"This just in, the nameless villain that had recently surfaced is attacking this very moment! We now cut to live footage of the attack!"

Hysteric laughter could be heard as the camera man struggled to focus on the villain causing chaos and bloodshed. Buildings were breaking down sending debris in every direction, some nearly hitting the camera. "That's correct, the nameless villain had just started reeking havoc on this city, not twenty minutes ago! Order to evacuate are underway!" Screams from the crowd made the reporters words hard to understand. The camera man focused in on the villain, sparks of red lighting struck from his body, causing the ground to break open and cave in under him. Though he would not fall under with it, as his body hovered in the air.

"Heroes had been contacted to try and take down this villain, but upon arrival they were all met with gruesome deaths! The horror was too much to catch on film and-what's that? Folks I'm getting a new report...Ah! A miracle! Pro hero Hawks is on the way! Surely he will be able to take down this fiend!" His words caught the villain's attentions. His head snapped towards the camera man and the reporter, causing the two to yelp in shock.

He looked different than before. His short white hair was now long and wild and swayed with the harsh winds. His red eyes glowed like the brightest of rubies. His pale body was covered head to toe in blood red markings, matching the glow of his eyes. His shirt had ripped off as his power took over and the destruction began.

A smirk slowly formed on the villain's face. "W-what does this monster want? What is he trying to achieve from all this bloodshed?" Within a split second, the villain was inches away from the reporter. "So annoying...Shut up already." He raised his hand, sparks shooting from his fingers. The camera was dropped to the ground by the villains feet, there was screaming before bright red blood splattered across the camera. Then there was silence...

After a few seconds, the camera was picked up. The villain smirked as he spoke. "What do I want? What am I trying to achieve? Simple." He chuckled. "I want to make a new age of darkness and death. I will become so powerful, that I will surpass All For One himself! And no one, will ever stop me! Anyone who tries will be given the same treatment as the poor excuses for heroes!" The screen of the camera began to crack.

"And by the way..." He said much more calmly. "The name's Hakai, remember it well..."

And with that, the screen went black.

Hakai threw the camera off somewhere. "That should get that feathered fuck's attention." He laughed. Though, it wasn't Hawks that he wanted to kill, he would have to do for now. Dabi was the one he was after, he needed to be taught a lesson. But right now, Hawks was in his way. Hakai's eye twitched, he turned quickly and shot out a blast of energy, it struck a near collapsed building, destroying it completely. "You missed." Hawks appeared from behind him before his feathered pierced into Hakai's body.

Hawks yelled out as he launched Hakai as far up into the air as he could, before slamming him back down into the ground as hard as he could. Smoke whooshed past Hawks as Hakai hit the hard ground. Hawks shot through the smoke, blade of his own feather in hand. He aimed just above Hakai's chest. "Too slow, shit head!" Hakai shot sparks of lighting at Hawks just as he appeared above him. Hawks quickly dodged, the sparks only grazing his skin.

"You know..." Hakai ripped the feathers from his body. "I was hoping for the League to show up." Hawks glared down at him. "Why? So you could have some backup?" Hakai laughed. "Backup!? Don't tell me you actually listen to those nasty news rumors! The League and I, got nothing to do with each other."

'Him and the league aren't associated? Then why does he want them here?' Hawks thought, while also planning his next move. "It's not even the League I really want." Hakai held his out his open palm before clenching it into a fist, in a crushing manor. "I want Dabi."

"Dabi?" Hawks raised an eyebrow. "That's right. Dabi. He's the first on my 'crush the League of Villains' list! What? You got dibs on killing him first?" Hakai chuckled. Hawks clicked his tongue. " After what he's done, he deserves to get his ass kicked. But even so-" Hawks aimed his blade at Hakai again. "We heroes try not to kill our opponent. Dabi needs to be punished justly. But for you I'll make an exception."

Hakai's grin widened.

"You'll die trying..."

Many people were left stunned by the sudden breaking news, the sight of the gruesome scene that took place shook most to their core. Even Y/n who had witnessed the whole thing take place, instead of some who would turn it off after so much carnage was shown. "Keigo..." Her voice was shaky. She knew Hawks was strong, but so was Hakai. From the destruction she had just witnessed, she knew Hakai was no one to be overlooked. She could only hope and pray that Hawks would come back from this battle.

"Wait a minute...That city isn't too far from here." As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she shook her head. No way, even if she did go, what could she do? She was a quirkless nobody. She couldn't help Hawks in the slightest. And yet...she wanted to be there. She needed to be there. She couldn't wait around for who knows how long for the news that Hawks had died. The very thought of it made her heart ache. No, she had to be there. Even if just to cheer him on from the sidelines

Y/n took train after train to get as close to the now destroyed city as she could, and even then, the city was surrounded by cops to make sure no one could get into the dangerous battlefield of the decimated city. This was as far as she could go, but even from here she could see the feint scene of the battle was taking place. She could also see Hawks being hit with a wave of of energy before plummeting down. "Keigo!" Y/n ran towards the blocked city entrance, where she was stopped immediately. "Stop right there miss! No is to pass this point!" Said one of the cops. Before she could respond, there was a huge explosion from within the city.

While everyone was distracted by the sudden disturbance, Y/n rushed through the cops and jumped the barriers, that were no bigger than a chain length fence, and made her way into the city. All while ignoring the calls and protests from the cops. Ahead she saw Keigo collapsed, beaten and bloody. "Keigo!" Just before she could reach him, the cops had caught up with her and grabbed her. "Miss you need to get out of here! This is no place for-" They were cut off as Hakai shifted behind them, next thing they knew they were covered with the same marks as Hakai. With sputtering words and pained yells, they collapsed. Their bodies convulsed before becoming still and silent.

Y/n stood there, watching them as they died, unable to move. "Huuuh? Hang on a damn second." Her eyes trailed up to Hakai. He looked just as beaten down as Hawks, his eyes looked like they were strained with exhaustion. "This someone you know, feather face?" Y/n shrinks under Hakai's intense glare. "Who do you think you are? Interrupting our fight like that?" Y/n was unable to answer him, that seemed to anger Hakai. He grabbed her by the throat and brought her closer to him.

She struggled in his grasps, kicking and clawing at his hand in attempts to loosen his grip. "I should kill you right now, little bitch." Y/n felt tears gathering in her eyes, why did she run in like that!? She knew it might get her killed, and that's exactly what's happening! All because she was worried about Keigo. But she would do it again. She would gladly get herself killed just to make sure Keigo was ok. Keigo had been so kind to her when he didn't need to. He was there for her when no one else was.

"Let her go!" Hawks was back on his feet, though he did not stand tall. His breathing was uneven and heavy, blood was seeping from his wounds, and it looked like he would drop dead at any moment. Hakai smirked, bringing Y/n closer to him until her cheek touched his own. She could feel the warm blood drip from his skin onto her own, sending chills down her spine. "Or what? You look like you're about to croak. Face it Hawks, you lost. Now...die!"

Y/n felt a surge of adrenaline, she moved her head away from Hakai's before slamming it back into him, causing him to loosen his grip slightly. She took this chance to escape him, running to Hawk's side. "Ack! You fucking bitch!" Hakai rose his hand to blast them, Hawks grabbed Y/n and held her close, shielding her with his body. But instead of feeling the intense sting of the blast, they felt heat.

'I know that feeling...It can't be.' Y/n looked over Hawks' shoulder, and saw no other than Dabi himself. Hakai stumbled to the ground, smoke rising from his body.

"Tsk, tough little bastard." Dabi approached Hakai, fury and hatred present in his expression. Hakai turned to face Dabi, fingers dinging into the ground, teeth grit together tightly. "You..." He growled.

"Hey...the fuck do you think you're doing? Hurting my woman like that?" Dabi glared down at Hakai. "I'll kill you for that, shit stain."

"Dabi..." Y/n spoke breathlessly. Hawks held onto Y/n tighter before flying up. "We need to leave quickly." He said, speeding up his flight. "Huh? No, wait! What about-"

"Y/n." Hawks said sternly. "You shouldn't have came here." Y/n looked up at Hawks, unsure of what to say. Clearly, he was mad. Mad because he lost the fight, mad because Y/n was injured, and mad that Dabi had shown up like he did.

"Birdbrain!" Dabi called after him. "I'll be coming after you next!"

This...would not end well for anyone...

Tbh, I kind of agree, but there are things that some can do that others can’t. It's like they complete each other and your needs. Some ppl complain about their s/o and how they don't do this or that. But you don't. You actually can’t since Bonten covers all aspects.

Kokonoi would call a doctor as fast as possible, he does not play with your health. (Canonically speaking We know why👀). Koko Wouldn't be satisfied with just a check-up. He asks for blood tests, analysis, x-rays if he sees pain somewhere, ultrasounds, and the list goes on. Sometimes you even hide the fact that you feel kind of off... But that never ends well for you.

Kakucho is there for you. He’s a constant presence while you're in bed. He takes the role of babysitter/mom/nurse. You aren’t even allowed to walk. Want to go pee? Except him to lift you in his arms, and you are not allowed to close the door. Maybe he turns around, but you have to get used to having him there.

Now, he's the reason you are in bed. Takeomi would not let you out until he knows you are feeling better. Not physically there, but would call and facetime or ask for pics. (or ask Kakucho for pics). He can drop by and check how you’re doing but not for too long. After all, Bonten has a lot of extra work without their number 3.

Mikey is actually there, but when he comes, you are mostly asleep or taking a bath, which he joins. That's the only time Kakucho gets some rest. He knows with Mikey around; you are going to be fine. After the bath, he likes to help you dry off, dress and he even brushes your hair. He treats you almost like a doll.

Sanzu isn't allowed to be close to you when you're sick. He gets... worried and starts to act up. He loves you; he indeed does. But his actions take a different route. Once, you caught a cold because a classmate of yours was sick. The next day the whole of Japan saw through the news the slaughtered body of the young man. Oh! But as soon as you’re good? Sanzu will be attached to your hip. You don't leave the house for the next few days after your recovery? It is because of Sanzu. He missed you a lot.

Sometimes Mikey forgets to tell Mochi that you are sick. But when he does, Mochi is the one in charge of your medicine and buying the stuff you need. Be it food or clothes, even foreign things. Specifically foreign things.

Ran and Rindou are like a package deal. They give Kakucho the nanny a headache. They would just pop up unannounced and spend time with you. Watch movies, series, anime, whatever you want. Once, as a joke, you asked Rindou and Kakucho to fight like some guys in a film and... They did that. Ran as a referee, and you the public. Kakucho won, but you felt terrible and went to console the loser, Rindou, who was in between your arms and threw a wicked smile towards Kakucho. That's the Haitani’s medicine; it works wonders because they make you forget you're sick.

Bonus

“Are you sure she needs this?” asked Kakucho, worried, sitting in the corner of your bed

“Yes, this will have her up in no time,” answered Kokonoi. He was standing next to the door.

“I don’t want to!!” You trashed on Takeomi’s lap. Your stomach was over his lap as your butt faced the old nurse with a syringe in hand. “Please!!” you cried out.

“You know, I’ve learned that when you hit the skin for a while, it doesn't hurt anymore,” the nurse suggested seeing your distressed figure.

At that, Kakucho and Takeomi shared a look. A silent talk, you do it? Or do I do it?

And then you felt a slap on your left cheek. A whine left your lips. “Takeomi! Was that you?” and then another slap was delivered.

“Do you want it to hurt or not?” Asked Kokonoi. You shook your head, and once again, a hand hit your ass cheek. A couple of hits later and the nurse with expertise injected the liquid. You didn't even feel a thing.

Now the nurse gone, you looked at Takeomi with evil eyes. “You enjoyed it, didn't you?” a chuckle escaped the older man.

“Yeah, your soft butt feels nice against my palm,” an indignant noise left your throat.

“I did too,” said Kokonoi as Kakucho nodded in agreement. “So did the group chat,”

“The what?!?” You rolled in bed, looking for your phone. A hundred messages... From the couple of messages that you read, Rindou, Ran, and Sanzu complained that they weren't called in for this... Special occasion? “What special occasion?!? My ass!” you huffed, and you threw the phone away.

The worst thing about Twice being six feet under is that Dabi has to listen to the damn lizard. On the nights that he decides to get rip-roaring drunk (not that he really decides, baby, it's just that one drink turns to three and three turns to seven and then bottles are being emptied into glasses too small), it ain't like he's gonna strike up a conversation with fucking Toga; the little brat gets on his nerves enough already when he's sober, so he's sure she'd only make his headache-to-be worse.

The boss is getting suspicious lately, really suspicious, about where he's going all the time, what he's out doing, so it's not like he wants to be at the hideout, but he's got to garner a little trust back from Tomura.

That's it, seriously, not the booze. Nothing else.

By the time he's finally fed up with the back and forth arguing about Stain ("who the hell cares, Spinner, that the guy tore off his own nose?"), he's way far gone, beyond messed up, and is struggling to find his way back to your apartment. It's nearly half-way across town and, yeah, he's made this trek before, but it’s summer and it’s hot, so that’s why he starts calling you. The phone can’t be a burner phone anymore, because you’ve put your fucking name in his contact list, as well as a picture of yourself, bare-faced and fresh from the shower. There’s a towel twisted on top of your head, a peek of your bra straps (yellow, with daisies; maybe tonight he’ll be drunk enough to tell you it makes him drool), and when you don’t answer his call, Dabi realizes he’s just been staring at the photo, not actually calling.

Then he figures, if he calls you, it'll be no time before you pop up around the corner to come herd him home.

Or the apartment, or whatever.

(Not like he lives there or something, just sleeps in the bed and eats all your food—you keep giving it to him, so that's on you.)

All the streetlights make him dizzy, dizzy enough to remember the long nights from a while ago, when the clothes on his back and the shitty orange alleys were the only thing he had. When an empty dumpster was the best spot to sleep, when rain and an empty cup was a god damn blessing. In some ways, those were the best times, before he had to start scheming and calculating, before he had to start thinking months, even years in advance. Back then, all he had to do was wake up, take a piss, and figure out how—if—he was gonna eat that day.

The first time he touched you, after, you know, getting roasted to shit, he’d been sixteen and mad as hell.

And it wasn’t in some fucking perverted way, you little freak; for daddy’s little princess, you’d think he’d install better locks on your windows than that cheap shit from the hardware store. It had been easy to crack, too easy, and he’d been furious enough to do it. For too damn long, he’d been too many steps behind, watching you do all your normal life shit, having friends, being carefree, dating some meat-head fucking idiots.

Dabi was out there picking rice grains out of the dirt while you were getting ready for some stupid culture festival (what the fuck even is that, anyway? Sounds fucking lame).

So, yeah, he’d been mad, Enji-mad, he always was back then. Not that he isn’t ready to blow at any moment these days, but at sixteen he’d still been short and puberty and rage and hormones and whatever; you’re a nurse, you get the picture.

Going in, he didn’t have a plan to off you, not really something he considered. He thought about it while looking for the house with the pink star curtains, but there hadn’t been any commitment to the idea, maybe because he didn’t think he’d actually get in; he was the kind of mad where all his thinking goes out the window, when nothing makes sense anymore, he’s just steaming full-speed ahead until he runs out of gas.

It would have been funny if you’d woken up, sure, to see his stupid, pint-sized figure in the corner of your room, but you hadn’t. Sleeping in a bed too small, one he couldn’t fit in, wearing some pajamas with an ugly pattern (you drool in your sleep, by the way, a lot, and you did back then, too). Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t even remember what had him so mad, anything could have set him off, really, but he just stood against the wall, out of the light, fucking smoldering while you snored, probably dreaming of some fucking Kinjo-ass-fuck to sweep you off your feet.

Then you rolled over on your back so that he could see all of your face, with your little chin acne and slobbery lips. Your eyebrows furrowed in the tiniest way and you looked kinda pissed in your sleep, and he remembers wanting to ask you, what? what’s got you makin’ that face? and—oh, fuck, how embarassing—he wanted you to tell him about it. Why you were mad. Why he was mad. Maybe the two of you still had something in common then, maybe the two of you still made sense in some weird, fucked up capacity.

But you just kept sleeping like the dead, even though there was a stumpy weirdo in your room, even though he moved to sit beside your bed and smell the detergent in your sheets, listen to the nasally sound coming out of your nose (needed to blow it, booger girl), even though he put his thumb against the crease between your eyebrows until it softened. Back then he thought, he didn’t want you to be mad, even in your stupid little dreams, didn’t want you to see him, all scrawny and shit, didn’t want you to know what rainwater tasted like.

And he ain’t gonna tell you, but he still doesn’t, even though you’re mad at him and he’s mad at you, too. Because you’re still soft, as warm fucking butter, and you cry about god damn everything, even when he says shit he doesn’t mean. Fuck, you think he sticks around when he doesn’t want to? Come on Miss College Classes, think.

“Who said I needed anything from you?” He only asked it like that because you fucking asked if he needed money, like he wasn’t a criminal that knew how to rob and steal and shit, you asked if he needed clothes or shampoo or a flu shot. He ate out of the fucking dumpster, sweetie, damn.

“Touya, you don’t have to say it like that, I’m only asking.”

Yeah, well you didn’t have to fucking say it like that, either.

“There ain’t nothing I want that you could give me, unless it’s Endeavor’s head on a platter.”

Now that he thinks about it, you’d been on one that day, four days ago. You’d been a little snippy, which would have been hot if you weren’t getting snippy at him.

“Nothing? Nothing at all that I could give you? Not a single thing?” This is when the tears came in, and maybe he shouldn’t have rolled his eyes and groaned and called you a nag, but he can’t do shit about it now. “I’m sorry, Touya, if I bother you so much, but I don’t think you have to be so mean about it.

Oh, so he’s mean? So he’s a fucking bully? Nah, you didn’t know mean and so he showed you, with the dishes at the wall and his glass on the floor and his shoes on his feet and the door slamming behind him.

And that’s really why he decided to get fucked off, if he’s being honest, but then a couple days went by and you didn’t call him and damn he’s tired of that lizard. At least Twice—one half of him—might have agreed that you were being dramatic.

Yeah, Dabi thinks he would have told Twice about you. Not Toga because she’s annoying, definitely not Spinner, because he’d say some stupid shit like “you think Stain let a woman distract him from his goals?” and then he’d have to fry him up, and he’s not fucking stupid enough to even think about giving Tomura some kind of leverage over him.

Maybe Compress. Maybe Kurogiri.

But Twice for sure. He would have liked you, loved you even, enough to take your side in all this shit, enough to tell Dabi he’s being a fucking asshole.

Sometimes he thinks he should replace the locks on your windows, but he’s already lost the key to the front door you gave him, not that he wants to tell you that, so the window is really the only way he can get in without knocking. You have too much patience with him, so he’s not even sure if you’d answer the door because you’ve never been this mad at him before (you always call, always).

Dabi is drunk enough to trip on his pants, to literally fall face first into the carpet inside your bedroom, and he lays there for a few minutes, trying to tell if he’s bleeding into the floor, wondering if that’s gonna piss you off, too. Probably wouldn’t, you’d probably just sit on his lap and patch him up, do your best to get the stains out.

Probably. Maybe not.

Maybe you’re fucking over it.

That prompts him to get his ass up—yeah, he did bleed into the carpet a little bit—and he reaches straight for the bed, brain floating in alcohol, trying to think on the fly of some kind of shit that will tell you he feels bad and is—

But you ain’t there.

The bed—your bed, his bed—is fucking empty, save for a few mussed up sheets, for a few mascara-ed pillows and that one spot where he almost burned through the mattress with his hands.

And then he’s in the corner in the dark and he’s mad, Enji-mad, fucking furious, because you’re not here. You don’t work tonight, he knows, he remembers (he remembers, you little brat, he does), so you’ve gotta be out with that guy, with that stupid smooth-skin fuck that wants to crawl inside your ass and live there, god damn idiot.

“Y’son of a—” Dabi is shooting off the floor immediately, stumbling past your dresser—he’s got four shirts in there, bottom drawer—and nearly kicking the door off the hinges. The light over the stove is on and, you do that when you’re out, don’t you? When you know you’ll be coming home late, right? Fuck, isn’t that why? Oh, he can’t remember stupid shit like this, but it makes his stomach sink. What time is it anyway?

The spot on the wall where his food had splattered has been cleaned, but he swears he can see it, that the shitty light is casting some kind of shadow that makes it obvious. Maybe you didn’t get all the ceramic off the floor, all the glass from his cup, maybe it’s all still here, this stupid fucking fight.

Touya hopes so. If you’re out with the cunt, he hopes so, and he hopes Kinjo gets a foot full of splintered glass if he even thinks about stepping into his god damn kitchen—

But then he sees the top of your head, just barely, resting on one arm of the couch.

You’re sleeping on the couch. His couch. Drooling, and shit.

That makes his stomach sink, too.

Then he tries real hard to be quiet, even though you sleep like the fucking dead, still, by coming around the front of it, looking at the side of your face he can see. There’s something in your hand and he recognizes the familiar, ugly pattern of your cellphone case; you’re just hugging it to your chest, waiting. Waiting on him, maybe, to be the one to call.

God damn it.

There’s no room for him on the couch—well, there is, but he’d have to wake you up to get on there and it’s better this way, if you don’t know—so he just sits (falls) on the ground beside you. The little crease isn’t there and he’s drunk enough to admit that he’s glad, that he still doesn’t want you to be mad. He’s drunk enough to hope you’re dreaming of him, looking normal and not, you know, grilled like some nasty fish, and maybe he’s kissing you in this dream. Maybe you’re happy about it.

And then maybe he’s hoping that you two are fucking in this dream, that he’s pounding the absolute shit out of you, but that thought starts to spiral enough that his dick gets hard, so he just tries to focus on the drool on your face.

Must have taken a shower before going to bed—on his couch—becauses your hair is still a little damp. Your eyelids look normal and not puffy, not like you’ve been crying for days, and he’s drunk enough to be relieved about that, though that phone case is just staring at him, reminding him. He should have just fucking called, even if it was to pretend like nothing happened, he should have just done it.

Touya puts his chin on the edge of the couch, nose nearly touching yours as he watches you sleep—and he’s not a creep, not if this is his own home—before he can’t take it any longer and has to place a heavy hand on the side of your face. It’s too rough, surprise surprise, and immediately you start opening your eyes, slowly, pulling your lids open before they can finish rolling.

If he woke up and your face was an inch from his, he might have at least knocked heads with you, all freaked out and stuff, but you just wake up and stare at him, like he’s a figment of your imagination or something. Like you’re dreaming of him, coming home to apologize.

You blink all sleepy (and cute) before humming lightly, closing your eyes again. “You smell like beer.”

He has the decency to feel a little bad about it. “‘Cause I been drinking beer.” Other shit, too, but that’s a trivial detail. It almost looks like you’re gonna fall back to sleep, so he sinks his fingers into your wet hair and shakes your head a bit. “Hey.”

But you don’t open your eyes, refuse to, and the little crease appears. Your lips turn down into a big frown, tears leaking out of the corner of your eyes and running down your nose, even though you’d tried to trap them.

In the good ol’ days, he didn’t have to think about anything, what he was doing, what it meant. Now, in this apartment of his, with this woman of his, he’s drunk enough to allow that kind of shit again.

Embarrassing, and he’ll pretend like he was too wasted to remember, but he leans forward to press his lips to your salty tears, to rub them away with the thumb at your cheek. He kisses your closed eyes and then your booger nose and the space between your eyebrows; it makes you frown harder, but you scoot back into the couch and open the blanket for him.

“You lef’ th’ light on.” He’s slurring, more than he realized he would, as he tucks himself into you, you into him.

“I know,” you sniff, burying your face into his chest. “For you, just in case you came back.”

“Pfffft, baby, ‘m always gonna come back.” Unless you don’t want him to, one day. And you probably won’t, eventually. Eventually you’ll get tired of this shit.

(Ah, who’s he kidding, he’ll probably still come back.)

“You still have to apologize, Touya.”

Ugh, you never let him get away with anything.

“‘Cause I was mean?”

You start to shift like you want to pull back from him, so you can look up at his face, which may or may not still be bleeding, but he just hugs you tighter so you can’t.

“Yeah, I know, was mean.” He meant to be, but again—trivial details.

Nobody ever apologized to him for the shit they did, so how the hell is he supposed to know how to do it? He tries to think of stupid Enji, who only ever insisted he get the fuck out of the house or ordered him to stop training, he thinks of his mom, who tried to stop him from working on his breathing. He thinks of them both and he doesn’t remember anyone saying shit about the hitting.

Nobody apologized for that crap.

He can feel the pressure of your nose against his neck, the little huffs that trail down to the soft skin of his chest. He can feel the heat of your body, all warm from laying under this blanket, and even though he doesn’t particularly like the temperature, the weight of you against him isn’t bad. It’s better than a night in an empty dumpster under some shitty alley lights.

Nobody ever apologized to him except you, even when you didn’t have to. And Touya is pretty sure you were pretty sure you didn’t have to, but you did it anyway, because people do that shit, good people, kind people, people in relationships that aren’t arranged or forced or built out of fear.

And as much as he hates him, as much of Enji is in him, he ain’t ever gonna be like that. Would rather peel his own skin back and let you wear it like a coat.

So, fine, whatever, he says he’s sorry and shit, kisses your head like a soft bastard and runs his hand under your shirt, leaves it between your shoulder blades. Lets you wrap an arm around him—over his shirt, because he’s just not ready for that yet (pussy)—and he even mumbles out some dumb shit that makes you snort, that makes you smile and kiss him.

You favor close combat, he realizes. Close enough to cut, to strike, to touch. He does, too. He watches you slide beneath the explosion of blue flames that Dabi sends careening towards you. You are so swift that he nearly misses how you latch onto Dabi’s wrist- his flames gutter out like they’ve been doused- and use your momentum to knee him in the chest, sending you both rolling backwards.

You end up atop him, three, gleaming blades between your knuckles now pressed up against his throat. Dabi lifts his hand again and Tomura almost winces, prepared for the flames, the blast of them, the heat of them that will incinerate you.

But they never come.

“What the fuck?” Dabi curses, flexing his fingers like he’s trying again. You dig the sleek little knives deeper into his throat and blood wells up. Tomura sighs. Is he really going to have to save Dabi from you?

He lopes closer, comes to stand behind you, has every intention of simply letting you fall away into nothingness. He doesn’t have time to deal with you. Doesn’t care– no, no matter how intrigued he’d been, he doesn’t care. That’s what he tells himself, at least, when all five fingers close around your shoulder.

And absolutely nothing happens.

What the fuck?

Tomura squeezes, as if that will trigger something. And when it doesn’t, when you don’t fall away into dust and bone, he nearly panics–

“I see you’ve met my new protege,” A low voice comes from a little too close, before pain explodes in the side of Tomura’s head.

He drops like a stone, teeth clicking together, jaw lancing with pain at how hardly he clamps down. His temple throbs. He thinks he can feel blood trickle down the side of his face.

When he turns, Eraserhead is already a flurry of movement. His capture weapon nearly snags Tomura, before he manages to roll out of the way.

Why didn’t you decay?

Was it Eraserhead?

Tomura rises back to his feet, swiping blood from the side of his head, “So it seems,” he agrees on a rasp, “How’s the elbow?”

Why didn’t you decay?!

All he gets from Eraserhead is a scowl, just before he catches movement towards you and Dabi. Tomura’s eyes follow, and he watches as Dabi finally manages to get you off, shoving you off so that you roll into the stone wall. And the moment you’re off of him, his flames come roaring back to life.

“Void!” Eraserhead shouts and his capture weapon is so fast that it’s just a blur, it snags you, draws you to him so he can throw an arm around you, hunch over you to keep you safe from the flames.

How sweet, Tomura thinks bitterly, glaring at you just as Eraserhead’s eyes flare crimson and Dabi’s flames are cut out again. Dabi curses, looks at Tomura. They share a silent conversation.

They hadn’t intended on dealing with Eraserhead. They hadn’t intended on dealing with you, either, but you were just a runt compared to your mentor.

His mind is all unsettled now, like a broken record asking;

Why didn’t you fucking decay, though?

Regardless, they needed to get out of here. They could use a portal.

He barely catches the quiet murmur of Eraserhead, “–just like we practiced.”

And then you’re a streak of darkness rushing for him. Eraserhead’s capture weapon is tightened around your torso, wrapped around your waist. You feint, to dart around Tomura, and then back around so that he can feel the weapon near his calves. You’re wicked fast, a sly little thing as you try to wind it around him, to trip him up. But all it takes is Tomura snagging a part of the capture weapon. Immediately, it begins to crumble away, spreading out slowly but surely.

You lurch for him, your little hand closing tight around his wrist, and your eyes flaring into a bright, feverish pink. His Quirk stops in its tracks. Gone.

Tomura snarls, trying to lurch away from your hold, but you claw into him. What’s left of the capture weapon snags, pulling so that the two of you end up falling.

For a moment, time feels suspended as he falls with you. Your lips are pulled back to bare teeth, vicious little thing that you are, growling in his face, wild and untempered.

(He’ll remember this moment– he’ll think you looked perfect and horrible. It’ll haunt him.)

Your eyes are startlingly bright, burning. Your grip on him is tight and there is nothing in the pit of his chest where his Quirk usually rests, like a cemetery behind the gates of his ribs. There is no fizzling, creeping decay, no hungry destruction ready to spread from him onto the rest of the world. Nothing. Just a void.

Ah, so that’s where your name comes from.

He lands hard on his shoulder as all of time rushes up to meet him. You’re on him in an instant and he scrabbles for you, sinking all five fingers down again on your wrist, only for nothing to happen once more.

What the fuck?!

“She can nullify Quirks with a touch,” Eraserhead says and his eyes are still on Dabi, capture weapon finally pulling away to go after the arsonist. “She’s probably the only person you can touch without decaying, ever.”

It’s supposed to mock him, maybe. Boast. Clearly, you’re Eraserhead’s favorite pet.

But that sentence rattles around inside Tomura’s head, sinks down into his bones. It distracts him, allowing you to gain an upper hand on him, another small knife sliding from your sleeve, to press beneath his chin.

The blade is sharp. His vermilion eyes slash to yours, meeting the scorching pink of them.

“Is that so?” he rasps, prompting you as he looks up at you, stupidly wishing to hear you speak.

To hear you speak to him.

Your knees are on his chest. He doesn’t care, the weight of you solid and one of his hands is still gripping your wrist, small and seemingly fragile in his hold. He wants to inspect you, take you apart, lay all five fingers along your rib cage, your spine, over your face just to see, just to check if you’re real, if it’s true.

He could break your wrist, he even considers it. Are your screams as pretty as you? Do you whimper? He doesn’t think so, maybe he wants to try and pull the noise from you, though.

“That’s so.” you finally speak and he hates that you have his attention. Hates that your voice does something to him, touches some part of him that is hidden and trembling. “Meet your match, Shigaraki Tomura.”

(He loves how you say his name. He hates that he loves it.)

And he can’t decay you, can’t decay anything with you atop him, but he grabs for the knife, trying to wrench it away from his throat, from your grasp. He slits his palm for the trouble, but he manages to twist it in such a way that you yelp, and he can toss it away from your grasp. He hisses through his teeth, cut stinging, just as he surges up to to knock you from him. You both go tumbling, rolling with each other. It’s more artless than he cares to admit but at least he’s got you under him for a moment and he doesn’t need to decay you to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze—

A portal rips open in the alleyway.

“That's our cue,” Dabi says, and then, “Move, Shigaraki.”

He lurches away the moment Dabi gives the order, leaves you gasping and heaving for air. He rolls towards the portal, just as blue flames sear towards you and Tomura thinks you’re toast for a moment, you’re gone, in and out of his life as quick as a lightning strike.

He only glances back when he’s near the safety of Kuogiri’s portal. You’re back beneath Eraserhead’s arm, your clothes singed. The blood from his palm is smeared in a messy dash, the shape of his hand on your throat. You look half feral.

You wear the shape of him, the blood on your neck, well.

The two of you watch him and Dabi disappear. The portal closes behind them.

Kuogiri returns them to base.

“What the fuck was that?” Dabi snaps at him, “You let some sidekick nearly kick your ass.”

Tomura heaves a rattling sigh, “I think I stepped in to save you from her in the first place.”

“I didn’t need you,” he responds and Tomura only rolls his eyes.

Still, he doesn’t like how heavy you’re weighing on his mind, how he can still feel your skin beneath his hand. The searing pink of your eyes, the snarl pulling at your lips, flashing your teeth. All volatile and hungry. All that brutality, all your vitality.

You’ve left an imprint on his mind, like an ink blot, haunting and twisted.

Eraserhead’s words wind around his mind, clinging to them, like they’ve seared themselves to his brain.

She’s probably the only person you can touch without decaying, ever.

Ever.

The word feels like a death knell, rattling around inside of him, all echoing and final.

***

Shouta is careful with your bruised throat as he wipes away the drying blood that has clung to your skin. You think maybe you should be more grossed out, but you’re exhausted and sore, and the cloth he uses is warm, surprisingly soft.

“You shouldn’t have rushed for them like that,” Shouta scolds softly, wedging himself further between your legs so that he can peer at your neck better. He doesn’t need to do this, you’d told him so. But when you’d gotten back to his home, he’d only given you gruff instructions. One worded. Terse.

Bathroom.

So you’d gone. He’d followed you in a moment later.

Sit, he’d said, nodding to the sink counter. You’d done that, too. And now here you are, with him fretting and fussing over you in his own way. He takes care of you after patrols, it's become habitual. So long as you don’t need more medical attention, he’s the one bandaging you up, the one taking care of you.

Shouta has always cared for you like this. He’d taken you under his wing, guided you. You think he feels responsible for you, in some way.

A little over two years ago, freshly eighteen and just trying to get by, he’d found you. You’d stolen from the gas station and just so happened to be in his line of patrol that night. You had put up a fight, trying to cancel his Quirk as you pawed at his hold on you. He’d only realized you’d manage to cancel his Quirk when he couldn’t use it on you while you touched him. He’d almost been amused. How’d you manage to erase Eraserhead’s Quirk?

Other than that, you don’t know what he’d seen in you, don’t know why he decided to change your life— pity, maybe, looking at you, so youthful and frail. So hungry and angry, hissing and feral, maybe just to mask all that fear. He’d offered to just walk you home. You told him you didn’t have one. Parents? In and out of foster care your whole life, just some orphan that aged out of the system on your own. Someone society forgot.

You had no one.

(Later, you’ll hear everyone say it— “You like strays, don’t you, Aizawa?”

He has three cats. All strays, once ill-tempered and now docile. Loving. A little wary of strangers, but adoring of him.)

He hadn’t been certain what to do with you at first— too old to go to UA, his school. At first there were mentions of college but you’d barely made it through high school. Not because you weren’t smart, only because you’d barely done the work. Barely went.

Besides, you decided quickly that you wanted to be a hero. Like him.

(Maybe it was just because he was the first person in your whole life who gave you any sort of attention— who cared what happened to you. Maybe you didn’t want to part from that, wanted to hold tight, take all that he would give you.)

Reluctantly, he’d agreed to train you.

He had asked a favor of Principal Nezu, set you up in a tiny studio dorm that was beside his. Right next door. Your very own space for the first time in your life.

But you often stayed with him. Nearly attached at the hip. You often crashed on his couch.

(Or in his bed— the nights that you’d fall asleep watching movies in his living room, only to wake up curled in his bed, and find that he’d taken the couch. Sometimes you nap there, while he’s teaching. His cats join you, curled by your legs, sprawling and taking up space.

He never wakes you when he finds you like this.)

And your training had been non-stop for those two years, a rush to get you your provisional licence so that you could patrol with him and then a rush to get your official hero licence, too.

They needed heroes now more than ever. Especially with the fall of All Might. The rising of the League of Villains.

Two of whom, you’d just run into.

Shigaraki Tomura’s blood is currently being cleaned from your neck. It should frighten you more. He should frighten you more, but he doesn’t.

He’s only two or so years older than you. You feel like you could’ve known him, could’ve seen him in and out of orphanages and foster homes with you. You feel like maybe you would’ve talked to him. Another young face forgotten by society.

He can’t hurt you, not with his Quirk anyways.

“I didn’t want them to get away,” you finally answer him, your voice raw, probably from nearly being strangled. .

Shouta sighs, dragging the cloth over your neck gently, like you’re something fragile, “You can’t take two of our most notorious criminals on by yourself.”

“I wasn’t by myself,” you counter, tilting your head off and to the side, offering up your throat. It feels vulnerable, with him so near.

This is how things usually go. Shouta fusses. You give him a hard time. He’s always scolding you for some reason. And you’ve never had that attention before, never had someone that cared about what you did or how you acted, never had anyone to care if you rushed into danger. No one has ever reprimanded you the way he does.

You like it. You crave it.

And it’s not like he can ground you or stick you in detention. You’re not one of his little students. You’re not his daughter. You’re an adult, so all you get is a stern talking to while he cleans you up.

You like to remind him of this a lot.

What are you going to do? Ground me? You smirk when you say it, lift your eyes up to his, I’m not your daughter, Shouta.

Maybe you say it too often. More than you should, almost calling attention to your relationship with him, what it might be, or is not.

Not one of your students, either, you tell him slyly.

There is an eleven year age difference between you and Shouta.

You don’t think eleven years is so bad in hindsight. But you can’t decide if you’re too fresh faced for him, can’t decide where you sit in his eyes.

He takes care of you like a child sometimes, takes care of the child in you that was never cared for. He looks after you, cooks you breakfast– knows your favorite foods, knows what you won’t eat. Sometimes, he will swipe those foods from your plate and bring them to his. He dresses your wounds. Makes you ice your bruises.

He also lets you sleep in his bed. His clothes, too. He’s bundled you in coats and sweaters, you have at least two of them sitting on the floor of your bedroom now. His eyes linger on you, on your form in your catsuit that you wear for hero work.

He practically comes home to you.

You can’t decide if he sees you as a child or an adult. Can’t decide if he sees his students in you, someone to be nurtured and encouraged, or if he sees you as mature, as his partner.

You don’t think he can decide either.

“You know what I mean,” he responds slowly and he’s so close that you can see his dark lashes fanning across his cheek. His scar is a crescent moon on his angular face. You can smell teakwood, mahogany, a little lavender, maybe. Some sweat. It’s familiar. It’s his.

It’s a comfort, you realize, your muscles finally easing. Adrenaline slowly begins to slide away from you, leaving you a little bereft, a little cold, so you cling to the comfort of Shouta. His large, rough palm at your throat, his low, rumbling voice.

“You’re too reckless still. I know your Quirk requires you to get close, but you can’t just go barrelling for enemies and hope you’re strong enough to hold tight to them.” Shouta tells you, “And you need to remember people can hurt you without their Quirks, too.”

Now the cloth falls away and Shouta leans away fractionally to observe the ring of bruises in the shape of a hand on your neck. He takes your chin in hand, tilts it off to the side to see your throat more clearly.

He sighs lightly, wary, “I’ll get you some ice. Does it hurt?”

He finally steps away from you and you have the absurd notion to bring him back. You think it’s the adrenaline wearing off, the sudden neediness, the buzz in your brain slowing, fizzling out to a whine.

You turn to face the mirror behind you, to examine the bruise.

It’s almost perfect, the press of his hand into your skin. Marked. Like a collar of fingers, the shape of his palm.

Anyone else would be dead.

His eyes were so red. You can still see the tilt of the scar on his lip, pulled into a sneer.

You can see the shape of all five fingers pressed deeply into your skin now, a reminder of him that will linger for awhile.

You reach up with a careful hand to press experimentally against the mottled skin, hissing a little at how tender it is.

“It’s a little sore,” you tell him, turning back around, but he is already disappearing from the bathroom.

“Shower,” he commands over his shoulder, “I’ll make us food. You can ice it after.”

“I need clothes,” you call back, but in a moment, he has already returned with a sweatshirt of his, like he knew you would ask– it’s black, crewneck, soft on the inside. Grey joggers, the ones with the tie at the waist, so that you can fit them to you.

You’ve worn these clothes before. They’re familiar to you in the same way your favorite book is, in the same way your pillow is.

And then Shouta is gone again, bathroom door clicking shut to offer you privacy. You stare at the door for a moment, at where he once was. And now you’re alone, with your draining adrenaline, and his clothes in your arms.

You turn on the shower, strip carefully. There is some blood soaked into the collar of your hero uniform.

When you shut your eyes beneath the scalding stream of water, you see the silver dash of his hair. You see the look in his eyes, after Shouta had told him that you could nullify Quirks with your touch– that strange expression, half curious, half wild.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hands were warm at your throat.

You fit your hand against your neck the way he had.

You wonder if it’s the first time he’s touched anyone with all five of his fingers. You wonder if anyone ever touches him willingly.

You wonder about what it must’ve been like, as a child, to not hold your toys or your pets or your parents with all that you can. With tiny, frightened fists.

You used to cling to anything, anyone.

You’d learned the hard way, but you couldn’t imagine–

You shouldn’t be sympathizing with him. You should be frightened. You should be worried about what he wants to do next, what he’d been doing that you hadn’t been able to stop. You take your hand from your throat like it’s burned you.

You scrub hard at your skin, as if it will clean away your thoughts, as if it will all just rinse down the drain in a swirl.

You shut the water off. You dress in Shouta’s clothes. You are careful not to find your reflection in the mirror, lest you see those bruises again. When you emerge from the steamed bathroom, you wander, bare foot and quiet to the kitchen.

Shouta stands at the stove, shoulders slumped slightly, hair pulled away to expose the curve of his neck. He stirs something at the stove. One of his cats, the sweet calico, Kyoko, is rubbing her head against his shin in a desperate plea for attention. Her tail is botched and she’s missing a bit of her right ear, but you still call her pretty when you rub your finger to her cheek.

She chirps at him, before throwing her head into his legs again.

You watch as Shouta murmurs to her, glancing down, you think he asks if she’s hungry. Maybe something about how sweet she is, too.

The window above the kitchen sink glows softly with the light of night in a city. Gold streetlights. The dash of the moon. The occasional, meandering car on the road. The lights in the kitchen are warm and muted, too. It’s cozy, something you never had growing up but always dreamed of.

You don’t know why, but an ache settles somewhere inside of you. A little bubble of happiness that is twinged with melancholy. You want to go to him, to push your forehead into his chest for attention, too, want to be wrapped in the warmth of his arms. You suddenly feel deeply understanding of the little cat at his feet, can’t stand to hear her small cries for attention anymore.

You move to snag Kyoko, who immediately begins to purr once her little head is tucked beneath your chin. You hold her tight, cradle her to your body to soothe her. Her happy purrs rumble against your chest. The two of you peak over Shouta’s shoulder at what he’s cooking.

Soup with mushrooms and green onions. Steamy and savory smelling.

You realize he made something easy like soup for your throat and that ache inside you only grows, takes root until you think it will spread through all your limbs, all your body. And you will just be a girl with a pit inside her, with the roots of joyful melancholy. Maybe it will bloom through your skin and you will be consumed with flowers.

“Smells good,” you tell him and he glances down to you and Kyoko. You catch the faintest lift of his lips into a smile. He has such a nice smile, if he’d ever share it.

How selfish, you think, to covet such a thing.

“Will you feed the cats? They haven’t had dinner yet.”

You nod, looking down at Kyoko as you ask her if she’s hungry. You set her down again, but she quickly weaves between your legs as you go to the fridge to pull out the cans of food.

The moment a can is opened, the other two come from their hiding places, dashing for the kitchen. The other girl, Yuki, whose a sleek white cat with a missing eye, twines herself around your legs, too, when she realizes you’re going to feed her. Her one, shining blue eye peers up at you expectantly. And finally, Kitaro, the tomcat of the house, whose lithe and black like a little panther, but covered in scars, saunters over.

He is the most temperamental of the cats. He usually swats and hisses at everyone, including Shouta from time to time, but he is terribly fond of you. He chitters at you, flashing sharp little teeth and you smile down at him.

They’re eager when you finally get the food into their bowls and set it down for them.

And the night progresses quietly. Shouta showers as the soup simmers on the stove. When he returns, hair damp and messily braided away from his face, you eat together at the kitchen island, sitting on stools. Your throat does hurt, and you’re thankful for the gentle heat of the soup.

Shouta also makes you ice it after you’ve both eaten. You settle on the couch afterwards, curling up into one corner. Shouta sits at the other end, glasses perched on the strong bridge of his nose, laptop on his thighs, school papers spread out across his coffee table. You share a blanket, one that you’ve pulled up to your shoulders as you lay down, but only reaches part of his legs. Still, if you moved too much, you could probably feel the press of his legs to yours. You could tangle them together.

You don’t. Instead you curl your legs into yourself, even if it jostles Kitaro a little, who is laying in the crux of your knees.

The TV plays softly in the background. The rustle of papers, the quiet clacking of the keys on his computer, the occasional scribbling of pen all soothe you, lull you gently. You doze, eyelids growing heavy.

You curl a small fist around the blanket– it’s your favorite of Shouta’s. It’s soft beneath your touch, the fabric bunching between your fingers and you think of him again.

With his startling eyes and wiry frame. With his warm hands.

As you fall asleep, you wonder faintly, almost sadly, if you’re the first thing he’s fully touched without losing in a long time.

***

It has been weeks since Tomura met you and he is still dreaming of you.

He is already a fitful sleeper, but now that he sees your face behind his fluttering lids, he has resolved himself to staying up most nights. When he does sleep, unconsciousness sweeping in to claim him, he sees you there; dark and harsh and brilliant in his mind’s eye. Sometimes you are moving, a slash of brutality against his hazy dreams. Sometimes you sit in front of him, cross-legged, your face surprisingly calm.

The world around you is falling apart in these ones, the very fabric of the sky decaying, splitting at the seams to crumble away. It’s all muted, smoky grey and pale blue, watercolored to bleed together.

He hates these dreams, where you lift your hand up, palm open to him. Fingers spread wide.

“Give me your hand,” you say, voice coaxing, almost sweet. Your features are relaxed, gentle in a way he shouldn’t know. Shouldn’t envision.

Tentatively, he offers up his hand to you, watches as you reach out to flatten your palm to his. The touch is a little surprising to him, your hand soft, almost ticklish against that sensitive skin that is so rarely touched. His hollow chest is heaving as he feels it, feels you.

Then, as carefully as possible, you let each of your fingers press to his. His thumb to yours, his pointer, yours. Middles next. Ring fingers pressed like a steeple. Then, finally it’s just both your pinkies, hovering away from each other.

He doesn’t know why, but he grows scared. He can feel the way his stomach rolls sickly, the sudden lurch of his heart as your pinkies come together like a promise.

Nothing happens, except you smile fractionally.

“Your hands are so big,” you tell him but his heart is still thundering in the cavern of his chest, still rattling around inside of his treacherous body.

“They’re so soft, too.” you tell him and you tilt your head, eyes cutting to his, which shine like twinkling rose quartz with the use of your Quirk, “Like you’ve barely used them.”

“I-I can’t,” he gets out, “I can’t without decaying something.”

“You’re not decaying me,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, eyes lifting from the two of your hands pressed together to find his face.

“No,” Tomura agrees shakily, swallowing, “I’m not.”

“When was the last time you could do this?” you ask softly, but the moment you do, your features always begin to shutter, blur. Your voice grows strange, layered with a child’s. One that he has not heard in many, many years.

And then it’s his little sister’s tiny, fragile hand against his.

He tries to lurch away from her but it’s too late. It’s too late and all of that gore seeps into the grey washed world, bleeds vibrant, horrible color into his dreams. He hates that the image of her falling away into horror, crimson and thick and sickening, is still so sharp in his mind. He hates that he has not been able to fill it with time.

He hates that his brain has not allowed him to forget it, has not repressed or shoved it away for his safety and well-being. He thinks his mind is a traitor.

How is he supposed to live with this?

Some nights, he doesn’t think he can.

He clings to his Master’s words, though, the ones that he takes comfort in. He repeats them like a prayer, a slithering whisper about how he should hold fast to these emotions. To the guilt and the rage and the festering anguish.

He thinks it’s burning a hole through his chest, corrosive and flesh-eating, taking out the tender parts of his body so he is nothing but leanness. So that he is nothing but hollow and starving, crooked and desperate and hungry like some hyena, half deranged with its sloped back and mad yelps and cries. Salivating over scraps.

He thinks of you, wily like a coyote and vicious, small and sharp-toothed and nimble.

Scavengers, the both of you.

He wonders if it hadn’t been the heroes that got to you first, would you be like Toga? Or Twice? Dabi? Some marooned child of society, looking to sink their teeth into anything. You had too much grit to be a hero, he thinks.

You would’ve served better here, with him.

The moment he thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t. Wishes he could rip the thought from his own skull and decay it himself.

But he can’t.

And it sits there, like a tombstone, like a garden bed.

(If he isn’t careful, it will take root inside him and grow. And there is no space for life in a body like his.)

***

You’re not even patrolling when you catch a glimpse of a black hoodie, a flash of icy silver hair again. One of your hands had been tucked into your own coat pocket, the collar of it upturned to keep out the early autumn chill.

The coffee in your other hand, warm, freshly bought, drops sharply as you watch Shigaraki Tomura round a corner, blending into the people going about their everyday lives. Coffee splatters on the sidewalk. You curse, others glance at you, but dart around you, continuing about their day.

You scoop up the now empty cup, breaking into motion. You shove the cup in the nearest trash, snapping your eyes ahead to try and find his form again. You pick up your pace, trying not to sprint, lest you give yourself away, but also trying to keep up with his long strides.

You round the corner, catch sight of him again. You try to force yourself to not break into a run again.

You knock into someone in your haste, brushing past them. They grumble at you.

You manage a vague apology, eyes ahead, on the back of one of the most wanted villains in the country.

Faintly, you hear Shouta’s voice in the back of your mind, urging you not to run straight into danger.

You fish for your phone in your pocket blindly, and you’re about to thumb out a text to him, warn him that you’ve just spotted Shigaraki again.

He’s in class now, though, you know it. It’s doubtful he’ll see it. It’s doubtful he’d see a phone call, too, and the closer you get to Shigaraki, the more that would give you away.

You know Shouta would want you to stay a safe distance away, not to engage. He’d want you to follow as far as you could and then contact him, return back to UA, return back to your little apartment safely. But then this will be the second time that Shigaraki has slipped from your grasp.

You watch as he slyly ducks into an alleyway.

Shit, you curse. You can either try for Shouta or follow.

Your body moves before your mind does. You follow, disappearing down the yawning mouth of the alleyway, too. You try to be silent, your phone still in hand. But the alleway is quieter, darker, especially the further in you wade. You don’t miss that you have now lost the safety of people nearby, too.

Briefly, you wonder which hero is on patrol now for this area, wonder if they could somehow reach you–

Just before he rounds another corner, he glances over his shoulder.

It seems natural for him, like he’s always wary, always waiting for something to catch up with him.

You freeze as the red slash of his eyes cuts to you.

He almost could look normal, without the severed hand clutched to his face. In the simple, black hoodie. Black jeans and red sneakers. He looks your age. A year or two older. You could see him in college, overworked and exhausted. You could see him at the movies, at the mall.

Once more, you are painfully struck with the idea that he could’ve just been some other teen with nothing to their name. Maybe he was like you, wandering in a world that didn’t want him.

But he isn’t.

For a moment, neither of you move. His chest heaves strangely, rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are a little wide, almost as if he’s terrified of you, like you’re some ghost come to haunt him.

But then his eyes narrow, a sneer pulling at his lips to reveal the flash of white teeth in the darkened light of the alley, “It’s you,” he hisses, and you are almost surprised that he recognizes you.

You glance to your phone, fingers suddenly twitching. You need to call Shouta, someone–

The moment he realizes your intention, he lunges, a blur of movement. You try to sidestep him but he is fast, blindingly so, and his body collides with yours. He’s all harsh angles, so sharp you could get cut on him if you’re not careful.

You take the brunt of the fall, the wind leaving your body the moment your back hits the pavement with all his weight on you. Your head snaps against the cement and you’re lucky you don’t pass out, not as black stars flutter to life in your vision.

Your phone clatters noisily out of your hand, skidding onto the pavement. You’re certain the screen is at least broken. Still, you force air into your burning body, scramble for your bearings.

You bring your knee up hard into his stomach, using your momentum to shove him enough to get out from beneath him. You twist, crawling towards your phone. Your knees and palms get cut up against the gravel, but you manage to get your phone in hand again.

You scramble to unlock it, to get to Shouta’s contact, messages, anything—

Your ankle is grabbed, lurching you sharply back to him. It scrapes your chin against concrete, making you yelp as your teeth click together. Blood stings to life, slipping down your chin and to the line of your throat.

You grapple with Shigaraki and it feels childish for who he is. Who you’re supposed to be. You’re both just wrestling for the phone in your hand. It feels absurd until you’re on your back again, belly up and vulnerable, and his body is digging down into the soft parts of you.

You growl in frustration as you stretch your arm away from the two of you, as if that will keep your phone from his grasp. You’re kicking futilely, too, desperately flailing and wriggling under his weight.

Frantically, you try to find a way out, your body and mind screaming. Think! You demand desperately, come on—

The line of his neck is by your face, the bend of his shoulder. He’s stretched above you, reaching for your phone. His teeth are bared in effort as you clutch as tightly as you can, covering as much as you can so he can’t get all five of his fingers in it.

You don’t have any of your knives on you, no weapons or tools, but something inside you snaps, some survival instinct that lurches forward, yanking free of its bonds. It’s a violent, twisted thing, ugly and shameless and desperate.

You reach with your free hand to lay fingernails into flesh. You will become your own weapon.

You feel his hiss more than you hear it. You dig in deeper, scrape sharply and roughly, tearing up skin beneath your nails.

And then you sink your teeth into the vulnerable juncture between his neck and his shoulder.

A bark of a laugh ruptures out of him.

It’d be ridiculous if you weren’t so maddened, so full of fear and white hot adrenaline.

You feel half wild, forcing your teeth into the meat of him, harder, deeper—

The warm, copper tang of blood begins to blur into your mouth and you force yourself to stay, to bite harder—

He growls now, though, in pain, in frustration. You can feel his hands clawing at your fingers, trying to force them up so he can get to the phone.

You don’t let go of him, jaw locked, as more blood fills your mouth. You feel part animal, near frantic—

His fingers, strong, dexterous, shove at your wrist and you yelp as it twists dangerously.

“C’mon,” he rasps, “Let go and I won’t break your wrist.”

You kick uselessly, but stubbornly don’t let go.

He makes a sharp movement and you jolt beneath him as vicious, searing pain rips through your wrist, up your arm. Your hand goes limp with the burst of jarring pain.

But you bite down harder, screaming between your clenched teeth, between all the blood in your mouth, and into his shoulder. It’d be disgusting if you weren’t in so much pain, if your brain wasn’t quick-wired to survive, to fight.

The moment your phone is out of your grasp, he wrenches himself away from you. A noise of pain is forced from him as your teeth rip through his flesh, as he tears away from you.

Once your touch is gone, your phone slips to dust between his fingers.

Fuck.

You scramble up, too, spit his blood out from your mouth and at his feet. You’re sure you look insane, all horror and heat, lips dashed with crimson, teeth flashing dangerously when you level him with a glare. You’re sure your eyes are feverish and rosy, the color they bleed into when your Quirk is being used.

It’s strange, though, the way he’s regarding you, like there is something in you to be picked apart. His eyes are garnet, flashing as they fly over you, searching, searching, searching— like you have the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life.

You take a sick pride in the gash at his slender neck, the open wound from your teeth, your strength, your terror.

You’re both a little breathless, as still as predators, as still as prey with your heaving chests. You have your broken wrist, which throbs painfully, cutting through your adrenaline addled mind to warn of your danger, curled into your body protectively.

You should run or shout for help. No phone to call Shouta, to call for anyone. Broken wrist. Facing off with one of the most dangerous and wanted villains. Your odds aren’t good.

But your odds were never good, life never threw you luck. You got by with bared teeth and wit and your sharp-toothed instincts.

You wipe your blood-slick mouth with the back of your good hand and decide you’re not done with him. You lunge for him. He sidesteps, nimble and lean, grabbing your arm to swiftly wrench it behind your back at an odd angle.

You cry out, the pain lancing up your arm, ringing through your broken wrist in a way that damn near makes you sob.

“Should I break your arm, too?” he asks and there is almost glee in his voice as he twists sharply, pulls you into his chest and wrestles you still. The pain makes your vision blurry and wobbly, tears pricking to life.

He is solid behind you, his chest pressed to your back, with your twisted arm between you two. You dig for training or rational thought, but all that’s coming up is your fear and pain. All that’s coming up is the instinct to thrash, to escape.

“Careful,” he hisses in your ear, his grasp on you tight, unforgiving, “Or you’ll break it yourself.”

You don’t heed his warning and the moment you squirm again, fighting and thrashing in his grip, there is a sickening snap that rattles through your arm.

Your cry is piercing, guttural, echoing down the alley. Bouncing off stone.

Shigaraki drops your broken arm, “I warned you,” he scolds, loping around to watch you fall to your knees, to try and bite back sobs and whimpers that are forcing their way out.

“You’ve a lot to learn, don’t you?” he asks, observing you, the tilting of his head reveals the sharp line of his jaw as he gazes down at you.

Still, you try to force yourself up, stand on shaking legs. Your arm is limp at your side, the pain seering, nearly overwhelming.

But you stand.

Shigaraki snorts, half amused, the scar on his lip hitching upwards.

You’re prepared to fight again, when a figure appears in the mouth of the alleway.

“What’s going on over there?” they shout, “We heard screaming.”

It’s police and before you can even open your mouth, Shigaraki is disappearing, melting into the shadows and easing away silently.

He gets away.

Shouta is livid with you. He chews you out the entire time that Recovery Girl heals your broken bones. By the time she’s done, you’re still a little sore and Shouta still isn’t done lecturing you.

He makes you dinner, though. And after falling asleep on his couch, you wake up in his bed by morning.

And there’s the remnants of a dream caught in the back of your mind, thin like cobwebs, translucent and shimmering like glass and gossamer. It slips from you the way water does, the way Shigaraki did– silent and deadly and leaving you with something broken, misplaced.

***

Shouta is harder on you in training lately. You can’t tell if he’s punishing you or trying to teach you a hard lesson. But he’s rougher when he spars with you, he doesn’t hesitate to make it hurt more, to show you that you have to think.

“Your instincts are sharp— you fight dirty when you need to, but don’t lose rational thought in the process.” He tells you after he’s knocked your feet cleanly from beneath you and you’re staring, dizzy and winded, up at the ceiling. “It could be the difference between life or death.”

And then his hand is being thrust into your vision, large and scarred and strong. You blow your hair from your face and reach up to take his offered hand. It’s warm. Rough. He pulls you up to your feet easily.

For a moment, your breath is caught in your throat and you’re looking up at him through your lashes. His hand is still wrapped over yours, dwarfs it completely. You think he even pauses, glances down at you like this, tousled, with your chest rising and falling.

He drops your hand, “Let’s go again,” he says, giving you space. You let loose a breath, watch him as he turns from you, as he puts distance between you two.

He kicks your ass. Again and again and again. You’re well acquainted with the floor at this point. Your body is littered in bruises. You’re aching and exhausted and can hardly think straight. Your legs shake with effort when you whine, “Can’t we be done?”

“No,” is his clipped response as he settles into another loose fighting stance.

“Shouta, I’m tired–”

“Is that what you’ll say to villains when you don’t want to fight anymore?” he asks, just before he moves, a flash of darkness, swift and sure. You barely dodge his fist, the second strike to your stomach makes you twist away, trying to keep on the balls of your feet. Nimble, quick.

You huff, “Yeah, I said that to Shigaraki and he let me go.”

You don’t catch the quirking of his lips in slight amusement, not as you leap to latch your legs around his waist, hooking your arms around his neck to pull and throw all your momentum into flipping him onto his back, onto the ground.

He grunts as you exclaim in victory, “Hah!”

It’s short lived, though, because the moment the two of you are on the floor, he’s grappling with you, twisting until he’s got you under him.

His knee digs into your stomach to keep you down. You wheeze, struggling, worming a hand to fist in his hair and pull in some petty attempt at getting out.

Shouta makes an irritated noise, before reaching around to seize your wrist, fingers digging into a pressure point to make you yelp and let go.

You thrash, just as he wrestles your arms down onto the ground, straddling your hips. Pinned.

You groan in frustration, giving up, kicking childishly as you say, “Let me go.”

“You’re a brat,” he responds, squeezing your wrists, “And no. Figure it out. I’ve taught you how to get out of this. Think, instead of pulling my hair like a child.”

You push against the hold he has on your wrists, trying to dislodge him. But his weight on you is too strong, too heavy.

“Shouta–” you whine.

“Figure it out and we’ll be done.” he responds, laying his weight into you more.

You suck in a breath, forcing yourself to look up at him, the lines of his shoulders. His arm. Sluggishly, your mind works something out.

You shove your hips up into a bridge, sending him forward, destabilizing him just as you slide your arms down against the floor to break his hold. You latch tight to his middle. Tight so there’s no room, tight so he has to focus on balancing himself with your weight. Your temple digs into his chest, just as you trap his arm.

You twist, he goes rolling onto his shoulder without the support of his arm. You shove him onto his back.

Then you’re seated atop him, chest heaving, hands at his throat, one twisting his face away threateningly.

He smiles finally, small, but enough to have you easing up.

“Good,” he says, voice low, and the praise turns warm inside of you, gooey. He taps your thigh in request to be let up.

You ease off him, rolling onto your back again. Tired. Your whole body feels like it’s throbbing, like it’s all one tender bruise. You sprawl out on the floor.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, easing up and once more offering his hands to help you up. Reluctantly, you take them, but you make him do most of the work in pulling you up to your feet. He huffs at your dramatics, especially as you go limp, forcing him to take your weight. You slump against his chest, letting your knees give out so he has to hold you up.

“Carry me,” you whine and he snorts.

“No,” he says but there’s something amused in his tone, maybe fond, “I’m going to let you go and you’re going to fall.”

“No you won’t.” you respond, perhaps a little too arrogantly, because he does let you go a moment, just to scare you. You yelp, but before you can drop, he has you again, strong arms hoisting you back up.

And he laughs, low and soft, as you claw at his shirt, as he forces you back up onto your feet.

You could almost feel the sound rumble inside his broad chest and it makes you want to cling to him. It makes you want to be close, to be held tight in his arms. Something about it makes you desperate for his touch, for his smile, for his praise.

You feel young, holding him like this, looking up at him with wide eyes. You feel small and vulnerable.

But he rights you and you finally force yourself to stand. He lets you go. You wish he wouldn’t.

“I’m showering first,” you declare, reaching for your water bottle, heading for the door of the training room.

“You have your own shower, you know.” he responds dryly, but you shoot him a frown over your shoulder and he rolls his eyes. It’s half-hearted. He doesn’t fight you on this more. No, you think he likes having you around.

For entertainment, in the least.

And that’s how most of your evenings go– there’s a routine in them that is comforting. It’s yours and his. You two also patrol together, sometimes eat late dinners and become night owls. Sometimes you catch lunch with him and you sit perched on the corner of his desk until his students trickle back into his classroom.

They’ve come to like you, mostly because you give their teacher a hard time. Your banter with him amuses them.

And maybe there’s something about him when you’re around, a little more open. Gentler. Perhaps more agreeable.

Sometimes you drop by to disrupt his class momentarily. His students try to take advantage of it, try to get you to hang around longer. Shouta always ushers you out, though.

You don’t see Shigaraki again, not for a few more weeks. But strangely, when you’re out on your own, you look for him. Sometimes you think he might round a corner, in that black hoodie. With red sneakers. Sometimes you think you’ll just turn and see his eyes, so ruby, catching yours.

You’re not scared of him. You’re not looking over your shoulder like you’re frightened he’ll be there, he’s not some monster in the dark. Just an itch you can’t scratch, an unanswered question. You have a curiosity for him that you can’t shake.

What’s someone so young doing with so much spite he wants to tear the world apart with it?

So you let yourself look for him when you’re all alone. When you’re on patrol with Shouta.

But time goes on and your life feels normal, almost simple. Stable in a way you have never known. It almost makes you apprehensive.

A change finally happens in the form of a student following Shouta into the training room one afternoon. His hair is a messy tuft of indigo, his eyes lidded, the same shade of purple. He’s lean, though relaxed. He almost looks as exhausted as Shouta. There’s something a little comical about it, the two of them, tired-looking and fixing you with similar stares.

“This is Shinsou Hitoshi,” Shouta introduces, “He’s a student from the General Department who I have agreed to train. He may eventually shadow us on patrols but will not be able to use his Quirk, since he doesn’t have his provisional license yet.”

And then Shouta gives your name as an introduction, “She’s my,” and there’s a fraction of a pause, a minute debate in his mind before saying, “Partner. You’ll be training with her most often.”

I’m your sidekick, you think, but you don’t dare say it. Something inside you twists, warms slightly.

You ask about Shinsou’s Quirk, who seems reluctant at first to say it and once he does, once he tells you that he can brainwash people, you understand why. That is a Quirk that you’re sure people judged him over. You’re certain that society has not been kind to a Quirk like that. You can practically hear their sneers, their whispers.

But when you don’t give any adverse reaction, he seems to loosen up a little. Even more when you inform him you have another Quirk that nullifies others.

Shouta doesn’t waste time and he throws the poor kid into training with the two of you. And just like that, it then becomes the three of you. Shinsou joins each of your training sessions after school. You end up sharing snacks with him during small breaks, trail mix and granola bars. You bond over how stern Shouta can be. He snorts at your teasing.

He’s a good kid.

You think even Shouta is pleased, you think there’s something fond in him, when it’s just the three of you. You know he loves his students, despite seeming so aloof and guarded, but he seems more open in these moments. He laughs a little easier, though it’s still rare, but the sound is sweet to your ears. You love having someone to bond with, to roll your eyes to when Shouta is being a hard ass, to torment, too.

Plus, it’s not so bad to win more sparring sessions finally, even if it’s a little cheap since Shinsou is only fifteen. Still a student, still training. You’ve never officially beaten Shouta, just gotten the upper hand for a while. Still, you take what you can get with him.

You always take what you can get with Shouta.

But this part of your life, when you’re busy, when you spend your afternoons with Shouta and Shinsou and your evenings patrolling, are peaceful. Whole and warm and simple. They’re golden in your memory, almost sweet, like the halcyon rays of sun before the hungry, hurting storm clouds roll in.

You just wish you hadn’t needed to go and ruin it.

You wish you could even say that you take it all back, everything that happened after this time, wish you could say you regret it.

But you don’t and maybe that’s the worst part of it all.

***

The next time Tomura sees you, it is mid-morning. There is a chill in the air, a bite of the cold to come. The sun is out, though, bright and casting you in its brilliance. You’re not on patrol. You’re just walking, with your hands tucked into your coat pockets, all alone.

The city’s quiet bustle is enough for him to blend in, but not enough to bother him. He needs to go to the store to steal food again. He and the rest of the League are practically homeless. Foodless. Penniless. They’re all growing thin and wane and snappish.

They’re hungry– for opportunity, for more than this society will allow.

He has no business watching you from afar, not when he still needs food. Not when he could be spending his time and energy elsewhere. As it stands, he has no idea what he’s doing when he begins to trail after you.

You’re oblivious, brows furrowed lightly on your otherwise peaceful resting face. You dip your chin, burrow down into the warmth of your scarf against the wind that picks up. Tomura shivers. His hands are near icy despite the partial gloves he’s wearing to keep himself from decaying anything.

He shouldn’t but he follows as you walk into a nearby park. Every step towards you is another further from the store, further than what he should be doing.

He’s careful, keeps his steps even and sure, far enough away so that you don’t notice him. Is he stalking? Is that what this is?

His stomach growls. His teeth chatter as his body wracks with another shiver.

You look so warm, so sweetly oblivious.

He feels like an animal, watching as you settle onto a park bench. The tree that arcs above your head is filled with sun kissed leaves beginning to melt into shades of yellow and orange, little dashes of red. It casts playful shadows over you, scattering you in it’s light and dark. You’re like a painting, lively and entrancing, this slice of something beautiful and surreal. Too bright and vivid for the real world.

He feels himself scowl.

What does someone like him know about beauty, anyways?

He traces the curve of your cheek with his eyes, the gentle lines of your lips. The arc of your lashes. The way the light makes your eyes glimmer and he thinks of you in the dark with him, with your eyes blazing fuchsia, all sharp and defiant.

(He’d thought you were beautiful then, too, the same way catastrophes are. The chaos of you is sweet to him.)

He watches you pull out a phone– shiny and new– and smile at the screen for a moment. Just a small tilting of your lips, something he bares his teeth at.

Something he’s seen in his dreams.

He hates you, he tries to tell himself, he hates you and he wants to tear you apart. He wants to wipe that smile from your face. He thinks of your scream– thinks of you beneath him, livid and thrashing.

He thinks of your teeth in his skin.

Tomura watches you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear delicately.

He thinks of you in his dreams, with your palm up and offered to him. Your fingers are gentle when they press against his, when you compare your hands to his. You are caught in his misty dreams, tucked away in a place of his mind he wishes he could rip out.

He stands, rooted in place, observing you.

His stomach cramps with hunger again, desperate and aching. Another painful shiver wracks through his body.

He wants to put his cold hands on you, leech the warmth from your body. He wants to sink his teeth into your skin.

Your phone gets tucked away and you pick your eyes up suddenly. He isn’t expecting it, but as if you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and blazing, your eyes cut to his.

He watches your face, the way your mouth falls open in slight shock, the rounding out of your eyes. But then all that gentleness sharpens– your brows furrow, your lips pull back to reveal teeth. You raise your hackles.

He doesn’t know why, but he smiles.

The sickle curve of his lips slices across his features and you jolt into standing.

He arches a brow, challenging.

You glance around the citizens milling about, the peacefulness of this park. You glance at the phone in your hand, then at him.

He could almost laugh because he watches you try to decide what to do– you’re too expressive, he wants to mock. It’s all written right there on your face. You’re too inexperienced, too, unsure how to handle situations without your handler to guide you. Are you going to cause a scene? Would you endanger a civilian by rushing for him now? Going to call for help?

What’s the heroic thing to do?

In your indecision, Tomura allows himself to turn away and it is supposed to be offensive to you. You’re not much of a threat to him, not when you can’t decide what to do. Not when all you know how to do is bite and kick like a child.

He heads back to the store. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that you’re following him. That’s fine. He’s gotten away easily each time he’s encountered you and this time will be no different.

When he walks into the store, he’s blasted with warmth finally, the artificial, stale kind. But he’ll take what he can get. He notices that you follow him but surprisingly, you stay outside. He can see your form by the shop windows.

He steals what he needs to; quick, small foods that he can shove into pockets. He tries to get as much as possible. In the least, so he can share with Toga. He doesn’t care about her in any substantial or friendly way, but he cares less for the likes of Dabi or Spinner.

(Besides, there’s an unspoken agreement between all of them that Toga eats before them. Maybe it’s because she’s a kid, he doesn’t care.)

And when he exits, you’re right outside– on the phone, though, and it almost seems normal. You cooly follow after him, lest you frighten the poor citizens around you. He thinks he can hear you quietly arguing on the phone with someone.

He isn’t foolish enough to lead you to where he’s going, so he leads you elsewhere. Down a few alleyways, some twists and turns. When he gets tired of your stalking, he finally stops, looks over his shoulder at you.

“Made up your mind yet?” he asks and he can faintly hear the tinny, faraway voice on your phone shouting at you to do not engage, do you hear me?

Your name is said over the phone when you don’t respond.

That piece of information settles into him for a moment. He wished he’d never heard it, never learned your name.

You have the audacity to end the call you’re on. The voice scolding you now gone, forcing the silence of the alleyway to stretch between you two. He knows he needs to get away soon, before all your reinforcements arrive.

He isn’t surprised when you rush for him with a vengeance. He does a lot of sidestepping, quick dodging from your swift attacks.

He feels as if you’ve gotten faster, keener.

You land a succession of jabs– they’re not particularly hard or debilitating, but it takes him a moment to right himself. However, when you dance away from him, you hold something up–

It’s one of the granola bars he’d stolen, one from his pocket. You blink at it. Then at him.

At the same moment that you realize he’d only stolen food, he realizes that you’re an excellent pickpocket. He narrows his eyes at you.

An expression flickers over your face. A wince, almost. He doesn’t understand why.

You toss the granola bar back at him. He catches it quick, reflexively keeping his pinky lifted away, despite his gloves.

And you don’t rush at him again. You frown.

He bares his teeth to hiss something at you– is this your idea of kindness? Is this your idea of being a hero? Being oh so benevolent to the starving villain? Do you think that’s going to change him?

The sound of feet on pavement growing near makes him pause his suddenly violent need to teach you a lesson. He shouldn’t waste time with you. He’s already wasted too much.

You don’t follow him when he finally turns to leave, to slip away again. You stare after him, he can feel your eyes pressed between his shoulder blades. He disappears and no one follows him. It feels strange, he feels cagey and pent up. He tears at the skin of his neck with his fingers, opening cuts, lashing out on himself in frustration.

He hates you, he seethes, scratching furiously, he wishes he could destroy you.

However, what he won’t find out until he’s returned to the runned down place they’re pretending to call homebase for awhile, is that you also swiped his phone. Just a burner phone. There’s nothing on it that will aid you in your search for him. He’s too careful. But it’s annoying nonetheless since he needs to get his hands on another one.

More than that, it offers him another piece to the puzzle of you that he did not ask for.

You’re a thief, he realizes. Or perhaps were one, at some point.

And though you’ve only taken his phone, it feels as if you’ve stolen something else from him, too, just left him with this new facet of you.

This new piece of you that he didn’t ask for, that he wishes he could stop thinking about.

You had let Shigaraki get away.

And when Shouta had gotten to you, eyes flying over you wildly to make sure you were okay this time, you’d had a pained expression on your face.

He’d been about to scold you again, really lay into you for directly disobeying him and hanging up on him.

But you’d reached into your pocket and held up a cellphone, old, somewhat outdated. “I stole his phone,” you’d told him, but there had been a wobble to your voice. Something he caught immediately.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he’d asked, coming around to face you, to place two, large hands on your shoulders.

You had swallowed hard.

“He just wanted food.”

“What?” Shouta had asked, ducking his head down in an attempt to force you to meet his eyes. You’d felt like a child again beneath his gaze, beneath those warm, heavy hands.

You had blinked, tried to force away the feelings rising in you like a swelling bruise. You’d felt tender, suddenly fragile and aching.

“He’d stolen food. Just food.” you had answered. And Shouta had understood then, drawing in a slow breath.

You hadn’t been expecting it, but he’d pulled you into a hug then, pulled you right into his broad chest. His arms had gone around you, slow but tight, broad palm moving against your back soothingly.

You’d ducked your head, let yourself fall into his comfort, his safety. You’d sniffled, tried not to suddenly burst into tears– because of Shigaraki or because Shouta had treated you so gently in that moment, you hadn’t known why.

Only that Shouta had said, “Let’s go home,” and you had.

And he’d been quiet with you the rest of the day, soothing and coaxing, his voice a soft rumble.

You’d fallen asleep against his shoulder that night, feeling as if there was something squirming in your heart. Something you were too scared to name.

But you’d dreamt of him again, of his hungry, scarlet eyes and wiry frame. Of the way he’d watched you, envious of your warmth.

And not for the first time, you’d wondered about him, wondered why it was you, now, tucked away in the world of heroes, while he slipped away into the underbelly, hiding from a world that wouldn’t accept him.

A world that wouldn’t feed him, the same one you’d been pulled from, just as desperate, with stolen food stuffed into your bloated pockets, and so much bitterness you could almost taste it between your teeth.

***

Tomura doesn’t know what he’s doing as he stares at the library computer with your name typed into the search bar. He tells himself he’s just curious. He just wants to see what he can find on you for his next encounter with you.

But there isn’t much known about you, just a small town news article about your debut as a hero, as Eraserhead’s sidekick. The article says remarkably little; your Quirk cancels out other Quirks with a touch. You show a lot of promise to become a hero that works behind the scene, like Eraserhead. It suggests that perhaps you’ll even follow in your mentor’s shoes and become a teacher at UA eventually.

There’s a photo of you; it’s while you’re moving, presumably fighting, because your smile is sharp edged and victorious. Your hair is a dramatic splash behind you, mussed with battle. There’s a scrape on your cheek. You look every bit like one of their newly sculpted heroes.

Tomura scratches at his neck, eyeing your face; the one that has come to haunt him. That has made him desperate enough to search your name, search for anything about you.

You smile back at him, like you’ve won something.

He growls in irritation, standing from the computer and stalking out.

He tells himself his little interest in you is harmless, something that he can drop whenever he wants. It’s not a problem.

But it’s the same way he tells himself that he’s not stalking you when he watches you through the window of a cafe or ends up discovering what store you favor and what path you like to take through the park when you aren’t patrolling.

It’s not stalking when he even figures out your usual patrol schedule or how you take to the roofs to watch the world from above like a bird.

It’s harmless, he tells himself, harmless in the same way hungry dogs are– whining and crying and begging until they decide to bite.

***

There is a distinct shift the next time you encounter Shigaraki.

It is often easy to forget that villains are human. Many heroes do it– it’s probably easier that way for them. It allows them to focus, to not feel remorse if they hit a little too hard. They can forget if they’re a little too rough.

Or why they are the way they are. Everyone likes to condemn the thief, but not wonder why they were stealing. It’s easier that way, when everything is clear and cut cleanly between good and bad.

You’d steal, too, if you were hungry, you’d told Shouta, morals are a privilege– you can have them when you’re fed.

So it’s easy for you, horribly easy, to see villains as people, to not see them as singularly evil but a culmination of their tragedies.

Monsters are made, not born, and everyone likes to forget who is making them.

Shouta used to tell you that it wasn’t a fault of yours, to see people as people, no matter how terrible. He thought it was a strength, that it was admirable. Every hero should do it, perhaps it would teach them something.

But you don’t think the strangely playful tone of your next encounter (or the next or the next or the next) with Shigaraki is what he was referring to. The trouble with seeing him as just a person, is that then he seems like just a man around your age, then. You forget who he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to have done, when you’re trading quips and catching hits.

You think he allows you to spot him, since no other hero has had nearly the amount of encounters that you’ve had with him. Or maybe he’s following you. The thought crosses your mind and it should frighten you– you should mention it to Shouta. Especially since it almost seems like you’re crying wolf at this point.

For a while you don’t call for reinforcements as quickly as you should. Maybe you let him get away each time, you don’t fight as hard as you could. And you don’t think he’s fighting as viciously, either. He’s not trying to kill you. You’re not trying to capture him.

You don’t play nice, though. He’s not gentle with you. You’re not particularly careful with him, either. But it’s exciting, the rush of adrenaline, the sharp lilt of his smile to counter the mischievous glint of your eyes. It feels like an unspoken game of cat and mouse, following each other around until you both collide like reckless stars.

You separate sharply, too, all of it brutal– the coming together, the falling apart.

You both speak the same language, you think, something about the violence of it all, the fight of it all that’s familiar and knowing. Like there was never any choice in your lives, like it always meant to be spitting out blood and getting back up.

Eventually, you stop calling for reinforcements at all. At some point, you stop telling Shouta of your encounters.

You don’t linger on it, don’t dare contemplate it, lest guilt latches onto you, weighs you down, drags you into crawling. You feign some foolish form of ignorance, like you don’t know what’s happening during these encounters. You’re still fighting, aren’t you? It’s not like you’re helping him in any capacity.

You pretend not to notice the thread between you and Shigaraki that you’re pulling on, pretend not to notice the way it’s tethering you to him. You pretend it’s not going to eventually suffocate, that it’s not dangerous.

(But some days you have a hard time looking at Shouta, especially after everything he’s done for you, everything he does for you–)

Your teeth click together when your back is slammed against the drywall of an abandoned store. It cracks beneath your weight slightly, just as Shigaraki’s forearm bares down hard against your throat.

You gasp and wretch for breath, your toes barely on the ground as he keeps you pinned with his arm. You claw at him, fingernails digging into flesh.

He leers closer, “You don’t learn lessons, do you?”

He’s smiling, though, regarding you in amusement as you squirm and struggle.

You manage to knee him in the stomach, enough for him to drop you, so you can suck in large lungfuls of air.

If you were really fighting to hurt him, fighting to win, you’d kick him while he’s doubled over, move fast so he can’t get back up. But it’s more fun when it’s close– like little kids wrestling, you feel young and dumb with him. You feel reckless in the same way you did as a teenager, playing chicken near the train tracks with a bunch of other lost kids, when you used to dare each other to walk on the edge of high bridges and buildings. Everything was cut to close.

You had nothing then, so there was nothing to lose.

You try to tackle him instead, sending you both rolling onto the floor filled with debris– you hiss in pain as your palm catches on a spare shard of glass. Your palm opens with hot blood, runs rivulets down your wrist.

But you’re too busy wrestling with Shigaraki, too busy trying to get the upper hand to notice much.

There is a strange moment, though, when you end up atop him, straddling his stomach. A beat where you’re both breathing hard, staring at each other.

His hair is spread out around his head, like a halo of silver. It’s getting longer, you think, which is a dumb thing to notice about him.

He narrows his eyes at you, just as he catches your wrist before you can strike him. It’s the hand streaked with blood.

Reflexively, he holds a finger away from your wrist.

But then he stares at it, at his hand now slick with your blood, wrapped around your wrist. His fingers dig into your pulse, like he’s looking for your heartbeat.

Then, almost curiously, his last finger comes down to join the others against your skin.

Nothing happens. He knows nothing will happen and yet, each time he’s able, he seems to try again and again.

(You don’t think he actually wants his Quirk to work on you, only that he can’t fathom otherwise, so he has to try and prove himself wrong–)

He squeezes tighter, before those ruby eyes flick back to your face.

“Funny, I was always told I was a fast learner,” you finally answer him.

It takes him a moment, a beat where he watches you and you become aware of your position– of him, warm and lean beneath you. Of his hand, lithe and large, still wrapped around your wrist. Something inside of you shivers, makes your cheeks flush hot and prickly.

He snorts then, but he doesn’t seem very amused anymore, before shoving you off of him.

“You’re naive then,” he sneers, standing easily, apparently done with you.

Maybe you are, you think, standing now, too. You clutch at your bleeding hand, wrap your own fingers around your wrist now to cradle it to your body.

You try not to think of his touch.

He turns his back on you, evidently to leave, which makes you bristle. You don’t think, you just let that irritation bubble and fizz over and out of you, so that you rush for him again. You wrap your arms around his neck, use your momentum to flip him over again, onto his back. And this time, you use all of that training that Shouta has beat into you and you grapple with him seriously this time.

But he manages to catch your arm, force you onto your stomach, with it wretched behind your back. His other hand shoves your face into the ground. Even now, you can feel only four fingers on your head.

“I’ll teach you, if that’s what you want,” he snarls and you feel panic flood your veins, feel the white heat of it, the shaking that overcomes you. You thrash, hard, but he only shoves your cheek down harder, “You naive, stupid little girl–”.

You cry out– it’s a smaller noise than you’d like to admit.

And then he’s gone. All of that weight and pressure leaves so swiftly that it almost gives you whiplash– too sharp of a contrast. Even his leaving is brutal, somehow.

He has disappeared by the time you’ve picked yourself up from off the floor.

It’s raining, cold and hard, when you walk back to UA.

You lie to Shouta for the first time that night– a real, spoken lie, rather than just omitted truth.

You tell him you cut your hand cooking earlier, not wrestling with Shigaraki Tomura in hollowed out buildings, where the prying eyes of society can’t touch you.

You feel sick, when he rewraps the bandage around your palm. He’s careful with you, gentle in a way that Shigaraki isn’t.

You don’t sleep that night.

You just keep thinking about the look in his eyes, when he’d dropped that final finger against your pulse, and the concern in Shouta’s voice, when he’d asked what had happened to your palm.

Shouta had held your wrist, too, fingers against your heartbeat.

But it hadn’t beat the same and you can’t stomach looking in his eyes for the rest of the night.

***

Tomura dreams of you in soft light now, the red heat of morning, maybe the lullaby violet of evening.

He hears that little cry of yours– but now it’s sweeter, more desperate.

He hates you, he thinks, even in his dreams, all warbly and tender, as he presses two of his fingers between your plush lips. He presses them down against your tongue and you whine, turn wide eyes on him–

You’re so eager and soft in these dreams, which feels ridiculous for all your sharpness. He doesn’t know you as compliant or sweet like this, and his mind feels traitorous for imagining it. You wouldn’t take this lying down, wouldn’t take his fingers in your mouth, or let him fall into the crux of your body.

You’re so vivid, so warm and alive to all his cloying decay and death.

He wants to hurt you, he tries to convince himself, but he never does in these dreams. He can never make himself, not when you’re laid out beneath him, offered to him like sacrifice, slick and too-warm.

He wakes aching and livid. Doesn’t rest until he puts his hands on himself, touches and strokes and catches his groans behind his teeth– it’s a broken, frustrated sound, rattling around in the cage of his chest.

He thinks of you spread out beneath him, above him with your hair tickling his collar bones. He thinks of his hands on you, spread wide, all five of his fingers grabbing and squeezing and possessing you.

He thinks of that stupid little cry you’d given him, the one now that haunts him–

He doesn’t feel shameful when his hands end up sticky and he’s bitten his lip so hard it’s started to bleed to keep back a whine, doesn’t feel shame when he thinks of you, a little hero, welcoming the likes of him into your body.

It’s not shame, he thinks, with his chest rising and falling and the sweat cooling on his skin, it’s not shame just–

Irritation. Infatuation. Infection.

You’re a fucking disease, he decides, and he’s blistering with you, sick with you.

He wants to vomit you up, purge you of his body and mind.

But he can’t, so maybe the thought of you will just fester and rot inside of him.

Maybe he’ll just wander around this world, feverish and longing, like an open wound, like a walking corpse.

***

Shouta usually keeps a careful distance between the two of you. He isn’t afraid to touch you– he can’t be, as your mentor, as someone who has trained you and taken care of you. His hands know correcting; they have laid flat against your back to correct posture, or curved along your shoulder to guide you, they have molded you and shaped you. They have also stitched you up and soothed you, swept blood from your skin, pressed ice to inflammation.

But those touches have always remained somewhat professional, somewhat formal. Clinical, at times. Almost fatherly.

Even when he’d needed to cut away your hero suit to get at a wound you’d received while patrolling. Even when you’re sprawled on his bathroom floor, half bare for his eyes to assess– there has always been a careful distance between you two.

But lately, that distance dwindles, slips away like thread between your fingers.

The other night, he’d tucked a strand of your hair from your face.

Your legs now tangle with his when you both occupy opposite ends of the couch.

He lays his hand on the small of your back as you walk beside him. He ducks his head low for you, so that you can speak into his ear and he can murmur back to you.

But it’s a careful dance, one that you’re unsure of. He remains distant with you around others, especially his class. Especially Shinsou. You suppose you can’t blame him when students like Kaminari start rumors that you’re his teacher’s girlfriend.

Shouta always corrects him, grits out in a low voice that you are not his girlfriend and some part of you begs to ask, would it be so bad if I was?

Especially when you sleep in his bed. In his clothes. When you occupy some unnamed space in his life that seems to only be growing.

You suppose you don’t know a lot about relationships– you’ve never had one. There wasn’t much time to find love when you were just trying to find something to eat, when you were just trying to find somewhere safe and warm to sleep for the night. And now, with Shouta, you feel like you’re grasping at something you can’t quite reach.

You can’t decide if he knows what he’s doing or not, you can’t decide if the shift in your relationship is intentional on his part or not.

But you’re nothing if not curious, maybe a little too desperate for even the potential of his love. You’re so eager for it that it almost hurts, that you’d take nearly anything. And the idea of his rejection is a bitter weight that lies atop your chest.

(Looking back, you think this could’ve been the point of no return. This could’ve been your damned moment, the precipice of your fall. Maybe if the night had gone differently, if you hadn’t been such a child–)

There is an evening when Shouta stumbles home, with a gash ripped across his chest, near soaking wet with the icy rain that has just begun outside. He’d gone to work alone, working on an undercover mission that you know little about. Such is the nature of Shouta’s hero work, sometimes.

The Hero Commission expects you to follow in his footsteps. One day it will be you with secrets, slipping through shadows, moving through the underground world of the city. You know it well already, was born and reared down there, so it makes sense that you would return to it one day. But now in the form of a hero, some force to be reckoned with.

But looking at him now, bloody and exhausted and freezing, you wonder why everyone ever thought there’s glory in hero work.

You rush to him, Kyoko being dumped from your lap in the process, rushing off because of the commotion.

“I’m fine,” Shouta says quickly, the moment he sees the concern on your face. “It’s not that deep.”

Still, he looks wane. He looks tired. He looks cold.

You usher him in and he lets you. It’s your turn now to get the medical supplies, to grab a rag and have him rest against the bathroom counter.

“I can do it,” he tells you when you gently reach to begin cleaning up the wound, but you shake your head.

You don’t know why, but you want to prove you can care for him, too. You want to prove you’re like him, maybe, that you’re an adult with careful hands.

“Let me,” you reply, perhaps quieter, more tentative than you intended.

And he does.

You gently pry away his hero suit from the wound. Shouta only hisses quietly through his teeth at the pull, but otherwise remains still for you. He was right, it isn’t a deep wound, you can see that now. Just a long, drawn out graze that was just deep enough to bleed.

It’s over his heart and your hands flutter there, to and fro, gentle with him.

You can feel him watching you, dark eyes heavy and soft on your face. You look up through your lashes at him, just for a moment, and you feel suddenly nervous, suddenly small standing in the shadow of his large frame. In the shadow of his eyes.

You focus on cleaning the cut on his chest, listening to the way his breath stutters when it stings. You focus on bandaging him up, making your hands busy, watching as the red pricks through the white cloth.

“What happened?” you ask and your voice is hushed in the small bathroom. You don’t dare look up at him again.

“Nothing terrible,” is his short answer and you know he can’t tell you much about the mission, or what happens on these nights when he’s all alone. You can’t help but feel somewhat excluded, though, like you’re only a part of fragments of his life. Still, like there’s a distance he holds you at, so impossibly careful.

You don’t want to be careful anymore.

You want him like this, near and warm and beneath your hands.

You don’t know why you say it and the moment you blur it out, your cheeks flare into warmth, “I don’t like when you go out alone.”

The corner of his lips tick upward in amusement. He reaches up, nudges your chin with his knuckle gently, almost playfully, “Now you know how I feel.”

His voice is low, rough and warm, like the crackling of a smoldering hearth. Soft thunder to lull you to sleep.

You pick your eyes up finally, peer up into his face.

“How you feel?” you ask, voice just barely above a whisper.

He lets his knuckle brush lightly against your jaw, slow, smooth strokes as his features soften up, as his dark eyes flicker in the low light of the bathroom.

“Hm,” he hums softly, “How I feel.”

He tucks a strand of your hair away from your face delicately– you’ve never been treated so gently than when Shouta is touching you like this. Like you’re spun glass, something lovely in the palm of his rough, broad hand.

“Thank you for patching me up,” he murmurs then, his voice just a soft rasp.

And you think he’s going to pull away again, he’s going to ease away from you and you–

You feel your heart splinter, you feel the childish urge to latch on tight and not let go of him. You don’t want the distance, you don’t want to watch his features slide back into stoniness. You want to be his– oh God do you want to be his.

And you don’t want to be careful anymore, not when the risk is worth so much reward.

You press up onto the tips of your toes, let your stomach barely touch the hard lines of his, lean into his orbit carefully. Everything feels as if it could shatter at any moment.

He freezes beneath your hands.

You tilt your lips up in offering, parted soft, parted sweet.

And he let’s you–

He lets you lean in the rest of the way, press your warm lips to his. It’s a tentative kiss, almost unsure, like you’ve never done it before (you have but– but it’s never been like this). You’re lamb soft and unsure, moldable.

He kisses back.

You can feel his stubble scrape against your upper lip, can feel the exhale he gives against your cheek. The way you melt, silken and bending to what he wants of you.

His hand is large, chilled against your cheek.

You try to bite back a noise, a small thing that he ends up swallowing, as you eagerly push towards him. But that slight roughness, that desperation, makes him pull away suddenly.

His hands come down on your shoulders, holding you away, holding you at that distance and you–

“Shouta,” you breathe, almost whine.

But you watch as the walls rise, watch as all that softness slips from him, reveals only cold stone. “No,” he says, firm but gentle for you, “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that–”

You feel heat rise up, the shameful, bitter, angry kind. You feel it swell inside of you, sickly and horrible and vicious.

Your lip wobbles suddenly.

“What do you mean?” you hiss quietly, frustrated with the sudden sting of tears that you refuse to let fall.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” he says again, stoic and calm in the face of all your furious shame and anger and it just–

It makes you livid.

“Why not?” you ask, sharp, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice, “Y-You wanted to!”

When he’s silent, your eyes turn almost pleading, chest heaving. Your voice is small and uncertain when you ask, “Didn’t you?”

Your throat feels tight and choked, a lump forming there that hurts. One you can’t swallow down, not when you feel like your heart is on the outside of your body, like you’ve got all the most vulnerable parts of you bare and exposed.

Shouta exhales hard, squeezes your shoulder and you can tell he’s warring with himself. You can tell he wants to comfort you, assure you otherwise but he can’t, shouldn’t.

“It’s not that,” Shouta says, soft now, “It’s not that. It’s just inappropriate–”

“I’m not a child!” you snap and the tears finally break over the line of your lashes as if to contradict you, falling hot and angry against your flushed cheeks.

“I’m your mentor.” Shouta responds, almost soothingly, almost like he’s trying to placate you. Especially when he reaches out, goes to brush a tear from your cheek as if he isn’t the one who caused it.

You jerk away from him, waving away his hand, “Don’t–” you say, voice breaking, “Don’t do that.”

Shouta swallows, “I’m sorry,” he says again and you can tell he means it, feels like he almost means he’s sorry for more than just this. Like he’s sorry for not giving in, sorry he won’t let himself have what you’ve offered.

You have to look away from him, have to look away from his concern and defeated shoulders. More tears slip down your cheeks, quick and furious, and you wipe at them with the heel of your hand.

You want to say something– you want to scream or shout or fight him. You want to cry. You want to throw a tantrum, you realize, with all of that prickly embarrassment and knife sharp rejection gutting you seamlessly. You want to throw it up at his feet to see what he’s done and how bad this hurts–

But all you do swallow it all down, it goes down like needles, like splintered glass to tear up your pink insides somewhere.

“I-I’m going to go,” you say instead and you turn away from him. Turn to leave the bathroom, to shove your shoes and coat on despite his gentle protests.

Shouta catches your wrist in your flurry of movement and you have to keep back your sob behind clenched teeth.

“It’s raining, you’re just going to your apartment, right?” he asks, still worrying about you, still trying to care for you and it makes you see red.

“Yeah,” you lie, lurching out of his grip, ripping your hand from him, and finally wrenching open the door only to slam it shut behind you.

You don’t go back to your own apartment.

You go out into the night, into the freezing rain, which comes down in sharp, stinging pelts. Feels good against your overheated cheeks, though, almost feels good with your pounding head, like it’s icing your bruised and tender spots for a moment.

It soaks you quickly and down to the bone and eventually all that soothing chill becomes icy cold, seeps beneath your jacket, burrows down into your body that aches with a sudden loneliness.

At first, you don’t know where you’re walking to, aimless as the rain slants against you. The streetlights are like lanterns in this weather, glowing fuzzy and all alone in the streets save for the occasional car.

When you get into a busier part of the city, anyone who is walking has an umbrella, huddles beneath it, trying to keep their hands warm. A couple walks past you, huddled together and giggling, their breaths puffing out in front of them in this cold.

You wipe at your eyes, turn away so that no one sees the way you try to keep your face from crumpling.

You keep walking and walking and walking until you realize you’ve carried yourself to a part of the city you used to frequent; before Shouta, before becoming a hero, when you were nothing but a thief, some scavenger that society would rather not have.

It’s filled with abandoned warehouses and rundown drug stores, a seedy motel and dilapidated apartment complexes. It’s removed from the eyes of the main city, so they don’t have to look at the orphans and beggars.

But it’s familiar to you.

You wish you could say it still feels like coming home but it isn’t home anymore– no, home is Shouta’s bed, and the couch you spend evenings on with him while he grades papers. It’s the window in the kitchen, right above the sink. It’s training rooms and the walk from your apartment to his. it’s him and his stupid cats and violet-haired kid.

You bite back a groan, maybe another sob. Your teeth are chattering violently now with the freezing rain, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if you’re trying to hold all of that heartache on the inside of your body.

Even in all your frustration, though, you force yourself to glance around, to peer through the rain at your surroundings. It’s second nature at this point, since Shouta started training you, because you’re his good little–

You jolt in surprise when you see him standing behind you in the rain. His silver hair is plastered to his face, to his neck. His hood is thrown up to try and block out the rain, but he’s also soaked, red eyes gleaming in the lowlight.

It’s almost comical, you think, the both of you standing out here, shivering and soaked in this downpour like drowned strays.

Shigaraki Tomura eyes you warily.

You don’t think either of you were expecting to see each other.

For all your earlier anger, you don’t have a lot of fight in you, don’t want to fight. Can’t fathom trying to use your brain enough to battle him off. And Shigaraki, for reasons beyond you, has yet to really harm you every time he’s come across you.

You feel strangely casual, strangely unguarded and wavering.

“What are you doing here?” he finally rasps, glaring at you.

A broken laugh ruptures out of your aching ribs, between your chattering teeth.

“What are you doing here?” you counter and he clearly doesn’t care for whatever strange humor you’ve found in this situation.

He lopes closer, though, almost tentatively, watching to see if you’re going to make any sort of move. You remain with your arms hugged tight to your body, shivering in this cold.

He doesn’t answer you. His hands are tucked away into his pockets. You can see him trying to hold back shivers, too, can see the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw grinds together.

“I used to live around here,” you admit for some reason, out into the alleway space between the two of you. Maybe if only to say it aloud, to say that you were someone before Shouta, maybe just to spite Shouta, to tell Shigaraki Tomura a piece of you that is personal and kept inside your heart.

The rain swallows your words, though, and for a moment, you think he’ll ignore you entirely.

But he asks, “So you decided to visit in the freezing rain?”

He’s not being humorous, but you smile anyways and it feels wobbly, a little bit absurd– the kind of smile that comes after crying, when you feel half-mad, when everything is a mess and your emotions are an overflowing fountain, spilling out in any way it sees fit to drown everything in sight.

You shrug, open your arms out to the space, looking around for a moment, as if it will back you up when you ask, “Why not?”

Shigaraki’s next few steps towards you are almost cautious, like he can feel your fragility from here.

Maybe starting a fight would do you well. Maybe you want to taste blood. Maybe his eyes on you will keep you warm out here– will make you forget about Shouta, which strikes you with another sharp and buzzing pang.

And somehow, someway, when he steps close enough to touch, he manages to hit the one spot where you’re hurting the worst;

“Don’t you have a nice warm home to be in?”

You wince like he’s struck you, face falling for a moment, arms collapsing back down to your sides.

You think of Shouta, back in his apartment, with his cats and his blankets and the fond way he’d always look at you–

All that frustration keens at the thought, though, flares quick and hot inside of you. That urge to scream and sob and fight comes back with a vengeance. When Shigaraki gets too close to you, you lash out, shoving him backwards.

It’s artless, but he stumbles a half step back after your palms had pushed against his chest.

Unknowingly, you hit a nerve in him, too, when you ask, “Can’t you leave me alone? You’re always fucking stalking me!”

“I don’t waste my time stalking bratty, useless little heroes.” he snaps, biting out the words.

You don’t know why that stings, too. Maybe it’s the way he said ‘useless,’ or the mockery of ‘hero.’ Maybe it’s because that’s how you feel, like some bratty child, scorned and angry and bitter. Maybe that’s why Shouta doesn’t want you–

You shove at Shigaraki again, acting as the child you feel like. He almost snorts, except you do it again, and again, until you’re shoving against his chest with everything you have.

And strangely, he lets you for a moment, watching your face, watching the way your lip trembles and your eyes grow all glassy. He can’t tell with the rain but–

He grabs your forearm, tight and firm to stop your sudden shoving. He keeps a finger lifted away from you naturally. He doesn’t need to, you think dimly, but he does.

You beat at his chest with your free hand before he snags that one, too, grips you to haul you closer to him, to peer down into your face with blazing red eyes.

When you look up at him, it’s through angry, indignant tears.

“Let go,” you hiss, trying to jerk out of his hold.

He bares his teeth in some semblance of a smile, “What makes you think I’d listen to you?”

You thrash harder in his hold, but he just yanks you closer, until you lose balance and stumble into his lean form. You can feel his chest against yours, the line of your torsos, your hips.

You look at him through wet lashes, and there’s something strange in his expression now. It freezes you, stills you against him. You can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly, can feel the sudden shuddering of his body– you pretend it’s from the cold. But you suddenly can’t feel the cold anymore, can’t feel the breath in your lungs.

Hunger, you finally place the look in his eyes, just before he pulls you up to meet him halfway in a kiss that feels more like a car crash.

It’s jarring, shocking to you the way impact is, like free-falling and finally hitting the ground.

His lips are rough around the edges, you can feel the indent of his scar at the corner of his mouth, but the center is warm and almost soft. Wet, between the rain that turns everything slick and the way he parts his mouth against yours.

It should be gross, you think, it should be horrible– you should try to pull away, but he’s clutching you tighter, crushing any possible distance between you two, shattering it with a vengeance. And it’s–

It’s everything you wanted from Shouta, maybe, that closeness, the grabbing of his desperate hands. The vicious wanting, of being wanted so viscerally, so tremendously.

And maybe it’s to spite Shouta, too, a bad decision for the books. You haven’t made one of those in awhile, have you?

So you fist your hands in his cold, wet hoodie, and throw your other arm around his neck to drag him down into you, deeper into the kiss.

He makes a noise, something like a groan, a growl that splits off into a whine at the end. You swallow it, open your mouth to let him into you. Your teeth clink together, it’s messy and hard and fast, all heat and desperation.

The absurdity isn’t lost on you, the strange irony that comes with kissing in the rain— it isn’t romantic. It doesn’t cause your heart to flutter but full on stop. It’s freezing and rough and brutal.

You’re not kissing the man of your dreams (but you have dreamt of him, haven’t you?), you’re not kissing some dashing hero, there’s not going to be a love confession after this.

You’re kissing one of the most wanted villains in rain that hits you like ice, surrounded by a place you used to call home.

You could laugh, if you weren’t so busy trying to claw at him, to get more.

He kisses like he’s trying to tear you apart. You can feel the sting of his teeth, the hungry push of his lips into yours. He’s all scavenger, he’ll take everything you give him and more—

And you feel him, the hard line of his desire for you, digging roughly into your stomach and that’s– that’s finally what shocks you. It’s what forces you to lurch away from him.

He lets you go, surprisingly, but you both stare at each other, wide-eyed and shocked.

The irony of you stuttering out the words, “I-I shouldn’t have done that–” is so cruel and hysterical that you feel like you’re going to split apart at the seams.

But he doesn’t look upset. No, he looks like he’s won something, like he’s snapped a piece of the puzzle into place. Like he knows something you don’t.

You shove past him.

You run home, force your body to move, to breathe hard and heavy, to try and forget the way he’d felt against you– or the way Shouta had cradled your cheek or the way you’ve never known something like either acts. Never been treated so gently. Never been wanted so badly.

When you get to your apartment, you slam the door shut behind you. Throw the lock into place and let your chest shake and heave and breathe, forcing in huge lungfuls of air. You’re so soaked that you drip all over the floor.

You shuck off your cold clothes in the living room because you can, because you feel like you’re going crazy, feel like you’re unraveling.

You take a shower so hot that it hurts, trying to scrub him off of you, or trying to remember the heat that he’d forced into you.

You sleep naked for once, something you don’t do often, but need to feel the sheets against bare skin, need to know that you’re alone and with yourself.

But you lie awake, twisting and turning and restless all night.

You refuse to let your hands wander, refuse to give in to whatever spark that had fanned into a flame in the low parts of your stomach. Refuse to picture red eyes. Refuse to imagine raven hair between your fist, too.

You refuse it all, try to force it down into the depths of you to never see the light of day again.

You end up getting sick from the rain– feverish and woozy and exhausted– but you also think you’re sick with something else, something that’s wormed its way into all the secretive, vulnerable parts of you.

Something that makes you furious and flushed in the lonesome hours of the blue-dark night.

***

You don’t know how it started, what confirmed the want between you but he wants you and he has you— any way he chooses.

Wake before dawn, stare at the ceiling, a loud buzzer and the rumbling of cell doors clattering open, incessant chatter of people whose names you’ve never bothered to learn. A morning routine you’d had no choice to fall into. Well, that’s not really true is it? You did have a choice, you just didn’t make the right one. You never made the right one, it seemed like every choice you made flung you here, acting like a bystander to your life.

You were docile enough to be put in gen-pop, kept low, stayed quiet, didn’t make friends which might just be the smartest decision you’ve had to date. You accepted the punishment you were given, the prison you’d landed yourself in was for villainous characters, quirk dampening cuffs firmly latched around the wrist of every prisoner.

Dangerous.

The label you’re branded with and it leaves a disgusting taste in your mouth. The feeling of being parched despite menial efforts to keep inmates hydrated, mouth tasting of iron no matter what you did with no explanation as to why. You feel this is another punishment, added discomfort. It feels deserved.

You’re special though, that’s what you’ve always been told but it’s never felt like a compliment. It feels filthy, actually, being special. You were special to everyone except for where it mattered.

“Y’know my wife works with your older brother, real character he is.”

You offer no response to the guard while the appointed physician runs his tests, scribbling away at their insipid clipboard. You already know, everything you are is a benefit to him. Less savory actions performed on you for the sake of furthering him and his career. The sting of the seemingly unending amount of needles you’re pricked with feels distant compared to the bite of the guards' bark of laughter. You remain quiet, presenting blunted and submissive. A good little subject.

——-

You don’t draw attention. You’ve always been good at that, it’s all you’re supposed to do. Sit silently until addressed.

Drawing Dabis attention was easy. He could see your affect from across the mess hall, withdrawn and shy while rubbing at the careless wrappings around your arms after frequent infirmary visits.

You’re the only one who pays him no mind, as if you don’t know who he is and what his imprisonment might mean.

He’s effortless and calm despite his situation, his task from the Leagues esteemed leader to recruit new talent to their cause before the prison break in three weeks time.

He finds you.. confusing. You don’t socialize; the other inmates have little to say about you other than crude remarks about your body and subsequently what they would do with you. Dabi has to fight back a sneer, small minded men and women only vying for flesh. He’s human, yes, but his ambitions don’t fit the time for active pursuance of trysts.

You’re often tucked away on your own, in the corners of the mess hall, by the fence in the yard, by the door in the rec room; always as far as possible. Guards took slightly more interest in you than other inmates, not enough for other prisoners to think you’re a snitch or under the thumb to be a trustee; no, you were always treated like an unwanted child, like a creature they were left charge over much to their dismay. The rough hands wrapped around your upper arm that hikes your elbow uselessly into the air and quick shoves tell him as much. He watches, observes your treatment and routine for three days.

You’re the last to enter the mess hall in the morning, picking uselessly at your food before you’re unceremoniously hoisted from your seat and ushered off for hours of the day before being brought back for chow in the late afternoon. You’re the last to get slop, looking more fragile than when you left; covered in more bandages with specks of blood littering them.

It almost feels like an unspoken rule, a law etched into the atmosphere, inmates are not to interact with you. More than likely it’s the aura around you that draws this conclusion instead of any actual repercussions to attempts. Nobody makes any and, as far as Dabi is concerned, it piqued his curiosity. The way you flinch when he plops himself down at your table is not lost on him, neither are the nervous glances the guards toss between one another. He pays them no mind, as you do to Dabi; rather amusing really.

“You look like a ghost,” he breaks the silence after a moment, smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. It looks almost uncomfortable, you venture to think, the way his skin tugs around the staples as they struggle to perform the action.

“Treat me like one then,” you snap, pushing your untouched tray of food forward, moving to stand. A hand that looks too large compared to your frame pushes you back down by the shoulder a moment later, easily subduing you back into your seat.

“You’ve already been told you’re not allowed to leave until you’ve emptied the tray,” the guard previously stationed by the wall speaks, annoyance etched firmly into his tone, “Eat or get a tube. I don’t have all fuckin day.”

You’re cowering at this point, the tremors that wrack your body obvious and only subsiding minutely whenever the guard relinquishes his hold on you and messily pushes your tray back in front of you. This intrigued Dabi, why were they so interested in you? What reason do they have to care enough to make sure you don’t waste away?

“You tryin’ off y’self by starving, Doll? Or hoping they’ll put you in ad-seg if you refuse to eat?” His smirk is back, what’s so fuckin’ comical about your situation? Irritation flashes across your features briefly and then it’s gone, replaced again by cowering into yourself and gripping your spoon loosely. You look defeated before a fight even begins and it’s all the more interesting to Dabi but for a much more.. irritating reason.

“They’ll do with me what they want,” was the only quiet response before you push the tray away again, appetite non-existent and the thought of forcing food into your mouth gag-inducing even though you know the alternative isn’t any more glamorous than vomiting up your meal later.

No sooner than when you pushed the tray away are you yanked up from your seat, arm wrenched behind your back but you don’t even flinch at the sting, all too familiar with the manhandling.

“Guess we’re heading back to the infirmary. Why can’t you just be fucking compliant?” Comes the hiss of your assailant, herding you to the exit.

——-

Dabi doesn’t see you for the rest of the day and half of the following day. You finally make an appearance in the yard, stationed by the fence furthest from the entrance back into the confines of the prison; you look worse for wear, a surprising feat considering you didn’t look so hot in the first place. He waits a few minutes before he approaches, crouching next to your sitting form. You pull pathetically at the blades of grass, a childish action that you’ve resigned to since you’re required to see the sunlight, another meager attempt at keeping you healthy enough to be of use.

“What is it that you want from me?” You don’t look from your musing, yanking up a clump of dirt before tossing it aside.

“What makes you think I want something from you?”

“Everyone wants something from me, you’re far from the first and you certainly won’t be the last,” you don’t mean for it to sound so bitter but, frankly, you’re too exhausted to make any effort to have some sort of decorum. If your statement surprises Dabi he doesn’t show it, opting to sit comfortably beside you.

“Just lookin’ to make some.. friends.. while I’m here s’all”

“I’m not a friend you want to make,” another clump yanked up, a little more annoyance in the action.

“I dunno, you seem pretty interesting to me,” smaller fists clench at your baggy pants, agitation beginning to bubble in your chest at his statement.

“What. Do you want?” You're tired of being interesting.

Intrigue and surprise paint his features, eyebrows climbing behind the fringe that hangs over his forehead at your tone, “Just some friends doll face, and maybe a few answers only you can provide.”

You don’t even try to stop the huff that expands and deflates your chest, grit caking under your nails when you grip a clump of dirt and grass in your hand.

“What’re you in for?”

“Aggravated robbery and unwarranted quirk usage,” you resign yourself the the game of twenty questions you’re sure is to ensue.

“Why are you always by yourself?”

“Choice, mostly.”

“Why are the guards always hovering around you?”

“Same reason scientists monitor rats.”

The questioning continues on, regular questions about where they take you, what they do with you, how long it’s been going on. All your answers are vague, conditioning keeping your treatment on a need-to-know basis.

“What’s your quirk?”

That question shuts you up, body language effectively conveying your reluctance to answer. Asking for one's quirk feels more personal these days than asking for their date of birth. What someone is, one of the more defining characteristics of a person in today’s society. You shake your head, draw your knees to your chest in a tight hug.

“Aw c’mon doll,” warm palm covers your knee, you don’t jerk away, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

His tone is teasing, light, intentionally to coax you out of regression. You know his quirk though, know who he is, he was plastered all over the news before you were arrested. He tells you anyway though, gesturing to his body as he explains how his fire burned hotter than the Flame Hero himself.

“Your turn,” he nudges you playfully, like you’re old friends.

“It’s.. like that kid that took down Overhaul. What’s his name? Lemillion. Where he passes in and out of stuff? But different.” Another vague answer, you can tell Dabi isn’t entirely satisfied by the answer but he chooses not to press his luck in questioning you further. He has a feeling you would shut down anyway.

Silence settles between the both of you after that, it’s the first comfortable silence you’ve had in your entire existence. No pressure to keep you silent and no urging to speak if spoken to. It’s a relieving feeling, the pressure in your chest marginally less painful as you sit together.

——-

Two and a half weeks until he’s sprung from prison and he’s only spoken to you a handful of times, he spends most of his time recruiting. Asking the right questions to the right inmates after evaluating them at a distance, he’s a quick judge of character and most everyone is like an open book laid before him.

Everyone except you. You’re a walking enigma. You cut through a crowd effortlessly, the energy you give off silently willing others to make a path for you. Nothing about you is menacing but most people avoid you anyway, you confound him in the worst of ways, a mystery he’s itching to understand.

——-

You’re more accepting of his company, don’t fold within yourself as much, don’t sneak nervous glances at the guards like an abused animal waiting for unkind hands to be lain on you. He treats you like a wounded animal, you notice this and you’re not entirely sure if you appreciate or resent it. He asks more questions, normal conversation pieces most people have but you struggle for answers most of the time. If it agitates him he doesn’t let on.

You flinch when a guard approaches your table, “Time to go inmate.”

You stand without hesitation, bitten nails scratching at the ever present bandages adorning your arms. Dabi’s patchwork hand settles over yours, the cool metal with the heat of his palm foreign to your skin but not unwelcome.

“She’s still eatin’” a nod toward your tray draws the guards gaze, you scratch harder at your bandages.

“I didn’t ask, let’s go,” another meaty hand reaches for you before you’re tugged just out of reach.

“It’s rude to interrupt someone’s meal,” Dabi rises from his seat, a feral snarl curling over canines as deep turquoise scans over the guards figure, “you don’t look like you let your meals go interrupted.”

A loud hammering spurs your movements, only registering it’s your blood thrumming through your ears when you’ve freed yourself of Dabis’ grasp. You’re quick with conflict resolution, acquiescing to whatever is demanded for the sake of peace.

“I-it’s fine, really. I’m full. If I don’t go now I’ll miss yard time,” you force the fakest laugh he’s heard in his lifetime and he’s not sure who he’s more agitated with; you or the portly guard that grips you too tightly despite your willingness to leave.

A click of the tongue is heard before he flops back into his uncomfortable stool, leaning back until his shoulders hit the wall. His eyes never leave your figure or the guard until you disappear from the mess hall.

——-

Two days pass after that incident and Dabi has yet to speak to you. Trying your hardest not to let it bother you, you were used to being alone in the prison; after coming to your defense, though, you felt like he would seek you out whenever he could.

But he hasn’t and that bothers you.

You pick at your cuticles, a nasty habit you’ve taken since biting your nails to the nub. Fidgeting uncontrollably while frantically scanning the mess hall, unable to spot that familiar swatch of onyx, the urge to panic slowly sets in. Did that guard he tried to defend you from do something to him? He was strong, sure, but here they’re literally and figuratively powerless.

You don’t get too deep into panic before being shouldered aside, almost toppling over completely. A burly man, twice your height and at least thrice your width is eyeing you like you’d spit in his face. Tucking your elbows into yourself, an apology tumbles from your lips.

It’s almost jarring how quickly you brighten upon seeing Dabi next to the man, palm clasped on the inmate's shoulder. He’s passive, like what transpired didn’t bother him.

“Dabi,” a smile blooms but falls away instantly whenever the only response you’re given is indifference.

Dabi pats the other inmate, “Anyway, your quirk?”

The room feels like it’s getting smaller and your chest feels impossibly tight, not entirely sure why you’re so bothered. You were used to this, used to indifference- scorn especially- but it coming from Dabi affected you in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. It felt.. punishingly explicit, and you didn’t understand what you’d done to earn this.

——-

Another two days pass by before you work up the courage to approach Dabi, he’s alone in the rec room; slicked with sweat curling weights.

“Are you angry with me?”

You flinch when he drops the barbells, the cracked blue mat doing little to soften the sound of heavy weights hitting the floor. He eyes you silently for a moment before hopping up and grasping the pull-up bar above him, “What makes you think I am?”

Silence settles in the air, anxiety locking your voice away, only slight huffs and grunts filling the void while he counts out the set.

“I’m sorry..” you utter before abusing your bottom lip.

The apology stills him, arms in resting position before releasing the bar. His feet are the only thing you can look at, petrified to look him in the eye.

“For what?”

“Whatever I did..”

His nostrils flare as he exhales deeply, jaw clenching ever so slightly while un-sticking his fringe from his forehead, “You didn’t do anything.”

You gaze at him now, feeling of panic starting to blossom from just behind your sternum, “Then why are you avoiding me? You’re acting differently.”

He’s baffled, acting differently? All because he hasn’t spoken to you, hadn’t come to your defense when he saw you needed it? He had no obligation to you, he knows that, but he doesn’t understand why guilt is burning the back of his throat.

“I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry Dabi, I didn’t mean to, I swear,” thin fingers reach out to the villain, gripping desperately at the burnt skin of his forearm, “I won’t do it again I promise but, please don’t ignore me anymore.”

Dabi wrenches his arm away, the touch feeling like a burn worse than his flames with the sound of your desperation. The way your face contorts into a grimace at his reaction fills him with regret instantly, feeling the situation escalate, he’s keenly aware the pair of you are drawing attention.

“Stop apologizing,” Dabi hisses through grit teeth, taking hold of your wrist with the intention of moving this conversation somewhere less crowded.

Saucer wide eyes brimming with tears accompany the tremble he feels beneath his fingers, hurried steps moving with purpose while guiding you to the nearest empty room. He rounds on you the second the door clicks closed, turquoise iris’ consuming you. The urge to look away is immeasurable, delicate digits clutching at your chest in an attempt to form an invisible barrier, a protective wall.

For a long moment only the sounds of ragged breathing fills the silence of the confined space, thick with unease and discomfort.

It’s Dabi who breaks the silence first, “Why the fuck do you keep doing that?”

“I’m sorry, I—“

“That! Apologizing, stop doing that, the hell do you have to apologize for?”

You fall silent again, lips opening and closing with every attempt to formulate a response to no avail. You don’t know, you don’t know what you have to apologize for; you just want things to be better again, less tense.

Dabi sighs, both hands coming to ruffle inky locks in frustration, “I hate it, stop doing that. Stop apologizing when you don’t need to, stop flinching, stop crying. Fuck, you didn’t do anything but I can’t help but just get so fucking angry with how you react to everything. How did you even end up in this place whenever you don’t even look like you could hurt a fly,” he’s monologuing, he knows but fuck he’s just so agitated with everything without even fully knowing why, “did you take the fall for someone? Is that it?”

You’re breathing so heavily, straddling the brink of hyperventilation. He’s so angry with you, seething, every sentence scathing in your mind.

“It’s all I know how to do.. the only thing that’s ever..” fixed anything, concluding mentally. Nothing was ever really fixed, placated rather, momentarily ceasing whatever torment was inflicted, “I didn’t take the fall for anyone, I.. I was running away. I robbed a convenience store for some cash, had no fucking clue what I was doing besides just wanting to run away. A hero on patrol just happened to stop in while I was there, my brother was the one who arrested me, it was his fucking patrol.”

“Isn’t that so ironic? The actual perfect irony, the whole fucking reason I was running away is the same one who locks me away for good. One prison to another, cosmic justice,” you laugh, dry and humorless, “now I’m here, monitored daily and tested and experimented on just as frequently because we share the same fucking quirk, but the revered hero of Kamino ward shouldn’t be subject to experiments on a mutated quirk.”

“Lucky for him though, such a gifted boy had a frail older sister. I’m six years older than he is, like they had him on purpose after the doctors told my parents my body was too weak to ever use my quirk as a hero or even be a cop.”

“They were so excited when they had him, unlike me, he wasn’t a preemie. My parents were ecstatic when his quirk was the same as mine and he manifested at three instead of five. It was like I didn’t exist after that, they doted on him constantly.”

You’re oversharing, chest heaving while recounting your childhood but he’s listening, staying, staring at you now with so much sympathy. It’s agonizing and you just can’t stop the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. You’ve never been a pretty cryer, face blotchy and red with eyes that puff and swell, tacky cheeks stained with tear tracks.

“So.. so I told them I could do it, that I could use my quirk but my father sneered at me, like it was a joke. I told him I would help my little brother use his quirk, could train him but it made him even angrier. Screamed at me for hours, screamed whenever I couldn’t phase longer than a minute and couldn’t try again for twenty.”

“He would only stop when I cried and said sorry, that I would try harder and promise to phase longer and do it faster. That I would figure it out but I didn’t. I never could. So when I was arrested my brother cut me a deal, a lighter sentence if I agreed to testing and experiments to understand our quirk. He lied to me and told me I would go to a maximum security in a padded white room if I didn’t.”

Dabi listens in rapt astonishment, heart thrumming heavily in his chest. You were the same, a failure in family’s eyes, a useless piece compared to the glory of a sibling. He feels disgusting, stomach lurching with the urge to vomit. You were him, what he could’ve been if he was more fragile.

Without a second thought, you’re enveloped into a tight embrace, face shoved into his collarbone by his hand tucked behind your skull with the other pressed to your mid back. Shock bleeds into resignation as you return his embrace, sniffling into sweaty skin that barely muffles the sound. He shushes you, gently petting from the curve of your skull to the nape of your neck in soothing strokes. He doesn’t pull you back to look at you until your hiccups subside.

“Okay.. okay,” he breaks the silence, “I’m gonna fix this doll, no ones gonna hurt you ever again.”

His tone hushed, like a secret only the two of you would know. A promise so sincere you’ve no choice but to believe him.

——-

You grow closer as the days pass, the sharp edges of your personalities and mannerisms softening only for one another. You smile more, Dabi appreciates the change. Getting you to eat isn’t a battle each day; even the bags under your eyes seem less pronounced.

If he minds how clingy you’ve become, he doesn’t comment on it— silently grateful for it. Eating feels better when it’s with him, heart fluttering a little when he offers you whatever fruit they serve you that day. Apples are your favorite, the green ones, that have the perfect amount of tang and the flesh a nice crisp each bite; you tell him this, from then on his apples are always yours.

You share so much more now, open up to him like a book he was meant to have. Reading was an escape for you growing up, you didn’t get many books but whenever you got your hands on one it was read from cover to cover. He takes you to the library the day after you tell him, lazily trailing behind until you pick a book that peaks your interest, “read it to me,” he says. You comply with the largest grin and hopeful eyes he’s ever seen.

You still have to comply with the testing but it’s easier now. Dabi promises. “I’ll figure it out princess, just be a good girl for a little longer.”

Even yard time is improved, no longer petulantly plucking at grass or standing near the fence waiting for time to pass, you’re brought to socialize more. Dabi becomes a security blanket, migrating toward him if you feel anxious or frightened of fellow inmates. It’s fine though, he won’t let anyone hurt you; you believe him.

——-

It’s a week before he finally asks the question that’s been on his mind, he doesn't want to break the serenity that’s fallen over both of you. His fingers are thrumming half-heartedly over your forearm as you read aloud to him.

“What did you mean when you said ‘Phase’,” the question is surprising to you, stopping mid sentence, he elects to elaborate, “last week, when you told me about your quirk.”

“Oh,” sounding crestfallen but a soft smile slowly spreads your delicate lips, you’ve shared many things, what’s one more?

“The doctors have decided to call it ‘Phasewalk’. Like I said, it’s like that kid who fought Overhaul but it’s like I’m invisible but also not? It feels more like I’m a ghost, I can pass through a lot of things while I phase but can’t do it for very long and it takes me too long to have enough strength to do it again any sooner than twenty minutes.”

Silence settles once more, it lacks tension but Dabi’s face is unreadable as he processes the information. No wonder they test and experiment, your quirk has a wide range of capabilities; for the briefest of moments he thinks about the uses it would have for the league before mentally berating himself. He’s supposed to be different, supposed to protect you from those that want to use you for personal gain.

The storm that raged inside him never bleeds into his features, he only looks lost in thought before looking up at you with softening features, “I get it,” giving a reassuring squeeze to your arm causing the soft smile to morph into a grin. You’re breathtaking when you smile, he never wants it to fade.

——-

Less than a week before the prison break. He’s amassed a decent following, new recruits for the League, while still keeping you in the dark of the whole reason he was in prison in the first place. He’s wanted to tell you, worked up the nerve to bring it up time and time again but it never felt right.

You were still so fragile, he feared the worst reactions if he told you; what you would think or say to him. He feared you’d think he tricked you, wormed his way into your comfort so yet another person could use and abuse. He refused.

He won’t let it happen.

So while you stay near him, confide in him when overwhelmed or gush to him about something that’s exciting you, he stays quiet. You don’t have to know, it’s not imperative. You weren’t part of the plan.

You’re coming with him, that’s final. He won’t leave you behind, can’t leave you. You’ll come willingly won’t you? Surely you will, you wouldn’t want to stay here right?

“Would you want to stay with me, even if we weren’t here?” He blurts the question out after staring at you for an impossibly long time.

The smile you give him is toothy, a grin so bright it rivals the sun, “I would, but I don’t think we’re gonna get out on good behavior.”

You laugh together, carefree and light, burden-less. No, no the pair of you certainly wouldn’t get off on good behavior but you don’t see the pensive look on his face when he pulls you to his chest in a tight embrace.

A decision has never weighed so heavily on his chest before. He’s not one to second-guess, however, and he’s no intention of starting now.

——-

The wailing of sirens and alarms is deafening, inmates clamoring to escape while the guards run for cover and some attempt to subdue the escapees. It’s pandemonium, eyes frantically darting about your surroundings before settling back on Dabi.

“Dabi.. Dabi what’s going on? What’s happening? We need to get back to our cells!”

You look like a newborn deer, trembling like a leaf and so impossibly fragile. You are fragile, yes— Dabi knows this, but not like a flower; fragile like a bomb and he’ll be there as you grow.

You just have to take his fucking hand.

“Touya. My name is Touya, and I need you to trust me.”

And when you shakily take his hand you’re sure of one thing, he’ll protect you.

He promised.

Why? Why does it have to be Mikasa Ackerman? There are million other girls in the world they could have chosen. You know it’s just business, and logically thinking, using her as their model is a great marketing strategy. She’s one of the hottest lingerie models in the industry right now, quickly rising in fame due to her exotic face and stunning body figure. The public loves her, adores how strong she is for being able to get over her traumatic past and now paving her way to success. Maybe Eren’s agency contacted her to get the attention they needed. Or maybe because they noticed how much she’d been talking about Eren in her interviews—how much of her fans are rooting for her to be with him and vice versa.

Though similar to what happened between him and Historia, right now it feels… different. The pain in your chest swells ten times larger than when you saw him kissing the blonde girl on the stage and maybe that’s because this time, you know, that their love isn’t completely fabricated. Mikasa likes him, in a way that’s borderline obsessive, even. One thing that assures you is how her love for him seems to be one-sided. Eren has stated more than once how he despised her though his reasons are still unclear to this day. But after what you witnessed in the video, it gets harder by the second to keep your faith in his words.

What if the reason he hates her now is because something happened between them in the past? You ponder. What if they were once together and now they’re just dealing with the aftermath of their break-up? What if Eren has moved on and she hasn’t? What if he only thought he’d moved on? What if the sparks are still there?

What if, what if, what if. So many questions yet no single answer. One thing for sure, Eren must have been one hell of an actor to be able to fake that amount of chemistry.

Oh, God. You drape your arm over your eyes, feeling you’re about to burst. You hate this. You hate feeling like this, and you loathe this side of yours. “Stop being jealous,” you scold yourself. “He’s not even your boyfriend.”

Just stop.

What should you do? Should you confess your feelings for him before it’s too late? What about his fans? His career? His rising popularity? What about the other Mikasas he’s going to kiss in the future? Can you handle that? No, can he handle that? Can he handle it when you’re being unreasonably jealous all the time? Can he stay calm when he sees his obsessive fans breaking your heart?

Your eyes grow hot, your lower lip still trembles no matter how hard you sink your teeth into it. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. This is not worth crying over.

Your phone rings, and it’s not singing the ringtone you’ve assigned to Eren’s number. It only chimes twice before it ends and you’re drowning in the silence of your room again. Frowning, you check on your screen.

Armin Arlert.

You take a moment to steady your pulsating heart, fingers rising to your face to wipe your tears away before they stain your cheeks. Why is he calling at two in the morning? Worried that something might have gone wrong, you decide to call him back. He picks up on the first ring.

“H-hello?” He greets. Even just by hearing his voice, you can already imagine how nervous he is.

“Hi, Armin.” Your voice still sounds a bit shaky so you clear your throat to conceal it. “Sorry, did you just call me?”

“I—” He panics. The sounds of sheets rustling in the background can be heard as he shifts his weight. “I did, but I didn’t mean to.”

“What?”

You can hear him taking a deep breath to keep himself composed. “Okay—this is going to sound pathetic but I—” There’s a dull sound that you can’t interpret until you hear him groaning.

“You okay there, Armin?”

“Yes—well, no—My phone just slipped.”

“Smacked you on the face?”

“Yeah.”

It’s two am and you find yourself holding back your laughter over something that you thought only happens in comedic movies. “Why are you so cute?” You say before you can think it through. You can feel your heart slowly returning to its normal size, the quivers in your fingertips have stopped.

“Please don’t call me cute. I am so socially awkward, it’s embarrassing.”

“A, you’re not embarrassing. B, I’m still gonna call you cute no matter how much you’ll complain so get used to it. You remind me of the dog I used to have back when I was a kid.”

“I reminded you of your dog?”

“Yeah. He’s dead now but—”

“I reminded you of your dead dog?”

The horror is clear in his voice, pulling a tiny peal of laughter to escape from the back of your throat. “Yes, but he was cute, and that’s my point.”

“Oh God,” he groans, which only makes you smile a little wider. He’s mumbling to himself as he strays away from his phone, and you press yours harder to your ear to catch his words. Faintly, you can hear him say, “My first time talking to a girl I like at two AM and she reminds me of her dead dog. Great.”

“Armin?”

He returns. “I’m—I’m here.”

“Relax, okay? It’s not like I’m going to call the cops on you for calling me at this hour.”

“I know.” He sighs, sounding visibly upset and mortified. “I was trying to write you a text but I panicked, tapped the wrong button, and ended up calling you. I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to bother you at this hour, I swear.”

You blink twice, taking a moment to process his words before you burst out laughing. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Sadly, I am.” You can imagine him pouting. “I’m sorry for being so dumb.”

“No, it’s…” You cover your lips with your fingers. “It’s cute.”

“Like your dead dog?”

Your heart warms. The heavy cloud that surrounds your heart over the thoughts of Eren sharing kisses with another woman is still there and you’re certain it’s not going to vanish anytime soon, but Armin manages to divert your attention little by little. He and his adorable clumsiness feel like a little ray of sunshine, breaking through the fog.

“No, like a really, really adorable little boy with a picture of Virginia Woolf tattooed on his arm.” He chortles at your joke, airy and light. “I thought I told you not to text me at two AM, Arlert.”

“No, you’re wrong! I—I wasn’t going to send it now—I was just trying to compose it and save it in my draft—” he stops, mumbling something to himself. “It’s… Please just ignore what I said.”

“And when are you planning to send that text you were composing?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not.” And you find yourself giggling, even when you thought you couldn’t even put on a smile. “What did you want to text me about?”

He takes a moment before answering, his voice uncertain. “I just… thought maybe we could go to Fifth Avenue Mall this Saturday? David Chariandy is having a book signing—and I don’t know if you’ve heard about him but he wrote this book called—”

“I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You,” you finish his sentence for him.

His tone immediately turns cheery. “You’ve read it?”

“Armin, I consumed that book. It’s so beautiful and intimate. The way he describes his experience growing up as a person of color and his hopes for his daughter’s future—”

“Yes!” Armin chirps, excitement standing vividly in his voice. He asks more of your thoughts, listening intently to every word until you ask him for his. Once he begins to share his opinions, his awkwardness changes into passion, and not once does he stammer as he does so. You allow him to talk as much as he wants, never try to interrupt as you haven’t found the strength to match his enthusiasm just yet. But it’s comforting to hear his voice, to learn stories through his eyes, even the ones that you’ve read countless times before.

He makes you remember that there’s a whole world out there that doesn’t involve Eren. He reminds you of the things you love—of the books you’d spent days reading the same passages until they’re burned into the memory. Armin pulls you back into the life before Eren walked in and altered everything. He’s like a breath of fresh air, and after being suffocated for the whole day, you need it more than anything else.

It’s so easy talking to him that before you know it, an hour has passed by and your anxiety has long disappeared. What starts as a detailed discussion about the fascination that you share for books, turn into something more personal. In the hour you spent talking to him, you’ve learned that modeling was something he only did for fun. He wasn’t even sure why he managed to land a deal to be one of the models for Salvatore Ferragamo—though he guessed that his father might have pulled some strings behind the scene. But Armin isn’t planning to continue with his job. His passion has always been about books and writing, and so, he plans to write his own too. His contract with his agency would come to an end this year, and after that, he would focus everything he has on writing his book.

He’s admirable. He’s still young but he already has his goal set in mind. You’ve been wanting to write your own novel for so long. You have written several chapters for it in the past, but you never could find the bravery to submit it to a publisher, or even show your work to anyone else. Not even Eren. You’re too apprehensive, afraid to be judged, so instead, you resort to working like a slave in a multibillion-dollar company as if you had no other choice. Armin astonishes you. Despite his clumsy habits and gullible attitude, he’s courageous, so goal-driven, and devoted, just like how Eren used to be.

Eren…

It still feels heavy whenever his name fleets through your mind, submerging you deep in thoughts that revolve around him and Mikasa. Unknowingly, you become distracted enough that you begin to lose track of the conversation.

“I’m sorry, you must be tired,” Armin apologizes as he notices you turn hushed. “I’m sorry for taking so much of your time when you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

You rub a hand over your face. Great, now I’m making him feel bad. “No, I’m really glad that you called,” you tell him, filled with nothing but honesty. “This was fun, Armin. I haven’t talked about my hobby for so long. You don’t know how much I needed this. Thank you for keeping me company.”

“I…” You can picture him blushing, as he does that a lot even over the simplest compliment. “You’re very welcome.”

There’s geniality in every word he speaks, seeping deep into your chest and curve your lips into a smile. “Well, since I have work in a few hours, I do need to catch some sleep. Can we continue later?”

“Yes, oh God, I’m sorry—Please, have a rest.”

“You too.” Hopefully, Armin can feel the warmth in your voice too. “Good night, Armin.”

“Good ni—wait!”

“Yes?”

“Can I… Would it be okay to call you again tomorrow?”

You can tell how elated he is to be able to get closer to you, and you can’t pretend that you didn’t hear the hope in his voice—his desire in turning this friendly call into something more. And it’s so easy to lead him on, but is it the right thing to do? Are you planning to even consider dating him?

If it feels too much, just start seeing someone else. You don’t have to be in this relationship, you know. Pieck’s words make so much sense, and it’s better that way too. Armin isn’t popular. He doesn’t have an army of obsessed fangirls chasing after his tail. You both share the same interest, have the same type and preferences. He’s smart, he’s beyond attractive, he’s kind and sweet. He’s everything a girl would look in a boy but there’s one thing he’s lacking.

He’s not Eren.

You close your eyes, another storm waging inside your heart. “Armin.”

“Y-yes?”

I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to give you hope. I don’t want to use you as his replacement. Those are the words you’re itching to say, but once you are reminded yet again of the music video you watched, your lips betray you. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“Pardon?”

“If you have some time to meet, we can grab some dinner together and talk more about the book you’re planning to write. I know a good Chinese restaurant downtown we can visit.”

You can hear him go completely silent before he gasps. There’s a sound of the bed creaking as he sits upon it. “L-Like a date?”

“A friendly date,” you correct him, and if it isn’t because of the guilt you feel inside, you’d giggle at his reaction. “As in two friends going out together, having some beers and dumplings.”

“Oh yeah—of course—“ He emits a groan, making you frown. “I’m sorry for sounding so weird. I just accidentally hit my head against the wall.”

“Jesus. Too excited?”

“No, just, uh, happy, I guess.”

“And why’s that?”

“I just happen to really love dumplings.”

***

“I have to stay for a month longer,” Eren states from the other side of the phone, a little bit unclear with the sound of club music playing vehemently in the background. “The crowds over here are crazy. Our tickets were sold out within seconds. Seconds. I don’t think that ever happened before. So we decided to extend the tour, playing in three more cities before we head back.”

Nearly a month has passed since you bid him farewell and he was supposed to come back in three days. This news, of course, crushes you and it’s not solely because you already miss him so much, it’s starting to become unbearable. It’s also because your birthday is closing in. And if he has to stay for a month longer, then you won’t be able to spend it with him. And there’s nothing more that you want in the world than to have him enclose his arms around you and whisper happy birthday in your ear.

That, and of course, being separated with him like this when you still feel so hung up over his MV really takes a toll on you.

“Oh…” You try your best to keep your voice steady. You take a seat on the edge of your bed, your hand falling on your lap. “I see.”

“Are you…” he dawdles, unsure of what to say. “Are you okay with that?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” You force a laugh, even when it feels like the floor is falling. “Eren, I’m proud of you. I’m glad to hear Empire is doing so well overseas. You deserve it.” But to your ears, your words sound nothing but a lie, even when they still come from the bottom of your heart. You decide changing the topic would be wiser. “Are you, uh, are you in a club right now?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Reiner is having his birthday so we’re celebrating.”

“Oh… Tell Reiner I said congrats.”

“I’ll tell him later. I’m smoking outside right now.”

Glancing at the digital clock sitting on your desk, it must be midnight at where he is now. And he’s in a nightclub, celebrating someone’s birthday where there will be an endless amount of alcohol, with pretty girls partying and wanting to get their hands on him. And yet, here he is, putting a blind eye on all that and settles to talk to you over the phone.

It’s so endearing, the fact that he prioritizes you over anything else. That he chooses you over anyone else, but… Why?

Why would he do that? What do you have to offer him? Even if he’s satisfied with you right now, you can’t help but worry when someone as pretty and successful as Mikasa Ackerman is chasing after him. And now that they got to be that intimate with each other while shooting the music video, what if his feelings toward her start to change? Now that he got to know how soft her lips feel between his, what if he starts to crave more? Maybe his heart doesn’t want her but what if his body does?

The fact that no one else seems to have a problem with them together only hauls you down even deeper. You’ve spent half an hour reading the comment section for his MV, and not once did you find a hate comment toward her. There were some people—mostly Harlequin’s fans, judging by their usernames—who wished Historia was the one in her shoes but that was it. No one judged Mikasa by her looks. No one had problems with her personality. If anything, they wished they could have what Mikasa and Eren had in that little movie they played.

And there you are. Two candid photos of you walking down the street scattered online and they insulted you like you just committed the most atrocious crime. Maybe they were right. Maybe Eren was out of your league. You certainly had been thinking about it that way for quite some time, even without their help. Suddenly, all the sweet words Eren had told you in the past—the praises he made about your features, the gratitude he spoke about your kindness, and the compliments he shared between kisses and soft moans—have disappeared without a trace. What’s left within you now is a long, endless list of how you’re not good enough to be with him.

“Hey,” Eren’s husky voice brings you back. “You okay there? You’ve been quiet for a while.”

“I’m fine. Why are you not partying inside?” You nibble on your bottom lip, asking a similar question to match the situation. “Why are you talking to me and not… I don’t know, dancing with some girls or something?” Or call Mikasa instead?

There’s a pause where you can only hear the upbeat music playing in the background. Then, “Why don’t you answer that for me?”

Your stomach flips. “H-huh?”

“Yo, Eren.” Fortunately for you, someone—who sounds a lot like Jean but you can’t be so sure—is calling his name, abruptly putting a halt to the conversation. “Mikasa’s looking for you.”

It feels like you’re drowning in a frozen lake, a thousand ice daggers sinking into your skin at once. Mikasa?

Eren takes his phone away from his ear and you can faintly hear him say, “Later, Jean, I’m taking a call,” before he goes back to you. “Sorry. Where were we?”

Don’t ask about her, you tell yourself as your heart beats loudly in your ear, Don’t ask about her. You’ll only make things worse. “Is… she there?”

“What?”

“Mikasa.” You wet your lips; your breathing turns ragged. “I thought I heard her name.”

“Huh? Oh… Yeah,” he hesitantly answers and the question of ‘Why? Why does he sound like he wants to keep this a secret?’ arises in your head.

“Why is she there?” You question again, nails sinking into the supple skin of your thigh.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just… curious,” you finish awkwardly. You’re going too far, you’re making him feel uncomfortable. Just stop. “You know what, I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer. I was—”

“She’s in the country because we’re going to attend the same event tomorrow, and knowing that, Reiner invited her to the party,” Eren explains. He sounds calm, though more guarded than nonchalant. You can barely tell the kind of expression he displays on his face from his voice, or maybe you’re just too jittery to think.

“I see… And, uh…” You tarry, too afraid to ask, too anxious to stop. “You’re not gonna be with her?”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t know.” You play with the hem of your shirt. “I just heard she was looking for you.”

When he grows quiet, you realize just how weird you sounded. It’s clear you’re suspecting him of something, but even if he’s disturbed by it, Eren merely sighs. “Okay, what happened?” He questions. “What’s bothering you?”

“I—Nothing’s bothering me.“ You conceal your broken voice with a peal of awkward laughter. “I just—I don’t know, I just saw your MV today. For Hero Heroine. It was—” Good. Congratulations on reaching one million views in such a short time. I’m proud of you. There are so many things you could say, even if you don’t genuinely mean them, but you’re choked on your words. Your tongue refusing to form the syllables. And Eren waits, staying in silence as he tries to figure how you feel. Unable to lie, you finally let your heart do the talking. “You never told me there was an MV for it.”

Eren keeps his tone flat when he says, “Yeah, well, it just premiered this morning.”

“Could’ve told me when you did the shoot.”

“Tell you about what, exactly?” He urges you. “About me and Mikasa and the things we did in the video?” His words strike like a clap of thunder, leaving you cold and frozen on your seat. You stay voiceless, letting the silence answers him instead. “You know this is just business, right?” Eren continues. “I didn’t have anything to do with the plot or the casting. I was just doing my job, and I wasn’t aware that I had to keep you updated with what I do for a living.”

Your jaw drops. He doesn’t sound cold when he says it. He pronounces the words like he’s stating out facts and it’s true. Everything he just said is true, so why does it feel like he’s slicing your wrist open with a knife?

You’re surprised to see your vision going blurry. You know your emotions are going all over the place but you didn’t think it was enough to make tears stinging your eyes. But even if you cry, it’s not because of jealousy. It’s because of how embarrassed you are with yourself for being so possessive over him when he’s not even yours to begin with. You're just so… ashamed.

“You’re right,” you croak out, sounding like your vocal cord is thinning into a string that’s seconds away from breaking. “I’m sorry.” You wish you could turn back time so he wouldn’t see this part of you but it’s too late. Now he knows how petty you are, how disgustingly exasperating you can be when it comes to relationships.

“No, don’t—“ Eren exhales. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry if I sounded too cold before, I was…” He trails off, keeping you at the edge of your seat. Unfortunately for you, he doesn’t speak his mind out loud, and instead, moving on to another topic. “To be honest, a part of me wanted to tell you about it, even way before I did the shoot. But then, I thought—”

“We’re not exclusive,” you finish the sentence for him and Eren stays mute, neither agreeing nor disapproving of your words. “We’re not dating, so you’re not obliged to say anything. None of this is my business.”

He takes his time, letting you be swallowed by regrets and guilt, before answering with, “That’s right.”

You clasp a hand over your mouth, worried that if you speak another word, it will only make things worse. The clock is ticking, seconds passing by without a word being exchanged. It’s until Eren calls your name that you finally allow yourself to breathe. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… cute that you’re jealous.”

Your heart leaps to your throat. “Wha—I’m—I’m not jealous.”

He softly chuckles, not mockingly, but adoring you. “Kinda sound like you are, though.” His tone is lighter, warmer, and a little bit of joy finds its way back to your heart, knowing how he’s not disgusted by this new side of you. “Hey, I’m not upset,” Eren assures you when it takes you a while to respond. “I was a bit annoyed that you thought I was sleeping with my co-star. You really think I’m that unprofessional at my job?”

“I—“ You wheeze, fingers clutching tightly against the sheets underneath you. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—” You fail, both your head and your heart are not functioning properly at the moment.

“Take your time, baby,” Eren says, and you can tell an impish grin is breaking on his lips. “I’ll wait.”

Now that the tension has been reduced, you can slowly find your voice back. “I’m… Maybe I was a little bit jealous.”

“Now you just got ten times cuter,” he titters. “You know that you don’t have to worry about this if we start dating for real, right?”

The question strikes you down to the bones. “H-how can you say it so casually like that?!”

“What, I’m just saying the truth.”

You’re not sure whether he’s waiting for your reply, as it sounded more like a statement than a question. Unable to even think for an answer, you swerve the flow of the conversation in another direction. “Eren, I’m sorry. This is… I’m being stupid, aren’t I? But this is how I am. This is what I meant when I said I tend to get possessive of my partners. I get unreasonably jealous over little things. I’m so terrible.”

“Hey, listen to me.” The firmness in his tone makes you think that if he was here, he would look at you straight in the eyes, his hands squeezing your shoulders to emphasize his words. “I don’t want to hear you say that ever again about yourself, okay? You’re not terrible, you’re cute. Also, I don’t know about anyone else but to me… It’s kinda hot.”

“What?”

“The part where you’re possessive of me.” You can imagine him smiling to himself from the way he speaks. “It’s as if you’re saying I belong to you and only you. Like you own me and no one else can have me. I think it’s hot.”

You try to ignore the heat that’s creeping into your cheeks. “Eren, your submissive side is showing again.”

“Shut up,” he snorts, suppressing his laughter. “Wait, now that you said it. It kinda feels the same way like that time when you choked me in bed. Huh…” He ponders. “Maybe I do love being dominated.”

“The fact that you can turn this conversation into something sexual is beyond me.”

“I do have that talent, yes.” His chuckles hang in the air. Once he discovers his voice again, he speaks in nothing but solemnity. “Nothing’s going on between me and Mikasa. You know that, right?”

You stiffen. “Eren, you don’t have to explain anything.”

“I just want you to know,” he says, deep and pensive. “There’s nothing between me and her. Nothing happened and nothing will.”

Your nails are sinking into your palm as the tension grows thick once again. “Okay,” is the only word you can vocalize, because what else can you say? “Eren, it’s fine, really.” The more he tries to convince you, the more embarrassed you become. “I was just overreacting.”

“Can you trust me?”

“I do trust you.”

“Then, trust me,” he adamantly says. “Trust me when I say you don’t have to be worried about me dating someone else.”

“Umm…” You blush. Maybe your ears are playing tricks on you because it sounds so much like a love confession. “Okay.”

“Good.” You can sense his smile. “Cause as cute as you sound when you’re jealous—”

“Can you drop it, please?”

“Okay, okay,” he softly chortles.

That beautiful sound of his causes the yearning you have for him to increase, making your heart ache for his presence. “I miss you, Eren,” you hear yourself say before your mind can filter the words. “I miss you so much.”

He inhales sharply, caught off guard. “I…” His voice turns mellow. “I miss you too…”

“Just come back soon, okay?”

“I will,” he promises, the music is too loud for him to catch the longing in your voice. “The second I’m done here, I’m flying my way back to you.”

There’s a call coming in from the other line, and you drag your phone away to check on your screen. It’s from Armin, and the clock is showing that it’s almost an hour before you have to meet him at the mall. He must be calling you to check whether the meeting is still on. “Eren, sorry, I gotta go. I promised to head somewhere with a friend today.”

“Who, Pieck?”

“No, just someone I met recently.”

“You have friends other than Pieck?”

“That’s rude.” You snort, but the amusement is thick in your voice. “Of course, I do. I have tons of friends.”

“Yeah, right.”

“What—I do! But relax, Jaeger, you’re still my number one bestie.”

“We’re turning thirty in five years. Please don’t call me bestie.”

“Whatever, bestie.”

You thought he was going to bid his goodbye, but it seems like he can’t keep his curiosity to himself. “So, this friend of yours. Is it a girl or, like… you know.”

Ah… so this is how I sounded in his ear before. It does light up a little spark of joy within you. Teasing him a little bit, you answer with, “Does it matter?”

“No,” he scoffs. “I don’t care if you’re going out with a boy or a girl.”

“Kinda sound like you do, though.”

“Shut up. Just go already.”

“Alright, geez.” You giggle. It’s not fair that he gets to be this cute when he’s jealous, while you’re turning into an absolute mess every time. “Talk to you soon, Eren.”

“Bye, baby.”

***

“Thanks for driving me home,” you mention right after Armin opens your door, moving to the side to let you step down his car. Every time his lips curve upwards into this angelic smile, yours naturally do the same. The moon is peeking luminously behind thin clouds, now that the rain has stopped. The earthy aroma that follows after the shower hits your nose, catching a whiff of something similar to the natural scent that rubs off of him whenever you get a little bit closer than intended.

Not paying attention to the slippery road, your heels slide against the pavements and you stumble forward. Armin launches his arms to catch you just in time before your body makes contact with the ground.

“Careful,” he says, his hand wrapped securely around your waist as he keeps you steady. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” You hastily retract your hands away from his chest. “Thanks.” In an attempt of maintaining your balance, you unconsciously gripped onto his knitted sweater, your fingers getting a clue of how toned his torso was, despite his baby face and juvenile smiles. But you shouldn’t have been surprised. He may look like the usual college boy you meet in coffee shops, but he’s a model for a reason.

“You never fail to surprise me, huh, Armin?” You beam at him. “I thought you were the clumsiest guy I’ve ever met but you actually have great reflexes.”

“Glad I could impress you,” he titters, releasing his hold on you. “I don’t think I have great reflexes, though. I just happen to be watching you.”

“Well, I’m safe and sound, so you can stop watching me now.”

“Trust me, that’s what I’ve been trying to do all day. Would’ve been easier if you don’t look this pretty all the time.”

Your little teasing grin falters the second you let his words sink in. The thing with Armin is, he doesn’t flirt. With Eren, you can expect these kinds of lines to flow naturally from his mouth. Even before the whole friends-with-benefits thing going on, he already poked fun at you like this all the time, enjoying the way you got all flustered because of him. But Armin—poor, poor Armin can’t even compliment you properly without stuttering. When he saw you walking toward your meeting point at the mall earlier today—Armin was already there half an hour before you—he took a whole damn minute trying to say, “You look beautiful in that dress.” It took him another minute to give you the three different colored roses he bought you. He’s so awkward, panicking ninety-nine percent of the time, but thankfully, whenever you switch the topic to something that’s not related to how you look or the feelings he has for you, he can function like a normal, cheerful boy-next-door who surprisingly knows quite a lot about the ocean and what lies underneath.

So naturally, whenever he accidentally praises you, your heart jumps on its own. It’s different than how you feel when you’re around Eren. Eren keeps your heart running a thousand miles per hour, keeps you standing on your toes, sends goosebumps breaking on your skin with every kiss and every touch. With Armin, it’s the feeling of being adored that gets to you. He’s so innocent, so… pure. Reminding you of the sweet taste of a first kiss.

He reminds you of it, but Eren gave it to you.

You need to stop Armin. You can’t keep his hopes up like this. Not when you're so hung up on a certain boy who’s now singing love songs to a thousand different girls in another continent.

Noticing how you grow pensive, Armin repeats the words he said in his head and he panics. “I mean—” His hands rise until they hover before his face, moving animatedly as he tries to explain. “I wasn’t, like, staring at you all the time—I only stole glances at you once in a while—it’s not—oh God—“

“Armin.”

“I’m sorry—Please don’t be upset—”

“Why would I be upset?” You let out a laugh to assure him, snatching his hand away from covering the bottom half of his face and squeeze it between yours. “Armin, you did nothing wrong.”

“Oh…” He swallows thickly at the sight of your hands covering his larger one. “I thought… You suddenly stopped talking, so…”

“I’m sorry, I was just thinking. But there’s, umm… There’s something I have to say.” You hesitate, trying to find the right words to be as gentle as possible. “Armin, thank you for being so kind to me. I really enjoy the time we spent together. Today was so fun—you are so fun to be around with. So sweet and thoughtful, but I can’t—”

“Oh—wait—” He abruptly retracts his hand, his head bowing low enough to let his bangs draw a veil over his eyes. “I… kinda get what you’re trying to say.” There’s a timid smile on his lips when he faces you again, but even if it manages to reach his eyes, it’s not enough to mask the feeling of his heart breaking. “I know that today isn’t supposed to be a date. You’ve stated several times that we were just going as friends and I understand that. So…” When he drops his hands on his sides, he twines his fingers around the side of his khaki pants. “You don’t have to remind me again that we’re just friends.”

There’s a heavy weight in your chest, the feeling of guilt. Maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to his invitation in the first place. That was very cruel of you to do. “I’m sorry,” you say, your shoulders sagging. “I just didn’t want you to think that this could lead to something more.”

He must hate me now. Today was going so well and I had to end it this way. I’m the worst. You wonder if you should comfort him with a hug as you watch him keep himself reticent. You hate to walk away just like this but Armin doesn’t know what to say, and neither do you.

With your stomach swirling queasily inside, you take a step forward. “Armin—”

“Isn’t it my choice, though?” He interrupts, a little bit louder than how he usually speaks, leaving you stunned on your feet. His fingers are curling into tiny balls of fists, his clear, cerulean eyes determined as they bore deep into yours. “You said yourself that we could start as friends and we’ll see how it goes. As long as you’re not in a relationship—as long as you’re not in love with another man—isn’t it—“ He takes a second to breathe, wets his lips once as his heart throbs painfully inside his ribcages. “Isn’t it okay for me to not give up on my feelings? To want to be as close to you as I can?”

Your face turns a darker shade of crimson. “Armin—”

“I’m not asking you to date me, and I’m certainly not asking you to love me. At least, not right now.” His tone changes. His voice no longer shakes. It’s undaunted and honest as he speaks straight from his heart. “But whether or not I am allowed to want you—to like you more than friends—that’s up to me. I get to choose who I want to love, not you.”

You’re standing still as if the time just stopped. Your mind turns blank, with only his words being repeated until you have them carved strongly into your memory.

“All I’m asking is,” Armin’s tone softens, as much as his gaze does. He places his hand gently on your cheek, fingertips gliding silky smooth against your skin. “For you to let me be myself around you. And if a lovesick fool is what I am, then I hope you can accept that too.” He no longer fumbles with his words but you can feel the quivers that run through his fingers. You can see the redness that paints his cheeks, adding beautiful color to his pale, porcelain-like skin. His sapphire eyes are mesmerizing, as they always are. So tender and beautiful, matching the little smile that breaks upon his lips. But underneath those, there’s fear and uncertainty. “Would it be alright?” He questions, almost in a whisper. “For me to hold on to my feelings?”

Maybe it’s because of the sudden proximity you’re in that you feel everything fades into nothingness, leaving nothing else to exist but for him and his rosy lips that form your name so tenderly like a lullaby. Maybe it’s because you can somehow smell his sweet, natural scent that reminds you of the pine trees after the storm that you’re unable to think about anything else but him. Or maybe it’s just your body reacting to another man touching your skin as if you meant the whole world to him but you can feel your heartrate escalating, forcing the blood to rush to your face and this time, you’re the one who stammers when you speak. “You—yeah, umm… It’s alright, I… guess…”

You expect him to grin, maybe even to lay a kiss on your cheek from how uncharacteristically smooth he’s being, but to your surprise, he switches back to his former self. “Oh, thank God,” Armin says, turning around so he can escape your gaze and buries his face in his hands. He’s both groaning and mumbling to himself, the tips of his ears turning scarlet as if he’d been walking under the snow for hours. “What did I just say to her—oh my God—“ you faintly hear him say and you can’t help but laugh. The version of him you caught a glimpse of before made your heart race, but this one warms it up like a spring replacing a hard, long winter.

Armin turns around to face you with a pout, his bottom lip jutting out like a child. “Please don’t tell me you’re laughing at me. I’m this close at burying myself alive right now.”

“I’m sorry.” You wipe a tear from your eye. “You’re so cute, I can’t help it.”

He blushes harder, and with his pout growing more prominent, he pinches your cheeks, pulling them to the side. “Stop laughing!” But his words do not serve as a threat as he’s starting to chuckle himself, producing the softest of giggle that matches your own.

The tension in the air starts to waver. Once your body no longer shakes from laughter, Armin tosses you the sweetest smile. “Thank you for keeping me company today. I had so much fun.”

“Me too.” You mirror his expression. “Thanks for inviting me. I haven’t had this much fun in a while.”

“I’m glad.” He lays a hand over his heart, probably an attempt to calm his beating heart. “I’m really, really glad to hear that,” he says again, softly in relief, and more to himself than anyone else. An innocent smile is strapped to his lips, causing your heart to jerk violently in your chest.

Because how is this fair? He’s looking at you like you’re his first love. This is the first time you went out with him for the whole day, and yet, here he is, adoring you like he has fallen for you for years. Yes, you have talked several times on the phone with him, sharing stories and funny secrets that you’d usually keep to yourself, but is it really enough for someone as sweet as him to fall for you?

“Why do you like me?” Your curiosity defeats the control you have over your mouth.

Armin gapes, so blown away by the question, he doesn’t look like he’s breathing. “I—w-why do I like you?” He takes a step back, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “What—How do you expect me to answer that question?”

“I expect you to be honest.” You hold his gaze and when he tries to look away, you lay a hand on his cheek, holding him in place. “Be honest with me, Armin, because I really can’t tell. For all I know, I’m just… me. There are a lot of pretty girls out there who would date you in a heartbeat. A lot of nicer ones too, I’m sure. What exactly do you see in me?”

The boy looks like his heart is failing on him, but he covers your hand with his own, keeping it there on his face where you can feel his cheek getting hotter from the way his blood is rushing to his face. “I…” Armin starts, keeping his eyes concealed under his fringe. “I like you because you’re not… like the other girls.” His words paint another color on his cheeks. “It—it sounds cliche, I know, but—but it’s true. I can’t find the right words for now, but you really are different. Or, at least, you treat me differently like how they usually do.”

You let a moment pass before you can form your response. You drop your hand from his face, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Chewing on his lip, he peers into your eyes as if he’s trying to find the answers to that question in them. Exhaling heavily, he walks to your side and leans his back against the side of his car. “I’ve never asked someone on a date before. I told you that, didn’t I?” He tucks his hands inside the pocket of his jeans so you won’t notice his jitters. “I braved myself to ask you out because I really couldn’t stop thinking about you. I didn’t think I would be brave enough to do it, but I realized that if I didn’t try, at least once, to get your attention, then I would regret it for the rest of my life. That’s why I chased after you, and I’m glad that I took my chances because it led me here. To this moment.”

You weren’t expecting for the conversation to veer this way, so you play deaf, though the rest of your body betrays you.

“A-anyway, I digress.” Armin forces a chortle to break free, and it’s so strained, he, himself, almost winces at the sound. “I’ve been in a relationship before with this girl I loved back in college. She knew I had feelings for her. I couldn’t even strike a conversation, but she noticed. Probably because I kept watching her like a creep.”

“You’re not a creep, Armin.”

“No, I probably was…” He rubs his nose, slightly shivering from the cold night wind. “So, one day, she asked me if I wanted to grab dinner with her and I agreed, wholeheartedly. We got to talking—well, I listened to what she said—I couldn’t talk much because, you know, I got so nervous. But she enjoyed my company—not sure why, but she did—and two hours later, she kissed me and we started dating.”

“That was pretty smooth,” you comment with a grin, leaning against the car like he is.

“Believe me, it wasn’t.” Noticing how you tremble slightly from the cold, he takes off his beanie, mumbling out a quick, “Excuse me,” before he places it on your head. “I’m sorry,” he utters with his voice turning velvety, as he tucks a few strands behind your ear. “I would’ve taken my sweater for you but I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

You blush at the thought. “No,” you clear your throat, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “This is fine. Thank you.”

“Do you want to go inside?”

“You mean, to my apartment? With you?”

He’s the one who’s blushing this time, and he’s blushing harder than he ever did before. “N-no, I didn’t mean it like that! I’ll head home if you feel like you want to get warm inside—”

“And miss hearing the story of your grandiose first love?” You playfully elbow him on his side. “Just carry on, Armin. There’s a cafe over there if you want to get some coffee, though. It’s only five minutes walk.”

His eyes light up. “Yes, please, I’d love you.”

“What?”

“TO!” He shouts, almost passing out in horror. “I would love to have some coffee—Jesus Christ, why do I keep doing this—“

Laughing at him, you tug him forward by his sleeve and lead the way.

***

“So, how long did you two get together?” You sink into the couch that’s located in the corner of the coffee shop, settling yourself down right next to him, and bask in the delightful smell of coffee and cinnamon. You’re sitting close enough to see the colors on his face but not enough to let your shoulders brush against one another.

“Not long,” he answers, wincing after he took a sip of his coffee. Unlike Eren who always insists that “It’s not coffee if it’s not bitter,” Armin is the exact opposite. He thanks you when you slide him your sugar sticks, pouring everything inside at once. “Probably three months? Four?” He stirs his spoon, taking another sip, and sighs in content once it suits his tongue.

“We should’ve gone to a boba tea shop,” you joke and he, surprisingly, responds by sticking his tongue out at you like a child. It fits him, making him look even younger than he already does. “Why did you break up with her?”

“I didn’t.” He places his cup back to the wooden table, leaning forward with his hands propped on his thighs. “She, uh… She broke up with me.”

“I’m sorry…” You tarry, feeling a bit awkward. “Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m boring, I guess?” He disguises his feelings with a chuckle. “Because our interests didn’t align with each other. She was not a fan of literature. And well, I always got too fired up about the things I like, especially about the novel I’m planning to write and she just didn’t want to hear me talk about it anymore. She also told me that she felt embarrassed when she brought me over to parties. I didn’t really know how to talk to people—I mean, I still do.” He keeps his tone light, his smile never falters as he retells the story but you can tell how terrible he feels about this from the way he fiddles with his fingers. “You know how I am. I keep fumbling with my words, keep tripping over my feet. I can barely look people in the eyes. I can stay calm in front of the cameras but… I don’t know, some people are just too intimidating to look at, I guess.”

And it irks you that he has such low self-esteem when he’s one of the most pleasant people you’ve ever met in your life. He’s not as confident or as charismatic as Eren, true, but he has his own traits that make him endearing. He has his own charm and you feel more captivated by him the more hour you spend together.

“So one day,” he continues, “She sent me a text, telling me that she wanted to break up with me. I tried to call but she didn’t pick up. When we passed each other in the hallway the next morning, I wanted to tell her that I’d love for us to stay friends, but she avoided me, so…”

God, this is vexing, you think, settling your cup down with your eyebrows deeply furrowed. “Armin, I’m sorry,” you say, and he turns his head toward you, bewildered by how unsettled you sound. “I don’t know her and I know I shouldn’t judge, but I can firmly say, with every fiber of my being, that she doesn’t deserve you. At all. She is mean, she is selfish, she doesn’t know the first thing about you—"

“W-wait—“ He holds up a hand, eyebrows adjoined in the middle as he grimaces. “Why are you getting angry—“

“Because you seem fine with it and it pisses me off!” You toss your hands in the air exasperatedly. “Armin, don’t ever talk yourself down, okay? I don’t want to hear that coming from you—ever. You are adorable, you hear me? You’re not embarrassing, and you’re definitely not boring. I honestly think you’re the smartest guy I’ve ever met! You’re charming, you’re kind, you give compliments to people without expecting to receive one. You’re so genuine, and I adore that about you. She doesn’t deserve you, seriously.”

“Umm… Thank you.” He’s quite baffled, unsure of how to react. “She broke up with me years ago, though, so you don’t have to be angry about it anymore.”

“Yeah, well, I just heard this story now so I’m livid,” you grumble, reaching out to grab your coffee. “How dare she said those things to you. Did she not see how charming you are?”

“Do you?” He asks with hopeful eyes, shyly peeking at you from underneath his bangs. “Do you, umm, find me to be charming?”

“Don’t make me shout at you too, Armin. Of course, I do.”

“But not as charming as Eren.”

You freeze, one hand holding your cup in the air. The anchor that was once tugging on your heart returns, but before you can find your reply, Armin laughs it off. “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer that. I was just, uh—“ He fixes his collar, keeping his hand busy. “I was just joking.”

He didn’t sound like he was, and he certainly doesn’t look like it now. “I’m sorry…”

“No, please, don’t be.”

The sound of people chattering in the background is the only one that fills the gap between you. It’s awkward enough that you feel like you want to stand up and excuse yourself to the bathroom, just so you can get a chance to breathe. Fortunately for you, Armin breaks the silence.

“This is also the reason why I like you,” he sheepishly adds. “You’re so blunt. So straightforward. You always say the first thing that comes to your mind and it puts me at ease because I know you’ll tell me straight to my face if I ever make you feel uncomfortable. I know you’d rather talk it out with me, instead of bottling everything inside and turn yourself into a ticking bomb that blows up until there’s nothing left for us to hold on to.”

“That’s…” You shift in your seat, turning around slightly so you don’t have to be standing under his gaze. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Maybe.” Armin presses his spine against the couch, stirring his coffee. “But you’ve always been that way with me from the start. You could’ve lied when I asked you about your feelings for Eren. And if you already know that he likes you too, you could’ve used me to make him jealous. Maybe that way, he’ll step up and confess to you and you two can finally be together.”

You stiffen, swallowing your breath. “That thought actually did cross my mind.”

“But you didn’t do it.” Armin tilts his head to the side, his eyes raking over your side profile. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have reminded me several times that we were just gonna be friends.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“No, I don’t want to,” he confirms one more time. You bring your head low, hoping that your hair will cover your blazing cheeks. “Having feelings for you makes me happy. I feel like I’m more alive whenever I think about you. I feel so many different emotions at once—too overwhelming, sometimes, yes, but I like it.”

Your ears are buzzing. “That’s… an unusual way to say it.”

“Oh my God, I just said something really weird, didn’t I? Oh no—” He returns to his usual self and you quickly darts out one hand, pinch him lightly on the bridge of his nose before he works himself into a state of frenzy and causing a scene.

“Anything else you want to add, Mr. Arlert?” You cross your legs, playfully fixing your nonexistent glasses as you chaff him. “Or me being shameless about my feelings is the only reason why you’re attracted to me?”

“Of course not!” He nearly stands up from his seat, startling you. “There are still a million reasons why I like you—”

“Okay, calm down now.” You raise both hands in the air. “I was just teasing you.”

“You’re beautiful!” He’s not stopping, blurting everything in one breath. “You have the most breathtaking smile I’ve ever seen—pretty eyes too! I love it when the light shines on them and they—”

“A-Armin—wait—”

“And I love the little moles you have—I think they’re really cute—”

You’re covering your hands with both hands. “Jesus—“

“And it makes me happy because you’re okay with who I am!” Armin confesses, taking one of your hands in his, breathless as he speaks. “You accept me for who I am. You’re probably just joking around when you tell me I’m endearing but it really does make me happy.” He’s brave enough to meet your eyes for more than a few seconds now. It’s you, this time, who feels overwhelmed being under his stare so you bring your eyes down to your lap instead. “And I find you ten times more attractive the closer I get to you,” Armin continues, slowly releasing your hand. “You’re witty. You have a great sense of humor. We have the same hobby, we love the same books, we view things similarly. I feel like I can talk to you for hours and never going to run out of topics. How do you expect me to not fall for you?”

It’s bad… His words are doing things to your heart that you didn’t know you’d get to feel. His voice is the exact opposite of Eren’s. His is smooth and light, almost a bit feminine, even, but it managed to wake up the butterflies inside your stomach just as much. You can feel your cheek blazing hot, and even though you still feel uneasy—guilty, even—for having this kind of reaction for someone other than Eren, you don’t know how to keep your heart from thrashing wildly inside.

Armin is just as flushed, but instead of spouting words, he tucks his lip between his teeth and sinks his fingernails into his palms, waiting for you to be the one who breaks the silence this time.

You take a deep breath, hoping your voice won’t tremble. “I wasn’t joking,” you utter, gaining his attention until he spins back his head to perceive you. “I really do find you to be endearing.”

“Oh…” He drags his eyes to his lap again. “T-thank you.”

You hate the tension that stretches between you. Desperate of returning everything to normal, you make a joke. “So, my moles, huh? Never thought I’d hear someone saying that to me but okay.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and in the next split second, his eyes widen in horror. “Wait, no, don’t take it the wrong way, please!”

“What do you mean? You’re saying you don’t like my moles?”

“No, I do! They’re pretty—you’re so, so pretty—you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever had conversations with but please know that it’s not your face—o-or your moles—that made me fall for you.” You narrow your eyes, pretending to be sending him a glare and he nearly stands up from his seat, panicking. “No, please, don’t get me wrong! Your face does things to my head—you don’t know how much I think about you in the shower—”

“Oh, God—”

“NO, I MEAN—” Color drained from his face, his cup rattles when he accidentally bumps his knees against the table. “I do a lot of thinking when I’m in the shower—like about, politics and stuff—not the dirty ones, I swear!”

And you let him ramble on and on, smiling to yourself as you listen. You’re being mean to him but it’s easier on your heart. “So you’re saying you never had any dirty thoughts about me? What, am I not sexy enough for you, Arlert?”

He nearly weeps.

***

“So, uhh…” Armin dallies as you return his beanie to his hand. You have walked back to your previous spot, standing on the pavement with his car parked nearby on the side of the road. “Can I text you later tonight?”

“As long as it’s not two AM when you’re feeling lonely,” you tease him with the same joke. “Sure.”

“I’ll try not to,” he titters. “Well… Good night.”

“Good night, Armin.” You can tell he wants to bid his farewell with a hug, but his fingers are already trembling before he can even finish the thought that he has to hide his hands behind his back. Doing him a favor, you step closer and present him with something better.

You land a hand on his shoulder, tiptoeing to match his height, and kiss him on the cheek. Flustered, he backs away, pressing his palm against the spot that feels scorching hot from your kiss. “I—you—umm—” He’s lost for words, and you simply grin in return, walking past him.

He stands immobile, only turning around to face you when you call his name before you walk through the entrance door. “You know,” you say, tucking your hands inside the pockets of your coat. “Any girl would be lucky to have you, Armin. You’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever met.”

He gapes, his jaw hanging low on his face. Tossing another cheeky smile, you turn around and walk inside your building.

“Can you be that girl?!” You hear him shout and you laugh to yourself.

“Not when you keep thinking about me in the shower, Armin.”

***

There’s one thing Armin gave to you that Eren never did and it’s the motivation to pursue your dream. Eren knew how much you liked pouring your dreams, hopes, and fantasies into words—he knew that ever since he met you in junior high. But it’s a sensitive topic, one that he was too afraid to bring back to the surface, knowing that the last time the two of you conversed about your story was when you made him a promise that you would create one for him, and in exchange, he would write a song for you. But he left before he got to sing, and he disappeared before you could show him how much you adored your protagonist—one that was based on him.

The story is still there, hidden in the top drawer of your bedroom, secluded in a box so your parents wouldn’t throw it away by mistake. If you had the bravery, you would’ve shown it to him. Would’ve let him know how the hero in the story had his smile, had his eyes, had both his courage and his insecurities. Would’ve told him how the heroine loved her hero, despite all of his flaws and the sins he committed. How she believed in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself. How she loved him for who he was, way before anyone else could see just how brilliantly he could shine. But you couldn’t tell him. Not right now. And Eren never talked about it too. Maybe he had forgotten, just like the song he promised to write for you once. Because as far as you knew, he never sang it to you.

You could talk to Eren about everything, from trivial matters to your darkest secrets, but this? This you can’t talk about. But with Armin, he suddenly makes it so easy. It all started with a simple question of, “Why do you want to be a writer?” You were making small talk, didn’t plan to have him tugging on your heartstrings, and made you feel something you had forgotten you once felt.

“Stories… They’re kind of peculiar, aren’t they?” Armin revealed his answer as he smiled softly to himself. “They could make you feel alive, make you feel something you’ve never experienced just by words. I like to believe that stories have the power to bring people together, no matter what race they are, what religion they believe in, what they have gone through. As long as they could relate to these stories, they could relate to everyone else. Virginia Woolf’s Night and Day was the one who brought you to me. She created the story that inspired us, and I’d like to believe that maybe from there, we could create our own and so, we could inspire other people—to make them feel alive with our stories. And I want this. I want to influence people. I want to connect. I want to relate. I want my existence to mean something.”

Armin spoke like he was in trance, but even if his voice was more delicate than a mother’s lullaby, you could feel the passion he had to reach his dream. So his answer became yours.

Seeing how zealous he is when it comes to writing, lights up the same fire within you. The old spark that used to zap through your body whenever you had your pen on paper has returned at once, and it’s stronger than ever. He motivates you to write again, to work on the chapters you have left abandoned for years. Your protagonist still has dark hair and viridian eyes, but he’s not shackled down by a promise. You’re starting a new page, a new story, and this time, you hope, if you manage to finish it, you’ll be able to present it to him. Just like the songs he sang to you, you want Eren to read your story and make him wonder if it’s about him. If he’s the hero in the story, and you’re his heroine.

Armin’s schedule is nowhere as hectic as Eren’s, which gives you a lot of chances to do impromptu meetings whenever you have time to spare. In a matter of two weeks, you’ve grown closer to him than you’ve ever been with Porco. You share your dreams with him, the goals you want to achieve, and Armin listens intently to everything, supports you without being asked, and you hope you’re doing the same thing for him.

You’ve grown so comfortable around him that you could call him at midnight, saying, “Okay, I can’t sleep and I have this great idea I want to write.” Armin would chuckle at first, timid and slightly awkward as expected, but he’d always respond with, “Me too. Meet you at the usual cafe in thirty? I’ll bring my MacBook.” His house is only twenty-five minutes drive away from your apartment building, and he would wait for you at the lobby before you marched over to him in your oversized hoodie and sweatpants, mischief swirling in your eyes. You’d then walk together to the nearest cafe, grateful that it was open 24 hours without a break. Not more than a week later, both of you have completed the first chapter of your novels.

“Okay, we’ll do it at the same time. Ready?” Sitting before you in the corner of your favorite coffee shop, Armin takes a deep breath and gives you a nod. He seems nervous, which is nothing new when it comes to him, but right now, with his manuscript in his hands, he’s stiffly perched at the edge of his seat. His teeth nearly cutting his lip from how hard he’s chewing on it. “On three,” you confirm. “One, two, three!”

On your count, you both slide your manuscripts down the table at the same time—yours to Armin, and Armin’s to you. Just like him, your heart is racing fast, enough to make you hear your heartbeat in your ears. “This is the first time I’m showing my novel to anyone,” you tell him, voice sounding a little bit squeaky than intended. You hold his manuscript close to your chest, not reading the first page just yet. “So… Please be gentle with me.”

“Me—“ Armin is even worse. His voice actually breaks, and with ears turning red, he hastily clears his throat. “Me too. I’ve never shown my work to anyone before. And I—I will—“ His next words almost come in whispers. “I will be gentle with you…”

You wait with your lips pressed until they turn white, afraid that your laughter will break free if you don’t keep them shut tightly enough. You both know how weird that line just sounded, and you can tell by his face turning redder by the second. “Sex innuendo?” You blatantly ask him and he chokes. Just like that, the tension breaks and you both can breathe a little easier. “Okay, before you start passing out on me or something,” you tease him, “Let’s read. Don’t comment anything until we’re both finished with it.”

“Y-yeah, okay.” Armin fills his lungs with as much air as he can, a method he tries often to keep himself calm when he’s around you. With your nod, he begins to read the first page of your historical romance story, while you scan your eyes carefully through every word of his detective fiction novel.

You both fall into silence, immersed in each other’s writings and the universe you created. The sound of a group of females chatting in the other corner of the room, and a mixtape of acoustic songs playing through the speakers are the only voices that ring through your ears but you pay them no mind. You’re not sure how many minutes have passed by as you go from one page to another.

With every passage you read, you’re sinking further and further into the world that he built. Armin’s writing skills are immaculate, intricately descriptive, whilst leaving more room for the audience to let their imagination wander. The way his metaphors flow seamlessly in every scene leaves you jealous, wanting nothing more than to have a portion of his skill. The atmosphere of the story is much more mature and sensual than you would’ve expected coming from his hands, but it works perfectly, giving you a glimpse of another persona that lives inside him. Armin, himself, is a mystery you want to unravel.

His passion for writing really shows with each word he puts down on paper. It’s so easy to be captivated by the conundrum that revolves around his protagonist, and you become addicted to reading more and more to satisfy your curiosity. When there are no longer pages to read, you’re left unsatisfied in your seat, gasping a quiet, “Oh no,” before you return to the first page and read it all over again.

You’ve read his chapter twice when Armin is finally finished with yours. It’s quite strange as you know he’s not a slow reader. You and Armin have been exchanging books in the last few weeks, and he managed to finish the top four novels from your list—ones that he hasn’t read, anyway, because you have similar taste when it comes to literature—while you only got to finish one from his. He’s very attentive to details too, knowing every bit of hidden meanings, every hidden message that the authors tried to convey, only by reading them once and in such a short time. He continues to impress you, leaving you wanting to hear more of the stories—the same stories that you’ve read three times, at least—through his eyes.

So now, seeing how he takes a much longer time than necessary to read your chapter, you can feel your heart slamming against your ribcages as you wait. Armin closes your manuscript, settling it down on the table while keeping his face pensive. You both exchange stares, witnessing the anxiety you have in each other’s eyes. At the same time, you both open your mouth and shout, “It was so good!”

“I’m sorry, you go first,” you hastily say.

“N-no, please,” Armin insists, “After you.”

“Okay.” You wanted to be professional about it, to give him a thorough review like how you would write in your article, but the second you recite your opinion, you’re turning into a fanatic. Your vocabulary suddenly becomes limited, only able to repeat the same words—unpredictable, addicting, clever—over and over again like a broken record. You get so excited, your hands moving without rest that at one point, you almost accidentally knock your latte with your fist. Every compliment he hears paint a shade of crimson on his cheeks. By the end you’re finished with your praise, he has his arms folded on the table and his face buried between them.

“T-thank you,” he murmurs, too embarrassed to meet you in the eyes. Once he’s calm enough to speak, however, there’s seriousness in his voice. “Do you… want to hear your review?”

You’re so anxious, you won’t be surprised if you start breaking into a cold sweat. “Yes, please.”

Unlike you, Armin provides his opinions like how he would toward a professional writer. “I love the idea of metafiction, it always intrigues me. You’re very brave for using this kind of story-telling for your first book, as it’s not easy,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn. “I know this is only the first chapter, so I won’t say much. I enjoy the characters you presented. You’ve only introduced them, but I find them to be engaging. Especially, the heroine. She’s very beautifully written. Your narratives, need to be polished, however. I feel like it’s a little bit too similar to how Ian McEwan would write in his books. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, your writing is perfect. But you need to find your identity, your own style. When I read your columns, I could feel it. I could easily distinguish your articles from the others just by reading the first passage. You have something in you that makes your works stand out from the rest—makes them different. But I don’t feel that in here,” Armin says, tapping his index finger on your manuscript. “Beautiful story, immaculate storytelling, but if it doesn’t feel like it’s you who wrote it, would you be satisfied with it?”

You’re dumbstruck, lips parted but your tongue feels too heavy to move. That… is true, you think to yourself, recalling the times when you struggled to type the words down. You wanted to write in the same way you’d write your article, in the same style that you’re familiar with—one that you invented with years of practice. But when you read it again, you felt insecure. It felt like you were lacking—missing something important. The metaphors you used didn’t sound beautiful. The imagination you poured into words seemed so limited. You couldn’t stop comparing your work to others, and instead of finding your own style, you imitated theirs instead.

And Armin—a guy who only knew you for a few weeks—noticed that. “I’m…” You lick your lips, loss for words. “That’s—”

“Oh my God, I was being too harsh, wasn’t I?” Armin cuts you off, his arms flailing as he panics. “I’m—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk—what do I even know about writing—I haven’t even finished my work yet—“

“Armin—”

“—and to think I had the nerve to criticize other people about it—I’m such a horrible person—“

“Armin!” You don’t know what else to do but shout as his voice starts rising louder and louder, gathering people’s attention.

He stops, frozen on his seat, breathless. “Please forgive me,” he says, much quieter and much more afraid this time. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt, Armin. Stop being so dramatic.” You emphasize your words with a laugh, and that’s the truth. You’re far from hurt. Maybe even happy, to have someone who understands your writing better than you do. You feel grateful toward him. “Jesus, you’re one of a kind, aren’t you? It’s like you have two different people living inside you.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” He bows his head again.

“Stop apologizing.”

“I’m sor—“ He catches himself. “Okay.”

“Good.” You gather both of your manuscripts in your arms, slinging your handbag in one shoulder. “Now, get off your butt and follow me.”

“Huh?” But as he sees you leave, he doesn’t have any other choice but to follow. “Where are we going?”

“To get some burgers,” you say, casting a smile at him. “I’ll treat you.”

“No, please, I can pay for myself—”

You poke him on his chest, stopping him. “I want to thank you, silly.”

He frowns, rubbing the spot. “You’re not… mad at me?”

You stop at your tracks once you’ve stepped out of the coffee shop, turning around to face him. “Can you stop being so adorable for one second?” You tell him and he blushes, gluing his eyes to his feet. “Of course I’m not mad at you, Armin. I’m grateful. Thank you for the review. I feel more motivated to work on my novel, now that I have someone out there who’s waiting for the real me.” You send him a cheeky grin, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. Armin returns your smile, brighter than the sun, softer than the cold wind of spring. It tweaks on your heart, your stomach flipping in delight. Hastily, you pivot on your heels and walk toward your next destination.

“Hey.” Armin matches your steps. “Can I take your manuscript with me?”

“Sure. Why?”

“No reason. Just want to have the first copy of the next New York Times’ number one bestselling romance novel sitting on my shelf.”

“Shut up.” You bump your shoulder against his and Armin’s warm, tiny laughter complete yours as they mingle in the air. “Speaking of that, you know what book should’ve been an all-time bestseller? Number The Stars by Stephen Reeve.”

Armin nearly trips over his feet after he heard your sentence, his body lurching forward until he maintains his balance by taking a hold of your wrist.

“Seriously?” You poke fun at him. “Again, Armin?”

He lightly laughs, grimacing as he does so. He steadies himself, keeping up with your pace. “I didn’t realize you were a fan of that author.”

“A fan? I literally would sell one of my kidneys to have him sign my books. It irks me so much that he’s so underrated. Everything he wrote kept me at the edge of my seat. His Devil in Winter series? Best four books I’ve ever read in my life, hands down. Seriously, what a talent. You’ve never heard of him?”

“Umm… No.” Armin fixes his collar, looking away. Noticing you raising your eyebrow at his quirk, he points his finger forward. “Oh, look! An ice-cream van! Come, I’ll treat you one!”

“Hey, I’m supposed to be the one who—“ But Armin already snatches your hand away, tugging you forward until you nearly tripped like he did before. He catches you by the waist, scrunching his nose cutely at you as he holds you close. “Seriously?” He imitates you with rosy cheeks. “Again?”

“Oh, you’re dead, Arlert.”

***

“You should go to a hospital,” Pieck says, tying her hair up in a ponytail as she walks next to you with her heels clicking against the pavement. You’re on your way to the nearest shopping mall, choosing to walk on foot as it’s not too far away from your meeting point. “You look like you’re dying.”

The two of you are spending the weekend together, which is something you haven’t done in months probably, due to your… busy schedule with Eren. Now that he’s performing in a different continent, and Armin is busy working for the charity program his father has planned for the season, you can finally enjoy some girl time with your only female friend, Pieck Finger.

“I do?” You weakly ask, feeling a little lightheaded from lacking sleep. Not sure why, but you haven’t been able to sleep properly. Eren has been calling you less and less, and every time he did manage to call, it never went more than fifteen minutes. He always sounded so exhausted—physically. Whenever he FaceTimed you, he would always force himself to smile, asking how your day went, and paid as much attention as he could to your story, even though you could see how he could barely keep his eyes open as he did so. You didn’t have the heart to keep him awake so you ended up ending the call, bidding him farewell while showcasing a sympathetic smile. And if you texted him afterward, he would reply on the next morning, replying with the same line: “Sorry. I fell asleep last night. Talk to you later?”

You feel so… lonely.

Perhaps, you’ve been feeling that from the first day Eren walked out through your door, but his late-night calls always managed to compensate. And, of course, Armin was always there to keep you accompany too. Now that they’re both gone, busy minding their own businesses, you feel like you’re trapped inside a hole—one that’s even darker and more suffocating than before.

“Have you seen yourself in the mirror?” Pieck says, “Your eye bags are showing, your pores are getting bigger and your lips are chapped. He’s been gone for like, what, three months?”

“Five weeks.”

“Five weeks!” She throws her hands in the air, shaking her head in disbelief. “It’s only been five weeks and you look like a walking corpse. Did you really miss him that bad?”

You’re ashamed to admit it so you tell her, “No,” but deep down, you know it’s true. Not once in your life have you ever missed someone this much, and if that makes you sound pathetic, then so be it. Besides, you were so excited to celebrate your birthday with him, wondering if he would give you a special present that only he could give. Now that he’s confirmed he won’t be back anytime soon, you have to throw those hopes out of the window.

“You’re not still worried about him sleeping with another girl, are you?” Pieck asks.

You could’ve lied about it, but you can’t find the strength to do it. “Well…”

“Honey, let me slap you back to reality, okay? He’s in love with you. He never stated it out loud, true, but everyone—literally, everyone—could see he’s in love with you. Hell, you could tell him to convert himself into a good Christian, and he’d drag his ass right that second to the nearest church and say, Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—”

“Okay, but—”

“Hush, I’m not finished!” She smacks a finger to your lips. “Yes, he does have some crazy, obsessed fangirls who, for some reason, find it to be appropriate to throw their bras and panties to the stage whenever he performs. And yes, at this point, Eren could choke them with his dick, stuck a dildo in their ass, and throw them away once he’s done with them, and they’d still say yes, thank you, daddy, I love you—”

“Pieck—”

“But he’s not gonna do that because he’s in love with you!” She whines, shaking you by the shoulders. “Now, if you’re gonna keep moping about this, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to drag your cute butt to therapy because I can’t deal with you being like this. I want my best friend back!”

You take a moment before answering, afraid that she’d slap a hand over your mouth for interrupting. “Umm… Are you done?”

“Yeah.” She exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Jesus, look what you’ve done to me. I got worked up over nothing.”

“So… We’re best friends?”

“Oh my God, after all the things I said—”

“I’m kidding.” With a cheeky grin, you tackle her with a hug, hard enough to make her yelp. “Thank you, Pieck. You always know how to cheer me up, even if your method is a little bit… extreme.”

Pieck always has a soft spot for you, though she never would admit it out loud. “I’m unique, that’s what I am,” she mutters, patting your back twice. “Oh, you know what we should do?” Pieck suggests when you loosen your embrace, landing both hands on your shoulder. “Let’s go buy some lingerie.”

Her suggestion may be out of the blue but at this point, you can’t really be surprised at her antics. “I have enough bras and panties in my closet, thanks.”

“No, you’re not getting it.” Her smile turns impish, borderline filthy. “We’re gonna buy the skimpiest lingerie ever existed and you’re gonna wear it on the day he comes back home.”

“What?!” You choke, face aflame. “That’s—why would I do that?!”

“Because that would make him happy. Don’t you want to make him happy?”

Of course, you do, but you never thought you’d make him happy in that way. “I—” You look away, awkward and abashed that you’re having this conversation in public. “I’ve never bought any of those before.”

“Well,” Pieck raises her chin, smug and proud. “That’s why I’m here, right, sister?”

***

Today is your birthday. The sound of your alarm ringing indicates that it’s seven-thirty in the morning. Out of habit, you slide your hand underneath your pillow, already searching for your phone even before you can properly open your lids. With bleary eyes, you check through your messages. You have family members and several friends congratulating you on your birthday, more than you would expect it to be. Rubbing your eyes away from sleep, you quickly scan through the messages.

Happy birthday, bestie 🎊 🎉🎂 - Pieck, 01.11 AM

May you always be surrounded with life’s biggest joys and never-ending bliss. And if your biggest joy is in the form of Eren’s humongous cock, then I wish you’ll be shrouded with that too for the rest of your life. - Pieck, 01.12 AM

Sorry, baby, I wanted to text you an hour ago but Pokko was wrecking my ass 🤪 - Pieck, 01.12 AM

BEST. SEX. EVEEEEEEERRR 💦💦💦 - Pieck, 01.13 AM

Don’t forget we’re having a party for you at my place tomorrow. Your building sucks btw. I would’ve thrown you a surprise party if your landlord doesn’t act like a fucking bitch every time. Who the fuck doesn’t allow partying? It’s your apartment. - Pieck, 01.14 AM

Anyway, love ya! - Pieck, 01.14 AM

Oh! Don’t forget to bring that cute guy with you. Pokko’s afraid that he’ll be the only guy at the party. - Pieck, 01.14 AM

Blinking sleepily while holding back a yawn, you run your thumbs across the screen. Thanks, Pieck, you type, you really don’t have to throw a party for me but I’m very happy that you do. Armin and I will be there.

Happy birthday, grandma. You’re one year closer to your death. Good luck. - Porco, 01.20 AM

You snort, promptly writing down a reply: Thanks, Pokko. You do know that when I die, I’m gonna haunt you for the rest of your life, right? Good luck.

Happy birthday, honey. I’m sorry, your father and I couldn’t visit you today. Someone needs to look after your grandma. We hope you have a wonderful birthday, and that the year ahead is full of many blessings. We love you. Please come home when you have time. - Mom, 07.29 AM

Oh, and bring Eren with you when you do. - Mom, 07.30 AM

How is he, by the way? Is he still single? - Mom, 07.30 AM

I saw him on TV the other day. He was so handsome that I had to hold your father’s hand to remind me that I have a husband. Hahaha. - Mom, 07.31 AM

You’re twenty-six now, darling. Don’t you think it’s about time for Eren to take your hand in marriage? - Mom, 07.32 AM

“Jesus,” you mutter, not spending another second reading more of her lectures.

Hi. This is Moblit Berner from the Human Resource Department. I’m aware we’ve never really talked before but I want to wish you a happy birthday. Please stay safe, and don’t forget to wash your hands regularly. I heard they just discovered a new virus in China. - Unknown Number, 08.02 AM

The last message pulls a laughter out of you but before you can reply, your thumb already hovers to another unread chat under the name of Armin Arlert. Unlike the others, he has a train of messages that started right at 00.00 until a little bit past one in the morning. You must have put your phone in silent mode, as you didn’t hear these messages coming on—or maybe you were just too tired to notice, sleeping like a log after spending hours working on the next chapter of your novel.

Hey, this is Armin. - 00.00 AM

But you already know that, of course. - 00.00 AM

You maybe can't tell, but even through texts, I'm sweating as I type this. But I digress. - 00.00 AM

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! - 00.01 AM

I’m sorry for writing that in capslocks. - 00.01 AM

I’m not sure how to express my emotions through texts. - 00.01 AM

Just please know that I am very, very excited for you right now. - 00.02 AM

NOT in a weird way! - 00.02 AM

God, I’m sorry. I’m so bad at this. - 00.03 AM

I wish you a vivacious day of love, laughter, and joy. - 00.11 AM

May all of - 00.11 AM

Oops, sorry, I hit enter too quickly before. - 00.11 AM

May all of your birthday wishes come true. - 00.12 AM

I hope that you continue to change the lives of others with your positivity, love, and beautiful spirit. - 00.13 AM

Did I sound too cliche? - 00.21 AM

I did, didn’t I? - 00.23 AM

I sounded like one of those greeting cards, I’m so sorry. - 00.24 AM

Do you happen to know how to unsent messages? - 00.27 AM

Nevermind. I looked it up and it says that this app doesn’t support that kind of feature. - 00.30 AM

I’m sorry. - 00.31 AM

You know what? I’m just going to be honest. - 00.43 AM

I need to get this out of my chest and I think this is the perfect time to say it. - 00.43 AM

I am very grateful to have known you in my life. - 00.43 AM

I am very proud of you. - 00.43 AM

You inspire me. - 00.43 AM

You make me laugh harder than I’ve ever laughed in my life. - 00.44 AM

You’re so funny. - 00.44 AM

You’re cute. - 00.44 AM

I love the way you smile. The little crinkles in your eyes. I love them. - 00.45 AM

I love the way you say my name. You make it sound beautiful. - 00.48 AM

I wish I could hear you say my name right now. - 00.48 AM

I wish I could hear you call my name every day. - 00.49 AM

I wish I could see you every day. - 00.49 AM

You’re amazing, honestly. - 00.51 AM

So amazing. - 00.51 AM

I wish I could spend my days with you all the time because that’s how happy I am when I’m with you. - 00.52 AM

And you’re beautiful. Inside out, you’re beautiful. - 00.52 AM

And I love you for that. - 00.52 AM

WAIT THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION - 00.53 AM

I LOVE YOU AS A FRIEND - 00.53 AM

WELL NO I LIKE YOU MORE THAN A FRIEND BUT I DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY IT LIKE THAT - 00.53 AM

I’M SORRY I GOT CARRIED AWAY - 00.53 AM

Oh no - 00.54 AM

Now it sounds like I’m screaming at you, aren’t I? - 00.54 AM

Wait I’ll use emoji! - 00.54 AM

😱😱😱😱😱 - 01.11 AM

🤷‍♂️🤦‍♂️🙇‍♂️ - 01.12 AM

🙋‍♂️💦 - 01.12 AM

Am I using these right? I’ve never used emojis before. - 01.12 AM

Oh Lord, I’m so sorry. - 01.12 AM

Please call me when you see these messages, I have things I’d like to explain. - 01.27 AM

I’m sorry. - 01.42 AM

“Oh my God, Armin.” It is almost unbelievable, the amount of joy and warmth that emerge in your chest, just from reading his messages. You can vividly imagine every expression he has as he wrote this—his face contorting in glee, his eyes widening in horror at the end and the shivers in his fingers as he typed this out. The fact that he stayed up late, texted you right when the clock struck twelve, and continued to send messages for over an hour, baffled you. How is it possible for a single soul to bring you so much happiness?

And you would’ve called him if your mind wasn’t shouting at you to check the rest of your messages, in the hope to find something from the person you want to hear the most.

Eren.

You go through your messages, checking every social media account you have, and trace back your call logs. There are no messages, and not a single missed call coming from him. The last call you made was when you spoke to him twenty-eight hours ago, and it only lasted for eight minutes before Levi interrupted the call and asked him to go back to his meeting.

He hasn’t contacted you ever since.

You throw yourself back on the bed, vacant eyes tracing the shape of your ceiling. Funny how you’ve received tons of messages, even from people you don’t know but there you are, feeling like nobody remembered your birthday. Because he’s the only one that matters, isn't he? A voice comes alive inside your head. You’d rather have one message from him and none from everyone else, rather than this.

You smack both palms to your cheeks. Time difference, you muse. It’s probably because of the time difference. There’s no way he’d forget my birthday.

But he’s been so busy these days, another voice comes to interrupt and you start debating yourself for a few minutes until your phone rings and forcibly disrupts your thoughts.

It’s Armin.

Right, you have Armin. You exhale deeply. Forget about Eren for now, and have fun. It's your birthday. You should be happy.

But since when does your happiness depend on him?

“Hi Armin,” you greet, trying to be as cheerful as possible even with your voice still raspy from sleep and an anchor weighing you down.

“H-hi. Sorry, did I wake you up? I saw that you read my messages, so I thought—”

“Have you been checking on your messages to see whether I’ve read them or not?”

“I’m—” He takes a sharp breath. “Y-yeah… I felt like I was doing something wrong, and I was worried that I’d upset you. Is that too weird?“

“Armin, those were the sweetest birthday texts I’ve ever received. Thank you.”

“Oh…” Hearing the amiability in your voice puts him at ease. “You’re welcome.”

You smile, making random motions on your thigh with your index finger. “So, Pieck is throwing a birthday party for me today. You wanna come with me?”

“M-me?” He gulps. “You sure you want me to be there?”

“Of course. I want to celebrate my day with you.”

He quietly gasps, slightly taken aback. “Oh… Well, that’s—that’s great, because, I kinda have something planned too. I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to go, but since you said you’d celebrate it with me, umm—” You wait for him with your lip between your teeth, stopping a grin from breaking. “Would you—would you have dinner with me tonight? I know you have to go to that party, and I don’t know when it’s going to start but if I could just steal you away for an hour—”

“I’d love to,” you hastily say and his breath hitches in his throat. “Armin, you could steal me away for hours, I don’t mind. I’ll let Pieck know that we’ll show up a little late at the party.”

“Oh…” His chuckles are very quiet and light, filled with relief. “Then, I’ll pick you up at, uh… five?”

“Or you can pick me up in an hour? I’m thinking we could also have pancakes for brunch. And maybe catch a movie afterward? I heard Dune is showing.”

He sounds like he’s hyperventilating for a bit, which knowing him, he probably is. “Yes, I’ll—I’ll be there!”

“Great. See you soon, Armin.”

“See you—wait!”

“Yeah?”

He pauses, taking a moment to catch his breath. Then, he shyly says, “Happy birthday.”

And it washes over you, a surge of bliss that starts from your heart and spreads to every inch of your soul, pushing every thought that revolves around a certain boy with jade green eyes to the back of your head. Closing your eyes and focusing solely on Armin, you feel your lips curve up.

“Come over soon so you can tell me that directly,” you say, and in a breathy whisper, you add. “I want to see you.”

A loud thud can be heard as if something just smashed against the ground. Worried, you press your phone closer to your ear. “Armin? What was that? Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine.” He doesn’t sound like it in the slightest. “Just accidentally bumped myself against the coffee table.”

“Oh my God. Will you ever stop doing that?” You laugh. And it feels like a deja vu, so you repeat the same line you said to him one first night you called him. “What, too excited?”

And maybe he notices that too, reciprocating you in the same way. “No, just, umm—happy.”

“And why’s that?”

“I just happen to really love pancakes.”

***

“How did you manage to get this table?” You question Armin once the waiter leaves your table with your orders written in a notepad. The golden-haired boy, who’s dressed very handsomely in a dark grey, slim fit single button blazer and a pair of black chino pants, sits right before you with a gentle smile constantly strapped to his face. Just like on the day of his photoshoot, Armin’s hair is slicked back, showcasing his temple and his defined eyebrows. He’s wearing contacts as always, his eyeglasses hidden in his satchel. His beautiful cobalt eyes seem to glimmer more radiantly today, filled with the joy and excitement he’s ready to share with you as if it was his birthday you were celebrating, not yours.

“Oh, I’ve made a reservation from, like, a week ago,” he answers, rubbing the tip of his pointed nose that’s somehow always distinctly a bit red.

“You—what?” Astounded, you cover his knuckles with your palm, squeezing his hand. “Armin, that’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

“Ah, yeah...” No matter how many weeks have passed with you sharing giggles and friendly touches, Armin’s heart still palpitates instantly whenever he feels your warmth on his skin. “I just, umm… I just wanted to make you happy. I know you kept checking this place out whenever we walked past by it, so…”

And it’s true. You’ve always wanted to visit this place you’re in. It’s a beautiful, brand new Parisian cafe that stands a few blocks away from where you live. As it’s located near your favorite bookstore where you and Armin usually spent your spare time, you couldn’t help but cast a glance or two at the place, captivated by its interior design and the elegant ambiance it provides. You would’ve visited this place a long time ago if it wasn’t so crowded all the time. There had been no chance for you to walk in and get a table.

“I don’t deserve you.” You smile, impressed by his sweetness. “Honestly, you’re too kind for me.”

It feels like a date. And maybe it is a date. How else would you explain the little, thoughtful gestures he makes? How would you explain the way your heart is throbbing whenever you catch him stealing a glance at you? Everyone around you would’ve certainly guessed so.

Armin may be a model with his face being shown in a fashion magazine every month, but he doesn’t attract unnecessary attention as Eren does. He doesn’t need to cover his face, doesn’t need to hide his blue eyes behind thick sunglasses. You can see how people around him, mostly females, often do a double-take when he enters the room, maybe even whisper something about his cute, boyish look to their friends but that’s just about it. He doesn’t have fans taking candid pictures of him as he walks down the street. He doesn’t have girls shouting his name and begging for his signatures in public. Armin is just as normal as a person can be.

Which should’ve worked just fine with you, if you could just move on from Eren. It’s better this way, right? To be with Armin and stay best friends with Eren? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?

Yet, as the night gets darker and you’re surrounded by people congratulating you on your birthday in Pieck’s apartment, you still feel incomplete. Something is missing. No, someone is missing.

“Felt like I could hardly breathe in there,” Armin says as he follows you outside to the balcony, closing the glassy door behind him. There are more than twenty people in the room, and although Pieck’s apartment has a much bigger space than yours, it still feels suffocating. Especially when most of your co-workers are drunk and dancing uncontrollably to Cardi B’s latest hit. Now that you’re outside, breathing the fresh, cold night air, you thought you could breathe but your chest still feels tight, no matter how much air you try to fill into your lungs.

“Are you having fun?” You ask him, leaning against the railing.

“Yeah. I’m not used to partying but this is nice.” He shyly beams at you. “Your friends are great.”

“I’m glad.” You reflect his smile. “Come hang with us whenever you want. We’d love to have you around.”

“Thank you.” He lightly bows his head, acting as polite as ever. “As long as you can, umm, tell Porco to stop handing me beers. I’m not really good with alcohol.”

“Noted.” You laugh, out of courtesy than amusement and he notices.

“What’s wrong?” Armin questions, placing a hand on the railing as he reads your face. “You look like you’re in deep thoughts.”

“Nothing.” You tuck back your phone inside the pocket of your coat, averting your gaze away from him. It’s only been two hours since you have arrived at the party, and here you are, wishing to be alone with your thoughts. “I’m just… tired.”

“Do you want to go home?” His worry is painted vividly in his voice. “I can drive you back.”

“No, you should stay. I can just go take a cab. Go have fun with Pieck and the rest.”

“Without you? No way.” He insists, his hand reaching out to fix the collar of your coat. “Let me drive you home.”

A little bit closer and his hand would brush against your jawline. “Umm… Okay.”

Pieck answers your goodbyes with a pout on her face but she doesn’t force you to stay. Maybe deep down, she knows how restless you feel to be celebrating without Eren. You make sure to speak your gratitude, embracing her with the biggest smile, before you face Porco, who—despites his alpha male demeanor—baked a very cute, delicious red velvet birthday cake for you.

“Come here, you.” You spread your arms widely.

“No,” Porco snorts. “I’m allergic to affection.”

But you hug him anyway, making him stiffen inside your arms. “Let go of me!” He grumbles, trying to shove you away but you stand on your toes, pecking him cutely on his cheek.

“Thank you, Pokko.”

“Ugh, just go already.”

You’re very thankful to be able to call them friends, and you wish you could stop this unsettling feeling that swells larger and larger inside your stomach so you could stay longer with them. But you couldn’t. The more you stay and be surrounded by these people, the more you feel like you wish you were somewhere else, trapped inside a pair of strong arms, and a husky voice whispering your name in your ear.

“Thank you, Armin,” you tell him as you take his hand, climbing down his car. “ You’ve made me very happy today.” Before he closes the door behind you, he leans in to gather a box from his glove box.

“I’m glad.” His smile, though still very heartwarming, seems a little bit lonely. It’s always like that whenever you’re about to part as if he wishes he could just freeze the time and stay with you for eternity. “Here.” He hands you a present, tied neatly with a bright blue ribbon that matches his eyes.

“What’s this?”

“Your birthday gift.” He cutely tilts his head to the side, tucking both hands inside the pocket of his pants. “Open it.”

“You really shouldn’t have given me anything,” you tell him with a sheepish smile, untangling the knot before you open the lid. “You’ve already done so much for me to—wait. This is my manuscript.”

“It is, yes,” he chuckles at the bewildered look you display. “With a few notes here and there.”

“What?”

“Go ahead and read it.”

Armin steals the box away from your hands so you can flip through the pages that you’ve read a thousand times before you'd handed them to him that day. Just like what he mentioned, someone—whose handwriting seems unfamiliar—has left a few notes on every page of your chapter. Words are being circled by a red pen, like how a teacher would grade their students’ paper. Comments such as “I’m impressed with the diction you used in this sentence. Very clever.” and “This can be improved. Try using a third person’s perspective, maybe?” are written on the bottom, and you scan your eyes through every note, taking every bit of praise and constructive criticism into mind.

“Did you do this?” You ask with a frown as you read. “These are very detailed. It doesn’t look like your handwriting, though.”

“No, my father did.”

“Your father is an author? Journalist?”

“You can say that.”

“Do I know any of his works?” The question just drifted away from your lips when you reach the end of your manuscript, and there, right before your eyes, is a signature you’ve been wanting to have on every cover of your favorite books.

I can’t wait to read the next chapter.

Love,

Stephen Reeve.

You nearly drop everything in your hands, as you grow still on your feet. Armin holds back a smile, leaning his back against the side of his car. “So, I guess I should’ve told you this earlier but,” he says. “Stephen Reeve is my father.”

You’re seconds away from fainting. Funny how Stephen praised your diction earlier because right now, you can’t even find the words to properly ask a question. “But—you—your last name is Arlert.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” His little laughter is just as soft as the way he looks at you. “Stephen Reeve is just a pen name.”

“I thought your father was a businessman!”

“He is. Writing books is just something he does in his spare time.”

“I—” You have a hand placed above your heart as if you’re afraid it’s going to leap out of your chest if you don’t. “B-but you—”

“You’re starting to sound like me,” he comments, chortling. And you wonder whether it’s the little bit of alcohol that spreads in his system that makes him behave much calmer at the moment, talking more smoothly with his words. Or maybe you’re just too frantic that he seems reserved in comparison.

“Armin, this is too much. Even if he’s your father, he must have been so busy—“

“It’s okay. He promised me he’d review your work if I helped him with his charity work, so—”

“That was for this?!” You shriek, your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “You went away for a week for this?! To get your dad to read my manuscript?!”

Armin scratches the back of his head, grinning. “Yeah. Sorry for suddenly disappearing like that.”

“Oh my God,” you can only say as you cover your mouth with one hand. “My hands are literally shaking right now—I feel like I want to cry—can—can I hug you?”

Armin spreads his arms, his cheeks turning a bit scarlet under the soft glow of the lamppost. “Come here.”

And you jump into his arms, sinking your face in his chest, and muffle your little giggles with the fabric of his shirt. “Armin, thank you so much.”

It’s such a shame you can’t see the look on his face when he returns your embrace, but maybe it’s for the best that you don’t see him fall harder than he already was. It’s like he has stepped off the edge of a cliff, and even though his heart's in my mouth and his stomach is in knots, this—with his hands around your waist and his nose buried in the smooth strands of your hair—this moment right here is where he feels infinite. He’s absolutely enthralled by you. He wants you, every part of you, and if God was kind to him, maybe someday, you could want him too—desperately, intensely, in the only way he knows how.

“Thank you,” you whisper again after a while. “I don’t want to sound like a broken record but I honestly don’t know what else to say.”

His titter is right next to your ear this time, light and beguiling. “Are you happy?”

“Immensely, yes."

He embraces you tighter, and with a sigh, he says, “That’s more than enough for me.”

There are a thousand more words he wants to convey, a thousand more confessions he wants to profess, but there won’t be enough time in the world to make you listen to every bit of his feelings. Once he feels your arms loosening, his bravery starts to waver as well. So he swallows the rest of his words, releasing you from his hold, and clears his throat. “Well, umm… I shouldn’t waste more of your time.”

“You’ll never waste any of my time,” you say, pulling away from him but still close enough to feel his warmth radiating from his body. “You’ve just given me one of the best nights in my life.”

He blushes, looking anywhere but your eyes. “You—You too. You made me feel so happy too.”

You hug him one last time, standing on your toes to lay a gentle kiss on his cheek. To Armin, it feels burning, the fire going down to his stomach, lighting the rest of his body on fire. “Goodnight, Armin. I’ll call you later, okay?”

He smiles, so pure and innocent like how he is as a person. “I’ll be waiting for that call.”

***

Eren still hasn’t called.

In a few minutes, the clock will strike twelve and it will just be another day. There’s an abundance amount of joy that you felt today, and you have received more love and support from your friends than you could even imagine. Never would you have thought someone like Pieck, throwing a birthday party for you; or Porco, baking a birthday cake; or Armin, with his very thoughtful, intimate gift that no one else could've given to you. You’ve been so blessed, you should’ve wept in joy. But here you are, staring at your phone while feeling so hollow inside, wondering if you should call first and let yourself go from the shackles that bringing you down.

What if he’s busy? He said he had a concert today. What if he just doesn’t have time to call?

You have read your manuscript more than five times in a row by now, partially because you were desperate to find a way to distract you from him. Funny how all these notes written by your most adored author himself, ones that sparked so much joy and excitement within you just a couple of hours ago, have turned into nothing more than a few scribblings on paper.

Right now, you just wish for one thing.

You just want to hear him say, happy birthday.

You pull your knees to your chest as you sit with your spine plastered against your headboard. Loneliness envelops you like a blanket, and you bury your face in your arms. “Eren… I—”

Your phone rings. You nearly jump out of your skin, your heart running a thousand miles per hour. A glimmer of hope bubbles inside your chest and once you see his name written on your screen, the butterflies inside your stomach are ready to spread their wings.

“H-hello?” You croak out, voice awfully shaky that you have to clear your throat twice to stop you from sounding too obvious. You don’t want him to hear the desperation in your voice—of how much you’ve been waiting for his call.

“Hey.” Eren, unlike you, sounds unusually energetic. “You answered right away. Waiting for me to call?”

“N-no, of course not.” You emphasize with a snort. “I was—” you shut your eyes closed, concentrating with every fiber of your being to stay calm. “I was just texting Pieck.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Is there… something wrong?” You ask him. Now that a few seconds have passed and Eren still hasn’t congratulated you, the voices in your head start to scream again: he’s definitely has forgotten about your birthday.

“Nothing. Just felt like I wanted to hear your voice.” Eren chuckles. There’s a little pause that makes you wait with bated breath before he heaves a longing sigh. “God, I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” you respond, feeling your heart warmed but not enough to wash the rest of your uneasiness away. “I thought you were going to hold another concert today.”

“Yeah, I’m on stage right now, actually.” There’s no music, no murmurs in a distance and not a single sound of a crowd cheering can be heard. You can only hear Eren’s breathing on the phone, the rest is silence. “I just finished the first half.”

“What?” You furrow your eyebrows, half-asking yourself whether you heard him right. Is he backstage? No, it’s still too silent. “But—Then why are you calling?”

“Because I wanna say something.” Then, he chuckles as he corrects his words. “Well, they wanna say something.”

“I’m not following you, Eren.”

“Just listen.” Rustling sounds can be heard as he moves. Endless questions are emerging in your head as your frown deepens, but you decide to keep yourself reticent and wait. The ticking sound of your clock is the only thing sounding louder than your own heartbeat in your ears. What is he doing? You wonder, and not three seconds later, you find your answer.

“Happy birthday to you.”

Your eyes widen shortly in disbelief. A crowd—no, a thousand of people are singing Happy Birthday to you, vocalizing the words so loudly, like a choir in a Sunday morning. Every voice in the venue echoes directly to your speaker, forcing the tiny hairs on your nape to raise and causing your heartrate to escalate through the roof. Even so, you still feel like you’re dreaming. Because how can this be real?

“You guys sound beautiful,” you can hear Eren’s voice booming through the speakers. “One more time, everyone, come on!”

They follow his count, singing the same song one more time from the top. They include your name in the song, and what an amazing experience it is to have your name called warmly by a thousand strangers.

Jean’s voice chimes in as he shouts to the phone. “Hey, dumbo, happy birthday!”

You can hear the sounds of Eren’s footsteps racing to the other side of the stage, looming over the drums to give Reiner a chance to speak. “Hey,” Reiner says. “Happy birthday from us all. Wish you could see the show.”

“T-thank you,” you reply, awkward and embarrassed and Reiner laughs, deep and heartwarming.

Eren steals the phone back, strapping it to his ear. “Happy birthday, baby,” he vocalizes, half-chuckling half-catching his breath. His words place the last hit on the dam that holds your tears and you turn into a sobbing mess, body convulsing as you bury your face in your pillow. The joy that you felt from having Empire and their crowd singing happy birthday to you is intense, but it’s nothing compared to when you heard him whisper those three words to you. It feels like years have passed with you waiting for him to say the words and now that he’s said them, you can’t speak. The more you try to form a word, the harder you choke on your tears.

“Aaw, you guys made her cry,” he speaks to his microphone, and a mix between shouts and waves of laughter echoes through the venue.

“Eren,” you bring his attention back to you. “I—I thought we agreed not to give a-any gifts on our birthdays.” It’s hard to speak between your sobs, but you managed to convey the words.

“I didn’t give you anything,” Eren replies. “They were the ones who did. I just asked them a favor.”

“You’re terrible.” You sniff, wiping your tears away as you laugh. “But… Thank you, Eren…”

“You’re welcome,” he softly says after a pause. “Sorry for being late. I wanted to call you the second you turned older but I thought, it would be a better surprise if I could get the crowd to sing with me. Did you like it?”

“Did I like having a thousand people singing happy birthday to me?” You’re laughing between your sobs. “Eren, I love it.”

“Good.” You can vividly imagine him smiling as he says the words. He speaks his next line in a whisper, away from his microphone and the rest of the world to hear. “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, fluttering their wings. “I… I want to kiss you too…”

There’s a sheepish laugh, and you wonder whether he’s scratching his cheek with his finger as he speaks, “We’ll do that later. Plenty of that. Now I gotta go back and perform. I have a thousand people to thank for that birthday gift.”

“Right, yeah.” You straighten your back, trying to stop the rest of your tears from falling. “G-Good luck. Not that you need it.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you in four days, okay?”

You nod, biting on your lip as you feel they’re curving into a smile. “Then… I will be waiting for you at home.”

Your face warms at your words but you don’t feel any regret saying it. You don’t care if it sounds too intimate, or something a lover would say to another. You just want to be honest for once. You owe him that much.

Eren doesn’t respond, and the three seconds that pass by in silence make your heart race in worry, wondering if you’ve crossed the line. “Eren—“

“I can’t wait to be home,” he whispers.

The call ends but his voice rings through your mind for hours, as well as the smile he plants on your lips.

***

AN: I'm sorry, I know you all wanted me to include the sex scene but this is already too long, guys 😭😭😭You'll get more than 10k of filthy sex with Eren calling you naughty kitten on the next chapter, I promise.

Thank you @justasketch for reviewing this for me and no, I will never forgive you for switching sides to Armin but I'm glad you crawled back to Eren in the end lol

Tagging @tasteless @l6ffys @vivi-et @halparkebitch @fwess @littlemochi @thebeardedmoon @luvtaromilktea @didiyogo @xximthefoolxx-blog @coiloves @erenbean​ @tehehebri @infnteen @naiomiwinchester @spiderlingh @doyochii @ahornyenby thanks for reading, lovelies! Let me know what you think!