isn't immediately familiar, but other parts of him are.

a weird, ropey scarf. dark jumpsuit. long, thick hair that looks softer than it should, considering how tangled it is. the hand on your left shoulder has a first and middle finger that's bent slightly out of shape, like they've been broken and put back together ad nauseum.

the voice says your name first. and then--

"You shouldn't text while you're walking."

your head lifts. your eyes follow a moment later. it takes your brain a moment to get past the loading screen.

fuck. maybe you're drunker than you thought.

recognition dawns.

"Weirdo!" you crow, like it's an identification. his genus. maybe his species. who the fuck knows. either way, it's the first thing that comes to mind, therefore it's the first thing out of your mouth.

his brow twitches, but not his mouth.

oh, fuck. that wasn't it. nobody is named Weirdo.

he told you his name that one time, weeks ago, on the balcony. his hand was warm when you shook it. he smelled like cigarettes. actually, hell, he smells like cigarettes right now, like maybe he smoked a quick one before heading out to... wherever weird-ass dudes like him go in the middle of the night, dressed like that.

three syllables pop into your mouth all at once.

"Aizawa. Hey, man."

you smile as you say his name. you're pleased with yourself for remembering. even giddy. hell yeah. you're crushing it right now. dignity restored.

Aizawa doesn't look so convinced. his hands withdraw from your shoulders, leaving you to pitch to one side and catch your weight against the handrail, which is what you should have been doing from the beginning.

your stomach rolls.

"Fuck..." you mutter. "Okay. Fuck."

making nice with your neighbor is suddenly the last thing on your mind. you're going to puke. like, soon. if you don't make it to your apartment quick, then this whole shitty night is about to get so much worse.

with newfound conviction, you shoulder past Aizawa and continue up the stairs. you don't care if it's rude. or weird. or if you're making it really fucking obvious that you're really fucking drunk. you just need to be upstairs, behind several closed doors, with your head aimed down at some porcelain. as in, post fucking haste.

you don't know what'll come after that, but that's fine.

you've just gotta survive the next five minutes. maybe ten.

you make it to the top of the landing.

success. checkpoint.

there are two doors at the top. one says 501. the other says 502.

fuck. it's, uh--

"Go left," a bored voice calls up the stairs.

there's no fuckin way you can turn around and glare at him, as much as you want to. your wiggly bones and queasy stomach can't handle a stunt like that right now. you can barely even fish your keys out of your--

oh. "Fuuuuck."

the keys slip from your clumsy fingers and appear to take at least an hour to clatter against the floor. watching them go, your stance shifts-- or the planet does? by some miracle, you catch your weight before you can pitch yourself off balance.

you've got to pick the keys up. keys aren't supposed to be on the floor, especially not a dirty floor like this one. shit. you've really got to find a better place to live. first, though, you've got to pick your keys up.

actually, maybe you'll take a quick nap on the landing first... yeah, that sounds good. amazing, actually. you're doing amazing.

the crooked hand finds your shoulder again.

the heavy sigh that follows is sounding more familiar all the time.

"Just-- Let me."

you watch for at least forty-five minutes as your neighbor bends at the waist and palms your keys with a quick flick and catch of his long, pale fingers. it's almost like watching close-up magic. if you weren't so nauseous, you'd applaud.

the magic show continues as, in the next second, you're suddenly stepping through into your apartment. it's dark inside, and there's clothes on the floor, and a scattered array of shoes crowding the genkan; you couldn't decide what to wear.

then, after a blink, you're in your bathroom. it's not dark in there, no. the lights are harsh. your eyes hurt. your throat hurts worse; actually, it burns.

fuck.

when the bitter wave subsides, you flush the toilet and sit back on your ass. you actually feel a little better. huh.

well, no. you feel like shit.

but at least you can focus-- sort of.

the bathroom door is shut, and you're alone. good. that's-- that's good.

you splash some water on your face, then rinse your mouth out with the wintergreen bottle in the medicine cabinet. it burns, too, but in a better way. slightly. you spit it out in the sink, which makes your stomach roll again.

you look at yourself in the mirror.

fuck. not such a pretty sight. you'd felt good when you left, just a few hours ago. you felt cute, and fun. downright charming. exactly the kind of person that anyone would be lucky to date.

now? fuck.

you clap the light off before you can look for too long. then, you exit the bathroom.

you're shocked to find a whole-ass man in your kitchen.

he says your name first. then--

"Drink this."

there's a bottle of water in his hand. he must have pulled it from the fridge.

"The fuck are you doing?" you grunt. your voice hurts on the way up.

"Helping."

"Why?"

"Call it returning the favor."

"Fucking kill me." you grab the bottle from his hand. the plastic is cold.

"I'll leave that as a contingency plan," he says dryly.

you down more than half of the bottle in one go, which makes your empty stomach feel overfull, and does little to chase out the jello-like consistency of your bones. you drink a little more, then go into the living room (it's all one room, really) and collapse onto the couch.

it takes you until that moment to understand what he means by return the favor.

right. from before. he showed up bloody on your doorstep. then you shook hands on the balcony. this is literally only the second time you've spoken to this man, and now he's in your kitchen. he probably heard you puke.

you frown at him in the semi-dark. the only light is the weak yellow bulb above your stove, and whatever errant lumens that manage to sneak inside from the bustling city beyond your balcony doors. it's not enough light to see his face by, but you can tell he's looking your way. watching you.

"I never helped you," you say. "You don't owe me anything."

he hums in acknowledgement, low in the back of his throat. weird how such a skinny guy can produce such a low sound.

"I guess. But you said you regretted not stepping in, last time."

you huff a laugh, which is apparently way too much for your gin-soaked body to handle, because your head swims. groaning, you clamp a hand over your eyes and squeeze.

"Great. Awesome. So I'm a cautionary tale."

"In more ways than one." you can't see the smirk on his face, but you can hear it. asshole.

oh, so now this guy's got jokes, huh?

you wave your arm and the empty water bottle goes flying from your hand in the vague direction of the kitchen. you imagine it pinging off the scruffy guy's smug, unconventionally attractive face, but you're pretty sure it winds up two feet to the right and several feet too high, lost forever on top of your kitchen cabinets.

Aizawa barely responds to your pathetic retaliation. you recall the bruises on his face from last time. the bloody knuckles. he's gone up against way scarier opponents than you: his fall-down drunk neighbor with a loud mouth and shitty taste in men.

"You should get some sleep." his deep voice carries over the sound of your fridge door wheezing open. in his hands are two more bottles of water, which he plops unceremoniously in your lap. you grunt.

"Not gonna tuck me in?"

"No."

"Bedtime story?"

he sighs, long and heavy, like a Pavlovian response.

"I'm leaving," he announces.

and then he does.

the door swings shut behind him, clicking into frame. there's a rattle-- the door, locking from the outside.

you think, he's still got my keys. but your bones are too heavy to get up and do something about it. oh well... at least he locked the door...

your thoughts slip and sway like windshield wipers, brushing one notion aside to make room for the next, with no time to condense.

your thoughts are awash with dark eyes and darker hair. you wish he'd stayed longer. you wish he hadn't bothered at all. you wonder if Aizawa would be rude to waitstaff. if he'd pick up the tab.

doesn't matter.

the bottles of water roll off your lap. one, then the other.

thump. thump.

you'll sleep here on the couch, you decide. what's it matter anyway? you'll wake up alone out here, same as you would in your own bed.

thump--

rattle.

right on the edge of sleep, a sudden sound yanks you back. you hoist your heavy eyes open and turn your head, blearily, towards the source of the sound-- the balcony.

there, on the concrete. amidst dead plants and an unused wicker chair.

your keys.

returned, across the five-story gap.

Weirdo, you think, and let your eyes fall shut.

->part three<-

your weird-ass neighbor. dammit.

he's swaying on his feet and muttering, trying to turn his key in the wrong lock, and you realize this guy must be drunk or something. your units are right next to each other, so maybe he's just turned around?

you don't even know this guy's name, what the fuck. it's too late for this shit.

still, you don't want to listen to him rattling the door all night, and you're a little worried he'll pass out or something, so you figure you might as well intervene. then he can go pass out in his own apartment, and you can get some goddamn sleep.

you finally open the door. all you mean to do is steer him 90° left towards his own front door, and that's it, end of interaction.

but then you see it-- blood.

he's got one hand --you see bloody knuckles, and long, pale fingers that are bent in odd places, as if they've been broken and reset several times in the past-- pressed to his opposite shoulder, staunching a wound that's been slashed through the thick material of his jumpsuit. his hair, long and dark, is a mess around his face, matted to his forehead with sweat. his face is scuffed. eyes glassy with pain and spidery red. he's wearing a weird scarf that you've never seen before, and you spot slotted yellow goggles pushed up above his temple.

overall? your weirdo neighbor looks like he just went ten rounds with a heavyweight fighter.

he looks like battered shit.

you think, hero? no way. pro-heroes don't live in shithole apartments with weak water pressure and cracks in the walls.

then you think, villain? and you're not sure. could be. this guy could be anybody. with flashing-white clarity, you realize you don't know a damn thing about this guy, and it's late, and he's hurt, clearly a fighter-- and you've literally just opened the door for him.

you think, did I just fuck up?

and then he stops. braces himself. lifts his eyes. he looks so fucking tired, so thoroughly wrung out. he searches your face for a moment. you watch as he puts the composite pieces of your visage together like a jigsaw puzzle, fighting through pain and exhaustion in order to make sense of the scenario before him.

you see him realize, oh. I fucked up.

it doesn't appear to be an earth-shattering realization for him. judging by his battered appearance, this isn't the first time he's fucked up tonight.

he mutters, "Sumimasen," as if you're a stranger he's just bumped into on the train.

then he turns 90°, all on his own, and shuffles to the adjacent door.

you stand there in your open doorway, middle of the night, wearing only your pajamas, and you wonder, should I help him?

a good person would offer to help.

but it's the middle of the night. and he's a stranger. and maybe he's not a villain (or maybe he is) but normal people definitely do not walk around wearing weird goggles all covered in blood.

his door opens. it closes again. the weird man is gone before you can decide what to do.

you sleep. you wake. life goes on.

you don't see your weird neighbor again for four days. in the meantime, you go to work. you drink with friends. you go out on a blind date that ends in the worst, most awkward kiss of your life down on the front stoop of your apartment building. a normal week.

the next time you see your neighbor, it's late again.

middle of the night, just like before. you're woken by the tang of cigarette smoke, wafting in through your bedroom window. you sniff the air and roll over into your pillow with a grimace.

the usual complaint wells up in your chest -- "Put that shit out!" you know that if you shout, he'll hear you. he'll snuff the cigarette, maybe chuckle, and that will be that; yet another scheduled occurrence in your day-to-day life.

instead, you find yourself climbing out of bed.

there's a sweater draped over your desk chair. you pull it on. your slippers are by the bed, but you forgo them; you haven't swept your balcony in a while, and you don't want to track anything inside on your shoes. you'll go barefoot.

even as you're sliding open the door, you have no idea what you mean to do. maybe you feel guilty.

okay, you feel guilty.

that's 100% it.

an injured man --your neighbor-- showed up on your doorstep covered in blood, and you didn't take a single action to help him. you're not a busybody, but you like to think you're a decent human being. you should have at least knocked on his door the next day, to make sure he was alive.

well, he's definitely alive. you see that now.

the man looks over as you step outside. your balconies are concrete-walled and narrow, separated by roughly a foot of empty space between one wall and the next. your balcony is lined with houseplants, and a small wicker chair that you dragged outside, thinking you'd sit on it all the time to read books after work, but it's dusty. your plants need watering. you can't remember the last time you came out here.

the man's balcony is empty, save for a tin ashtray balanced on the concrete ledge. at least he's considerate enough not to flick his butts over the side.

he looks up, cigarette held to his lips. the bottom half of his face is hidden behind one large pale hand, and your eyes meet. he's lit from the side by the dim glow inside his apartment, which allows you to see the remnants of bruises healing on his cheek and on the sharp angle of his jaw. from this distance, it's hard to see his eyes, but he looks tired.

you say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Your cigarettes smell like shit."

his response comes as a smooth exhale of smoke, blown between his lips and even through his nose. his brow twitches upwards. was that a challenge?

you huff a laugh and fold your arms around yourself, coming further out onto the balcony where you lean against the ledge, peering at him in the dark. he takes a subtle step backwards.

weirdo.

"Did you go to a doctor?" you ask. you don't know why you ask. you don't even know what you're doing out here. this is not your problem.

again, the man's brow twitches. this time, they furrow inwards, then tilt up at the edges. he isn't sure what you're asking.

you roll your eyes.

"Dude, you showed up at my door the other night at ass o'clock looking like hamburger. I'm asking if you saw a doctor."

he takes another drag, and it's slow. one thing about this guy: he's not afraid of eye contact. he stares at you through the darkness, without blinking. even the flow of grey smoke from his mouth doesn't make his eyelids so much as flutter.

so fucking weird.

then he says:

"No. I'm fine."

"As in... you didn't see a doctor, but you're fine?"

"That's what I said."

his voice is deeper than you expected, given his willowy frame and thin face. he speaks in a flat tone, almost bored. no, weary. this man needs a nap. and maybe a puppy to cuddle. actually, he seems like more of a cat person.

"So, what, you sewed up your own arm?" your eyes dart to his shoulder, the one you'd seen covered in blood. it's dry now, and concealed by the long sleeves of an oversized black shirt. you assume there's bandages, hidden under there.

"Yes."

"...ouch. Must have hurt."

"A little."

a laugh works its way out of you, huffing past your lips. you scrub a hand against your face. he's just so damn blasé.

you say what's on your mind.

"Man. You are weird."

you think you see amusement flash across his face, but it's dark, and he's hidden by his hand again, puffing the last few centimeters of his cigarette.

"A little," he says again, breathing smoke.

a brief pause, then--

"Are you a villain?" another of your inside thoughts pushes its way out.

at this, he chokes a little on the cigarette. his gaze sharpens in your direction.

"Do I look like one?"

"I mean-- you kinda act like one," you say, ignoring the way your stomach flutters under the full force of his attention. "You show up at weird hours. You never talk to anyone. And the other night was definitely not the first time I've seen you limp your ass back home."

"So I must be a villain," he answers. a flat, rhetorical question.

"Oh, and you brood on your balcony like three nights a week. Dead giveaway of villainy."

belatedly, he seems to realize that you're only giving him a hard time. his broad shoulders come together, head turning as he draws the last wisp of nicotine from his cigarette. he drops the spent filter into the tin resting on the ledge. it's a novelty breath mint tin, you realize. the lid, when he flips it closed, is stamped with All Might’s face.

your weird-ass neighbor turn to look at you again.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" he says.

"Oh, I'd love to," you reply. "But some jerk keeps blowing smoke up my ass."

"You could have yelled through the wall like you usually do."

for a moment, you falter. he's got you there. what the hell am i doing out here? your eyes drop, arms wrapping tighter around your frame.

once again, you speak your mind.

"I... wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess. I felt... bad, the other night. About not helping you."

his expression shutters. he's uncomfortable with your pity. "You don't owe me anything just because we're neighbors."

"True," you concede. "Which is the only reason I was able to sleep that night. But... the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me, and... I dunno."

"But I could be a villain. You said so yourself. Why help me then?"

there's the soft sound of bare feet on concrete as he pads over to the end of the balcony, closer to you, like he's trying to get a clearer view. the light passes across his face, skimming over crests and planes that you hadn't noticed before.

he's handsome, you realize.

you try not to let it affect your answer.

"I can't go around assuming every person I meet is a villain." you shrug. "That's... not a good way to live."

"Easier though."

"Yeah, and lonely as fuck." you laugh.

"True."

you meet his eye again. as you do, you crack a smile.

you tell him your name, even though he didn't ask.

he hums, then offers his own.

"Aizawa."

you give him your hand, reaching out across the open divide between your balcony and his own. drop anything down there, and it would fall five stories.

his palm is rough, and broad, and warm to the touch.

he squeezes once, then lets go. never blinking.

as you withdraw, you laugh again. am I his weird neighbor? you wonder.

"Please don't actually be a villain, though," you amend, taking a step back towards the sliding door into your apartment. "Like, if you're looking for career advice, it's probably not the way to go."

"Right." you hear a familiar sound: a rough chuckle with just the slightest depth. up close, it sounds warmer than you expected.

"Right," you parrot.

and then, there's... really nothing to do but to leave. you've said your piece, and it's late, and your neighbor is still weird as hell, but at least now he has a name.

you pause in the doorway, looking back.

"Night, Aizawa."

"Good night."

the last glimpse you have of him is a pale figure dressed in black, lit halfway by a distant yellow lamp. his face is set, and tired, and bruised, but there-- at the corners of his mouth, you think,

huh. what a nice smile.

->part two<-