Chapter Text
When Aizawa gave Hitoshi a replica of his own capture weapon, Hitoshi had felt, for the first time, like someone really had faith in him. Weapons like that aren’t easy to produce, and it takes time and dedication to achieve even a passing level of proficiency with them, but Aizawa had decided that Hitoshi could learn. He had decided that Hitoshi was worth teaching. It had been an outside investment in a future that Hitoshi had only ever believed in alone.
When Hitoshi is given Hatsume’s prototype voice modulator, it strikes him that he is no longer grasping blindly at that future. He is holding it in his hands. A little piece of the hero he intends to be, already tangible. He’s going to save lives with this thing, someday.
In its current form, the modulator is bulky, a bit too heavy to wear comfortably. It’s unlikely to be of any use during the practical exam, and Hitoshi won’t even be able to test it properly when all his training is done against the same two people. But it’s real, and it’s his, and it’s cool as fuck.
Hitoshi pokes at the electronics in the cavity of the modulator, nudging a loop of wire that presses against his nose when he wears the mouthpiece. He should ask Hatsume how it works. If he’s going to have support gear, he doesn’t want to be completely reliant on a technician to keep it running. Especially not if that technician is Hatsume Mei. She showed up in the cafeteria the other day to harass Yaoyorozu into creating some kind of polymer or something, and he still hasn’t recovered from the encounter. If she shoves her tits in Hitoshi’s face one more time, he’s bound to snap.
“It’s a good idea,” Aizawa says, standing over Hitoshi and nodding at the gadget in his hands.
Such direct praise is rare from Aizawa — suspiciously rare. Hitoshi automatically glances around for Izuku, but doesn’t see him anywhere in the gym. Alone then, Hitoshi eyes Aizawa warily, uncomfortably aware of just how little time they have actually spent together one-on-one, without Izuku to act as a buffer.
“We need to talk,” Aizawa says.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that that’s an awful way to start a conversation?” Hitoshi asks, masking his reflexive alarm behind flat affectation.
“Mic. Many times.”
“You should listen to him.”
Aizawa’s eye twitches subtly in his otherwise rigid face. “If I need to talk to someone, that’s what I’m going to say.”
Hitoshi considers pressing his luck, as is his nature, but ultimately decides against it. Aizawa is one of very few adults in Hitoshi’s life that Hitoshi actually respects, and it’s a bit embarrassing, just how badly he wants Aizawa to respect him back. Normally that wouldn’t deter Hitoshi from, well — being himself, but there is something oddly intimidating about having Aizawa’s complete and exclusive attention.
“Talk then,” Hitoshi says, very respectably. Aizawa takes a seat on the same level of the bleachers, resting his elbows on his knees with an old-man exhale masquerading as a sigh. Hitoshi, on his best behavior, doesn’t even mock him for it.
“You’ll be taking your transfer exam soon. How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling,” Hitoshi quotes. Aizawa squints at him, unblinking despite the redness of his eyes. Hitoshi wants to roll his own eyes so badly that it physically hurts to resist. When Hitoshi resolved to be on his best behavior less than one whole minute ago, he hadn’t expected it to be so hard. “Surprisingly fine. I’m nervous,” he admits stiffly, “but Midoriya thinks I’ll pass.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think that I’ve already had this conversation with my dad and my therapist,” Hitoshi says dryly. The subsequent silence is expectant. Hitoshi sighs. “Fine, whatever. I think that I have as much training as the rest of them, at this point. If we’re fighting staff instead of robots,” Hitoshi watches Aizawa carefully for a reaction, a slip that will confirm Izuku’s suspicions, but gets nothing, “I’m in as good a position as I ever will be. If I can’t make that work, then—” Hitoshi shrugs. He tries to reserve feeling like inanimate objects for times when he is particularly sleep deprived, but the solid five hours he got the night before apparently aren’t enough to prevent tin-can-esque feelings from rising in him at the thought of failure. He turns his voice modulator over in his hands, a physical reminder of how far he has come.
“Then I’ll figure something else out,” Hitoshi resolves. He’s a much stronger person than he was two months ago. He turns the tables. “And what about you? You’re the one teaching me. Do you think I can do it?”
Aizawa’s stare is flat, as unimpressed as ever. There is nothing proud or encouraging about him. Hitoshi wonders if there’s a single nurturing bone in the man’s body. Maybe he spat them all out like baby teeth and left them in his apartment for Izuku’s exclusive use.
“I wouldn’t still be teaching you if I didn’t.” Aizawa sounds like he thinks Hitoshi is stupid for even asking. It makes Hitoshi feel a little warm inside. “It won’t be easy, but you’ve put in the work.”
It seems like ages ago that Hitoshi had resented Aizawa’s decision to delay his transfer. He hadn’t seen the weeks of private instruction, the tailored training regimen, for what it was. To the Hitoshi of yore, it had been a disservice. Another way of telling him the same thing he had heard too many times before: that he wasn’t good enough. That he would always have to fight twice as hard to get half as far.
A slow grin stretches across Hitoshi’s face. “I wouldn’t trust it if it was easy,” he says, without a trace of bitterness. As it turns out, he’s also a much happier person than he was two months ago.
Aizawa gives Hitoshi an assessing once over. “Yeah,” he says, softening in some imperceivable way, “you’ve got it handled.”
With that, Aizawa drops a hand on top of Hitoshi’s head, like he does to Izuku every now and then. He doesn’t do anything so sentimental as ruffling Hitoshi’s hair, just makes contact for a moment. Hitoshi hopes that his complete and utter shock doesn’t show on his face, but it probably does, and it probably looks stupid, because Aizawa huffs at him. Then he uses Hitoshi’s head to push himself up from the bleachers, once again exuding his normal don’t touch me aura as soon as he steps away, moment over.
PLAYER 2 18:37
click to view attachment
GIRAN 18:56
A little girl? Putting together a real weird group here
PLAYER 2 19:02
They haven’t killed each other yet.
GIRAN 19:11
Disappointed? Want em to pick eachother off?
PLAYER 2 19:12
Keep guessing.
A tall boy with pale, feathery hair waves a hand over his head. He’s cute, in a conventional, clean-cut kind of way, charming and boyish and begging to be messed up just a little. Himiko is delighted to find that it’s her that he’s waving to. She clasps her hands eagerly, skipping over to his side with a smile that stretches her mouth a bit too wide.
“Natsu!” the boy says, sounding in parts excited and exasperated to see her. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been around,” Himiko replies vaguely, latching on to one of the boy’s arms. The gawping look on his face tells her that she’s acting out of character, but the pretty blush coloring his cheeks tells her that he doesn’t mind. Natsu must be a no-fun stick-in-the-mud. Isn’t Himiko so much better?
“We were starting to get worried,” the boy says, rubbing two fingers over the reddened bridge of his nose.
“I’m fine,” Himiko says, smiling wider, shoving down the spiky ball of jealousy until it sticks somewhere deep in her stomach.
What’s so special about Natsu? What makes her so worth worrying about? She’s fine. Or she will be. Himiko didn’t do anything too bad to her, honest. Just taught her a lesson, which is doing her a favor, really. Nice, pretty high schoolers like Natsu have no business sticking their noses into the places that she had been. A worse person than Himiko would have cut that nose right off!
“Are you—” the boy looks down at Himiko uncertainly. “Are you alright? You’re acting a little odd.”
“…Odd?” Himiko repeats, wavering. She digs her nails into the sleeve of the boy's uniform, holding his arm against her chest. He’s warm. “There’s nothing odd about me. I’m just in a good mood, that’s all.”
“Alright,” the boy says, smiling softly, kind but wary. “If you’re sure.”
Why? Why is he still looking at her like that? She’s Natsu — pretty, normal Natsu, not a knife in sight, hasn’t said a word about blood or bleeding. People like Natsu. She has a family and friends who all care about her. She’s not gross or creepy or crazy. Her quirk has to do with paint, or something harmless like that.
Himiko smiles Natsu’s smile, careful not to show too many teeth, and tugs lightly on the boy’s arm. “Come on!” she says. “You know I wasn’t in school, today. Tell me what I missed! How was your day?”
The boy grins. He seems delighted by the question, like no one has ever asked him about his day before. Natsu must be one of those chatty, self-centered girls, then. Isn’t Himiko so much better? She rests her head on the boy’s bicep and lets herself listen to him talk for a while.
Not too long, though. He’ll start screaming if she stays too long.
A week after the end of internships, one of the Commission members sitting on the committee overseeing Izuku’s rehabilitation requests an update on his condition. Recovery Girl is unamused at the nonverbal pressure, having made her stance entirely clear. When Izuku steps into the infirmary for an examination, she takes one look at him and says, “No.”
The examination proceeds regardless, because Recovery Girl is a professional, and Nedzu insists that their records need to be beyond reproach. The paper trail of Izuku’s first exam post-hospitalization is clear: his kidneys are barely functioning, his metabolism is a wreck, and his immune system is in a panic.
The quirk suppression cuffs are not put back on that week.
Two weeks after the end of internships, one of the Commission members sitting on the committee overseeing Izuku’s rehabilitation politely asserts that Izuku has had time enough to recover. Nedzu’s equally polite reply explains that one cannot rush back from the brink of death. He reads this email in full while Izuku is being held as a captive audience, and laughs too loudly at Izuku’s suggestion that he’s exaggerating somewhat.
Recovery Girl frowns over the results of that week’s blood test. It is a slightly shallower frown than the week before, but there is something troubled about it that Izuku can’t account for. He’s seen the results for himself, has seen the mess of red flags, but knows that they’ve at least decreased in number.
“You’ve been using your quirk,” Recovery Girl says, tapping her stylus tensely against the side of her tablet.
“Not much,” Izuku lies. He justifies it to himself as a half truth, depending on how they were defining his quirk, but doubts that the argument would get past Tsukauchi.
“You shouldn’t be using it at all. Quirk exhaustion of the extent you were facing is no laughing matter, young man. It’s a severe medical emergency.”
“I know that,” Izuku says, a bit too sharply. “It put me in a c-coma. I’ve been resting. I-I’m getting better, aren’t I?”
Recovery Girl stares at Izuku for a long second, long enough that he ducks his head, abashed. She thinks that he has been training with his quirks, he reminds himself. She doesn’t even suspect that Izuku has been committing treason when he is meant to be paying attention in class. But it’s hard not to get defensive, knowing that no one would approve of choices Izuku feels so strongly about.
“Has your quirk ever made you sick?” Recovery Girl asks, letting his poor attitude slide without comment.
“Um.” Izuku blinks, unprepared for the question. “P-physically?”
“Yes,” Recovery Girl says, tone gentling. “Sick like the nosebleeds you keep dragging that Shinsou boy in here for.”
“Sometimes, it— it would h-hurt,” Izuku says after taking a moment to think, “to give q-quirks away.”
Recovery Girl nods. “What about when you use the quirks you’ve collected?”
Izuku doesn’t really like that word, collected. Collections are carefully curated displays, hobbies or points of pride. Thinking of his quirk that way sits poorly with him, but most things about his quirk do. He wishes people would be up front about the reality of the situation, but the word stolen has become taboo.
Izuku brushes that off and answers the question, “Well, some of them can hurt me. Like— like the fire breathing.”
“That’s not what I mean. The quirk isn’t what gave you those burns; the flames made by the quirk did.”
“I… don’t see the difference.”
“Think of Todoroki,” Aizawa speaks up from where he has been silently leaning against the wall. “When he overuses his ice, frost starts to build up on his skin. That’s not because of the ice itself, but a consequence of the internal mechanisms of his quirk.”
“Okay. That— that makes sense, I g-guess.”
“Did anything like that happen to you in Hosu?” Recovery Girl asks.
“I— I got really tired?” Izuku offers hesitantly, not entirely sure how the conversation came to this, or where it’s meant to be going.
“But nothing hurt?”
“N-no,” Izuku admits. “Nothing.” Excluding the stab wound, broken arm, and large array of lacerations, that is — not that Izuku says as much. Even stumbling around in the dark as he is, he knows that being pedantic now would be a misstep.
“That’s not a good thing, you realize,” Recovery Girl says with a long sigh.
“Of course not,” Izuku agrees, blindly. Recovery Girl sees through him instantly. She taps his ankle with the pointed tip of her cane, soft enough not to stab him, but sharply enough to get the reprimand across. “Well it’s, it’s not bad,” he argues, pulling his legs up onto the cot, out of easy reach. “I don’t exactly want it to— to hurt. My quirk doesn’t need to be any— any worse than it a-already is.”
Recovery Girl sighs again and pats the ankle she just bumped with a sympathetic hand. “Some fool once suggested that quirks are evolving more quickly than the human body can handle.”
Izuku nods, this time because he actually knows what she’s talking about, even if it seems like an abrupt change in subject. “That’s the foundation of Quirk Singularity Theory.”
“And what do you think about that?”
“M-me? Well, it’s a bit silly, isn’t it? It’s not as if quirks are a separate entity, evolving independently from the rest of humanity. They’re not just— things people can do, like, like action skills in a video game, or something. These abilities didn’t just evolve. Humans evolved to have them. A body isn’t a vessel for a quirk; a quirk is the result of the unique physiological adaptations of a body. Theoretically. I mean, the field of human evolutionary biology was turned on its head by the emergence of quirks, and it’s still in shambles, if we’re being honest.
“And,” Izuku continues vigorously, waving away the can of worms that is the veracity of the quirk sciences, “all of that is assuming that quirks are even growing stronger to begin with, and there’s not really any data to support that. Plenty of people still have very ‘weak’ quirks, and there have always been ‘strong’ quirks. My father, the boogeyman of the quirked world, was first generation. The big thing, I think, is that the number of people who have quirks has dramatically increased in recent decades. Confirmation bias could create the illusion that quirks are becoming more powerful, even if the actual proportion of powerful quirks hasn’t changed. It’s an anecdotal observation, at best. Besides—” Izuku stops himself before he can get into the minutia of how one could even quantify something as subjective as quirk strength. He clears his throat.
“How do you explain quirk backlash, then?” Recovery Girl asks. “Why do so many quirks have physically detrimental consequences if not because our bodies aren’t suited for them?”
“Over-taxed muscles tear. Does that mean that human bodies aren’t suited for having muscles?”
After the words are out of his mouth, Izuku hears the irreverent disdain in his voice and bites back an embarrassed grimace. He’s not used to being engaged this way by anyone but Nedzu, who receives an argument better the more scathingly its delivered, but it’s not how Izuku would normally talk to anyone else. Recovery Girl’s laugh interrupts before he can stutter out an apology.
“That’s the spirit!” she cheers, reminding Izuku why she’s the closest thing Nedzu has to an actual human friend. “Right you are. The man was a fool, like I said, but people have a way of latching on to foolish ideas. That quirk backlash is a self-destructive consequence of quirk use is certainly the general consensus, but truly self-destructive quirks are quite rare.” Izuku thinks of a man with scars like scorched earth and represses a shudder. Recovery Girl continues, “You didn’t answer my question. If that’s not what quirk backlash is, then what is it?”
“It’s…” Izuku trails off into thought. His eyes drift to Aizawa, who receives the attention with a slight lift of his eyebrows, a silent observer waiting for Izuku’s answer as much as Recovery Girl is. Izuku thinks of Shouto, like Aizawa suggested before. Any memories made with Dissociation active come out a little hazy, but Izuku remembers their fight during the sports festival well enough. “It’s just a torn muscle,” he says. “It’s the result of pushing past a physical limitation.”
“Not quite,” Recovery Girl says, “but you have the right general idea. A torn muscle is more akin to quirk exhaustion. Backlash would be the pain before a muscle tears. It serves the same biological purpose: to deter someone from a course of action that will cause them further harm.”
“In Hosu, you didn’t experience that deterrent,” Aizawa says blandly. He hasn’t moved, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, exactly as he has been since Izuku sat down to go over his results. “You really have no idea how close you came to killing yourself, do you?”
Izuku doesn’t — because that’s just not how it went. Yes, he came startling close to death, but that was because of Stain and the nomu. The biggest threats to Izuku’s life had been almosts, near misses, things that were prevented before they could actually come to pass. Aizawa detained Stain before he could strike a mortal blow; Kurogiri caught Izuku before he fell far enough to do substantial damage. After the nomu, blood loss could have been a real threat, but paramedics were already on scene.
“But I’m fine,” Izuku says weakly. Partially hidden by his capture weapon, Aizawa’s jaw ticks.
“You are fine now. Severe quirk exhaustion functions similarly to shock. It is a quick and catastrophic killer.”
“Oh.”
Izuku’s blood chemistry is still in disarray. More than half of the numbers on Recovery Girl’s tablet screen are outside of acceptable ranges. Izuku’s injuries are healed, nothing hurts, his mood has been on the rise, and he is quantifiably not fine.
The quirk suppression cuffs are not put back on that week.
Three weeks after the end of internships, one of the Commission members sitting on the committee overseeing Izuku’s rehabilitation calls UA’s intentions and integrity into question. After that, the writing is on the wall.
“You realize we’re not going to be able to stonewall them any longer?” Recovery Girl says as she draws Izuku’s blood for another round of testing. Her words are reserved, sober, but her agitation comes across in the tight movements of her hands, in the pinch of her needle through his skin, just a bit sharper and more prolonged than usual.
“I know,” Izuku says. No one can accuse him of being naive.
“I’ll still try, mind you, but they’re sending in one of their own for a second opinion. Any medical professional worth their salt would agree that the indefinite suppression of a developing child’s quirk is not only unhealthy but flat out unethical! But those Commission cronies aren’t worth much of anything, in my experience.”
“It’s fine.” Izuku receives a sharp look for his reassurance.
“It’s not. Numerous studies have indicated that there’s a correlation between quirk suppression and quirk dysfunction. I’ve said as much every chance I’ve gotten, but it hasn’t done a bit of good. I’m an expert when they need me, and a crazy old lady the moment they don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Izuku says, because that strikes him as awfully sad.
“Don’t you worry about me,” Recovery Girl says briskly, taping a wad of gauze tight over the crook of Izuku’s elbow. “I have everything I need right here, and I’m happy so long as you kids keep yourselves alive. I only wish you’d all realize that not dying is the bare minimum of self-care. That includes you!”
“I—”
“Not a word!” Recovery Girl interrupts. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve not been sleeping! You look terrible!”
“Thanks,” Izuku says dryly. Recovery Girl whaps him across the shins, chasing him from the cot to his feet.
“If you want compliments, get enough rest to earn them!”
Izuku’s test results come in two days later in a routine that’s become like clockwork. He has made a more dramatic improvement this week than the one before, though his metabolic panel still makes Recovery Girl purse her lips. But it doesn’t matter what argument she presents, and it doesn’t matter how deadly the look on Aizawa’s face becomes, and it doesn’t matter what Izuku says or does.
Like he said: the writing was already on the wall.
The cuffs are put back on that week.
And that’s fine. It really is.
Izuku has already done what he set out to do.
PLAYER 2 3:19
this mihgtve been a bad idea
PLAYER 2 3:20
do you ever wondre if youre ruingin your life???
PLAYER 2 6:04
You can ignore that.
PLAYER 2 6:04
Last one.
PLAYER 2 6:04
click to view attachment
GIRAN 12:43
Done already?
GIRAN 12:44
I have other work if your interested
GIRAN 20:23
Good ridance
Molten metal cools in glowing rivulets down the gym’s back door. Picking a lock may be more subtle, but Dabi’s not particularly concerned with leaving evidence behind. Nobody is going to give a shit about the fate of a run-down gym owned by a broke old man with no connections to speak of.
Of the three sinks in the men’s locker room, the left-most one, and the counter beside it, is already stained a dark green-gray from the times Dabi has done this before. Maybe that’s why the old man had given him the boot. Property damage or some shit. As if the place hadn’t been visibly neglected even before Dabi started kicking around.
Whatever. Dabi pulls a small box out of his jacket and dumps the contents across the yellowed counter. Forgoing the cheap brush and gloves provided, Dabi squeezes the hair dye directly into his hands. One palm-full at a time, he runs dye through his hair, scrubbing at his roots until the tube is an empty, crumpled husk.
Stinging globs drip tar-like onto the shells of Dabi’s ears, dark streaks itching on the back of his neck. It’s overkill, it always is, but it eases the paranoia that strikes him monthly, so regularly that his restlessness might very well be following the cycle of the moon. He sneers at his reflection in the water-spotted mirror in front of him. Maybe that’s why Dabi got kicked out, actually. He’s fucking ghastly to look at.
He lets the color sit for something like half an hour. He doesn’t take a timer to it, just waits until he doesn’t have the patience to wait anymore, then sticks his head beneath the spray of a shower head. Running his fingers through his hair squeezes excess dye off in thick lines that spill over his knuckles. The water runs like oil around his shoes as it swirls towards the drain.
Dabi forgot to grab some shampoo when he stole the hair dye, like a fucking amateur. He tears the hand soap dispenser from the wall and makes do with that. Three times through the lather-rinse loop and the suds collecting on his hands are still tinged faintly gray, but the idea of going through a fourth wash is too boring to stand. The shower shuts off with a creak of pipes that lingers long after the rush of the water has fallen silent.
Dabi leaves the same way he came in, clothes and hair hissing in the heat as the building goes up in flames behind him.
“Do you even know how to use this?”
“Of course I do. Don’t touch it.”
“Seems impractical.”
“I said don’t touch it.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not like it’s gonna break.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“How? I’m not gonna accidentally slit my own throat.”
“Don’t—”
“Ow, shit.”
“I told—”
“Say I told you so, and I’ll bend your sword into a fucking pretzel.”
“That’s not even possible.”
“Wanna bet? What’s the melting point of steel, do you think?”
“Okay, fine, point made. Give it back.”
“Hmm, I don’t know.”
“Dabi.”
“Why should I?”
“Dabi!”
“I’m just saying— Wait, what are you—? Oh fuck—!”
“Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri’s voice cuts through the crescendoing argument that drifts up the stairs and down the hall. He stands in the empty doorway of Tomura’s room — empty because Tomura had destroyed his door in a fit of pique two days before. He has been doubly on edge ever since, for more reasons than he can name.
The League of interlopers Kurogiri has recruited, with Tomura’s approval but without his appreciation. The inability to close himself in, to cut everything else off. The erratic evolution of Decay beyond his limits. The knowledge that there is someone just out of reach who would have a far better understanding of what is happening to him.
Tomura’s thoughts, his feelings, are so loud. They leak out of his brain and into his blood, pulsing through him, screaming with every beat of his heart. It is so loud inside of Tomura that he never noticed how quiet it became, in the after. Like a pocket of Tomura’s life had been holding its breath. With all the noise around him now, he feels less like he is going to overflow, but something else has been broken — a silence, the unpunctuated void of an absence.
“Shigaraki Tomura,” Kurogiri repeats. “Your intervention is required.”
“Handle it yourself,” Tomura says. “They’re your strays.”
“But you are their leader.” Kurogiri says
Tomura scoffs. Leader, right. And what, exactly, is he leading them towards? What Tomura intends to do, he fully intends to do alone. What Sensei wanted for him, wanted from him, matters less and less with each passing day. The further Tomura goes on his own, the more history seems to distort behind him.
Something thuds loudly against the ceiling downstairs, the impact a dull vibration that Tomura can feel through his chair. A pause, a horrible clatter, and the shouting resumes. Kurogiri’s shoulders tense as he grips his arms more tightly behind his back. His composure is just strained enough for Tomura to notice; for all that Kurogiri advocated for expanding their numbers, for all that he smoothed over the rough edges of the noobs’ introductions, their presence is an intrusion to him, as well. Theoretically, the bar has always been a headquarters, but historically, it has only ever been a home. The only one either of them have ever known.
Tomura stands with a grumbled sigh, cracking his neck to one side and then the other before digging his nails in under his jaw. His skin has stopped attacking itself, finally, and most of his wounds have healed seamlessly, but his neck remains mottled faintly pink even when he hasn’t been scratching at it.
Kurogiri disappears into himself as Tomura moves. The clattering comes to an abrupt stop as Tomura takes the stairs two at a time. It’s too much to hope that the idiots have killed each other; more likely, they’ve just been momentarily cowed into line by Kurogiri’s reappearance. Sure enough, Tomura enters the bar just in time to see Spinner stick a hand through a portal and wrench his sword out of the ceiling. Kurogiri, installed behind the bar as if he never left, stares at the flakes of plaster that drift down, small but strikingly visible against the dark bar top. Swiftly, he turns to retrieve a rag, the yellow wisps that trail from the corners of his eyes lashing with unvoiced agitation.
“Why,” Tomura hisses, “are you here? Go home.”
“I’m literally homeless,” Dabi replies flatly.
“…My hot water’s out,” Spinner offers a moment later.
“Shiggy!” Toga exclaims, sitting in a booth across from Twice with a deck of cards between them. More freeloaders, but less obnoxious ones, at least. For the moment. Somehow. It’s a rare day that Toga is more tolerable than Spinner. Even thinking it feels like a jinx. “Oh, come play! I can deal you in!”
“I’m winning,” Twice declares, adding in an undertone, “I’m cheating.”
Toga giggles. The sound skitters down Tomura’s spine like something with too many legs.
“Go home,” he orders.
“My parents went away somewhere,” Toga says, smile as sharp as the needles she no doubt has in her pockets. “The family that moved into our house will call the cops if I show up again.”
“That’s fucked up,” Dabi says without sympathy.
“It’s whatever.”
Tomura grabs the door frame tight enough that the bone white of his knuckles presses through his skin. Habit keeps his little finger in the air, but conscious choice lowers it with the others. Recently, it hasn’t made much of a difference. Things either turn to dust beneath his skin or they don’t. He had opened his bedroom door with his fucking elbow.
“So, Shigaraki,” Dabi drawls, lounging insolently with his arms propped on the bar behind him, “what are we doing here? It’s been nearly a week since you contacted me, and all you’ve done is brood in your bedroom like a moody teenager.”
“I didn’t contact you,” Tomura sneers. “I don’t give a shit about you.”
“But you’re the leader of the League, aren’t you? And the League, that’s us, now.”
“You can leave for all I care.”
“God. Aren’t you in your twenties?”
“I’m the leader,” Tomura says, “because I’m the one who will fucking kill you if you don’t do what I say.”
“So what’s the plan? What’s the point?”
“We’re going to tear everything down,” Toga interjects gleefully. “But we have to kill that guy, first.” She points avidly to the wall, the traitor’s picture pinned in place by a dart between his blank green eyes. Tomura hadn’t— he hadn’t considered that people would see that. He crosses the room to tear the photo down, the dart ripping a line through the traitor’s skull. Tomura crumples the paper into a ball and shoves it in his pocket. He’ll print a new one, one that he won’t leave out for everyone to gawk at. “His name is Midoriya Izuku,” Toga goes on, cooing. “We’re nearly the same age, you know.”
“I recognize him. He beat Endeavor’s brat during the sports festival.”
“Yeah! He got all burned up and red. It was the greatest.”
“And we’re killing him. That’s our goal?”
“No,” Tomura bites, before Dabi can spout any of his usual derision. “I’m killing him. The rest of you are staying out of my way.”
How did Toga even know this? Has she been talking to Kurogiri? Who does that? She must have been though, because Tomura certainly hasn’t said anything. Last time he did, Stain went off and fought the traitor on his own. Tomura couldn’t have anyone trying to steal his kill, not again. No one else needs to know, anyway. It’s none of their business, how Tomura’s family fell apart for a second time.
“Don’t be that way!” Toga protests. “Can’t we help even a little? I just want to stab him, only once or twice! He won’t even die, I promise! Please, Shiggy? Please, please, please!”
“I don’t want to stab a high schooler,” Twice says as Tomura reaches past him to seize Toga by the collar of that baggy sweater she never takes off. “Well. Only once or twice would be fine. Probably. As long as he doesn’t even die.”
While Twice muses to himself, nonsensical and indecisive, Tomura drags Toga out of her seat, heaving her easily to her feet, then up further still until her only her toes are the only thing keeping her grounded. It’s easy. She’s an underfed street rat.
“You don’t fucking touch him,” Tomura warns lowly. Her sweater feels weak between his fingers, but the fabric hasn’t given way yet, so he fists his hands in tighter and shakes her, just to drive home the fact that he can, and there’s nothing she can do about it. “When that brat goes to hell, he goes knowing I’m the one who sent him there. No one makes him bleed but me. Got it?”
Toga stares at him, unresponsive, her hands circled limply around his wrists. Her face is red enough that he wonders for a moment if he’s cut off her airway, but no. She’s a little freak, Tomura already knew that. That manic state of infatuation she sometimes falls into is unpleasant enough to witness, but this is just disturbing. She said it herself, she’s the same age as his—
Tomura shoves her away with an inarticulate noise of disgust. She’s falling before her heels hit the ground, no chance to get her footing. Twice lunges to catch her, then pushes her back into her seat in much the same way as Tomura. She topples over into the booth, laughing in breathy bursts. Her sweater is threadbare and fraying where Tomura’s hands had knotted into it. She wiggles her fingers through the new holes with a dopey smile.
While Spinner tends to his blades as if nothing at all is happening, Dabi watches, apathetic but judgmental. Tomura meets his eyes for a moment before turning away. Another noise, as disgusted as the last, tears free from his throat.
Fuck this shit. Tomura has reached his limit. He has to get out of this mad house. He's going to the fucking arcade.