#i. character study

the taste of it burns acidly in your cheeks. your side hurts, pain with insatiable throbbing & you know there is something terribly wrong with it but it does not compare to the burn of your achilles rage. fury fuels the fire, yet ultimately, anger is not what drives you  ---  instead, your broken heart pushes you to fight, what is simultaneously both your strength & achilles heel. it is your humanity, righteous vengeance; but it is still vengeance, & it is why you fall despite being victorious in combat. heroes are not allowed to be vengeful, & deep down, you know you initiated this fight in retribution, in a desperate need to avenge her. this is why the heavens condemn you  ---  they siphon your strength but leave the world sitting heavy upon your shoulders. not for the first time, your knees bend & creak, but unlike other times, you are not able to straighten out your spine. you are doubled over, knees knocking together like doors slamming shut; your arms tremble & your shoulders shake. your intestines are spilling out everywhere, the ground looks like a slaughterhouse floor, & you think you crush one of your own organs under your foot. but was it worth it ? 

yes, a million times yes. for the world, for her, you would do it all over again. you would die. you think you still might, but then an arm on your shoulder tethers you for a few precious moments; you flinch, ready to fight, teeth bared & it’s no wonder you were victorious, ( a wounded hero is such a frightening animal ), but  ---  it’s someone familiar, the detective, &  ---  he’s crying. that’s not acceptable. so even though you are dying, even though your side has a hole in it & your teeth are running red with your own blood, you smile, reflex,  ‘ it’s… fine now… why ? ’  it’s incredible that you still have a voice, but it is like sandpaper, tongue lead, you’re choking & gasping out the words & you can’t stop throwing up ichor ( get used to it ), ‘ because you are here. ’ your eyes, usually bright & halogen, are dim with death; when they slip closed, you see her, & now you’re 18 & reaching out all over again. but she doesn’t reach back. not yet, toshi. you still have things to do. at the hospital weeks later, they still think you’re unconscious when a nurse says, ‘ honestly, i still can’t name a hero who was actually happy in the end. ’  another voice, ‘ you’re right. heroes may win the battle, but they rarely live through. ’  strangely, you don’t think of yourself. you think of nana, handing over her own child for the greater good & you want to weep. not for yourself, but for her. you can’t cry though. you cannot move. your body has become nothing but bones wrapped up in regrets. your mouth tastes like defeat, like crushed revolution. you won the fight, yes, but did you win the war ?

iv. you are __ ( recovery girl mentioned something about your forties, you think; didn’t listen, too busy thinking about those 44 victims you couldn’t save in an earthquake a few years back  ---  something completely out of your control, but you blame yourself all the same ) & there is blood in your teeth. it sludges up your throat & chokes you out in your sleep; bloodstained achilles, burdened atlas, you stand tall & proud & invincible while being fragile & anxious & shaky. you are a burning candle in which the fire is fading to embers, but everyone else is blissfully unaware, so you go through the motions: smile. monologue. fight. bleed. smile. it keeps the PEACE, but it’s temporary, you know you’re dying. & that’s okay, but  ---  

you don’t know what to do. you feel 18 again. you are holding back tears. you are telling yourself to be brave, & you are smiling, but you are holding back tears. you are always the brave one, always the strong one. you know fear like a second skin, but you are brave. you have carried the world on your shoulders for so long, secured it with callouses & scars for so long that you don’t feel the ache anymore. you have simply become it. always the hero, you think, & grimace at the pain in your side. they want you to retire  ---  they don’t understand that you can’t do that. not yet. if you are not holding up the world, who will ? but your bones shake like they’re saying, ‘ we’re tired. it’s time. go home. ‘ your home was taken from you when you were 18, though, so you tug on your costume & limp out the door. it pulls at frail shoulders so unfamiliar, so pathetic, there’s weight to it when it was weightless before but that’s okay, it’s alright, your shoulders were made for bearing burdens from the very beginning, right ?

v. you are __ ( doesn’t matter; you’re old, obsolete ) & there is blood in your teeth. you jerk awake with a fist raised, all intrinsic militaristic instinct until your side flares up with pain. your breath shudders out of you, but the tension stays, & you quietly choke on iron, a hand fisted over that wretched scar. nightmares. you’ve always had them; the remaining traces of waking panic cling heavily to your lungs, suffocating, & your eyes search the room frantically, blind to everything except for  ---  ah, there. your young protege, curled in on himself in a chair having dozed off while standing sentinel. you exhale shakily, blinking away macabre strokes of red & afterimages of entrails splattered like a slaughterhouse floor all over again, but they weren’t yours, not this time. they were – you exhale, again, steadier this time. not real. the boy has not succumb to the same fate as you; he is not limbs & gore spread out on the battlefield, he is alive & whole & here. the tension drains from your weary bones, & instead, you sigh, because he must be uncomfortable ( a pang of bitterness hits you: all might would be able to scoop him up & tuck him in a bed with ease, but toshinori yagi cannot. but what is done is done. you let go ). it was at his insistence  ---  he was so scared for you after your rematch, after your world was unearthed for good & all of your shame was put out on display for everyone to see ( atlas, your shoulders are breaking & the world is falling –– ). 

he was scared for himself, too; you knew the look, you wore the same expression when you were 18. terrified, broken, he thought he was going to lose you  ---  & you grit your teeth because no, you can’t do that to him. not to him, never to him, please. you can’t put him through that, you can’t let him suffer the same way you did. you cannot imagine this boy – this self-sacrificing boy, a lamb willing to nail itself to a cross, you see so many of the dangerous parts of yourself in him  ---  crying over your mangled carcass the way you did hers. you stand up; your old, worn body aches for oblivion, groans & protests the movement. you’re not supposed to be on your feet at all, & you’re sure your student ( you want to say son, the word sits on the tip of your tongue every day & it feels right ) would be highly distressed if he were conscious  ---  the image garners a lopsided grin, fond  ---  but he’s not, & what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. your world has been so much darker ever since you lost her smile; his reminds you of hers, there’s as much of her in him as you, & that brings you so much joy. one day, you’ll have to thank him for teaching you how to live again, but for now, you gently place the blanket over his small form & promise to raise him. you will support him when it all becomes too much, when his shoulders begin to shake & when his voice breaks & when he needs to be reminded on how to roar, you will be there. you have to be. no, not that  ---  you want to be there for him. for all them, just like you always have.

‘ don’t worry, i’m not going anywhere, kiddo, ’ a bare whisper, you should have learned by now not to make promises you can’t keep, ‘ i am here. ’