your chest aches like an abandoned house, all crumbled brick & shattered glass. you hands are empty window frames       no shine, / only absence. these are the ties that have bound us together. how nature can & always will will / reclaim our bodies, sending vines through ribcages, trees through hearts. someday they will find us side by side, fingers intermingled like kindling / you could give this yearning heart to him, ribboned & bloody. beating thunder against your palms. would he accept / it ? / turn forward these clocks on our change. metamorphose with him into something brilliant & cratered. you both will be shining creatures at last. 

    ( here, think of the story this way: you have sat in this same room every time thesad ate you whole, when the vodka burnt down your throattype of goodbye, the bells ringing as the newmoons wake up & all you could do was miss the old onesthat hurt you a little too long. i guess everything ends except for the longing. even ourwounds get tired of working, rehashing so much we can’t remember how they started & we end up stuck, here,always in the same boats with the same ghosts, the same hates, the same loves. & isn’t that what we’re afraid of the most?5 years down and still asking how to moveour bones. 

    what if we make a habit out ofweeping off our old days, to never bothersaving them in a jar, to live with the wounds & whatever else has already begun ? w/he is too young for this. w/he haven’t lost just yet.  )

    ❛  no, it wouldn’t be.  ❜  the human body holds 270 bones at birth & sometimes you wonder if you were born fewer, because there’s this empty / this echo / this aimless love inside yourself, & you didn’t know where to put it before him. him with his small smile & strong quirk & soft face &     ❛  not for me … & not for you, either. ❜  love still bursts like bluejays from your mouth & unlearning this would feel flightless, anyway. if his life is a thread, your heart is a knot / an unravelling / a curtain letting in light, or     

    none of that, only the way it feels to run your fingers in his hair & let his sobs shiver you apart. only seeing the spread bones of another chest & not flinching, but opening yourself in return. you, you want to show him the feathers stored under your bed. you want to show him how there was never any difference between loving him & loving his shaking / his reasons / his open ribcage. 

    right now you cannot remember the way your childhood bedroom looked like, you do not carry the sun - faded paint & ceiling fans in your lungs, you have forgotten the betrayal of hurting for the first time, for him / for yourself / for you both together. 

   ❛  there is nothing grand in the thought of losing you,  ❜  is this whisper. you hope it doesn’t stay frozen to your lungs. ❛  not now & definitely not ever. you’re important to me alive, minami touri, lets keep it that way.  ❜

you know the meme | @soarsun

being right has never tasted so sickening. 

he had warned touri when he first found out about his mission. had reacted with shock, outrage, and suspicion. his sponsors intentions never sat right with hakamata. but what could he do? having gotten custody only after the sponsors had a firm grip on the boy already, he knew touri felt that he had to. he’s always been such a good hero. such a good person. 

there had been jokes, about his ward-once-intern being likened to icarus. especially with his rise through the ranks and eventually surpassing hakamata himself. he had done his best to make him at least try to indulge in something akin to a childhood or a life. but it was very difficult. what had he said, last they spoke of his under cover mission? 

you’re playing with fire. 

how painfully true and painfully fitting, for the man who ended up flying too close to the sun.

and now, rushing as fast as was possible for him under the circumstances, he’s hearing it from one of his fellow pro’s who has a sidekick tuned in to a police scanner. 

hawks has died. 

it’s like his heart constricts and rips apart all at once. hakamata is a professional. he has seen and heard and felt death on many occasions. but there’s just something about the death of loved ones, of loved ones you essentially raised, that makes you forget how to handle it altogether. breath catches and the previously mentioned pro is placing a hand on his shoulder, asking him in a rushed tone if he’ll be able to continue with this mission. 

hawks has died. 

a blink. a blink and he knows there’s moisture in his eyes that he can’t afford. a blink and he knows he’s biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. a blink and he’s constricting his own wrists to keep his hands from shaking. a blink and he knows he can’t afford any of these luxuries right now.   

“ of course i am. “   

hakamata tsunagu is a professional hero. they have had years of practice in pushing unneeded emotions down and buried. so they plow through their heartbreak, their unshed tears, their shaking hands and absolute need to get to the boy who should not have suffered so much in his short life. 

( Aizawa and @soarsun (Hawks) out here resting up after a long day. real friendship is platonic naps. Supporting each other, drinking excessively, and taking naps. )

@soarsun

  & maybe that’s what draws you to place your hands over his own in amongst the idle chatter & songs alone. ( this is the day of soft lighting & strung acoustics & your soul wanting to break open to burst & bloom. love will always thrive in any way it can. )

prompt / acc / @soarsun

     IT  NEED  NOT  HURT  SO  MUCH,  is  what  he  wants  to  say.  if  it’s  okay  then  why  does  his  chest  ache,  why  does  all  might  never  visit?  why  must  he  witness  tragedy  after  tragedy?  he  does  not  voice  these  things,  for  he  has  no  reason  to.