Chapter Text
Tomura doesn’t feel anymore. Instead, he floats.
In the sea of darkness, he’s barely a pebble, but there are no ripples gently pushing out from his form. The dark doesn’t acknowledge his presence, merely flowing at his sides where he begins and melting back into itself where he ends.
He tries to flex his hands first, to feel the reassuring squeeze of his fists and the crack of his fingers as he readies for battle. But the dark plasters his fingers together like the webbing through a duck’s feet, sticky petrol coating him in a strange, lukewarm nothingness.
Then he tries to shout. A scream builds in his throat, raw and feral, scratching at the walls of his throat before his chords have even started to vibrate with the force of it. But the vibration never comes. He screams and screams and screams, but his mouth doesn’t move. He can’t make it move.
It’s not a new sensation, not by far, but – god, he thought he was past this. He thought he’d left it behind alongside his birth name, his memories, his horror of a childhood. Once he learned to wield his Quirk, he shed the feeling like old, useless skin. But perhaps a piece stuck, and now it had grown back.
Powerlessness.
It’s all his fault.
Tomura doesn’t see anymore, but he sees red nonetheless. In the swirl of shock and frustration and betrayal, right at the center, is the companion of a lifetime: anger.
Anger, to him, has always been as transcendent as divinity: a force from above and, at once, from within. A living, breathing thing, crawling under his skin and leaving behind that godforsaken itch.
And then, something inside him goes oh. I see, and he realizes.
The itch is back.
s ̸͕͒ t ̷͆ͅ o ̵͓̐ p ̶̩͑ ̴͖̔
Izuku is used to the darkness. It’s the element he moves in now, fluid as a back-alley shadow. It’s his shield, a protection for and from himself. It’s the backdrop of his dreams when he staggers to the closest soft surface available and collapses, his hero costume still clinging to his bones.
(He always wakes up with a plaid draped over his body and the impression of bony fingers running through his hair.)
Izuku is used to the darkness. Therefore, he doesn’t bat an eye as the endless stretch of black behind his eyelids welcomes him into the realm of sleep.
Except that, this time, something is different.
It takes him a second to realize what it is.
It takes him a second to realize that, this time, he isn’t alone.
d̴̲͛ő̶̘ǹ̴͙'̶͙͌t̸̗̆ ̷̦̌c̷̜͋ò̴̳m̶̞̈́ė̸͎ ̷̳̓ȧ̴̼ṉ̷̄y̵̦̍ ̵̻̚c̵̳̓l̴̨̒o̷̥͆ŝ̴̯e̵͍̔r̷̪̉
When Izuku feels the presence of someone else within the walls of his inner world, his first thought is, regrettably, Great. What now?
Don’t get him wrong: he cherishes his bond with the previous holders like they’re his own family. Getting to know their Quirks, and them as people, is a privilege, and he never fails to regard it as such.
On the other hand… He gets so little sleep as it is. Even within the dream, he feels the urge to yawn and lay down in the void (which really can’t be more uncomfortable than some of the places they’ve slept in lately). He just longs for a couple of hours of radio silence, from his body and mind alike.
And yet, the feeling is as familiar as it is foreign, and Izuku can’t bring himself to ignore it.
So he walks.
There’s nothing but darkness around him, and yet he senses a path somewhere, somehow. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few months, it’s to trust his instincts – so he does. He follows the invisible thread to the other end, wherever it might lead him.
He walks for what feels like forever before he glimpses a flash of white suspended in the darkness. He draws closer, almost jogging with a strange urgency he can’t quite place. He feels like every second wasted would be a second lost, and makes no effort to calm his hammering heart.
He wants to know what’s on the other end of the thread. He needs to know. And at the same time he feels, inexplicably, like a part of him might already know, and that’s why he’s running now, sleep forgotten.
I’ve felt this way before. But where…? When…?
The white dot grows bigger, gaining shades and a shape until, finally, Izuku finds his feet grinding to a halt.
He’s been searching for him for weeks.
“Shigaraki…?”
ī̸͔t̵̘̂'̸̡͛s̴̠͒ ̶̝̾m̴̽͜y̵̩͗ ̷͕͊b̸͕̎ǭ̵d̶̙̂y̶̲ ̷̪̚i̵̛̜t̴̺͒'̵̧̏s̸͍̍ ̴̝̈́m̵̤̿ẙ̷̤ ̷̮̉d̸̫̕ŗ̷̈́e̴̟͝à̷̺m̵͚̂ ̶̱̔i̸̞̽t̷͎̋'̸̼̌ș̵͆ ̷̨̎m̷̉͜i̵̝͐n̷̜͘e̸̺͌ ̸̩͑m̶͙̾į̸̿n̵̮e̵̠͘ ̵͔̋m̷̧i̸̠̅n̷͓̈́ĕ̵̫
Izuku blinks once, twice – because, if this is actually a dream, it isn’t funny.
His nemesis is floating mid-air on his back, wrapped in the same black fog that used to bind his mouth when he first found his way in the inner world of One for All. His long white hair falls over his shoulders and into the pitch black darkness, the contrast almost blinding.
His scarred face is a mask of pain, eyes squeezed shut and body writhing without a sound, twisting at unnatural angles like a rebellious marionette. The sight makes his stomach turn, nausea surging through him in a tidal wave.
He’s seen this man crumble things into dust with touch alone – trying to destroy people; trying to destroy his friends, his mentor, Kacchan; trying to destroy him. He’s seen his face in his worst nightmares, every night, for days on end after U.S.J. and then again after the meeting at the mall. He’s felt his skin crawl under his homicidal gaze, red eyes boring holes into his very core.
And yet.
And yet, a fresher image overlaps with all of the above. Shigaraki Tomura, on his knees, fighting for the control of his own body with the man whom he called his Sensei. His mentor, his father – his world.
The desperate look in his eyes.
He should’ve known that, after all this time, he would still be fighting.
Without thinking, Izuku takes a step forward, hand outstretched, determined to reach him, to shake him awake; to do something, anything, to stop this–
And then Izuku wakes up.
***
Tomura doesn’t feel anymore, but he dreams.
He dreams of the League, sometimes, of his friends and comrades. It’s torture on his mind, not knowing what befell them, or if they managed to escape. If they’re wounded. If they’re imprisoned.
If they’re dead.
He has the vaguest memory of Compress scooping him up from the battlefield, of Spinner piecing him back together somehow. He remembers Dabi scorching the earth with a sea of blue flames. He remembers the broadcast.
He remembers Twice.
He remembers Machia, a biblical calamity come to life, collapsing to the ground as many Davids swarmed his gigantic form. He does not remember seeing Toga, and that concerns him more than anything, but he pushes it down. They’re his League. He would be a piss-poor leader if he wavered in his trust now, after everything they’ve given.
Most of the time, he dreams of shoving ten full fingers against the side of Sensei’s head and squeezing.
h̴̜̘̰̉̌̊̄͘ḙ̴͔͖̂̈́̚̕ ̷̡̼̮͕̗̈́̈̑̓̈́u̷̼̍͐͝ͅš̴̗̲̺̖͠ȩ̸̪̞̲̤͐͑̈́ḑ̶̧̛̪̂͜ ̸̨͙̤͆͗̿m̵̡͈̲̒̇͝ę̸̛̌̂͛̉ ̷̨͇̬̣̎̒̉û̸̧̯̘͖͈͑̕͘š̴̞̬̈́̕e̷͉͍̐̒d̶͕͐̏͐ ̶̭͇̅̅̇̚m̸̢̡̳̘̬̾̽ė̸̼͈͘ ̸̻̋͌͂̋̐u̴̬̻̯̲̤̿͛̈́̽̃s̶̢̧̩͉̥̋̌̇e̵̍̉̍̅͐ͅd̷͈̲̊͠ ̸̢̠͍͓̆̍̃m̷̡̦̯͌è̵̛͈̻͖̣
One time, he dreams something completely different.
He dreams of running steps echoing off invisible walls. He dreams of a small voice, somewhat high-pitched and familiar, calling out his name.
He dreams of a thread being pulled.
He dreams of pulling back.
***
The next night, Izuku falls asleep with his face on his notebook, after scribbling furiously for over an hour.
All Might, trusty plaid in hand and a sigh on his lips, tries to take a peek at the writings, but can’t make heads nor tails of them. Partly because of the handwriting, but mostly because young Midoriya is covering a great portion of paper surface with his drooling face.
His hair has grown longer, he notices, running a hand through the locks absent-mindedly. Young Midoriya stirs in his sleep, but doesn’t jolt awake like he’s started doing at the slightest out of place noise. Perhaps, Toshinori ponders, his body has trained itself to recognize threats and false alarms, to tell friend from foe. Or, he considers fondly, perhaps he knows that it’s just him; perhaps he’s grown so strong with One for All that he can spot, even in his sleep, the presence of a fellow user (or, well, past user). It warms his heart in the oddest way, thinking that young Midoriya won’t register him as a threat even at his most vulnerable, his body and his nerves frayed to the thinnest. He’s not a hero for many, these days, but he’s glad he can still make at least one person feel safe. And he’s glad that, of all people, it ended up being young Midoriya.
He drapes the plaid carefully across his shoulders and over his back – so tiny still, and yet carrying so much weight – and slowly clicks off the light.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of a note scrawled in the margin.
OFA/AFO
link???
inner--
shigaraki--
Toshinori draws his eyebrows together at the mention of the name. There it is: one of the reasons he loves young Midoriya so dearly, and yet he worries himself sick about him.
Shigaraki Tomura.
That the boy could find it within himself to put aside their history, their everything, and resolve to save his old nemesis… To save his old teacher’s blood…
It fills him with pride and dread at the same time.
But, perhaps, that’s what hope is all about.
Toshinori shakes his head. He won’t dwell on it, but decides he’ll gently prod about it in the morning.
For now, they both need to sleep.
***
As soon as his eyelids flutter open in the world of One for All, Izuku sprints into a run.
He runs and runs and runs, following that same invisible thread to the other end, until he spots the familiar outline suspended in the darkness. This time, he doesn’t stop.
And that’s how he ends up crashing into a wall.
“Ow!”
Izuku brings a hand to his nose, massaging the sore spot. He looks ahead of him, but doesn’t see anything other than Shigaraki’s floating form a few feet away.
He tries taking a step, careful this time, his hand outstretched in front of him, and his fingers brush over… something.
A wall, Izuku realizes with a start. An invisible wall.
It’s inexplicable, so of course he starts analyzing it like crazy.
A barrier of some sort… But why here? Why now? I’ve never come across anything like it. Could this be one of Shigaraki’s Quirks? A failsafe put in place by All for One? That is, if this Shigaraki is even real and not just a figment of my imagination, which would be a disappointing and admittedly terrifying prospect. Or maybe I was right in my hypotheses earlier? Could there really be a–
His train of thought is interrupted by a jolt on the other side of the wall, followed by a groan.
Well. If all it took was to annoy him awake by mumbling theories non-stop, he’ll thank his lucky stars that he never managed to do away with the habit in spite of Kacchan’s repeated threats.
But Shigaraki doesn’t seem to be waking, only writhing like he’s being tased over and over again.
Izuku clenches his fists.
“Shigaraki!” he shouts, banging a fist on the wall. It doesn’t so much as crack, bouncing his hand back like one of Gentle Criminal’s air cushions.
Shigaraki’s body jolts anew, a pained sound coming from his gritted teeth. It’s like they’re underwater, the villain’s voice muffled and distant. It must be the wall, Izuku thinks.
He punches the wall again, succeeding only in bruising his bare knuckles. He hisses at the sting, but keeps going, using the outer sides of his fists to cushion the blow on his hands.
“Shigaraki, wake up!” he shouts again, louder this time, and tries to add a kick for good measure. Nothing works on the wall, but Izuku thinks the villain can hear him, because every time he calls out to him, he jolts like he’s just been whipped across his back, arching up with his nails dug deep inside his palm. The young hero winces at that, but figures the trade-off will be worth it if he can get his eyes to open.
“What, you’re just gonna give up? You’re just gonna lay there and take it? I thought you were a big bad villain, Shigaraki Tomura!”
So he keeps going. He screams and punches and kicks and shouts himself raw. Somewhere along the line, the words become interspersed with curses and colorful profanities, Kacchan’s kind contributions to his vocabulary growing up.
“Shigaraki, you moron!” he calls, and he must admit there’s something therapeutic about this. “What the hell are you waiting for?!” He bangs his fists again, and this time they come away bloody. He calls once more, and this time he uses the villain’s true name.
“Shimura Tenko,” Izuku screams at the top of his lungs. “WAKE. UP!”
He’s almost ready to give up, almost ready to call it a night and go back to analyzing to come up with another plan, a better plan, something that will actually work–
And then Shigaraki’s eyes snap open.
***
It’s that dream again.
The obnoxious voice comes back with a vengeance, hurling insults in his direction. It’s not like Tomura hasn’t been yelled at before, and it was more often than not that he could definitely understand why. Most times, however, he was actually doing something to incite it.
What the fuck did Midoriya Izuku want with him now?
You’re just gonna lay there and take it?
He’s gonna snap that little fucker’s neck is what he’s gonna do. Midoriya Izuku has nothing to worry about: he’s the second name on his list, right under his bodysnatching Sensei.
But, if he cares so much, he can go first.
I thought you were a big bad villain, Shigaraki Tomura!
Oh, he is.
For the first time in a long while, Tomura calls on his power without thinking of Sensei. He calls on his Quirk, the one that’s been his strongest weapon and his greatest curse for the better part of his life.
It takes a few tries through the excruciating pain of struggling against the darkness’ hold, but Decay sparks to life in his hands, firing up the nerve endings of his fingers like a gulp of ice-cold water after days of drought.
He splays his palms at his sides, against the darkness. It shouldn’t work; it’s never worked before.
But it does.
Alongside Decay, something else thrums with recognition, like a dog heeding the call of his master. It’s not the full sprint of a well-trained hound; it’s the curious, brisk walk of a new pup on the older side, answering the call out of curiosity rather than loyalty, but allowing with the former for the birth of the latter. Tomura doesn’t care for it, at first, but then a thought flashes through his mind that makes him positively giddy, and he beckons the Quirk closer.
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he managed to steal this power for himself?
Shigaraki, you moron! says Midoriya’s angry voice, and wow, he didn’t think the boy had a single swearing bone in his body. Is it the influence of that foul-mouthed buddy of his, or is this just for him? Either way, he’s touched.
Despite the tingle in his body (his body his body his body), despite the Quirks thrumming under his palms, despite the first crack in the darkness, he doesn’t think he’s going to make it. He can feel it already, the power waning, the stillness setting back in one rigid muscle at a time. He almost sends a silent apology Midoriya’s way, because he won’t be able to bump him to the top of the list like he desperately seems to want.
But then, the infuriating boy says something.
Shimura Tenko, WAKE. UP!
And the itch comes back.
He feels the power surging back throughout his form, one Quirk chipping away at the darkness and the other finding the end of that annoying, invisible thread.
Tomura pulls.
And then he sees again, sensation rushing back into every nerve of his form. He can feel his eyes snap open and fix on the green speck a few feet away.
“That’s not my name,” Tomura says, and falls to the ground on his feet.