#herostoried

It was an odd reassurance that Toshinori hadn't been aware he'd needed. . . Having someone else make note of their existence in the world -- why did that put so much ease into his frail chest? Left the blonde to swallow a bit roughly, before letting free a slightly unsteady laugh. His eyes were downcast on his own large hands, watching long fingers curl together in his own lap. "It is a bit comforting, hearing those words." Did it have anything to do with the fact it was Aizawa uttering them? His deep tone, the calm his voice took anytime he spoke. . . It was no wonder the other man was such a renowned teacher. Even when he and Toshinori could bump heads on how they went about doing such separately. It seemed the older blonde would always silently look up to the other man.

"I have to wonder how we made it to this point. . . doesn't it seem impossible?" A huff, and finally crystal blue was flickering up and over to find Aizawa's gaze. To meet it and force the contact without feeling the need to shy away for some reason. . .

His smile is weak, but genuine. Wisps of purple still loosely hang around his exhausted form, a stark contrast to the white bed below him. He tries to hide his unease. Kurogiri's presence still weighed heavily on his subconscious. Not to mention the scenery he was stuck with. Similar to the place he became a weapon in a war he didn't even know existed.

Now the strings had been cut, and this room was warm. Covered in gifts, presents from his family and friends. Pictures of his loved ones; friends and family, even one of Sushi. There were some plushies, and a stack of CDs Hizashi insisted he missed out on and needed to listen to.

Toshinori understood the sentiment. He understood it so well he was certain he might just be linked to Shota's brain in that moment, if only for a split second. . . They should not want this. They should be professional about things. They should think about what it all meant, what it all could lead to. How relationships beyond overtly friendly never did tend to work in a world like theirs. Sure, Toshinori wasn't exactly a hero anymore, but somehow that made the liability even worse, didn't it? He still had enemies out there. He still had people in the world who hated him for his lies over they years, wanted revenge, wanted him gone. . . .Would use anyone he cared for against him. However this was Aizawa. This was a man the blonde knew could take care of himself. So maybe, just maybe — they could allow this, no? Was it so bad? Toshinori's heart raced. Did so in a manner he had to wonder was safe for him at his age and with his already underlying issues. He shouldn't feel the way he did and yet his sunken cheeks felt warmer. His eyes felt kinder, softer as he watched the other. Watched where he stood by the doorway of Toshinori's dorm room like he didn't belong, should leave any moment.

Toshinori had the gut wrenching urge to reach out and make sure that never happened. " Perhaps neither of us should. . . " He wanted to offer it like an out. Give Shota something to cling to if he needed. . . " — But . . . " Just like the other had trailed off with, Toshinori did the same. Smiled sad, but so hopeful. " Perhaps we've also done enough in life that we can say screw it. . . just once. . ? " Did Toshinori believe he deserved a man like Shota, even as a friend? Absolutely not. He'd thought from the start it was too good to be true, that it might come crashing down any moment. Maybe that was why he held on so tightly now. . .

"Oh, come on Shota. You don't need me."

Oboro waved him off, fighting to keep the positive expression on his face. He could see the years of guilt etched into his friends' eyes. It saddened him. But he also hoped Aizawa couldn't see the pain reflected in his own.

It has been like waking from a bad dream, the day he finally got his body back. Remembering pieces of a life he lived that hadn't quite been him, but guilt dug its claws in deep.

He knew exactly what his friends would say. It wasn't his fault. But he was there. Somewhere in there, watching his body puppeted. However indirectly it was, he his hands were tainted with the lives of the innocent, of Nemuri. The grace everyone had granted him didn't feel earned. He was far behind those that were once his peers. They had all grown up, moved on. And he didn't want to drag them back down.

He had to move on too. Finally start the life he never got to live.

There was something almost nostalgic about the night, really. About staying up late, working through papers upon papers with Mirai by his side. It reminded him of a past once forgotten. Of a time where they were inseparable from one another, before. . . well. Before things went to shit for lack of a better phrasing. Tonight was just like many of those nights, and Mirai's voice was just as gentle as it always was. Something serious behind his words, yet hopeful all the same. Enough that Toshinori raised his head, blond bangs swaying slightly in his view as he found the other man's features. Tried to read his expression as best as he could.

"Miria. . ." It was soft, just between them. This was one of the first times they were back in one another's presence since the man's hospital stay. One of the first times they'd talked in ages, no thanks to Toshinori and his inability to be less of a coward. "I'm not going anywhere again. That much is a promise to you. . ."

He was. Hiromasa was drastically out of his element and he knew it.

He was just a child. A child with no formal training. No general knowledge of how to handle his quirk. No grand knowledge of how to handle someone with way more power than him.

Hiro had learned everything through trial and error. Through facing people stronger than him again and again because he had no choice but to do that or lay down and take it. And he had never been very good at just maintaining the status quo.

He panted, breath coming out in uneasy gasps; throat hoarse and scratchy from trying to sing. Failed attempts at facing someone stronger and fantastically faster than him.

Hiro heaved out a heavy sigh. Another hero that he was holding up, another hero at risk of calling him out for his "illegal vigilantism", another hero that could put him back in jail...He hadn't actually done anything wrong this time really, just...wrong place, wrong time.

All he wanted was to get to a place to sleep after his long shift. And now here his face was busted up and he was nervously hoping he didn't spend the night behind bars.

At least there was a bed there...maybe?

@herostoried

Leadership is…difficult. There’s a weight on his shoulders that doubles with every little choice he makes. It’s like a game, where each decision effects the ending, the outcome.

But unlike a game, there are no options to go back. No save points. Every life lost is lost. There’s no coming back from death in the real world, so he carries that weight too. The weight of those that followed him.

When he was younger, more foolish, he probably wouldn’t have cared as much. But now…?

His red eyes gaze at the younger League member with an unreadable expression. His pupil contracts, then dilates. A camera lens refocusing.