#fourthfifth

Both entrances faced roads. The front opened into the so-called old street, and the back faced a national road. If it wasn’t the constant rumbles of trucks, it was the pedestrians shuffling by the front, reminding the holders to be quiet in their co-habitation.

And though Hikage didn’t want to even think it, it was relearning how to live again, and live with other people, that bothered him.

Diets had to be accommodated. Sleeping habits too. Most, if not every holder, were accustomed to physical exercise. To doing something. The Eighth and Ninth were particularly insistent on sneaking out of the townhouse, often with the Seventh. Banjo and En tended to follow in their wake, cheerfully bickering about tactics and strategies.

So far, Hikage had avoided being drafted into their wanderings. He was good at blending into the background, and rarely did the holders press him for opinions on One for All’s future, or ask him to navigate the nearby city for supplies.

But the conversations, hushed or otherwise, mushroomed around him, inside him--behind the not-so-solid line of a wall, within the banked embers of One for All’s strange nexus--

Hikage thought he’d hid his discomfort well enough, but Banjo was oddly perceptive under the blustering. At the dawn of the second week, Hikage slipped out the balcony to sit on the roof facing the national road. Not five minutes later, Banjo heaved himself over the tiles to join him. He was, perhaps predictably, half-naked with the morning. The goggles, jacket, and bandolier were absent.

“You could have used Float,” Hikage noted, pulling his knees closer to his chest. 

“I like feeling the strain in my muscles,” Banjo responded. He gingerly patted the tiles like he was reassuring himself of their integrity, then settled next to Hikage. “How’s it going for you, then? Being real again?”

Hikage turned his eyes to the road. He linked his fingers together. It was a conscious effort to breathe, and since he’d left his sandals on the ground floor, he planted the soles of his feet against the chilled painted terracotta. “I did not die consciously. It is like waking from a dream. And life, by definition, cannot be unnatural.”

“... Okay,” Banjo said heavily. “C’mere.” 

Despite Hikage being the bigger man and not using Float, Banjo bodily hauled him up and sideways into his lap. Hikage startled, but quietly as compared to Banjo’s exaggerated huff of exertion. His head tipped against Banjo’s shoulder. There was an arm around his back, and another trapping his legs.

Before Hikage could remind himself to jerk upright and make the polite, courteous eye-contact as required by society, Banjo added, “It’s fine, Shinomori-san.”

(He did not believe anything Banjo said out of principle, because a few days ago, Banjo swore to the younger holders--the Seventh excluded, the Eighth included--that Blackwhip’s color could be changed with a dietary supplement. When the Ninth countered with the fact of Blackwhip’s very name, Banjo pointed out that records of his career and his Quirk were limited, and that meta abilities weren’t being studied even in his era. And since it wasn’t combat-related, Banjo obviously hadn’t bothered to tell the Ninth earlier, and he wouldn’t tell them now, when they could experiment themselves!

Later, as the younger holders monopolized the kitchen and argued what Banjo’s diet had been, Banjo confided to Hikage that his claim was utter bullshit.

“What is the point?” Hikage asked, baffled.

“Make ‘em laugh.” Banjo shrugged. “Nidaime and Sandaime are a little, eh… militaristic, so to speak. Yeah, they’re all cuddly with Shodai right now, but you can tell the stress about surviving this era’s bleeding through.”

Hikage considered the man leaned against the sliding door frame, with his arms crossed and a fond smile tugging his mouth into a tempting slant. Not too long ago, Banjo attempted to lash out at Hikage with a tendril of Blackwhip. Genuine bitter malice had fueled it, and subsequently, Danger Sense struck first.)

“What is?” Hikage asked, warily.

Banjo snorted. “Okay, you’ve got me.” He breathed in, then out, one short rest. “Multiple things, I guess. Us. Being alive, and not being okay with that. Not liking having to live with the rest of us do-gooders. Which one do you wanna talk about first?”

“... We’re fine?”

“Yep.”

“But you’ve been so angry with me.”

This close, Hikage caught a tic in Banjo’s jaw. He didn’t want to dissect the reasons, so he impulsively turned his face to hide, even though Banjo was graciously avoiding looking. Banjo’s body ran hot; Hikage felt like he was being cradled by the sun, even as it was in the midst of rising.

“Yeah,” Banjo said. Every word was measured. “It’s not my best quality. I’m sorry.”

“That’s… all? I thought you were waiting for me to apologize.”

“I’ll probably be waiting a while yet, if that’s the best one you’ve got,” Banjo jested.

Hikage clammed up. He didn’t want to apologize for bringing Banjo into the fold. He was sorry that it had ended Lariat’s career so violently; he was genuinely remorseful that Smoke-Eater had lost his life, following in his role model’s footsteps. But Hikage would never be convinced that his choice of successor was wrong.

So cynical, to describe the inheritance of One for All as a last-minute, desperate transaction. The Third would forever criticize Hikage for following his heart, and the Second would gripe unto death that Hikage had inadvertently chained One for All to a succession of professional heroes weighed down by things like ethics and morals. 

Banjo kindly let the matter rest, and unkindly prodded Hikage to talk about other things. He rubbed small circles on Hikage’s waist with his thumb. “You wanna move out?”

“I’m aware it’s not the smartest idea,” Hikage confessed to Banjo’s throat.

“Going about it alone is against common sense.”

“... I was not aware you were having trouble acclimating too.”

“I’m not,” Banjo said so easily it must have been a lie. “But we’re not responsible for holding Kyuudaime’s child-leash anymore. We’ve got a little more freedom. I figure you want to find the least-populated nature reserve on the mainland and hide again.”

“Nidaime won’t go for it.”

“Not unless you had a purpose,” Banjo agreed. “I was thinking, Shinomori-san. Kyuudaime found that mansion hide-out in the Haibori Woods. Maybe there are more of them.”

Hikage hesitated. “Perhaps a trial run before we promise anything further.”

Banjo winks at Shinomori and strums a quick, humorous cue anyway. “Yeah, no problem, Sandaime. We going out after?”

“Depends on Kudou.”

“Ah, gotcha. See you in a bit.” Banjo tips his chin up and obligingly, Shinomori bends his neck and plants a chaste kiss to the carefully maintained stubble on the electric guitarist’s cheek. The roguish grin softens. Bruce manfully restrains himself from being a hypocrite about PDA, and goes to find Shimura.

She’s a little further backstage, and her bass guitar is already locked away. Set beside her bedazzled monstrosity of a case is En’s unassuming one. When Bruce chances upon them, Shimura is in the middle of fussing with her cousin’s jacket. She straightens the high collar, notices Bruce, and says a cheerful hello.

En echoes her, but he adds a respectful, “Sandaime.”

God. Bruce is going to strangle Banjo for starting that up, especially as it’s been picked up by not just the band but also the media. The more impressionable members of the band—En and Toshinori—treat the titles with more respect than a bad joke should get, and the journalists have started using them in place of their names.

“Everyone packed? Where’s Torino and Toshinori?”

“Sorahiko had a phone call,” En volunteers. “I think Toshinori headed back to the bus early because he had homework to finish.”

“What? Did he tell you that? It’s a week to the deadline!” Shimura scoops up her case and En’s, inclines her head at Bruce, and starts booking it. Her decision to apprentice Toshinori still strikes Bruce as a shortsighted one, but it remains one of the few times Bruce actually remembers her performing some kind of paperwork magic to ensure the application was filled to perfection. Usually, Shimura procrastinates to the point of Torino needing to swoop in and forge her signature.

En peers up at Bruce like he’s expecting something.

“What,” says Bruce. The junior electric guitar player shrugs in deliberate carelessness.

“Are we heading out after?”

“Have you been talking to Banjo?” Bruce asks, dry, and shakes his head. “It depends on Kudou. Where’s our illustrious leader?”

“Necking with Nidaime in the dressing room.”

Wordlessly, Bruce digs into his pocket and hands over the carton of candy cigarettes. En isn’t actually capable of eating tobacco, much less real cigarettes, but he has a sweet tooth and a sly sense of humor. Moreover, he is amenable to being bribed.

Clever fingers pop open the carton and slide one white chalky stick of sugar out. En sticks it into his mouth with a pleased hum and chirps a half-garbled, “I’ll get Banjo-senpai to the bus. Is Yondaime driving?”

“Torino knows the city streets better. He’ll get us to the inn, and after that, we’ll figure out carpools back.” Bruce rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Hey. You did good with the bridge for ‘Residual Mayhem’ tonight. Make sure to do the hand exercises later.”

“Okay!” Thusly flattered, spoiled with sweets, and charged with malicious intent to put a (temporary) damper on Banjo’s evening, En darts off to pester his senior into hurrying the hell up. For his part, Bruce double-checks the area for stray litter, then ventures to the dressing rooms.

He finds a nondescript black sock slipped onto the doorknob. Bruce raps his knuckles against the wood, ignores the muffled “OCCUPIED!”, and uses the skeleton key to break in.

The door gets closed immediately behind him.

“We’re going to be late,” he manages to snap, before his brain fully processes the sight of Kudou’s legs hooked ‘round Yoichi’s skinny hips. The dressing room is equipped with a single chaise longue, and Yoichi has Kudou pressed down against the entire length of the single-armed sofa. Thank god, they’re both still in jeans.

“Mrrmph,” Kudou says, and Yoichi chimes in, “Hi, Bruce!”

“The set wasn’t that horny,” Bruce says, nonplussed.

Yoichi grins. “Well, I know tonight’s a fight night, so I thought I’d give Kudou incentive to not make you guys stay out so late.”

“Really effective,” Kudou reports, sounding dazed. He has clearly been kissed stupid. Is it irresponsible of Bruce to want to trade places with Kudou? For a brief moment, Bruce thinks about Kudou taking the role of band manager. In that projection of an alternate universe, One for All loses all access to professional recording studios, and not only are their songs recorded with a shitty boombox, but their concerts are held at last-minute reservations.

Also, in that universe, Kudou is cursed to never find a replacement drummer he approves of for more than three months. Yes. This is the right timeline.

Bruce approaches the sofa as Yoichi sits up and pulls Kudou upright with him. “You don’t think I need any?”

“You’re way more responsible,” Yoichi asserts, but makes a ‘come here’ gesture with his long slender fingers. Obligingly, Bruce bends at the waist. Yoichi cradles Bruce’s jaw with one hand and kisses him squarely on the mouth, nips his bottom lip, and breaks it off first. He smiles as he says, “Thanks for coming to get us.”

Kudou slips two fingers down the collar of Bruce’s shirt and tugs him in for his own kiss. That too is brief, and sharp, and it’s possible Bruce is going a little kiss-stupid as well, especially when he can hear the rumble of Kudou’s groan building at the base of his throat.

“Wait,” he gasps, “wait, time, time. Our inn’s not taking late check-ins, and Shimura’s going to murder one of us if her ward sleeps overnight in the bus again.”

“Toshinori-kun thinks it’s cool to sleep in the bus,” Yoichi protests. “Did Shimura-kun say that?”

“She implied it,” Bruce says.

“Up we go then,” Kudou says, and manhandles Yoichi off his lap. Bruce straightens up and does a cursory once-over at the dressing room. Any hairbrushes? Hair ties? Stray math homework sheets that Toshinori will swear he lost to Torino’s cutthroat corrections? Distracted, Bruce helps Yoichi to his feet, then Kudou.

“Shinomori got your drumset loaded,” he tells Kudou. “Yoichi, did you take your guitar out for an impromptu vibes session with Toshinori?”

“Still in the bus,” Yoichi answers, and before Bruce can fend him off, Yoichi is fussing with the folds of his headband. Kudou is too busy shrugging into his windbreaker and shaking out the wrinkles in Yoichi’s. “Ah, Bruce, you should really think about hemming this…”

“Ragged edges are punk,” Bruce says blankly.

There’s a knock at the door. It creaks open, because even though Bruce kicked it shut the instant he saw his boyfriends making out, he forgot to lock it. Torino pokes his head in warily. “Bus is loaded up,” he reports, eyes cast to the ceiling. “En said I’m driving?”

“Yup,” says Kudou. Finished with his doting, Yoichi gratefully accepts his windbreaker and zips it right up to the top. He combs his bangs back and ties his distinctive white hair into a low ponytail; Kudou fetches a cap and plops it on Yoichi’s head before tugging the hood over. “I’m your co-pilot. Bruce, where’s your jacket?”

“The bus. Torino, we’ll be right out.”

“Gotcha.” The door clicks shut.

“Hey, is the sock on the door yours or Yoichi’s?”

“One of mine,” Yoichi confirms. He hooks his hand at the crook of Bruce’s elbow, leans into him. “Bruce, stop worrying, we haven’t left anything. Kudou, you’d better run ahead before Toshinori-kun gets the idea that he can sit co-pilot again.”

“That kid,” Kudou curses, and bolts out. It’s a reasonable response.

The last time Toshinori had wheedled his way to the front, Shinomori had been at the wheel, and between the both of them—Shinomori, possessed of a sick sense of humor that included entertaining the whims of a preteen, and Toshinori, too proud to admit that he couldn’t understand the traffic navigation app—One for All had wandered off-route and wasted three-quarters of the gas tank just to arrive at a three-star aquarium. Not that Torino would get them lost. 

No, it’s more likely that Torino would reach the limits of his Toshinori Tolerance and put pedal to the metal, and then get caught speeding (in a bus) by a cop.