pleathe ♡

nsfw | '96 | not white 🤠 writer/try-hard artist [send me prompts!] ao3 | twitter | carrd

[pleathewrites]

my writing

✨hunter x hunter

remain nameless (hisokuro, feishal)

✨jujutsu kaisen

candles in the sun (itafushi, satosugu, sukuna x oc)

✨haikyuu!!

boys, boys, boys (iwaoi, iwaizumi x setters)

✨my hero academia

played around with your heart (now i’m paying while we’re apart) (dabihawks)

bellow the fire into my deadened lungs (dabihawks, shigadabi, todo!fam, kiribaku, seroroki, aizawa & class 1a)

i am no mother, i am no bride (todoroki rei-centric, rei/endeavor, rei & touya)

of lost sailors to a burning lighthouse (dabihawks, dabi/ocs)

[pleathewrites]

of lost sailors to a burning lighthouse

dabihawks + dabi/ocs, multi-chap fic, wip, rated E

read on AO3

summary:

5 times Hawks bares witness to Dabi fucking hero-society’s monstrous underbelly + the 1 time Hawks devolves into the type of monster granted the privilege of fucking Dabi himself.

Maybe he likes the shock. Likes the way that even he — a weak thing risen from mud and climbed through dirt — can shake up a man like Hawks — a well-fed, prim and proper soldier who thinks he can outfool Dabi. Dabi knows a thing or two about fools, like how they always fall. Whether with intent or by accident, their tumbles are always and only for the masses. Maybe Dabi’s in the mood to knock things down and get a good laugh.

Through every single interaction he has with Dabi, Hawks finds himself falling further from his heroic pedestal into the very filth Dabi uses to bathe his bawdy skin — until it makes Hawks feel clean, too.

CHAPTER 1:

i.

i'm perfection when it comes to first impressions, baby, it's a blessing // mama tells me i should smile some more

Of the few weeks Hawks has been tailing Dabi, he’s learned heaps of the most useless information ever. 

Dabi smokes five to ten cigarettes per day — some sticks, some he rolls up himself. Dabi has about three shirts he wears in rotation — always white, sometimes clean, sometimes splattered with very questionable red stains. Dabi will kick a snarling dog in the face — something Hawks has never seen anyone do — but will crouch down to feed a hissing stray cat the measly scraps of whatever the villain’s managed to stuff into that ridiculously tattered trench coat of his. 

Also, Dabi goes out nearly every single night. 

There are maybe two or three haunts the patchwork-man likes to frequent. Some underground clubs hidden between narrow alleyways, guarded by people who look more or less like Dabi himself; violent, worn down, defensive things — hidden under dark and oversized clothing to blend into the shadows of the walls. Then, there are the occasional rooftops — industrial, abandoned old haunts with the green life of Mother Earth wailing to squeeze through the broken and unmaintained cracks of concrete. Less frequently, there are the noname bars that Dabi doesn’t seem to return to once he’s already spent the night doing whatever it is he goes in for. 

Hawks never follows him inside. Confrontation is not the goal — yet.

Tonight, it seems to be one of those situations. Hawks is perched on top of some nameless building across from a wood-rotted brewery the villain had walked into nearly an hour ago.  

And is now walking out the side entrance of, this time with company in tow. 

This is new. 

Hawks rarely ever gets to see Dabi actually walking out of an establishment once the villain’s gone in. Hawks waits, always, just in case, but this is the first time Hawks has been able to potentially witness the end of the villain’s night. 

What an ending it is, by the looks of it. 

The man that accompanies Dabi looks more like an animal — hunt in his eyes, pride in his spine with a prowl in his step.

Hawks feels the feathers at his back bristle.

The man grabs Dabi as if he’s nothing but a ragdoll, as if Dabi’s infamy is nothing but a blown-out farce. Meaty hands grope Dabi’s waist, tug at Dabi’s belt, and push down his jeans. Dabi laughs, something mean and viciously amused, before he pushes the guy against the wall with a strength Hawks didn’t think the villain would possess. However, given the situation, it could be assumed this man doesn’t actually think of Dabi as much of a threat and isn’t keen on putting up any kind of fight. 

Hawks doesn’t expect to see Dabi drop so heavily onto his knees, doesn’t expect frantic scarred hands to unzip this stranger’s pants and pull out a cock that Hawks has only ever seen in animated porn. 

Ugly and blue, with tuffs of coarse hair at the base that Hawks is not a hundred percent sure is human.

Hawks really doesn’t expect to see Dabi put his mouth on it.

Two-toned lips look three times bigger while puckered up against veiny flesh. A tongue that Hawks has never seen, glinting small silver stars at random microsecond-intervals with the moonlight’s help, runs flat along the side of this Unknown’s cock, slowly — slowly, slowly — curling at the head before surrounding it by the cave of a cadaverous grin. 

The unknown man grunts, fists a hand into Dabi’s dark hair, and forcibly feeds the villain his cock.

The only noise Hawks’ feathers manage to catch is Dabi’s muffled and wet grunt. 

Hawks sends a few feathers closer.

Hawks has never seen Dabi’s side profile look quite like this before. The man’s jawline is strong, and sharp, and completely riddled with scar tissue and medical metal. Here, though, might be the first time Hawks has seen Dabi’s neck look so long, throat exposed and invaded, an unknown’s girth visibly sliding down and stretching Dabi’s thin skin every off beat. With the villain’s catlike spine sloping down to unfastened black pants that sag halfway down his backside and stretch over parted thighs, asscrack exposed and adam’s-apple jumping up and down, Hawks could almost describe Dabi as something delicate, docile, perhaps even dainty.

He’s never seen Dabi look more alive. 

Red, flushed. A heat that sticks black bangs to a smooth forehead and doesn’t light the world on fire. Proof that Dabi needs to breathe air just like the rest of the world, with the frequency of his blocked gasps.

Dabi’s mouth, though, is something else entirely. 

Dabi’s mouth is stretched wide open, Hawks can tell; he can see thin trails of blood from pulled-taut staples, and when Hawks uses his special-sight, he can even see hints of Dabi’s teeth behind the tensioned gaps of glinting metal. 

This unknown man does not even care that he’s ripping Dabi apart. 

Hawks wonders why why why is Dabi not burning this man alive — until he spots a scarred hand creeping towards the back of the Unknown’s pants. At first, it looked like Dabi was just trying to hold onto something, but when Hawks enhances his zoomed-eye, he sees deft purple fingers wrap around the square leather of a wallet. 

Hawks feels himself crack a smile. 

It’s gone the minute Dabi starts to bop his head faster, Hawks’ feathers catching onto obscenely wet noises and gruff grunts. With his free hand, Dabi grips the base of the man’s cock and pulls off with his head tilted back, letting his studded-tongue hang out. 

And then he starts to slap the man’s cock heavily onto it.

The repeated schlick schlick schlick sends shivers throughout Hawks’ entire body.

“C’mon, big man,” Dabi coos in a voice Hawks never, ever, thought could be produced from someone like him, “give me what I want." He uses the tip of his abused tongue to rub into the slit of the man’s cock. 

The man lets out an almost pained groan before tightening thick fingers around Dabi’s scarred throat, “Good boys don’t speak,” before fucking his cock back into Dabi’s mouth and thrusting with a new vigor. 

Sounds of gagging vibrate overwhelmingly through Hawks’ feathers, and the Number Two Hero has never felt so frozen. 

Trails of spit and blood run down the sides of Dabi’s mouth and pool at the jutted bones of his collar. 

Dabi’s eyes are hazed over. 

Hawks doesn’t know how long it takes before the man is howling, gripping Dabi’s head in both hands and pulling until the villain’s nose is snug against his stomach. 

An expression of euphoria washes over the man’s face, hints of a smile curling at his snout-like mouth as his hands finally fall away in exhaustion. 

One minute Dabi is standing up and dusting off his knees. The next, the man is on fire. 

Agonized screams vibrate through Hawks’ feathers and shatter his trance. 

“Tch,” Dabi wipes at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, opens the wallet, pockets some wad of cash, and flicks the emptied leather into the dying azure fire. 

And then, he starts to whistle.

“Birdy…” Hawks does not need his special vision to meet those clear blue eyes. "There's a civilian on fire…" 

Hawks is speechless. He’s never been found out so quickly before. He scrambles for a minute as to what went wrong,until he spots a lone red feather at the edge of the villain's black boot.

‘Fuck,’ Hawks can’t believe it. ‘When did I get that close?’

“You haven’t arrested me so far,” Dabi calls out as the flame dies to ash, the only living reminder of the unknown man swallowed down in the villain’s belly. “So I’ll assume that means you want to… talk.”

Dabi rattles off an address and time to meet for their first confrontation.

“Don’t be late, and don’t fucking follow me this time.”

And Hawks… listens.

.

.

.

[pleathewrites]

bellow the fire into my deadened lungs

chapter 6: let's straighten it out

(summary) | dabihawks, todoroki family, aizawa, all might

------------------------

DAY 2 — TUESDAY

1 Year, 11 Months Ago

-------------------------

Shouta’s eyes haven’t left Todoroki Enji’s interrogation window for half an hour. 

“Something about this all feels… too easy.”

With the No-Show effect on, the man whose name burns the tip of Shouta’s tongue exhibits no signs of being so thoroughly watched. Shouta wonders if Endeavor has some kind of invisible teleportation aspect to his quirk because every time Shouta tries to merely utter the disgraceful hero’s name, there’s a fire in his chest that rages up his throat and incinerates the chance.

Todoroki Enji sits on his cell cot with an eerie stillness. Shouta wonders if the man has become near catatonic. There’s a strange expression on Endeavor’s flameless face, one that Shouta doesn’t think he’s seen on the man for the entire decade they’ve known each other.

— It’s relief. 

It’s the smallest smile Shouta thinks he’s ever seen, and he has to look in the mirror every day. It’s thick auburn eyebrows relaxed enough for Shouta to realize that Todoroki Enji actually has the same deep-set eyelids as his eldest son.

Todoroki Enji is the most peaceful inmate Shouta has ever witnessed trapped in a metal box, and for all the rational reasons he cannot find, it’s horrifying.

“To be fair, Aizawa-sensei, nothing about this whole situation can be labeled as ‘easy’.”

The cup of horrible coffee Yagi made Shouta at the start of their watch-shift has gone cold.

“We spent all of Sunday strategizing how we’re going to handle… him,” Shouta points at Todoroki Enji’s unmoving form, “just for the man to have given himself up like that,” and snaps the fingers of his pointing hand. “Why?”

Yagi sighs and opens his palm. “Guilt, perhaps?” 

Shouta doesn’t believe in that suggestion, “Endeavor has been living with his guilt for years, quite successfully. Something changed.”

They both stare at the man in question, the man they both thought they knew so much better than they actually did.

From the corner of his eye, Shouta can see Yagi’s frail neck tilt. He wonders what kind of analysis the fallen symbol’s mind computes.

A few moments later, Yagi shares his hypothesis: “… Hope.”

Shouta feels his face scrunch up as he turns to Yagi and asks, “Is something like that really so inspiring?” 

Yagi’s smile is thin — as smiles are when sagged with the slow decay of fast illness —  but, somehow, when turned toward him, Shouta still finds it as boundless as All Might’s unwavering grin.

“It’s quite a powerful thing, Aizawa-sensei. Some may say it makes the world go round.”

--------------------

PRESENT DAY

--------------------

“Uh, hi?”

A smooth laugh rings into the bright air of the cemetery. It is the same laugh that has haunted Keigo’s memories for close to two years now, the same smoky sound that Keigo has only ever been able to access with the aided pinch of a needle and snap of a rubber band. It is the same exact frequency that every single one of Keigo’s counselors has taught him to be okay with never hearing again. 

‘Touya is alive.’ How on Earth is Keigo supposed to allow himself to believe this? 

“Not gonna lie, Birdy,” the man — Touya — raises his four-fingered hand to rub nervously at the nape of his ink-laced neck, pushing back the waves of thick white hair that curl around it, “I knew you’d be… in shock, but, damn. I dunno, thought comin’ back from th’dead again would at least warrant a — oof!”

Keigo slams into Touya and holds him tightly in something that can only be described as a violent hug. 

High-pitched croons almost drown out Touya’s pained grunt, and they don’t stop escaping Keigo’s throat until Touya brings his previously raised arm around Keigo’s shoulders to return the fierce embrace. 

“‘M here, Kei." Two-toned lips that are not nearly as contrasted as before, but nonetheless uniquely dichromatic, warmly brush Keigo’s cold temple. The rough drag of Touya’s bottom lip against his skin fills the gaps of the hole in Keigo’s heart he’d tried so hard to fill on his own.

“How?” Keigo tearlessly cries into a solid and real chest. “How’re you h–here?”

Touya’s other arm joins to loop around Keigo’s shoulders and lock him in place. The haunting cold Keigo has carried around for the past two years finally, finally, begins to thaw.

“I’ll explain everythin’, just not here,” Touya whispers thickly.

Keigo breathes a deep inhale, eager to lay false phantoms to rest and — he stills.

Touya smells different. 

The ghosts harboring Keigo’s five senses have been paying their dues for the past two years in smoke — of bonfire skin and kilned metal, tobacco clouds under October moons, and the settling ash of an inevitably bellowed inferno.

The man in Keigo’s arms carries the scent of summer oceans.

Keigo’s taloned grip on the man’s waist goes lax, and he pulls back, enhancing his Bird’s Eye View to flit over a face he does not remember — pale forehead but almost equally pale under-eyes, glinting bottom lip but dull chin, unevenly colored cheeks but seamlessly smooth.

The mournful spirits cackle in Keigo’s ear as they point out the loophole in the eviction notice of beautifully blue eyes flickering with disheartened understanding: one cannot raise the dead just as much as one cannot rewind time. The longing of a heart left in the cold does not thaw at the mere shadow of the fireplace that once-upon-a-time kept it warm.

He lets go and steps back.

Keigo knew Dabi, he knew Todoroki Touya, but he does not know this man — he does not know Himura Touya. 

The distance between them cannot be more than two feet, but it feels exactly like two years.

“Where then?” Keigo manages to croak out with the returning ache in his chest.

Just where is this man supposed to explain away the worst two years of Keigo’s life?

The man — ‘Touya, he’s still Touya, even if he’s not my Touya’ — swings back his now-empty arms and clenches his fists. “Right, uh,” he looks so nervous again, like a child who’s about to admit they broke their mother’s favorite vase, “Yumi ‘n I — we got a place,” and he thumbs uselessly over his shoulder. “I can take you to it now; she’s comin’ later. Or, I mean, if you’re busy, I can just give you the address ‘n you can swing by… whenever.”

‘He’s got a place,’ like it’s a common occurrence for the dead to step out of their eternal graves, flash forward their lost time, and opt back into the land of the living with a mortgage and not the devastated hearts of their grieving fools in sight.

There’s something different with how Touya speaks now, like he’s developed an accent. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, Keigo is sure, but his feathers never miss a change in pitch.

“Yeah, no, we can go now.” Keigo has so many questions and absolutely no — important — plans.

His feathers pick up his dropped phone and hand it over to Touya to call a cab. When Touya’s slender fingers curl over Keigo’s phone, Keigo stuffs his yearning hands into the pockets of his pants.

The taxi ride is painfully quiet. 

CLICK TO READ FULL CHAPTER ON AO3

[pleathewrites]

boys, boys, boys — final chapter

summary

“All of our boyfriends wanted to make out with you at some point.”

“Yeah, and some of them succeeded.”

(10 years ago, Hajime was 65% sure that Oikawa was in love with him)

alternatively: the 5 setters who scatter plot the unobtrusive graph of Iwaizumi’s love life + the 1 outlier who assists him in determining the trend line.

rating: T pairing: iwaizumi x oikawa (main!!) + iwaizumi x sugawara, iwaizumi x semi, iwaizumi x akashi, iwaizumi x kenma, iwaizumi x tendou, iwaizumi x atsumu themes: fluff and angst, canon complaint, time-skips, slice of life, coming of age, college au, pining, post-timeskip, canon divergence, slow burn, olympics, 5+1 status: complete | 6/6 chapters | 48k wc

of kissing pining fools

“But Iwa-chan,” Atsumu whines, looking seconds away from stomping his foot, “I dunno why we can’t just do it on yer bed.” He crosses his arms and leans around Hajime to send Oikawa a high brow with low intentions when he straight-up purrs, “Ya know I don’t mind an audience.”

Hajime would be mortified by Atsumu’s lecherous grin if he weren’t already used to it.

He looks up to the ceiling and prays for strength. 

“Atsumu,” Hajime glares at the cheeky git who has the worst timing, “That bed is my sanctuary for the duration of these games. Meaning you will stay far, far away from it. Get your butt down to the fitness center.”

Atsumu pouts, bopping his two index fingers together, “... Will ya help me? It really is a bad cramp.” There’s a nervous apology in Atsumu’s tone that makes Hajime sigh before nodding. 

Using the inner ball of his foot to keep the door open, Hajime turns to lean back inside the hotel room towards Oikawa, who’s clutching the bedsheets with a tightness that matches his expression. “Kawa, I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t — don’t go anywhere, please,” Hajime hopes he’s not coming off as desperate, but he’s also not above begging when it comes to his best friend, “I’ll be right back, I promise.” 

Oikawa doesn’t say anything, but he nods, and that’s enough to make Hajime mentally pump a fist.

“Do you want me to get you anything on my way back? Are you hungry?”

“No, Iwa-chan, I’m okay. Just…” When Oikawa smiles, it’s brittle but trying, “Take your time.”

And though Hajime doesn’t fully understand the reason why, he can tell Oikawa is hurting right now. He wants to stay so badly — wants to thumb away the upward curve of Oikawa’s thin eyebrows until the strained press of his pretty pink lips smoothes out — but instead, he just nods and turns his back to wrap Atsumu’s arm around his shoulders to make their way out towards the elevators. 

At the loud thud and click of Hajime’s hotel door falling shut, he curses this night for the millionth time.

“You better not be pulling some shit, Atsumu,” Hajime watches the elevator doors close. 

Atsumu’s silver and blurred reflection looks guilty. “Ah…” 

Hajime almost pulls one of the muscles in his neck at how fast he whips around to glare at Atsumu.

“Okay, okay!” Atsumu’s free hand shoots up placatingly, “I’ll, uh, admit I kinda… followed y’all up here.” He rubs his neck at the unimpressed raise of Hajime’s eyebrow. “Heard ‘round the grapevine that all’a yer exes were runnin’ into ya ‘n thought it’d be funny to like, pop up as the last. Y’know, rile up Mr. King — kill two birds, one stone, err whatever…” 

Atsumu shrinks further into himself at the rising anger that burns through Hajime’s eyes with every shitty word falling out of his mouth.

“... But then I really did get a cramp, rushin’ up all’a those stairs to catch up’ta y’all. Ironic, huh?”

Hajime doesn’t say a word to him until they reach the therapy room in Japan’s provided fitness center. He instructs Atsumu to sit and point out the area causing him pain. 

He works silently for a few minutes before Atsumu grunts out a pained hiss. 

“See what happens when you’re being an annoying little shit?” Hajime hums.

“Hey!” Atsumu retorts, “I was trynna help ya!”

Hajime rolls his eyes, “Atsumu, you, of all people, should know by now that doesn’t work. Aren’t you in the same situation as me?”

“Actually, I’m the Oikawa in my situation,” Atsumu scoffs, mean with self-deprecation, “Destined to fall fer a boy that looks every other way but mine.”

Hajime winces, logically knowing Atsumu isn’t actually trying to reprimand him, but it stings just the same. “Don’t be an ass.” He gently lays Atsumu’s leg back onto the table, “How does that feel now?”

“‘S good,” Atsumu keeps his head down as he rotates his ankle in small circles. There’s a moment of silence before, “Sorry, Zumi-chan. Wasn’t thinkin’ straight, this time ‘n before.”

“Yeah,” Hajime acknowledges the apology. He wants to make his way back to Oikawa, but the thin cadence of Atsumu’s voice turns his legs to stone. “Where is your, ah, ‘situation’ anyway?”

Atsumu sighs and looks up to face the adjacent wall with his dark eyes glazed over, “Everywhere but here.” He shakes his head, lost in thought. 

Hajime opens his mouth to ask what Atsumu means by that, but the setter is already speaking again, “Y’know… I don’t think ya have anythin’ta worry ‘bout,” Atsumu tilts his head sideways to properly look at Hajime, “I’m, like, 110% sure the Grand King is in love with ya.”

—

If Hajime had to describe Miya Atsumu in a few words, he’d say the man was a ‘perpetually relentless trainwreck’.

A bit harsh, Hajime knows, but listen — 

“Respectfully, ya got an ass I could bounce a quarter off’a, ‘n I want in — Yer workout routine, Iwa-chan, don’t look at me like that!”

Hajime feels a vein bulging from the side of his temple, “Don’t call me that,” and he traces it down with an index finger as if it’ll soothe out the blood and every single urge to throttle his athlete right there and then.

“Why not?” Atsumu — the man who absolutely refuses to answer by his family name, something about being a twin and how it’s always been, ‘too confusin’, I’ve never been conditioned’ta payin’ attention’ta anythin’ other than the name my Mama gave me’ — pouts, “Ya already vetoed all’a my lovin’ variations of yer given name.”

“Iwaizumi is fine.” 

“Nah, I like mine better.”

Suddenly, Hinata is right next to them, catching a stray ball from the serving practice that Hajime has the team warming up with to study their forms, “It’s not yours, though, Atsumu-san!”

And, ‘Gods,’ Atsumu is so loud, he commands a stage with no microphone and still gathers an audience.

“Eh? Whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, Shou?”

Hinata darts to the left sideline of the court, yelling out, “Only the Grand King calls Iwa-sensei that!” and dives in an attempt to bump Bokuto’s wicked jump-serve. 

“I’m not your teacher, Hinata!” Hajime calls out before, ironically, instructing, “That was close, though; step out a bit farther to the side next time to avoid that awkward collision with your arms and knees. You’ll give yourself that extra inch in your dive. Which reminds me, we’re gonna add on more weights to your front squats today, so you better remember to stretch after practice!”

There’s a mumbling, “Sounds like a teacher to me,” from behind him — Sakusa — when Hinata rapidly nods and gives Hajime two thumbs up.

“Only teacher I’ve ever fantasized ‘bout. Am I right, Omi-Omi, or am I — Ow! Fuck!”

Hajime turns around to see Atsumu clutching his head and furrows his eyebrows. Atsumu is well beyond the court lines, practically leaning against the wall of the gym, so Hajime looks to the other side of the net to figure out who served a ball so out-of-bounds.

Hajime’s not surprised to find Suna Rintarou, dead-eyed, holding his right hand in front of his mouth in mock-apology, “Sorry.” He is, most definitely, not sorry.

“Sunarin! This is the third time this week ya’ve hit me in th’face! Y’either lost all yer volleyball skills playin’ for EJP, or yer aimin’! ‘N seein’ how Komori’s doin’ just fine — what’s yer fuckin’ deal, man?”

Hajime looks to the ceiling and sighs before sending a stern look to the offender, “Suna, ten laps — go. If you can’t aim your serves this close to the Olympics, you better pray you’re fast enough to hit every single set you’re given.” 

Hajime’s comment is completely baseless; Suna’s aim is clearly phenomenal, but Hajime can’t have his athletes purposely hurting each other. That only increases his workload.

Hajime walks Atsumu to the training room to get him some ice and check for a concussion — again.

While Atsumu holds an ice pack to his temple and answers negatively to the symptoms of mild brain trauma, Hajime slips in his concern. “I know I’ve only been working with you guys for a little over a week now, but you can tell me anything that’s bothering you.”

Because Atsumu is right; he and Suna have been at each other’s throats since the start of Olympic training. Hajime knows the two played together in their high school days, and while he expected some tomfoolery — it’s inevitable to revert back in age a little when reunited with a childhood friend — he didn’t expect genuine animosity to be a problem within Japan’s National Team.

“Aw, ya worried ‘bout me, Iwa-chan?”

Atsumu doesn’t have a concussion, but at his lewd smirk, Hajime’s fists clenched with the ache to change that.

“Don’t call me that.” He redirects, “Seriously, do I need to be worried?”

Atsumu also redirects, “Why, does the Grand King have a claim on ya, or somethin’?”

It’s the same old cycle — Atsumu flirts with Hajime, gets hit by Suna, and when Hajime tries to pry a bit further and get to the core of it, Atsumu shuts down with an inappropriate comment. After thirty minutes, Atsumu will be itching to get back on the court, and Hajime will give him the go-ahead while stuck in the rut of his team’s inability to gel.

Hajime figures it’s time to change tactics and asks Ojiro Aran to meet him in his office when training is over for the day. 

“Sorry to keep you here late; this actually has nothing to do with you personally.” He gestures for Ojiro to take a seat.

Ojiro settles down and scratches at his beard, “Ah, no worries, Iwaizumi-san. I think I got an idea of what ya wanna talk ‘bout anyway…”

Hajime gets straight to the point, “What’s up with those two? Atsumu and Suna.” 

“It’s… messy.” 

“I’ve got time.” 

Ojiro shifts in his seat uncomfortably, “I ain’t a gossip.” 

“I respect that.” Hajime sighs and leans back in his chair, using a hand to push his bangs off his forehead. “Listen, being your physical trainer doesn’t just end at keeping you guys in shape and dealing with your injuries. I have to care about the mental wellbeing of my players. Stress can just as easily destroy your bodies the same, if not worse, than anything else on that court.” 

Ojiro’s eyes soften, but the twist of his lips still tightens stubbornly to hold the privacy of his childhood friends, “I… I dunno, man. Maybe try talkin’ta ‘Tsumu?”

“I have,” Hajime deadpans, the weight of his brow bone brooding heavily over his eyes. “He’s not taking this seriously, just keeps — ” He rolls his eyes, “Flirting with me.”

Ojiro curses under his breath, “Goddammit, Atsumu,” and shakes his head. 

Hajime raises a brow at the man’s exasperation, “He does this often, then?” 

“’S just,” Ojiro drops his weight to the back of his chair — ‘Geeze, I need to request bigger chairs in here; Ojiro is practically spilling out of it.’ — and drags his hands down his face while letting out a long-suffering sigh, “It’s gonna sound real — I dunno.” Ojiro rubs an eyebrow, “Juvenile, y’know?” 

Hajime shrugs, “Explain it anyway.” 

Ojiro tips his head back to the ceiling, taking a moment to contemplate before looking back down at Hajime. “Alrigh’. How do I put this…?” Ojiro sits up and rolls his eyes, holding both his hands up. He wiggles his right hand first and then his left while indicating, respectively, “Atsumu ‘n Rin, right?”

Hajime nods, following along to whatever demonstration is about to unfold: Atsumu is represented by Ojiro’s right hand, Suna by his left.  

And then Ojiro’s hands start wiggling all over the place.

“Boy meets boy. Boy likes boy but spends all’a second-year thinkin’ that boy likes boy’s twin. Boy gets a girl pregnant in third-year, tries ‘n fails t’make it work with his baby mama, ‘n years later, boy’s baby mama gets married t’me.” Both of Ojiro’s hands point to himself before widely circling in the air, “Then, finally, when everybody ‘n they mama can see that boy,” His left hand shoots up in the air, “clearly loves boy,” His right hand lifts to join the left, fingers of both clenching and unclenching, before his right hand violently shakes, “Boy don’t believe him ‘n flirts with everythin’ that moves, which unfortunately includes ya.”

Ojiro’s demonstration ends with both his index fingers pointing at Hajime.

Hajime feels like he’s lost a couple of brain cells.

“Right,” Hajime blinks. “So… Lemme get this straight. Suna can keep his cool around you — the man literally married to the mother of his child — but loses it at Atsuma for clearly using me in his attempts to make Suna jealous?” 

Ojiro sits back in his seat and lets out a much-needed breath, “Told’ja it was silly.”

Hajime shakes his head, “Yeah, no, you’re right. This is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

CLICK TO CONTINUE READING ON AO3

[pleathewrites]

boys, boys, boys — chapter 5

summary:

“All of our boyfriends wanted to make out with you at some point.”

“Yeah, and some of them succeeded.”

(10 years ago, Hajime was 65% sure that Oikawa was in love with him)

rating: T pairing: iwaizumi x oikawa (main!!) + iwaizumi x sugawara, iwaizumi x semi, iwaizumi x akashi, iwaizumi x kenma, iwaizumi x tendou, iwaizumi x atsumu themes: fluff and angst, canon complaint, time-skips, slice of life, coming of age, college au, pining, post-timeskip, canon divergence status: work in progress, 5/6

lovers puzzle

“Haji-chan!”

Nothing in life is easy; Hajime knows that. 

Oikawa — ‘bless him’ — is gripping his hand tightly, supportive fingers curling around Hajime’s in an endearingly misguided attempt to soothe a wound that caramel eyes haven’t figured out no longer bleeds.

And Hajime’s not above a physical demonstration. He was finally getting to that part, dammit. Ready to open the door to his singular hotel room, sit the owner of those caramel eyes down on Hajime’s cardboard bed, and reveal just how much his healed and yearning heart has always, always, belonged to chocolate curls, milk-bread mouth, and pale palms that have, and will, touch everything to gold. 

The red wrench thrown in Hajime’s plan smirks, carmine eyes mischievously twinkling at Oikawa’s anchoring grip. 

Now, maybe, just maybe, having extremely close relations with a couple of people within Japan’s volleyball network wasn’t the best course of action that past-Hajime could have taken as the present physical trainer of Japan’s Men’s Volleyball team. 

But for the sake of every single God out there, all of Hajime’s exes don’t even play anymore! So what on actual Earth are they all doing here, bombarding Hajime’s most crucial moments, haunting him about like the Ghosts of Ex-Mas Pasts! 

“Iwaizumi-san.”

Well, except him. Could Ushijima really even be considered an ex? Hajime thinks, ‘catalyst,’ is a far more generous word to fit the enormity of Ushijima Wakatoshi.   

____

“Congratulations again, my darling,” Hajime’s mother pushes his graduation present into his palms as she pulls away from their embrace — plane tickets to Europe with an itinerary and Eurail pass. His name is not the only one printed on each of the tickets. 

Oikawa’s mother squirmed in her place on the sofa of Hajime’s childhood home, “Tooru’s going to meet you in Italy!” She squeals, clapping her hands the same way Oikawa does when his excitement is too large for his body to hold. 

When Oikawa’s plane lands in Florence, the table Hajime’s sitting at vibrates obnoxiously with several incoming texts.

[From: Not So ShittyKawa]

I’m here!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ Do you like your graduation gift? Your mom & I had so much fun with the itinerary ⊹ ₊  ⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡˚₊‧⁺ ₊ ⊹ There are a lot of similarities between Spanish & Italian So don’t worry Iwa-chan, I will be your humble guide Just look to me~~  ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧ But I still don’t know Italian so don’t rely too much lolol Wya  <(．＿．)>

Hajime doesn’t think about how the squeeze of Oikawa’s body against his own is the first real sense of accomplishment he’s felt in the past year, his graduation ceremony included. 

Due to Oikawa’s training schedule, he’s only allowed three weeks off. The first half is spent in Italy, the second in Spain. 

It’s a whole new type of fun — adventures across the unknown with his best friend. They try all sorts of different European cuisines, some they like, and some Oikawa will snort out a hideous laugh at Hajime’s pinched mouth before suggesting, “We don’t have to only eat European food, Iwa-chan. Oh, wait here! I think I heard that family speaking Japanese earlier.” — and Hajime will silently thank Oikawa for being such a nosy bastard. 

The days are outstandingly hot. Hajime will lift his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, and Oikawa will almost slip up the stairs of the Tower of Pisa and claim, “These steps are literally drooping marble, Iwa-chan! I’m wearing slides!” under Hajime’s mean cackles. The summer nights become Hajime’s favorite, though, as the exhaustion of their tourist festivities will catch up to them, and Oikawa will guide them towards a small outdoor cafe where time slows down enough to take in another year that has passed between them. 

Every night is a teenage sleepover — one bed, one laptop, one movie. Lean limbs and broad shoulders that gravitate to weave under and over until morning light illuminates a sunkissed arm wrapped around Hajime’s waist, strong fingers lax beneath his shirt and brushing over his stomach. Hajime will grumble at the blare of his alarm, stretch over the nightstand to turn it off, and shiver at the draft across his back. He’ll turn around in Oikawa’s hold in time to catch, “five more minutes, Iwa-chan,” muffling off into Hajime’s shoulder. They’ll effortlessly finetune their positions so that it is Hajime holding Oikawa around the shoulders to allow his best friend to wipe the drool off the corner of his plush mouth into the cotton shirt that stretches over Hajime’s chest.

In the twilight of dreams and wake, Hajime will thank his mother for the best gift he’s ever received. 

It is after the abstract architecture and topless beaches of Barcelona that Oikawa flies back to Argentina. Hajime snaps a picture of their teary smiles pressed together side-by-side, separated by the fat squish of their cheeks. Puffy-eyed and red-nosed, they hug each other goodbye at the security line before Oikawa demands, “You better visit me in Argentina soon!” 

Hajime’s promise is lost in his sniffle, and a congested laugh escapes his chest as Oikawa doesn’t stop dramatically waving back to him until the security guard stamps Oikawa’s passport and ushers him through the point of no return. 

And when Hajime sits in the newfound silence of their — his, now — hotel room, a few tears roll down his cheek as he studies the picture he’d taken an hour ago. He posts it onto his close-friends story and takes a nap — only to wake up later to half a dozen notifications of people who swiped up on his story. 

[matsu.hatsu]: wow this is making me cry 🥹 send pics!! of happier moments pls 😌 n don’t be too sad ull see eachother again soon

[taka.HERO]: damn no invite?💔💔 jkjk ik this was a ~soulmates thing. wanna bet oikawa’s still crying LMAOO but srsly when r u comin back imu issei wont stop cooking 🤢🤮

[sugaa.notspice]: awww u guys look so cute <3 :’’)) sending this to daichi bc real men DO cry!! how u holdin up tho?? i got a biiiig hug waiting for u when u get back!! (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃

[hey_BROKUTO_hey]: IWA IWA!!!!!!! 🖤🥹🖤 I JST KNOW U GUYS HAD FUN && I HOPE U R ONLY CRYING HAPPY TEARS❣️

[ushijima.wakatoshi]: I didn’t know you were in Europe. I would have made time to see you, though I’m not sure if Oikawa would have been happy to see me.

[ushijima.wakatoshi]: My friend lives in Paris. It is about a 7 hour train ride, depending on which city you’re in. If you have time, please visit him, he has been missing Japan. He works in a chocolate shop. I will share his contact with you now. 

[ushijima.wakatoshi]: I am not good at comforting people, but he is very good at making people smile. Maybe you guys can make each other smile.

He responds to Ushijima last, mostly because he doesn’t quite know what to say. On one hand, Hajime feels a bit weird visiting someone he doesn’t really know. On the other, Ushijima is the reason Hajime got to intern in Japan last summer — ‘who would’ve guessed that Utsui Takashi was Ushijima’s fucking father?’ — and Hajime hasn’t really figured out how to repay that favor. 

He counts the leftover spending money his parents had gifted him and thinks, ‘Fuck it.’ He has enough for one more trip before he heads back home. 

Paris is different from what Hajime expected. It’s a lot less clean and a lot more crowded. 

After the third person that bumps into him on his way to the chocolate shop Ushijima had sent the location of, Hajime wonders if this decision was a mistake. He’s already in a shitty mood, and he’s not sure how much social bandwidth he has left to finish his journey without getting into a fistfight. 

He breathes out a sigh of relief when the sign of the chocolate shop comes into view, fancy swirls of gold and blue lettering. The door is heavy, and it takes his last bit of energy to push through, but it’s worth the gush of fresh, sweet air that floods his nostrils and waters his mouth.

Hajime was never really the type to think much about chocolate. However, at the vast display of truffles, fudges, and bars, he wonders if he’s ever actually known all that much about chocolate. 

“Yoo-hoo~!” 

Hajime’s head snaps up to meet carmine eyes. 

…

Tendou Satori is an interesting man. He’s gangly and hyper and, honestly, kind of terrible. 

He takes Hajime around Paris and teaches him how to use the metro along with a few generic phrases in French to get around. Except, when Hajime clunkily utters the last phrase to the elderly waitress of the cafe they eat lunch at, she blushes heavily and comes back with her phone number written on the back of their check, gropes his chest, and nods to the bathroom before holding her hand up and saying, “Cinq minutes?” They run out of the cafe after that, Tendou wheezing with mirth while Hajime whacks him upside the head and demands just what that phrase had actually meant. 

Tendou talks shit about locals who push into their shoulders and sneer at them with unearned disdain. He slithers behind them to do crude things like make bunny ears and mime gagging and poke his tongue to his cheek with his hand pumping in a blowjob gesture. It gives an ache in Hajime’s jaw from the constant bubbles of laughter escaping his mouth.

Tendou makes Hajime try an ungodly amount of food. They walk it off with a midnight stroll down the Seine river. 

“Why chocolate?” Hajime has to ask.

“Because,” Tendou draws out the word, extends the moment and waves his spindly fingers in the space between them, “...It’s my favorite!” 

Hajime studies the crooked bumps of those wiggling fingers, “I’m kinda surprised, to be honest. You were probably the most annoying blocker I’ve ever had the displeasure of playing against.” 

Hajime now has a bachelor’s of science in Physiology and Exercise Sciences, so he can conclude those fingers have definitely been broken and sprained countless times. Tendou Satori was not a setter — he did not care for the state of his hands further than their power to smash down seemingly beautiful plays set up by those who meticulously cared for their own. Tendou’s hands tell the tales of dislocated phalanges sacrificed for championships, broken knuckles that weren’t all set correctly for the price of five more minutes till victory. Wrapped tightly, not just for show or strategy, but also to minimize further damage. 

Hajime doesn’t even realize he’s taken one of those hands into his own, “Gods, can you even feel from this one?” He studies the particularly bent pinky from Tendou’s right hand, thumbing over an angle that one’s finger should never take.

Tendou just laughs, “Sometimes. If I’m working with my hands for a long period of time, it’ll go numb with this tingly type of feeling.”

“Pins and needles,” Hajime supplies, tearing his eyes from the badly healed injury. 

“Mm, exactly!” Moonlight illuminates the shadows of Tendou’s serenity. Every time Tendou smiles, Hajime notices that his eyes nearly close, as if the apples of his cheeks hold a core of glee that must be met with the carmine sunset of lazy eyelids. “And if I strain my hand open like this,” he stretches his hand open to maximize the distance between all his fingers but doesn’t venture too far as to keep his pinky in Hajime’s loose hold, “the side where that finger is will start to hurt, from the base down to my wrist.”

Hajime hums and traces the line hurt with his thumb. Tendou’s hand starts to shake with the nerves becoming agitated, “How did it happen?”

“How do you think?” Tendou relaxes his hand and curls it to wiggle his index finger at the moon, “Miracle Boy Wakatoshi!” He does that stupid little dance he’d always do whenever he’d shatter one of Hajime’s spikes. 

Speaking of spikes, Hajime cringes when he processes what Tendou said. No wonder his finger was fucked up; Hajime was surprised it wasn’t torn clean off, “Sounds awful.”

Tendou laughs, “Price to pay for being the only one that could block his spikes!”

And Hajime can’t really argue with that. He’d been on the receiving end of Oikawa’s vicious serve enough times to understand that injuries are inevitable with being part of a strong team.

“You guys seem like really good friends, though.”

“Ah,” The soft lift of Tendou’s upper lip speaks of fondness, “He was my first friend.”

Hajime snorts, “Pretty sure you were his, too.”

“He’s a little odd,” Tendou kicks a rock and shrugs, “So am I.”

“Tell me more,” Hajime doesn’t know why he asks. Maybe it’s the moment, dark blues and warm yellows. Maybe it’s to grasp any straw he can to fill the silence between him and this familiar-yet-completely-unfamiliar face. Maybe it’s because looking at Tendou right now feels like looking into a mirror, the reflected image of a man who misses a friend so vital to his existence who hasn’t yet figured out how to replenish himself. 

Tendou describes Ushijima Wakatoshi as a listener — “a simple guy who doesn’t speak a ton but always reads manga with me. He’ll let me talk his ears off and never once complain.” As stubborn — “he’s simple, remember? So, yeah, not a fan of the unpredictable. A real routine guy, always talking in plant-metaphors, bless him.” As earnest — “whatever’s going on in that Miracle Mind, you’re gonna know. And people say I put my foot in my mouth.” As his father’s son — “he misses him a lot. I try to understand it, but… ah, well, let’s just say I’m not very close with my parents. But Wakatoshi? Man, he takes everything his dad says to heart — thank Gods, Utsui-san’s a loving father. He calls him every weekend, always making sure Wakatoshi’s happy.”

“I think people are too surprised when they figure out Wakatoshi isn’t an intentional dream-killer.” 

Hajime can relate — to the people who once thought badly of Ushijima, “Ah, yeah, it’s hard to view opponents as… anything else, really. Especially when they keep talking trash about your best friend’s school choice.”

“Pfft,” Tendou has the giggle of an unapologetic child often sent to detention, “He learnt his lesson on that one. Hinata Shouyou is officially, ‘the plant that bested concrete.’” He deepens his voice and flattens his face at that last sentence. 

“That was a good impression.”

“Sometimes I wonder if he’s been like that his whole life.” Tendou sighs, “I wish I had met him when we were kids.”

Something evil in Hajime rubs its hands together, “Wanna see his baby photos?”

“What!”

Hajime straight-up cackles as he pulls out his phone, “Okay, I interned under his dad last summer, right? That man has way too much fun with himself, by the way — still surprised he spawned Ushijima — but anyways. He spent every week showing me a different picture of Ushi-junior.”

Tendou’s reaction is a mixture of coos and splutters, air-stroking the fat of Ushijima’s cheeks and slapping his hand against his mouth at the sight of mud between Ushijima’s teeth.

Hajime decides he likes making Tendou smile; likes seeing the pretty curl of Tendou’s upper lip revealing the top set of his large teeth adorned by wickedly sharp fangs that hover over a pink tongue.

“Okay, it’s official!” Tendou wipes a stray tear from his eye and claps his hands together — just like Oikawa’s mother, just like Oikawa — “You are staying with me for however long you’re in Paris! Let’s go get your suitcase from the shop; I live pretty close by.”

Something familiar and warm starts to fill Hajime’s stomach, like hot tea made just the way he likes it, held to his lips by misshapen hands and poured down his throat under the slow direction of sunset eyes.

Tendou Satori is exactly the kind of person Hajime is weak for — impish and cunning and endearingly annoying. Maybe, Hajime thinks, his type has less to do with setters and more to do with phantom limbs.

During his second week in the city, Tendou takes Hajime up the Eiffel Tower, and even though it’s crowded with awed tourists scrambling to capture the starry night in all its romantic glory, Hajime feels as if they are the only two people who exist in all of Paris when Tendou cups Hajime’s face in both hands and kisses him softly.

That summer, Hajime stayed in Paris for a little over a month. On his last day, he received a ruby chocolate bar with the words, “Be my boyfriend? Eat for ‘YES’,” in carmine icing. Sugar and cocoa butter had never tasted so good.  

For the next two years, Hajime will tell everyone that Tendou Satori was his first love, and he will ignore the way his heart screams to correct him. 

Because —

Satori is always feeding him; Hajime becomes a bit plump with his love. The weeks that stretch into months they don’t see each other; when Hajime loses weight, it feels like Satori’s love is spilling out of him through hidden holes he can’t find to patch. It is the first time Hajime actively admits he’s in love — really, truly, shamelessly in love. Not a precious and delicate thing hidden between stacks of ribs under a heavy heart, but the kind he can share with the world, shout out loud from his proud chest, and, most importantly, feel returned back.

CLICK TO CONTINUE READING ON AO3

[pleathewrites]

boys boys boys — chapter 3

summary:

“All of our boyfriends wanted to make out with you at some point.”

“Yeah, and some of them succeeded.”

(10 years ago, Hajime was 65% sure that Oikawa was in love with him.)

rating: T pairing: iwaizumi x oikawa (main!!) + iwaizumi x sugawara, iwaizumi x semi, iwaizumi x akashi, iwaizumi x kenma, iwaizumi x tendou, iwaizumi x atsumu themes: fluff and angst, canon complaint, time-skips, slice of life, coming of age, college au (eventually), pining, crack, slow burn status: work in progress, 4/6

casual

[To: Koushi] We’ll catch up with you guys in a bit, going to go for a walk!

Warm lights bounce off the dewy sheen of slightly sweaty skin and light the contours of aged faces in a way that makes Hajime think the Olympic Village is beautiful at night, but even more so when reflected in Oikawa's eyes. 

Hajime’s so lost in the amber-tinted street that he bumps into someone and drops his phone. 

“Shit,” He immediately bends down and looks up to address the person he blindly smacked into while being fucking hypnotized by his gorgeous friend’s gorgeous fucking face, “I’m sorry – ”

He freezes.

“Iwaizumi-san, we’re always meeting like this,” The man he bumped into bends down to retrieve his phone and pushes it into his outstretched hand. The man’s slender neck tilts and the black curls of his mullet swish softly around his temple.  

“Uh. Wow. I mean, hi. Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going.”

They both stand up and the man smirks, "You never do," and steps back to his companion, whose fiery red hair Hajime immediately recognizes to be one of his players, Hinata Shouyou. 

“Akaashi-san, what a pleasant surprise to see you here, of all places,” Oikawa’s voice is cheery and drips with sarcasm so sweet it's rotten. 

Akaashi smiles in response, but his dark stare stays on Hajime, “It’s good to see you, too, Oikawa-san.”

***

When Hajime meets Akaashi Keji, he thinks the guy is the second prettiest person he’s ever seen, but absolutely nothing like the first. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t work out.

It happens when Hajime is running late to his next lecture – ‘no one told me these departments were so damn far from each other!’ – and he’s functioning purely on the coffee he drank seven hours ago and clearly not comprehending his surroundings when he smacks straight into the guy. 

Thankfully, no one gets hurt. His notes just scatter everywhere across the sidewalk. 

“Fuck me,” He curses in his native tongue, already kneeling down to pick everything up before remembering himself, “I’m so sorry.” 

He looks back up as the last English word leaves his mouth and, 'thank God,' Hajime spoke before looking at the now-crouching man he bumped into because the sleek slant of the man’s dark eyes makes Hajime officially tongue-tied. 

The man silently gathers half of Hajime’s fallen notes and holds them out to Hajime with slender fingers that Hajime immediately thinks about putting in his mouth. 

‘God, what the actual fuck, has it really been that long since I’ve gotten laid?’

Turns out, hooking up while trying to learn an entirely new language as an international gay student is much harder than Hajime initially took into account when making his decision to study in America. 

Doesn’t help that in his first year he spent half his time just translating the material, let alone actually memorizing it. His English may have advanced exponentially over the past year but so has the rigor of his classes. 

Needless to say, his second fall semester is Not Going Well. 

“Anatomy? I’m in that course this semester, too. Have you studied chapter three for the exam next week?” 

The man is speaking Japanese. 

Hajime hasn’t heard his sweet mother’s tongue in months, other than ten-minute phone calls and romantic dramas he’s been secretly watching to feel less homesick. 

California is beautiful but it still doesn’t feel like home – ‘yet,’ his hopeful mind supplies. 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Hajime asks the stranger who, now that Hajime lets his mind slow down to properly think, looks a bit familiar.  

The man raises an eyebrow, “... Would you like to, Iwaizumi Hajime?”

“No way,” Hajime gapes, “Fukurōdani?”

Akaashi's hum turns into a small smile, “I’m glad you remember. You look a bit different,” He uses the notes he still holds to gesture at Hajime’s face, most probably his eyebrow. 

Hajime, for some reason unknown to him, feels himself blush, taking back his papers from Akaashi’s elegant hands, “Ah, yeah, uhm – someone told me I’d look good with a brow piercing so, I dunno – ”

“ – You do.”

Hajime is burning and it has nothing to do with the California heat. It's actually quite cloudy today. 

Hajime clears his throat before standing up, “Thanks,” He has a class that he is most definitely late for but suddenly he doesn’t really feel the same urgency to be on time, “I’m, uh, surprised to bump into you, all the way out here.”

Akaashi Keiji’s smile stirs something hot in the base of Hajime’s stomach, “You’re a bit of a hot topic, back home in the volleyball community,” shiny pink lips that curve in a tick and a sharp cupid bow only seen on paintings, “My parents always liked the idea of sending their son to America for medicine, so I’m trying it out this year,” straight and square teeth that would probably bite the darkest bruises into Hajime’s throat.

‘Wait, did he just say he’s ‘trying out American university’? City boys are so – ’

“ – rich.”

‘Fuck,’ Oikawa’s always talking about Hajime’s inability to control his brain-to-mouth filter but usually, that habit is just reserved for his best friend. Who he hasn’t seen in over a year. Maybe his filter has run out of practice. 

Thankfully, Akaashi just laughs and, ‘fuck,’ it’s way deeper than Hajime was expecting for such a delicate-looking guy. 

“S-Sorry,” Hajime stutters out before needing to clear his throat again lest his voice cracks, “You’re taking anatomy in your freshman year?”

Something shifts then because Akaashi’s dark eyes lid over as he looks down Hajime’s form before flicking right back up, “I like the human body.”

Hajime comes to the mortifying realization that he’s hard. 

Akaashi’s sigh distracts Hajime from this horror, “But I didn’t realize it’d be so hard.”

‘Nevermind.’

“I – uhm, we can study together. Sometime. Anatomy is actually my strong suit.” 

Akaashi smiles, “Sounds great.”

*

Hajime thinks about texting Sugawara but he just knows all that menace is good for is phallus-like emojis, endless badgering, and somehow bringing up Oikawa of all people in some shape, way, or form. 

So Hajime decides to cut out the middleman. 

(He also just misses Oikawa.)

However, the person who answers Oikawa’s phone is not the twat himself. 

“Hello! Shouyou speaking!” 

Hajime blanks. 

“Uh, what – who?”

“Oh shit, this is not my phone – ”

“ – Is Oikawa there?”

There’s a shuffle on the other line before the voice on the other end is ten times louder and twice as enthusiastic, “Ah, you’re Iwa-chan! Do you remember me, from Karasuno, I was the decoy! I played with Bakageya – ”

“ – Kageyama, yeah, I remember,” That doesn’t answer why this shrimp has Oikawa’s phone, though.

“The Grand King’s in the shower right now, he’ll be out soon, probably! I don’t usually answer people’s phones, I swear! We just have the same ringtone and it’s morning over here… Heh, wasn’t thinking.”

CLICK TO CONTINUE READING ON AO3

[pleathewrites]

boys, boys, boys — chapter 4

summary:

“All of our boyfriends wanted to make out with you at some point.”

“Yeah, and some of them succeeded.”

(10 years ago, Hajime was 65% sure that Oikawa was in love with him.)

rating: T pairing: iwaizumi x oikawa (main!!) + iwaizumi x sugawara, iwaizumi x semi, iwaizumi x akashi, iwaizumi x kenma, iwaizumi x tendou, iwaizumi x atsumu themes: fluff and angst, canon complaint, time-skips, slice of life, coming of age, college au (eventually), pining status: work in progress, 4/6

consequences of loneliness

“Uhm. So. There is one thing I never told you.”

Now, Hajime is all for total honesty when it comes to his best friend, but he also respects the sanctity of a promise. To be frank, Hajime is willing to tell Oikawa every small, sordid, silly detail of his own life, but the privacy of others is a whole other story — unlike his menacing other half, Hajime is not a gossip.

While he’s freaking out about whether or not to break his moral code, Kenma unhooks his arms from Akaashi’s neck — ‘right, when did that happen?’ — and decides to answer the millions of questions running through Oikawa’s nosy mind, “Oh, wow, Hajime. I’m honestly quite touched you never told Oikawa-san. You know you didn’t have to keep it a secret for four whole years, right?”

Oikawa’s jaw snaps shut and his eyebrow twitches, “A secret, Iwa-chan?” The accusation drips like honey from pretty pink lips and clogs Hajime’s throat shut, “Do tell — any of you, really, seems like I’m the only one out of the loop.”

The pleasant mask his best friend uses to cover his hurt is cracking by the second, and Hajime feels the sole responsibility of wielding the guilty hammer upon his bones, phantom vibration shaking the phalanges of his empty hands. 

And Kenma, of course, is a man who has no problem dealing the final blow, “Ah, well… It’s not that big of a deal,” He tucks his bang behind his ear, and Hajime is momentarily distracted by how long the man’s hair has grown — no longer chunkily bleached at the bottom with the makings of a DIY dye job but instead flowing down with the twinkles of caramel woven into his natural color, “We sort of had an… ah, experimental summer fling.” 

“Oh.”

“Heh,” The slick slide of Hajime’s nerves slips against Oikawa’s clenched fist, and he scrambles to wrap his sweaty fingers over his friend’s delicately indestructible wrist, “Let’s, uh, all catch up later. I just remembered I left my oven on — it was nice running into you guys, bye!” 

Dragging a frozen Oikawa is just as difficult as Hajime remembers, but where his worst-half is a balanced meal of strength, speed, and sense, Hajime is a hefty chunk of raw muscle. 

Bokuto’s painfully earnest, “He’s gonna drive all the way back home this late?” propels the speed of Hajime’s quickening calves, and Kuroo’s distant, “No, Bo, you’re so cute. That was just an excuse — can’t believe he still has to make those to get Oikawa alone,” propels the blood miraculously still left in his body to rush up his face. 

What on Earth is in the air tonight? Were the Gods really so bored they decided to systematically slap Hajime in the face with every intimate part of his life until he’s bruising red in front of the one person he’d wanted since he was an unknowingly lovesick seventeen-year-old boy? Does the universe find joy in forcing Hajime to recall every mortifying manifestation of all the ways he’s tried to find Oikawa in every single person he’s ever pressed his lips to?

The humiliation doesn’t lie within seeing his ex-somethings; Hajime is a mature adult who ended on good terms with everyone he’s ever touched in ways boys can only do in the dark privacy of pining curiosity. No, this isn’t about simply running into the men he’s given so many different parts of himself to. It’s about shoving those gifts in Oikawa’s face within the span of thirty fucking minutes, offerings he’s spent countless nights fantasizing about bestowing to the person who owns his very soul — in an alternate timeline, a different chosen path, or simply another life. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa digs his feet into the ground once they’ve reached a corner far, far away from potential misfortunate intruders, “What is going on?”

Hajime takes a deep breath and wills himself to turn around and face the consequences of his dramatic exit, “Okay, before you freak out — ”

“ — Oh, that’s rich. I’m the one freaking out?” Oikawa rolls his eyes and shakes the wrist Hajime still grips tightly, “You’re the one running away from your apparent secrets!”

And — yeah, his friend has a point. 

Hajime sighs and drops Oikawa’s hand, “Okay, so… You remember that guy I told you about, during my internship? The one I asked you for advice on how to let down gently? When you had the brilliant idea to just, ‘rip off the bandaid’?”

And, well, no one could ever claim Oikawa Tooru of being slow.

Caramel eyes widen in disbelief, “Oh my — Pudding-chan?” His quiet gasp is muffled by the slender fingers covering his mouth, “No…”

Hajime’s head hangs in shame.

CLICK TO CONTINUE READING ON AO3

[kuroiro-shihaii]

@pleathewrites it's finished. I might put it on a background but I kind of hate drawing backgrounds so. maybe not

[pleathewrites]

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohmygod :')ajlfksdkaf;ie<333

THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL <333 n sof :'''')

the panic in dabi's eyes as he realizes bakugo is just touya were he born with a compatible quirk o.O

<333333333!!!!!!!!

i feel so happy and honoured to witness a piece of my story come to life through the hard work of such a talented artist!! thank you soooosososo much for creating this lovely work of art & thank you for reading!! <33(:

[kuroiro-shihaii]

WIP inspired by the the fic by @pleathewrites . this scene tugged my heart stings poor boys...

[pleathewrites]

HELLLOOOOO?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?? OH MY FUCKN GOD FJKALIEWRWJFAKLSDJ EJDSAL STOP THIS IS SOOOOSOOSOSOSOSOSOOSO BEAUTIFUL IM LITERALLY CRYING??? MY HEART IS SO FULL??? I AM SO FUCKING HONOURED????

:''''') thank you sooooosoososo much for tagging me omg i wish i knew about this so much earlier <333<33<3<3<333333

omg this is the first time anyone has ever made art inspired by my fics, i'm literally so happy rn @kuroiro-shihaii thank you again so much omg you're so talented, these lines are so clean and they both look so soft and stop tHIS IS EXACTLY HOW I PICTURED IT WHEN I WAS WRITING OMG it feels so strange and wonderful to see this story through someone else's eyes :'')

PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU EVER FINISH THIS WIP!!!!! and would you mind if i shared your piece on ao3/twt?? <3 :,,) <333

[pleathewrites]

bellow the fire into my deadened lungs

chapter 5 excerpt — class 1a resigns + ua traitor reveal read full story here

Out of the Top 100 Heroes in Japan, over half of them resigned in solidarity. 

The ones who don’t will be remembered as the ones who failed the oath they had taken when accepting their role in a society that is ready to move on from needing them. The large handful of those Dabi had laid out crimes against in his video reveal and interrogation will sit in their jail cells awaiting their court hearings with the only thoughts of, ‘where did I go wrong?’

To everyone’s surprise, it is Bakugou Katsuki who walks up to take the microphone from the last resigning Pro-Hero. 

He scans millions of eyes and takes the plunge. 

“Most of you who know me probably only have shit things to say about me,” He starts, and the image of his homeroom teacher pinching the bridge of his nose brings out a snort that reverberates a bit too loudly through the various speakers connected to the microphone, “And to be honest, there’s probably a whole lotta truth in there.”

Katsuki tunes out the questioning murmurs of the crowd and only looks for the one person he’d never answered.

“A really good guy asked me recently if I still wanted to be a hero after a lecture Aizawa-sensei had given about the shitty truth of how criminals are created.” 

Eijirou’s wide eyes and ungelled hair give Katsuki the strength he’s been lacking for so long. 

“I used to idolize All Might — Yagi-san — because he was the best. I used to believe that being the best meant I had to do everything possible to get that place. I used to believe that being the best meant I could behave in any way I wanted — that I earned it, and thus, I deserved it. The guy we’re all here for saw that.”

Katsuki remembers wanting to murder Dabi at one point, for all the ugly truths patchwork lips had spit at him.

“The memories I have of Dabi — Todoroki Touya — they’re all over the place, honestly,” Katsuki looks at the grieving mother of the man who’d kidnapped him, haunted him for months, and then forgave him. He wonders who he would have been with a mother like that — wonders what kind of man Touya could have become under a woman with so much love held in her eyes, the kind of love Katsuki had craved the minute he was born.

“I think your son might have saved my life, Himura-san,” He tells her honestly, and bows. 

When he rises, his eyes catch a poster that stops his heart. Kemuri Hashiga and Nagai Tesaki hold a large smiling picture of Tsubasa flying — dragon wings that contrast brightly against the springtime sky hold his round little body over their middle school playground. Kemuri’s sharp grin rivals Eijirou’s proudest one and Nagai’s eyes shine with a fierce glint Katsuki hasn’t seen on the boy in such a long time. 

He nods to them and holds Tsubasa in his heart when he turns back to the warmth of Eijirou’s gaze, “I have my answer for you now. I don’t wanna be a hero, because I don’t like what the idea of it brought out of me. But I wanna do good, and I’m gonna be the best at it,” He grins at the pair of toothy laughter he can only faintly hear from how far he stands from it, “I resign from bein’ a hero, or whatever. But, that doesn’t mean you won’t see me around. Y’here that! To all the villains who came out today,” He raises his hand to point to the crowd and sees Eijirou start to run towards him, “I’m gonna take care of y’all till you bleed!”  

“Okay!” Eijirou grabs the microphone out of Katsuki’s hands, eyes wide and frantic before he sends a sheepish grin to the slightly frightened crowd, “He means that in a totally, non-violent, metaphoric–metaphorical? way,” and sends a stern look to Katsuki that says, ‘we’ve talked about this, man,’ but the smile can’t seem to be swiped off his face.

The crowd seems to get it, though, because there’s laughter in the air for the first time. Even their homeroom teacher seems to be suspiciously hiding a fond smile behind his signature scarf.

“Um,” Eijirou starts, his insecurities bubbling up inside his chest as he takes in the waiting eyes of the crowd. He can’t believe the myriad of unique faces he’s seen today — quirks of all kinds, people of all kinds. The gratitude he feels in being able to witness the bravery of such people takes the heat off the moment, simmers the voice in his head that tries to convince him he’s not good enough, and stops it from boiling over. 

The scent of caramel tickles his nose before Katsuki’s warm hand settles over his shoulder. When Eijirou turns his head to see Katsuki’s encouraging smile, he holds his hand out and waits for nitrogen palms to wrap around his own.

“Bakugou doesn’t talk very nicely about himself,” He tells the crowd, “but he always makes sure I do. He’s the manliest dude I know — he’s kind, and determined, and he’s definitely the reason half our class is passing,” The crowd laughs and Katsuki squeezes his hand in appreciation, “I trust him with my life, and you can trust him to care about yours.”

“Tell us about yours!” Someone deep in the crowd shouts.

He didn’t expect to be put on the spot like this, he really just wanted to save Katsuki from being misunderstood. However, he cannot deny how fast his heart beats at his friend’s — ‘maybe more, one day.’ — bravery. Katsuki is always so damn inspiring.

“Oh, um, well,” Eijirou laughs nervously, “I, uh… Heh. Well, I used to believe that because I didn’t have a flashy quirk, I wasn’t worthy of having a place in this society. But when my friend saved me from an attack, she inspired me.”

Mina sends him a proud smile from where she’s pushed through the crowd to stand before him. The whole class of 1A has come close to the front.

Eijirou straightens his spine, “I started to research heroes and found out about Crimson Riot, who had a similar quirk to mine. He quickly became my idol. Through my hero identity, I’ve tried to pay tribute to him. I reinvented myself — started dying my hair and even chose a hero name close to his. I am extremely grateful to have had the opportunity to attend UA and meet some really manly people along the way.”

There are some confused, high-pitched responses of, ‘manly?’

“Tch,” Katsuki leans in to speak into the microphone, “It’s a gender-neutral term of all things good for the idiot,” but his fond smile doesn’t cause any further confusion for the crowd.

“Yeah,” Eijirou giggles, “But, yeah, anyways… I think surrounding myself with so many amazing heroes made me blind to everyone else. Somewhere along the way, I think I convinced myself that being a good hero was equal to being a good person — a good man.

“Crimson Riot said that chivalry is all about living with no regrets. And I don’t want to regret this moment, and so, I don’t think I’ll regret my decision to resign from my dream of being a hero — figuring out who Kirishima Eijirou is, outside of Red Riot. And even though he’s gone, I think Crimson would’ve called this day the manliest moment in history.”

The applause brings a — ‘very manly!’ — tear to Eijrou’s eyes. 

One by one, the entire class of 1A resigns their status as hero students with the promise to strive towards social reform. 

Yaoyorozu Momo — “I actually wanted to be an engineer when my quirk manifested, but my parents always viewed hero-work to be more rewarding. However, I’m thankful I attended UA because I wouldn’t have met all the wonderful people who put their trust in me to lead them. But I cannot lie — being a female hero under the male-gaze… I hate it. I guess I just never felt like I had the ‘right’ to. I used to be a tom-boy, would you believe that?”

Ojiro Mashirao — “It kinda sucks, bein’ a heteromorph. People always tryin’ to touch my tail and askin’ me what I can do with it. Makes a guy wanna prove somethin’, y’know? So, I guess… When I saw the kinda life heteromorphic heroes led, the respect on their name, I got envious. I still wanna work in rescue, though — natural disasters, I’m hopin’ after today.” 

Jirou Kyouka — “Ever since I was a kid, I saw how my family was often ridiculed for pursuing music. We struggled a lot, but they… They would sing me to sleep and, uhm, teach me whatever instrument I wanted to know. I used to hide it, thought it had nothing to do with heroism and so it wasn’t important, but my classmates — Bakugou mostly, if you’d believe it — encouraged me. There’s a lot of power in music. Therapeutic. I think I wanna share that the most with the world.” 

Kouda Kouji — “Hi… Is there a deaf-and-mute translator? Ah, thank you! ‘Animals are my favorite creatures to speak with — birds and foxes especially! They have so much to say, I think it’s because they see so much of our lives. Humans, though… They used to run away from me. I think it’s because of how I look. I don’t understand how, in a quirk-society like this, we still have so many biases based on looks alone. I hate violence, and so far, heroism has felt like nothing but. I think… from now on though — witnessing this turn-out — I’d like to start working with humans again. Talking like this, peaceful and honest. I want to live in a world that works with nature instead of domineering over it.’”

Ashido Mina — “I used to think being a hero was all about hiding your anxieties — show no fear and slap on a smile for the cameras, for the kids, for everyone else just as scared as you. I think… When you’re so used to masking your own fears, you forget everyone else’s. I used to believe villains weren’t capable of fear, but now… I think I’m starting to get it — that it’s their ignored fear that creates them, pushes them to that point of villainy. I honestly need to think about what I’m gonna do from now on, but I have a feeling a lot of opportunities are gonna pop up in the next few years, and I don’t see myself picking just one. And to quote Blasty, I’m gonna kick ass doin’ it!”

Kaminari Denki — “Sensei gave us some homework a few days ago to write a reflection about the ways we can work towards villain prevention and, like, rehabilitation. I, uh, heh, think mine might’ve been the shortest paper. Every time I use my quirk into overload, a bit of my brain kinda fwoomps away and… makes things harder and harder to read and concentrate on. I used to think it was worth it, y’know, like — ‘who needs a workin’ brain when you’re riskin’ your life to save people?’ But, uh… obviously, it scares me now to think that was a standard I put on myself.”

Uraraka Ochako — “Admittedly, I wanted to make a lot’a money — guess that’s normal for people who don’t grow up havin’ any. Makin’ money isn’t really gonna help other kids who have none, though. I never thought a girl like me would learn to fight the way I can now, and it kills me to think about all the girls and women who cannot fight for themselves, who work like hell to survive cycles of abuse ‘n poverty… And! That’s where I wanna put my efforts!”

Satou Rikidou — “I’m a baker’s boy at heart. My classmates actually, heh, set ‘round a time each week for me to bake ‘em somethin’ new — call it ‘Sugar Time’. Funny ‘cause I actually need sugar to survive — a lot of it. Parents learned how to bake early on because the store-bought sweets’re too expensive. In class, Aizawa-sensei brought up how the things we need to live ain’t free, ‘n it made me think about what kinda life I would’a had if I didn’t have parents who were able t’bake for me, or didn’t have parents at all… Mama, Baba, I’m real thankful for everythin’ you’ve done for me t’get me here, but I just can’t stop thinkin’ about those kids…”

Asui Tsuyu — “I’m going to miss it, the hero-life. But, honestly, I think that’s for the better. I want a safer world for my siblings. When we were really young — Satsuki-chan, I don’t even know if you remember this, but… A burglar came into our home. I remember I hid you and Samidare-chan under my bed and left to call the police, who called a Hero. And that hero… bulldozed into our house, right through the wall of my bedroom, and all I could think about was that you two — your tiny little bodies — were right there, and by the luck of the universe, my quirk manifested, and when I cried out, my tongue became the hand the hero had no intention of reaching out, and I was able to pull you both out just a second before the ceiling caved in and smashed my bed to pieces. The hero caught the burglar, but I left that night thinking things like, ‘Was all that really necessary?’ and ‘What would have happened if I was quirkless?’”

Aoyama Yuuga — “I was born quirkless, and let me tell you — the French do not take kindly to those who are. I talk like them and I look like them — well, that’s a lie, I am much more gorgeous! But alas, we live in a world where our quirks are as good as currency. I’m still getting the hang of how fast word travels in Japan, but my peers at UA know my parents asked All for One to grant me the quirk I have today, and when my parents refused to let me carry their debt to him, he killed them. I am a hero solely out of revenge, and that’s not very heroic. My Papa used to tell me that I was meant to sparkle, and I can’t do that covered in red.”

Tokoyami Fumikage — “People are not born bad, only make bad decisions. But each bad decision is not held to the same weight for each and every individual — and for our society today, that is bad. I’m quite fond of darkness and prone to all things of the night, but I was lucky enough to be raised by a family that guided me with light. That said, I am…  honestly looking forward to getting to know the villains who’ve come out today. There aren’t too many heroes with the Devil in them, and Dark Shadow is practically itching to bond with people more like me — I think he’s getting tired of fighting all the time.”

Hagakure Touru — “My whole life, I’ve not only been invisible but felt so. I think the only times I’ve been given any sort of attention is being the butt of a joke — I’ve heard way too many one-liners over the fact that I have to fight naked, and it doesn’t matter how cleverly you think you twisted it, it’s still not funny to me. However… UA helped me shine, literally. I think it’s really important for kids to feel that — without having to spend a boatload of money or kill your childhood for a scholarship that essentially turns you into a child soldier.” 

Shouji Mezou  — “I learned to cover my face at a young age because I scare people. It’s not right to say, but whenever I used to see villains, like Dabi-san, show off their unconventional appearances so freely, with so much pride… It somehow equated in my mind that I need to cover up, to show society that I’m not like them — I’m not something to be feared because I display shame in the way I look. Preconceived notions, stereotypes, we all fall prey to them. Late at night, though, I’d think to myself that maybe villains just want to be seen. And now, seeing everyone who’s attended — your wonderful, unique, and brave faces — I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable labeling anyone as a villain ever again. I don’t want to wear this mask anymore, and I don’t want anyone else to ever feel like they have to as well.”

Ida Tenya — “In one of the readings Aizawa-sensei assigned to us, an activist said: ‘Police and heroes are doing what nobody should be doing — enforcing laws that criminalize poverty and addiction, arresting people instead of issuing citations, writing tickets to raise revenue rather than protect the public, and using armored vehicles to evict women and children from a home they have occupied to protest homelessness.’ And I agree! We cannot continue on like this, and I thank all the heroes today who have resigned from participating in this kind of system. You have given me the strength to do so as well!”

Midorya Izuku has the hardest time of it, cries and sniffles through the whole thing, but ends with a wobbly tenacious smile and a promise of “Plus Ultra!” that makes Yagi gather the young boy — and equally tearful mother — into his frail arms. 

Only Sero Hanta is left to say his piece. 

He feels like he wants to vomit and he knows the crowd can tell, “Someone I care about very much pointed out that I never talk about m’personal life. And, well, that’s because it doesn’t make for a very good story. But that person’s life story has been the highlight of every news station in Japan for the last week, so I figured I might give it a shot.”

Shouto’s reddened eyes widen and practically beg Hanta to shut up, but Hanta remembers the boy making a comment not too long ago about how Hanta doesn’t really know when to do that. 

“Five years ago, my home was destroyed by what the police had called, ‘a villain attack’. My parents were killed by the rubble caused by a hero chasin’ after a kid a lil’ older than I am now with a scary quirk for stealin’ a woman’s purse. After that, I was sent to a foster home that looked more like a crackhouse,” Gasps and horrified murmurs ripple across the crowd, “Don’t worry too much ‘bout that though, I wasn’t there fer’long. Sold off for my foster parents' next fix. Managed to get away though.”

The League push their way into the front of the crowd, which fortunately opens right up out of fear, or common decency, Hanta doesn’t really know yet.

It’s actually kind of funny how Tomura looks at Hanta with his hands out and his eyes wide, like, ‘what the fuck’re you doin’?’

Hanta barrels on though, “I was around ten years old when Dabi had found me, half-dead’a hypothermia ‘n starvation. He took me in, and man, was he a mother hen. Makes so much sense now that he grew up an older brother,” He laughs wetly, and from his peripheral vision, it looks like Touya’s mother does the same. 

“At this point, I was used t’people kickin’ me outta restaurants ‘n stealin’ my clothes when I wasn’t lookin’. But Dabi — sorry, Touya, my bad, I’ve been callin’ him ‘Dabi’ for so long now, but I wanna use the name his brother calls him. Touya would sneak me into whatever shelter he’d find willin’ to hold a stray. He’d get me all kinda books, most of ‘em interesting but some were complicated as hell.”

Hanta’s voice starts to betray him, threatening to cut off completely as the memories flood through.

“He’d tell me to read while he’s out workin’,” Tears finally start to fall and, for once, Hanta welcomes the burning trails down his cheeks, “He’d come back tired as hell, every day with new scars, ‘n even then, he’d make me somethin’ to eat, even if it meant he wouldn’t for days. 

“He always offered to take me to a safehouse — a place for children like me. He’d say things like, ‘You should be playin’ ‘round with other kids yer age,’ and I’d just make fun’a’him for bein’ an old man. But the truth is, I didn’t wanna leave him. He was the only person who made me feel safe in a world that turned me away.”

His eyes roam over and connect with every present member of the League. Himiko is crying into Jin’s chest.

“And around a year ago, he let me come with him to join the League,” Hanta cannot bear to face the betrayal he knows paints every single face of his classmates, so he doesn’t, “I thought I wanted revenge, at first. But lookin’ back, I think I just wanted to help Touya’s dream of a better world come true. Pay ‘im back for everythin’ he’d done f’me. ‘N so, when the League asked me to be their spy, I agreed.

“But,” Hanta starts to shake, “When I got to UA — well, you’ve all seen it, everybody is so fuckin’ good. After my classmate was kidnapped, after I saw what it had done to him, I regretted my decision so much.”

Hanta can’t stop crying.

“Kirishima said he doesn’t wanna live a life with regrets, ‘n I know that’s only possible for me if-if I confess, because I know Touya refused t’give me up when he’d turned himself in, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Hanta covers his shame with his arm and hopes his bulky elbows give him enough cover to break down. 

“But I’ll never regret staying with Touya! Because without him, I-I never really would’ve believed society could actually change, until today.”

He doesn’t know when the League had actually run up to him. He only feels the cold metal of Mr. C’s prosthetic catching him before he falls to his knees, only registers the worn cashmere of Himiko’s sweater against his cheek, only hears the thud, whine, and scramble of Tomura picking up the fallen microphone and yelling out, “None’a you get to judge Hanta!”

And through the blubber of Hanta’s wailing sobs, Hanta hears the unimaginable. 

“We don’t — ”

“ — Monsieur, were you not listening — ”

“ — ‘re doing the right thing now, we’d never — ”

“ — we’re still your friends Hanta! — ”

“ — I forgive you! — ”

“ — it’s ok, dude, I understand! — ”

“ — confession was totally manly! — ” 

“ — et the fuck up, Tape Face, ‘n apologize to my face like a man! Geeze, you were only doin’ what you thought was right, or whatever — ”

In less than a minute, Hanta is engulfed by the arms of his classmates, their tearful smiles and too-empathetic eyes filling his vision and stunning his burning shame to a halt. 

Cold and hot hands cup his face, Shouto’s puffy eyes staring at him wondrously.

“Why…?” Hanta doesn’t understand.

“Don’t you see how much we love you, Hanta? Don’t you trust us to see how much pain you’ve been in, and not punish you for it?” 

Hanta’s chest aches with something that blooms to life instead of the anticipated shrivel of the death of one he’s grown to love.

He sighs, resting his forehead against Shouto’s, “I’m so sorry, Shou…” 

Shouto’s headshake jostles Hanta slightly and he tearfully whispers, “I’m sorry, too. You’ve suffered the same loss I have, and have been going through it alone.”

The students of Class 1A quiet down when their homeroom teacher steps through and pulls Hanta up with an offering hand.

Hanta has always found his sensei so hard to read, “Wha-what’r’you gonna do t’me, Sensei?”

And his teacher only smiles and tips his head to his family — to the League that hadn’t left Hanta’s side under the swarm of — ex — hero students.

“Weren’t you paying attention? There are no punishments for what is said and done today.”  

When the League, his teacher, and his classmates walk Hanta away from the area that holds the lone microphone, there is only the noise of respected cheers and applause at the sight of opposing sides holding the boy who’d played both — and it feels like a win. 

read full story here

my other works

[kelin-is-writing]

WAKE UP BABIES!!!!!! WE GOT NEW DABI VISUALS TO OBSESS OVER 🛐

[pleathewrites]

bellow the fire into my deadened lungs

chapter 5 excerpt — dabihawks grieving read full story here

It is the day of his court hearing that Todoroki Touya dies, for the second time.

Keigo hears it live on the television at a nothing diner Eraserhead and All Might had said they would pick him up from. They were going to allow Keigo to sit in the same car as Touya on the way to the courthouse, planning to follow in a separate car. 

“BREAKING NEWS: TODOROKI TOUYA, KNOWN AS ‘DABI’, DIES IN VEHICULAR EXPLOSION WHILE BEING TRANSPORTED TO HIS COURT HEARING!”

The only thing Keigo can hear through the ringing in his ears is the forgotten five-year-old tucked away at the back of his mind screaming, ‘No! No! NO!’

The only thing Keigo could feel through blizzard winds whipping across his soaring wings was the home within his heart Touya had built with scarred preening hands collapsing and compressing until he could no longer breathe. 

And when he gasps to a landing halt, the only thing Keigo can see through thick smoke and scrap metal with his quirk-enhanced vision is the crude and grotesquely torn-off ring finger Keigo had spent countless hours tracing with his lips, imagining how it’d look enclosed by a gold band with, ‘forever,’ engraved inside.

“Touya!”  

He’s pulled back before he can run into the flames. All Might holds Keigo with every ounce of strength he no longer has and Eraserhead is using his quirk to soften sharpened feathers that cut into All Might’s straining arms. They’re both talking, speaking to Keigo, warning him — they won’t stop talking —  

‘Don’t they understand that Touya needs me, that I need to save him?’

It feels like minutes, hours, seconds, days, before red and orange fire is hosed down completely, and there is no trace of Touya’s body.

“But — I don’t…”

A member of the forensic team is bending down to bag Touya’s left ring finger when Keigo faintly realizes he’s stopped struggling against All Might.

The five-year-old child Keigo has hidden for so long comes out, “He’s fireproof?” 

(Keigo is in too much shock to see the look Shouta gives Yagi — the one that says, ‘don’t say a word.’)

“The damage the fire had done to his body activated the chip inside his wrist to explode. He died almost instantly if that eases your pain any,” Eraserhead tells Keigo. 

The world drops below his feet, not in the manner of when Keigo jumps off buildings to welcome blue skies, but in the manner of gravity plummeting those not gifted with flight to splatter them across concrete. 

Keigo pushes All Might off him with a rough shove and flies to his safehouse, to his home — their home.

And he screams.  

Every feather of his wings sharpen and fly out his back. Dozens of paper-thin cuts sting his cheeks, his neck, and cut through the arms and thighs of his flight suit. The shatter of broken pots and pierced glass means nothing to him. The clatter and bang of splintered wood and stabbed walls do not swallow the horrible shriek of his grieving wails. 

He’s dropped to his knees and he’s screaming, his still screaming, and he does not stop until his vocal cords are torn and swollen shut, until the floorboards are pounded through and clutched between a paralyzed stress-grip, until the fibers of his living room rug are stuck wetly to his nose, until the only noise he can hoarse out are the croons Touya had heard only a handful of times in his short, unlived life.

Keigo stays like that for hours, in the fetal position that five-year-old child had learned to be his only comfort in a life like his. He croons to himself the way Touya had loved so much until his body was too tired to do anything else but drift Keigo away to moonlit-metal and blue dreams. 

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chapter 4 excerpt — bakugou fights dabi as retribution for kidnapping him read full story here

“My crimes, for one. I don’t care what punishments you give me for my other crimes, but I already told you I want that angry kid to decide my punishment for kidnapping him.”

“Bakugou,” Eraserhead sighs, “It’s unorthodox.”

“Well, no shit. This whole fuckin’ thing is,” Touya is only slightly apprehensive, “So, what’d he say?”

[ When Aizawa-sensei asks Bakugou what he wants for retribution, Shouto is eavesdropping, and they all know it.

“I want to fight him,” Bakugo had answered.

Their entire class finds out when Shouto confronts Bakugou in the dorms.

“You’ll kill him.” 

Bakugou rolls his eyes, “Your lousy ass brother asked me what he wanted as penance, or whatever — fuck off Half ‘n Half.”  ]

Keigo won’t stop fidgeting when he walks Touya to the police gym. His limbs are calm but his feathers won’t stop sharpening at the edges. 

“Don’t interfere,” Touya tells him as he watches the kid — Bakugou — warming up, proper tape wrapped around his wrists and everything.

“And what if he kills you?” 

Touya looks up at Keigo, and tells those golden honey eyes, “Then, he kills me.” 

“Dabi, no — ” 

Touya cups the back of his neck, “Kei, please,” He presses a soft kiss on the hero’s cheek, and tries to communicate how much he needs this with his eyes alone, “Please.”

Keigo’s always been good at reading his eyes, even though the hero doesn’t claim it. Keigo will rant on and on about how ‘mysterious’ Touya can be, but in the end, he is the one who backs out of Touya’s way with his own crystallized mask put into place.

Every step towards Bakugou feels like a fate signed in blood.

They fight with quirk suppressors. Touya is a long-range fighter with only dirty moves tucked under his belt, and Bakugou knows that. The second Erasehead gives the go-ahead, Bakugou pounces on Touya in the blink of an eye, and even if Touya was planning on fighting back, Bakugou leaves no opening.

He beats the shit out of Touya.

For both the longest and shortest minute of his life, Touya is in a world of pain — but that’s okay, because Touya knows pain, welcomes it in like an old friend. He wouldn’t be alive to tell his sordid tales if he didn’t know how to take a bit of agony. 

The problem is when a drop of something akin to salt water falls into his heaving mouth. He’s pulled forward like an outgrown ragdoll by the collar of his shirt, and his body registers he’s no longer being pummeled into. 

The relief never comes because, like this, he gets a clear view of Bakugou’s face through his — now — good eye. 

The kid’s face is angry, it doesn’t take a genius to see that — but it’s angry in all the wrong ways. Bakugou’s face is wet, broiled red with tears and thick snot creeping into the seam of his snarl. There’s blood on the knuckles of his pulled-back fist, dripping down worryingly white palms, and when he reels his elbow backward, Touya catches how the quirk-cancelling bracelet around it has been broken.

“Should we see how fucking fireproof you are?”

Touya closes his eyes and thinks, maybe, this is the right way to go. Not out of selfish revenge, but instead to give the one he hurt some peace of mind that he will no longer walk in the shadows at the corner of his bed.

And then, Bakugou stops. 

(At the corner of his eye, Katsuki catches a hint of red, and the only thing that fills his head is, “I’m here for you, man, I’ll always be here for you. Whenever you feel like this, when it gets too much, just know that you can come to me… come to me…. come to me, cometomecometome — ” )

Touya falls back with a dull thud to the mat and opens his eyes to Bakugou standing over him. 

“Apologize.”

It’s almost quiet enough to blend in with the ringing in Touya’s ears. 

“Wha — ” 

“If you’re really — If-I-I need to know!” The kid exclaims, his bloodied hands open and fireless, “I need to know if someone like you — if you can actually feel remorse, and want to be,” Lethal hands grab at his blond spikes, and Bakugou looks like he’s about to have a panic attack with how heavy he’s panting, “Better — fuck! I need to know — ” 

Touya’s scrambling at the mat before he thinks better of it, ripped staples be damned, and gets himself on his knees, “I’m sorry,” He looks up, and hopes Bakugou can see it on his swollen and stitched-up face, “I’m sorry, I’m so — I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” And he bows his head, words coming out with no way to stop, “I’m sorry, I should’ve never — you’re just a kid, and I took advantage,” He presses his forehead harder into the mat, “And I’m so sick with it, please, please, Gods — I’m so sorry, Bakugou.” 

A deep thud vibrating off his head makes Touya look up, and his heart breaks at the sight of Bakugou on his knees.

Touya gapes, and wants nothing more for the kid to stand back up.

Instead, Bakugou whispers, “I’m sorry, too…” and he starts to cry.

Bakugou’s voice is on the edge of something too-much like the despair Touya lugged around for the past decade, high and throaty, holding himself like his own hands are the only comfort he’s ever been given, “I’m, fuck — so angry, I’m so angry, all the time, and all I do is hurt people, and all I can ever do is be fuckin’ sorry. I — You-you were right about me, and — ” 

And Touya finally realizes his death is not the answer. He realizes his death will only add to the haunting weight of everything he has put this child through, realizes that death won’t call to an aching prayer, and it won’t stop the monsters Dabi had let loose into this child’s — this child’s — self-built sanctuary of a mind.

Touya darts forward, “No!” His own injuries scream and protest, but they are the last thing on his mind as he grabs bloodied hands to keep self-loathing nails from digging more self-inflicted punishment, “No, no, Bakugou, I was wrong — ”

Disbelieving eyes in the saddest shade of red stun Touya silent, “No, you weren’t,” Bakugou’s voice is just short of a whine, a wounded sound that Touya wants so badly to stop, “I’m just like you…” 

Touya can sense the guards closing in, “Hey, look at me,” and prays he won’t be tackled.

He tries to be as slow, and as gentle as possible, when he brings his hand to Bakugou’s head, “Look at me. I forgive you, okay? I forgive you. You’re doing your best, and that’s all that should be expected from you, okay?”  

Bakugou looks at him like he doesn’t understand, like he doesn’t want to believe the man he beat bloody and blue would spare him any words at all. 

Touya pushes, “You’re nothing like me, kid. You could have killed me just now, ‘n I would’ve let you. But unlike me, you knew when to stop,” Bakugou starts to shake his head, and it jostles the staples that stick out crudely from Touya’s wrist in a way where he has to suppress a wince, “Hey — no, you stopped. You are not a bad guy, and I’m so, so sorry for ever saying you were.”

Bakugou sniffles and Touya hopes with everything inside of him that this world will finally comprehend how much of a child this young hero really is.

The hand Touya grips in his own squeezes slightly, as if shy he’ll pull away.

He only grips back tighter, “People hurt us — I hurt you. The people who were supposed to keep you safe, they are the ones who failed, not you. You…” The straw blond of Bakugou’s hair through Touya’s fingers reminds him of Toga so much, “You deserve a helluva lot better than what you got, kid. Hey,” He calls back when Bakugou begins to look down, “Don’t carry this with you, okay? Okay?”

And finally, Bakugou weakly nods.  

When Touya lets go, Bakugou wipes a forearm across his wet nose and stands up to tell his teacher, “I’m done. I wanna go home,” And before he and Eraserhead walk through the exit, he asks his teacher, “Please send Recovery Girl to heal him, Sensei,” 

Eraserhead nods, murmuring something Touya is too far away to hear.

The minute they’re gone, Keigo runs to Touya’s side along with the medical team to tend to his new wounds, “Are you okay?” He asks Touya, runs the tips of his gloved fingers over Touya’s swollen eye, and Touya shakes his head with a weak smile.

‘I don’t know.’

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chapter 4 excerpt — kiribaku, do you still want to be a hero? read full story here

“Why are you a hero?”

Two boys, brilliant blond and rambunctious red, sit in an empty study room filled to the brim with all the world’s complex anxieties. For once, the tension in the air cannot be cut with the press of nitroglycerin hands or diamond-tipped fingers. 

Eijirou stares at his own lap where softly clasped hands hold each other, the pad of his thumb rubbing over the smooth skin of knuckles Katsuki has spent the last three months learning the shape of.  

“I guess…” Eijirou starts, “I thought, if I could recreate the feeling I got when Ashido saved me, for someone else, I would do it a thousand times over,” Ever-kind red eyes look up to seek Katsuki’s own softening carmine, “There’s something that happens when you’re frozen, and you think you’re about to die — that you should die, for being so weak, for being stupid enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time… And then, at the last second, a hero swoops you out of the way and saves the day.” 

The corner of Eijirou’s lips tips up in a half-smile. 

Katsuki wonders if Eijirou is picturing that small, dark-haired boy Katsuki has only seen pictures of. Sometimes, Katsuki wishes he had known Eijirou back then, has dreamed of being in Ashido Mina’s place and swooping the young boy out of harm's way to kiss frightened tears off soft cheeks and be the hero in Kirishima Eijirou’s story. Other times, Katsuki is so fucking glad he didn’t go to the same middle school as Eijirou because Katsuki knows he’d more likely be the reason to make Eijirou want to die in the first place.

“I think it restored my faith in myself, and in this society,” Eijirou continues wistfully, “Proved to me that there are good people with wills stronger than my own, who are willing to put their lives on the line for some random person they barely know — it made me want to live. Or, gave me something to live for.”

Katsuki knows the story, and is thankful to every imaginative heaven above, to Ashido Mina tenfold, for saving the boy that dares to sit next to him. He cannot imagine a world without Kirishima Eijirou, a world without sturdy thighs pressing into his own, lifting him up with a too-sharp grin and hardened fists, ‘I will be your unshakeable chariot.’  

Their lunch remains untouched.

“Do you still feel that way, after Aizawa-sensei’s lecture?” Katsuki has to ask.

Clasped hands tuck under Ejirou’s chin, sharp elbows digging into those very thighs Katsuki yearns for too much, “I actually feel a bit embarrassed,” And Katsuki can tell, Eijirou has a habit of curling his hulking form into something small when his insecurities leak through the cracks of his Unbreakable, “World’s not nearly as black and white as I thought. Never thought the duties of a hero could actually… What’s the word? ‘Contribute’? To the problem.”

“Yeah, that’s the right word.” 

Eijirou’s knee nudges his own, the warmth of a body Katsuki’s learning to love boring onto him for a short moment, “What about you, how are you feeling?” — ‘Cold,’ Katuski wants to say when Eijirou shifts slightly away, “If there’s anyone at this school who’s more passionate about becoming a hero, it’s you.”

Katsuki sniffs, “You mean, more passionate about being the best.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, c’mon,” Katsuki scoffs as he turns his body to face Eijirou head-on, “We just sat through an hour discussing that in class.”

Eijirou shrugs, and his chin lolls over his knuckles in a tilt.

“Yeah, but,” He finally straightens up to meet Katsuki’s defensive stare, “I’m asking you, personally. What’s wrong with wanting to be the best?”

“Ugh, ‘the best,’” Katsuki feels so much disgust for the word that used to drive him, “Remember when you used to cheer me on for sayin’ that shit?”

“Remember when you used to be happier saying it?” 

And Katsuki — well, he feels like he’ll never understand the relaxed line of Eijirou’s shoulders when they’re like this. Katsuki is a nasty force to be met with hunched spines and averted eyes. He is a taunting, walking bomb who’s most likely to push down a person already familiar with the ground, rather than offer a guiding hand to teach about the sky.

Kirishima Eijirou is everything Bakugou Katsuki is not, and yet, every day, Eijirou offers his very human hand and Katsuki is too greedy not to take it.

“I am…” Katsuki struggles for a moment, before letting out a big sigh from his still-growing lungs, “Confused. I feel stupid,” His voice cracks on the last word.

Short, red eyebrows furrow, “Why?”

For once, it is Katsuki’s heart that explodes, and not his hands.

“Because how did I not know any of this!? How do we, as a whole fucking society, have all this data, and still operate within the same system in the same, exact fucking way? I mean, isn’t that the whole point of research? To find the problem and work towards a solution!” 

There’s tension at the root of his scalp, and Katsuki doesn’t realize it comes from his own gripping hands.

“What kind of lazy, bastard politicians do we have! Or, is it on us heroes to do something about it? And if so — why the hell do we only know how to physically fight!”

Katsuki’s lungs feel too small for his body. He feels like an underdeveloped kindling with gasoline drenched in every twig holding too big of a fire he cannot hold.

“I mean, yeah, yeah, we practice proper rescue etiquette, and how to be fuckin’ nice to a scared shitless child, but…” Something wet smears from his temple to his cheeks, and Katsuki does not know if it’s from the sweat of his dragging hands or the suspicious stinging in his eyes. 

He goes still as he thinks about all the sleep he’s lost since his kidnapping, and stares at the vast nothing beyond Eijirou’s shoulder.

“What about when they go home? What happens that night, when that same child won’t go to bed without screaming? When their head just replays the moment they almost died, over and over and over again — and they’re just supposed to, what?” He’s on autopilot, all flinging hands and helpless shrugs, “Go back to school, pretend they’re paying attention, and then just — what, do their homework?”

He looks back at Eijirou, “Come to terms with the fact that the world isn’t going to stop long enough for them to ‘move on,’ like everybody wants?”

Eijirou’s eyes mold with sympathy. Katsuki thinks the boy is too good for this rotten, uncaring world. Eijirou’s open heart is going to get him hurt — ‘doesn’t he get it?’

“And what about us, Eijirou?” Katuski feels like he’s pleading, “We just put our lives on the line for problems that will never fucking end, for a problem that’ll never get fucking solved, rinse and repeat until our own bodies break down with the amount of shit we’re hit with? By villains who are basically, according to fucking science, created by us? What kind of endless fucking machine is this! What is the fucking point! What was the fucking point of all of it!”

Eijirou looks at the trembling boy in front of him — a boy, not a hero because that’s what Bakugou Katsuki deserves to be before the glittering false gold of their school’s, their society’s, best — and he cannot help the tears that well up in his eyes. Eijirou has witnessed Katsuki scared, prideful, mean, kind, hopeful — but he has never seen Katsuki weighed down by so much doubt. 

Quietly, gently, Eijirou asks, “Do you still want to be a hero?”

The chuckle Katsuki lets out is empty, and Eijirou’s breath gets stuck in his throat at Katsuki’s cynical stare, “What even is a hero, anymore.”

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chapter 4 excerpt — aizawa & class 1a on what makes a villain read full story here

‘PRO-HERO ENDEAVOR TURNS HIMSELF IN FOR THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF HIS ELDEST SON: IS THIS OUR SYMBOL OF PEACE?’ 

An article of Dabi and Endeavor’s arrest gets leaked Wednesday morning. Every station, paper, and social media platform picks at the exposed meat of it like vultures to a fresh carcass, fighting over favored limbs and surprise bites.

Class 1A has never been so loud. There’s chatter everywhere.

“Oh my Gods, did you hear — ”

“ — about Todoroki-san —”

“ — his own father — ”

“ — and can you believe Dabi — ”

“ — that crazy villain is Shou’s — ”

“ — brother! The guy who kidnapped — ”

“ — kugou, hey, Bakugou!”

The gentle hand on his shoulder shakes Bakugou from the one-sided staring contest he was having with, ‘that fucking Half ‘n Half — coward hasn’t looked up from his desk the moment he sat down.’

It’s Kirishima, the boy who rescued him, the boy who doesn’t leave his side, who holds his hand and smiles like Bakugou hung the moon and the stars and everything in between.

The boy Bakugou had unknowingly given strength to when Kirishima needed it the most.

“I’m fine.”

Red eyebrows curve upwards in worry, and, ‘fuck,’ Bakugou hates worrying people, “You sure? It’s ok if you’re not. I don’t think anyone is.”

Kirishima looks at, ‘that fuckin’ Half ‘n Half,’ with those same sympathetic eyes, and Bakugou feels something ugly bubble up inside him. 

He scoffs, “Please, he’s known this entire time — fuck him!” 

Kirishima’s eyes squint, “Why do you think that?” 

“Because, if I knew, then there’s no fucking way he didn’t!”

That gets Todoroki to look up, both eyes blown so wide, Kirishima can see his scar visibly stretch, “You knew?”

Kirishima smiles fondly at the angry blond, “Bakugou’s smart like that. Of course he’d figure it out before any of us.”

And, well, Bakugou was about to run up and punch Todoroki in the face right then, but the way Kirishima is looking at Bakugou roots his feet to the ground he desperately wants to sink into. He breathes in deeply, counts like his therapist taught him, and with his exhale, his pounding heart starts to settle into something that feels more like stability. The only thing he’s got the energy left for is to huff and cross his arms, mumbling a pathetic, “Damn straight,” and leaning into Kirishima’s broad shoulder. 

Ironically, Kirishima’s warmth cools the fire in his chest. 

Todoroki shakes his head in something like disbelief — which, ‘Fuck him, because who is he to not believe me?’ — and asks, “When did you figure it out?” 

Bakugou didn’t notice until now how the whole class had quieted down.

He rolls his eyes, “Like, the minute you told Deku and I about Touya at your family’s sad ass dinner. Between that, Dabi’s deranged speech to me, and spending two minutes with Endeavor, it was pretty fuckin’ obvious.”

“Why didn’t you say anything!” Todoroki looks like his eyes are about to pop out of his head.

And, ‘oh,’ Bakugou rolls his eyes. He is so done with this conversation, “I just said, it was obvious. ”

That gets Todoroki to shut up and slump back into his chair. 

‘Hm. Fine. I guess IcyHot didn’t know. I can still blame him for being an idiot.’

At the back of the class, Sero chews the end of his pencil and wants nothing more than to offer Todoroki a hug, a cigarette, some kind of an out, but he feels as if he’s been taped to his chair by the paralyzing shock of a lost piece shoved into a puzzle he didn’t know until now remained unfinished — ‘everythin’ makes so much sense now.’

A minute later, Aizawa Shouta walks into his classroom, and prepares for the lecture of his life. Quite possibly, his last.

‘Depending on where Principal Nezu’s loyalties lie,’ Shouta thinks to himself, ‘Well, I’ll find out soon enough.’

The students quiet down with his presence, looking more like deers caught in headlights, waiting, waiting for —

“Everyone, take a seat,” He instructs, and as his students do so, he writes the lesson of the day on the board: Why Do Villains Exist?

Before the last squeak of his underline, before he even turns around, a myriad of answers fill the classroom.

“Free will?”

“Greed?”

“The Devil?”

“Shitty families, apparently…” 

Shouta holds up a hand, “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I was not asking you all, directly. At least, not yet.”

His students sheepishly settle into their seats. A flurry of swished notebooks to clean pages hiss and evaporate into a long beat of silence. 

Shouta takes a deep breath, and a mental note of the way Todoroki Shouto’s shoulders are hitched up to his ears. Shouta cannot imagine what the child is going through. The minute Shouta saw those articles first thing in the morning, he knew his students would have so many questions — and as their teacher, he has a responsibility to answer them the best he can.

He doesn’t know what is going to happen, now that the secret of Todoroki Touya is out, but here, in these four walls of his classroom, he has a control and a capacity to at least prepare his students for the changes to come — the hopeful good and the anticipated bad.

“I understand some, quite frankly, shocking news has come to light. I know you all have many feelings about that news, and probably many questions.

“I was going through your Hero Curriculum over the last few days, and I’ve realized something — our school does not provide one social class. We teach you all how to fight, how to strategize, how to build your image and your portfolio, but we don’t teach you the ways our society functions. The way it was built to function. You learn Quirk history, but you don’t learn about the very social movements that have gotten you, and me, to where we are today. Our society has a twenty percent non-quirk-user population, yet we don’t teach you about their history, psychology, or sociology. 

“We separate the pre-quirk era and the present day, but every study shows that our society functions in the same way, more or less. That’s a bit odd, don’t you think? For our society to be so similar to the pre-quirk era? There’s a saying from that era. ‘Those who refuse to learn history are — ’”

“‘— doomed to repeat it’,” Midoriya finishes. 

Usually, Shouta would reprimand Midoriya for speaking out without being called on, but today, a small smile ticks at his lips. 

“That’s right. Everyone, write that down. I’ll put it on the board.”

He does so while thinking of the frightening duality of identical blue eyes; resolved azure and guilty cerulean. He turns around and spots a yearning cobalt, surrounded by the thick scar tissue of why he’s doing this. His fingers clench around the marker.

“Today, I’m going to throw a lot of information at you guys. And I know when you hear this information, you all will feel many different emotions, as did I. I want you all to know my classroom is a safe space, and there are no wrong feelings. However, I want us all to respect each other to the end,” Shouta looks at both Bakugou and Todoroki when he says, “We are on each other’s team.”

He waits for his students to nod and give him their go-ahead. 

“Now, legally, in my contract, I am not allowed to... theorize to my students — you guys — the relationship between the rise of villainy and a, vastly, failing society. Bit strange, don’t you think? We ask you all, everyday, to risk your lives for this society, but you are not encouraged to learn about it. And I am not allowed to teach you the ways in which this society operates. 

“Well, that doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Today, I am going to risk my job. And in return, I just ask you all to listen with open minds.”

There is a collection of distressed ‘Aizawa-sensei…’s that fill the room. It pulls together the pieces of his broken heart.

Shouta starts to write on the board, “Our society is based in cycles — wealth cycles, abuse cycles, poverty cycles, etcetera. Note, I am talking about the majority, not the single bootstrapping underdog. Now, I am asking you all directly — are people born bad?” 

Bakugou pipes up, “Fuck, no.” 

Shouta witnesses the small uptick of Todoroki’s lips, and nods in approval.

“Correct. Reality is, we look at people who have committed horrible crimes, people like Chisaki Kai. We see a fraction of the pain he inflicted on Eri — and the twisted thing is, he most likely was given the same treatment when he was of that age. Fortunately, with the help of our young heroes, we managed to save Eri from that environment.”

He witnesses the pride in Midoriya’s smile and the dignity in Kirishima’s posture. Shouta prays his lesson will not strip them of it.

He rhetorically asks the class, “But, what would have happened if she wasn’t saved? If she stayed in that environment for another five, ten, maybe fifteen years?” He is answered with blinking, waiting eyes, “Trauma physically changes the brain, especially during your developmental years. Does anyone know when the brain fully develops?”

Kirishima tentatively raises his hand, and Shouta calls on him, “Well, I mean, if we’re considered adults at eighteen, is it because that’s when our brains are fully developed?”

“You bring up an excellent point, Kirishima,” Shouta commends. “Society considers you full, functioning adults when you reach the age of eighteen. However, studies from both pre-quirk and our era state that the brain finishes development as late as age twenty-six, even longer for people with common neurodevelopmental disorders, like ADHD.”

“Wait, shit, I have ADHD — ”

“ — Dude, me too — ”

“— does my sister, that makes so much sense — ”

Shocked murmurs flitter around as Ashido raises up her hand, and cuts through the noise, “Wait, Aizawa-sensei, then why do we use eighteen as the age of being an adult? That’s the age when we’re allowed to make so many life-changing decisions…”

The murmurs stop.

“Why, indeed? You’re asking the right question, and you deserve a truthful answer. Because eighteen is such an important age. It is the age you vote, the age you register to become a Pro-Hero, the age people join our civilian military, the age you are allowed to engage in intimate acts with people older than eighteen… And it is the age you are tried as an adult for any crimes committed.

“Which brings me to my next point — has anyone ever heard of the term, ‘private prisons’?”

To Shouta’s surprise, it is Sero who answers his question, “They’re prisons that’re bought by corporations. Don’t have to follow all the government policies, can make up their own rules and stuff. Profit off the prisoners, too — I read somewhere that it’s compa-comparable? To slave-labor. Is that true?”

Sero Hanta is a student that Shouta would argue is actually immensely intelligent, despite his limited vocabulary. Sero’s file states that he comes from an unremarkable school within one of the lower-income districts, but through the academic year, Shouta has learned that Sero’s knowledge is oddly vast.

Shouta hums in approval, “In a nutshell, that is true.” 

He goes to the board and begins to explain the prison industrial-complex using diagrams and metrics that blew his mind the first time he researched into it.

“ — Various people will argue how private prisons are the solutions to overcrowding in federal prisons, ignoring the root causes of mass incarceration, like what we’ve already discussed — police bias, three-strike policies, harsher sentences for non-violent crimes, politician bribery, and so on.”

Kaminari raises his hand, “Is Tartarus privately owned?”

Shouta feels the grim pull of his expression, “Yes. Any guesses as to who by?”

Bakugou answers, “Probably the HPSC.”

Shouta nods, “Correct,” and writes down a grotesquely large but accurate number on the board, “This is how much the HPSC profits off Tartarus, annually.” 

Amongst the scritch and scratch of his students’ furious note-taking, Yaoyorozu’s hand shoots up, “I have a question about what you said earlier, that perhaps ties into what you’re teaching now. Are you saying any traumas we endure up until age twenty-six will physically change the way our brains develop? And if so, in what ways?”

“Thank you for noticing that connection, Yaoyorozu. That brings us back to my example of Eri, and if she had stayed in that environment, raised by Chisaki Kai. Anger and hurt feeds the soul just as love and affection does, but the needs of that person changes based on what they are given. What if Eri had grown up to be one of the villains you face? Would you still want to save her, or would your first instinct be to lock her away? You wouldn’t know who she is, where she comes from. You’d only know her crimes, but never what brought her to that point.” 

“Sensei... It’s really not fair to use Eri-chan in this example. She’s just a child,” Midoriya defends.

Shouta nods in understanding, “So was every single villain I’ve ever arrested,” His mind goes immediately to that day in the interrogation room with Dabi, the scarred-villain fighting for Himiko Toga’s immunity, the reminder that she is a child before she is a villain.

“But, we can’t excuse villainous actions!” 

“You’re right, Midoriya,” Shouta confirms, “Actions have consequences.”

“So…” It is Tokoyami that speaks up this time, “What’s the solution?” 

Shouta shrugs, “What is the solution? Two-hundred years of hero-society hasn’t figured that out. Two-thousand years of human society never figured out how to stop their own criminals.”

Silence.

Shouta knew it was a shit answer, but, well, he only started this research a few days ago. His conclusion is that the solution will take a collection of heroes to figure out, and it won’t happen in a day, and most devastatingly, not in his lifetime. He believes in planting the seed, though. He believes in his students to water it with the information he’s given today, believes in them to let it soak in the rays of enlightenment he wished he’d bothered to bathe in twenty-odd years ago.

He believes in his students, in this generation, so much more than his own.

“You are here to learn how to be heroes. You’re not here to learn how to fight — yet, somewhere along the lines, we’ve all forgotten what being a hero meant. So,” He writes on the board: What Does it Mean to be a Hero?

“Saving people!” Kaminari.

Obvious, but — “Good,” He wrote it down, “Saving who?” 

“Innocents!” Ida.

“Hm,” This is where Shouta will have to make his poor students think deeper, “Why just the innocent?” 

“Because they don’t deserve to be hurt,” Ida answers.

Shouta nods, “So, when does someone lose their innocence?” 

There’s a moment of thinking before Asui tries, “When they’ve hurt someone who didn’t deserve it?”

‘Deserve’ is the interesting word here.

“Who deserves to be hurt? Is abuse something that is earned? Who gets to make that judgment, and on what basis?”

Uraraka is the brave one to weakly ask, “Police?” 

“Ah,” Shouta almost facepalms, “I realize I never assigned proper reading for this topic, my apologies. Right after class, I will email you all some studies that have mostly been kept underground. Here are only some statistics pulled from those studies. I’ll write them down now.”

‘70% of villains come from abusive homes and below the poverty line.’

‘40% of policemen self-reported to being domestic abusers - how many unreported?’ 

‘80% of sexual-assault offenders are not arrested, despite evidence that murder convictions have been sentenced for less on.’

‘73% of federal prisoners are serving time for non-violent offenses and have no history of violence.’

‘60% of the top fifty heroes have committed criminal acts, yet remain unpunished.’

He waits as his students write down these statistics in their notebooks. He only continues when every single face has looked back up at him.

“Earlier on, I spoke about how people’s needs change, based on what they’re given. It is against the law to steal. However, basic necessities like food, shelter, water, diapers, pads and tampons are not free. Everyone needs to work in order to make money, yet our society’s job markets are often closed or extremely restricted to convicted felons, equally for both violent and non-violent offenders. 

“The law makes no difference between someone shoplifting a luxury handbag, and shoplifting a sandwich. So, what our current justice system is essentially telling our society is that people should starve, because of pre-defined morality. That people should let themselves descend to slow death, because that is what our society has deemed is ‘right’. 

“I am not trying to make you all feel shame for the way our society works. You’re just kids. You are all incredibly gifted, and incredibly privileged, kids. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. To pick yourself up from your bootstraps, you first need to have a sturdy pair of strong leather boots. Many are born without.

“Everyone wants to be a hero to ‘stop villains’. What I want you all to think about is prevention. How can our society lower these numbers? How can we stop a crime before it’s committed, rather than immediately punish someone once that crime is committed? How can we help reintegrating convicted felons into our society, so that they don’t end up in these prisons a second, and a third time? 

“And I want you all to also question — who actually benefits from a criminal being punished? Our society, our governments, or our heroes?”

His students look conflicted. Worried, sad, betrayed, afraid and confused. 

Shouta looks at the clock and realizes he’s almost out of time.

He puts the marker down, “I want you all to do the reading I’ve emailed you, and write a one-page reflection on how you would like to be a part of villain prevention once you debut as a Pro-Hero. No goals are too big or too small. I encourage you all to use your imagination, use your empathy, and use the information you’ve learned from me, and your classmates. Does that sound alright?”

His students slowly nod.

“Alright. Thank you all for listening. My door is always open if you have questions or just generally want to talk. Class dismissed.”

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chapter 4 excerpt — eraserhead interrogates endeavor read full story here

Meanwhile, that same evening.

“You don’t want a lawyer?”

This is the strangest week Shouta has ever had, and it’s Monday.

Society’s Number One Hero sits hunched over a cold metal table and paints a shameful picture. Even in his twenty-some years of heroism, being the one to arrest society’s Symbol of Peace feels like a universal prank. He’s been waiting for a civilian camera crew to burst through the doors with cheers of, ‘Tricked ya! Look at your face, aw, man, we got you so good!’, for the past ten minutes. When the eleventh minute begins and nothing of the sort happens, Shouta’s gut sinks to a place solely reserved for Eraserhead: the Underground Hero.

Blue eyes, so much like his son’s, make contact with his own as Endeavor slowly shakes his head, ‘no,’ to the question asked.

Regardless of the situation’s absurdity, regardless of his own unease to take down hero-society’s last remaining pillar, and regardless of all his seemingly-prophetic anxieties that beg him to follow the status quo, Eraserhead took a Hero’s oath. And though Dabi is undoubtedly a villain, Touya is human, utterly so, and that stubborn oath demands his protection.

Pushing off the wall he’s been leaning on, Shouta steps towards the table and clasps his hands behind his back, “I have to inform you that anything you do or say can, and will, be held against you in a court of law.” 

An almost serene look takes over Endeavor’s face. Thick, auburn brows soften with the faintest downward tick of his lips, “I know the recited rights.” 

“Not even going to try and defend yourself?” 

“I came here for a reason. Do your job, Aizawa-san, before I change my mind.”

‘Well,’ Shouta thinks, ‘At least he still likes to get straight to the point. Can’t say the same for his son.’

When Shouta is settled into his own opposing chair, he places both Todoroki Enji and Touya’s closed files on the table, strategically within sight. He sets his folded hands in the space between them.

“Alright, then. Tell me why you are here today, Endeavor-san.”

Shouta makes a mental note of the minuscule twitch between the skin of Endeavor’s eyebrows at the mention of his hero name. Shouta has known Endeavor for a long time, and with time comes familiarity. Endeavor had called Shouta by his name, but Shouta will remain from doing the same because the Todoroki Enji he thought he knew has turned out to be nothing but the manufactured caricature of a false god. 

As he’d done with Dabi, Shouta will let the nature of this conversation reinvent the shackled man, outside the gimmick of his flashy and fierce flames.

Endeavor takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Shouta wonders what the man is hesitant to face — the guilt of his crimes, or the fear of judgment? Perhaps both.

Blue eyes snap open, and a chill runs down Shouta’s spine. 

“Ten years ago, I killed my eldest son. I covered it up, and I made everyone else do the same. Up until the last two months, I’ve lived believing he was gone, trying to atone through my work.”

“What happened two months ago?”

Endeavor sighs and shifts, the metal chair creaking awfully under his mass, “I responded to a distress call — a fire-user destroying property, calling out for my name, specifically. I knew it was Dabi, but when I got there, he — ” 

Endeavor chokes. Cuffed hands cover his face and drag down, ruffling the coarse hairs of his eyebrows before his hands settle over his mouth. His eyes, no longer on Shouta, glaze over, and there is a moment of complete silence. 

As if put on pause, Endeavor sits frozen with his hands over his mouth and trapped ghosts stuck on his tongue. Shouta readies to prod further before an awed whisper fights through the gaps of Endeavor’s thick fingers, “He was right there.”

The temperature of the room drops ten degrees, and Shouta has so many questions — so many questions — but the most important, most inappropriate, and most confusing one Shouta wants an answer to is, ‘Why are you not afraid?’

But that is a question between friends, and Shouta is not in the mood to pretend.

So, he settles with, “Why does this matter now?”

Endeavor blinks and folds his hands, lays them at the edge of the table, close to his chest, and Shouta has never seen the man look so small.

Endeavor clears his throat and says, “Because I took a Hero’s Oath, but unlike you, I haven’t lived up to it for so long,” Blue eyes start to mist with a wet voice, “Because my son is alive, and it’s time I give him what he’s needed all along.”

Shouta doesn’t know what to say in response, so he channels Eraserhead and opens Todoroki Touya’s file, and gets down to it.

“According to your son’s file, along with the statements he gave us, there are almost twenty charges he accuses you of,” and it takes what feels like hours to read all of them out, Endeavor’s head and shoulders sagging with every count. 

“In conclusion, you were abusive to your son, Todoroki Touya, ever since he was five years old. You continued to abuse him up till the night of his so-called ‘death’. Ten years ago, in an attempt to train your child to All Might’s level of power, experience, and presence — you ended up burning Todoroki Touya an inch from death. Todoroki Touya was then hospitalized and put in a medically-induced coma in an attempt to save his life. Three years later, Todoroki Touya woke up from his coma and ran away, with the aid of a nurse. Your family was told Todoroki Touya had passed, and his death was labeled as an accident by yours and the Hero Commission’s authority. Does all of that coincide with your side of the story, Endeavor-san?”

‘Say no. Please,’ Shouta begs in his mind. 

“Yes. It’s true, all of it.”

Disgust wells up in Shouta’s heart, “Is that all you have to say for yourself?” 

And maybe Eraserhead wouldn’t have gone down this route of questioning, maybe Eraserhead would have left the man to rot in this cold interrogation room because he did his job, and he got the confession — so why is Shouta not satisfied? 

Blue eyes, wide with shock at the accusation, so much like his son’s, so much like his son’s —

“What else is there to say? I came here to tell the truth, Aizawa-san, not give you my reasons. Do you really believe they matter?” 

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

“I’ve answered all your questions. Will you grant me the same privilege?”

Shouta scoffs, “I think you’ve had enough privilege to last you a lifetime, Endeavor-san.”

Whatever fire was gearing up within the Symbol of Peace dies in shame. The man cannot look Shouta in the eyes, and instead stares at his son’s file, still held in Shouta’s hands.

“... Is he here?” 

Shouta closes the file and sets it back on the table, “To whom are you referring to?” 

“You know who. My son.”

Shouta wonders if Endeavor is avoiding saying his son’s name, “Which one? You seem to have many.” 

“Is T — ” Endeavor takes a deep breath and finally looks up, “... Is Touya here? Is he still… alive?” His voice cracks on the last word. 

‘Finally.’ 

Because confession means nothing if you cannot name the ones you’ve wronged.

“You know the citizen’s rights, Endeavor-san. Even villains have them — the right to privacy.” 

Shouta does not expect the desperation bleeding through the Symbol’s voice, “You’ve never cared about those rights when we worked together in the past, Aizawa-san.” 

“I’m not working with you right now,” Shouta corrects, re-confirms the position they are both in, and the weight of it drops like a stone on their shoulders. He asks, “Why do you care about the status of Todoroki Touya?”

Because confession means nothing if you cannot respect the boundaries of the people you’ve wronged.

Endeavor looks at him as if the roles are reversed, as if he has the right to feel betrayed, lost, appalled, “He’s my son — ”  

“ — The son you’re confessing to have killed — or, sorry, attempted.”  

Cuffed hands bang on the metal table, and the sound echoes to remind Shouta that Endeavor does not need his quirk to uphold the reputation of his brute strength, “That! It — what happened was not my intention! I was trying to make him strong! I wanted him to survive — ”

“ — And now, here we are,” Shouta cuts him off sternly, “Medical examiners have looked over Todoroki Touya these last few days. They are shocked as to how he’s even lived this long.”

Shouta knows he’s prodding, and doing it mostly out of his own personal feelings. Shouta is a man who has dedicated the rest of his working life to the upbringing of children, he is a teacher, and the only thing he’s dreamt of these last few nights when he’s able to squeeze in a couple hours of sleep is the last official picture of Todoroki Touya — face fat with youth and blue eyes empty with death lurking through the white bandages wrapped around his throat.

He wonders how many other children he’s missed. How many Touyas are out there on the brink of suffocation by their first hero’s hands?

 ‘I recognize something in him,’ Dabi had told Shouta when talking about Bakugou Katsuki, ‘It’s the same thing that’s in me.’

Endeavor rubs a rough hand across his eye, moisture settling in the dark circles underneath and smearing a trail to his temple. He takes a deep breath and exhales, loud and long as if he’s counting.

“I was wrong,” He admits, “I am trying... to do right. By him. To give him... peace.”

Shouta has to make sure, “And what about your duty as Number One, as the Symbol of Peace for hero-society?”

Endeavor shakes his head rapidly, “Aizawa-san, please... Prioritizing my — my horribly skewed idea of heroism above my family is how we all got here, just like you said. 

“Touya, Dabi, this person my thirteen-year-old son has grown into over the years... He will not find peace if I am to go unpunished,” Tears finally start to fall down his newly scarred face, and this time Endeavor is too worked up to wipe them away, “He is... burnt flesh held together by cheap office stationery, because of me. The one person I was supposed to protect and be a hero to... I have two options.” 

Endeavor looks up as if begging for retribution, “Gods, I’ve always had these two fucking options, and I have always chosen the wrong one. But today… I come as a father.” 

Endeavor clears his throat and opens his hands in plea on the metal table, a familiar hardened resolve clearing blue eyes, “And I won’t pretend I know anything about fatherhood, but I’m choosing him. For the first time, I’m choosing Touya, and the sake of him will be the last decision I will ever make.

“I want this, Aizawa-san. So please, do not make this harder for me than it already is. Book me, send me for processing, and set up my trial-date.”

It is at this moment, Shouta realizes something important. 

He realizes that even while claiming to be selfless, Endeavor is going about this situation, not in the way of a father, but in the way of a hero. Vile punishment for a viciously committed sin — the only black and white consequence Endeavor has modeled his whole life after. A life he has chosen to end permanently, today. 

Shouta wonders if Endeavor’s sacrifice will either bellow or smother the vengeful fire that’s been kindling under Touya’s charred ribs for years. Hope was a luxury he tossed out his dorm window a lifetime ago, but, still, he prays to an unfamiliar God it’s the latter.

“Alright. Thank you for your cooperation, Enji-san.” He gathers the files on the table and stands up to leave. He walks to the door but hesitates when his hand twists the doorknob.

“... He might kill me for telling you but, to answer your previous question — yes, Touya is alive and safe. 

He doesn’t look back as he leaves, but he doesn’t need his eyes to recognize the relieved sob of a poorly-reunited parent.

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chapter 4 excerpt — seroroki first kiss read full story here

“When did you start smoking?” 

“Smokin’ what?” Sero’s native accent bleeds into the night fog of his exhale.

“Whatever you’re smoking right now.”

Sero laughs, and it’s rough in all the best ways — raspy, deep, loud enough to bounce off the moon back into Shouto’s lungs.

“It’s just a cigarette, Shou. Started when I was, fuck, thirteen, I think?”

‘Oh, that’s quite — ’, “Young.”

It makes sense, in a way. Sero holds the cigarette with a lazy respect Shouto has only seen his eldest brother uphold. Sero’s voice, upped with the hormones of a teenage boy, scratches on the same words Shouto’s own would hold steady. Even the way Sero sits, in that same corner of his dorm balcony every night Shouto visits, speaks of years of habit. His lithe body folded like a discarded stall pretzel — propped, knobby knees to rest his bulky elbows, the back of his head laid back against his balcony door for easier exhale, leaving his stretched throat vulnerable to Shouto’s quite appalling fantasies. 

Shouta has never wanted someone so badly.

“Yeah, well,” Hanta continues, “Not much else to do in my house.”

Shouto remembers.

[ 11 months ago, April — Second Week of U.A., First Year

The door slams shut, and Shouto is finally by himself. 

He's beyond thankful the school offers boarding to students who cannot — or simply do not wish to — commute from home. The room U.A. assigned him is smaller than his own at the Todoroki estate but it’s his to do with what he pleases, away from the surveillance of his father and the suffocating silence of his older siblings.

He needs air, and with his own balcony, he doesn’t even have to leave his room to get it. 

To say Shouto is… nervous for his first year at U.A. is an understatement. He’d never been to school before, never spoken to so many strangers at once, and he wasn’t even the one talking the majority of the time. He understands the novelty of it all, though — the last son of the Number Two hero, and everyone is itching to ask, ‘What’s it like having such a great hero as a father?’

Well, everyone except his dorm neighbor, who’s apparently been too busy destroying his lungs the next balcony over.

“I think that’s definitely against school-rules.”

The boy startles from where he sits, sucks in a deep breath, and coughs so heavily that Shouto thinks the guy might die. He doesn’t. Instead, the boy’s cough subsides after a few long seconds and he takes a deep inhale before clearing his throat and looking up to meet Shouto’s curious gaze.

This is the moment Shouto thinks Sero Hanta has the largest pair of eyes he’s ever seen. Wide black irises framed by lashes so thick, Shouto wonders if the boy is wearing makeup.

Pale eyelids shut briefly before the boy coughs out a nervous laugh, “Fuck, uh… You gonna tell on me, or sumthn?”

Shouto thinks about it, or pretends to, and tilts his head to the side while his eyes roam over the relaxed form of the delinquent in question. Maybe it was the situation — someone finally asking him something that doesn’t revolve around his family —  or, maybe, it was the sleepy accent from a devil-may-care demeanor Shouto hasn’t really encountered before, “No. Provided you let me keep you company.”

This is the moment Shouto also realizes Sero Hanta has the biggest smile he’s ever seen.

Large, slightly crooked teeth glint under a night with no moon and Shouto doesn’t understand why his hands feel so sweaty — he usually has excellent quirk control.

“Yeah man, c’mon on over,” Shouto hops over the rails of both balconies and settles next to the boy, despite his sensitive nose twinging from the bitter smoke, “Couldn’t sleep?

Gulping whatever anxiety lingers in his throat, Shouto nods, “New environment.” 

“Yeah,” Sero snorts, “This is nothin’ like home.”

Shouto doesn’t want to talk about his home, “What is your home like?”

Sero takes a puff of his cigarette before his words come out thick with smoke, “Oof, gettin’ deep ‘n personal already. Y’know what they say about the midnight-hours.”

Shouto doesn’t, “What do they say?”

“Somethin’ ‘bout the stars loosenin’ the tongue.” 

Shouto rolls his tongue over his teeth, “My tongue is still firmly attached,” He doesn’t think the stars could have such a quirk. 

Sero laughs, and Shouto’s not really sure what he said that’s so funny but, Gods, does he wish he knew, because Sero’s lips are stretched wide over his teeth and the tip of his tongue is so pink, “Ah man, how I wish I was smokin’ somethin’ else,” At that, Shouto furrows his brows in confusion, and Sero waves his hand assuringly with the cigarette still lit between two fingers, “Nah, it’s, like, a ‘poetic’ way of saying how people are more likely to be — you know, vulnerable, at night.”

‘Ah, a metaphor,’ Shouto thinks, ‘Like when I bought Fuyumi-nee that sweater she was eyeing for weeks before her birthday and she said she was, ‘so happy, she could die.’ Thankfully, she did not die.’

Shouto nods, “I see… I was not allowed poetry.”

Sero hums, “Didn’t really have access to it, either. Schools were shit in my area.” 

To say Shouto was intrigued would be an understatement. Maybe he felt some kind of kinship with the smoking boy whose shoulder warms the right of his. Maybe he was desperate to hear someone else’s story rather than repeat the manicured version of his own for the dozenth time. Maybe he wondered if their stories could be more similar than either of them would think.

“Where are you from? You have an accent you cover up. Why?”

“Slow down, man,” Sero laughs and Shouto’s shoulders shake with it, “I’m not from the city. Some nowhere-village, you wouldn’t’ve heard of it,” Dark eyes twinkle with something that feels like a shared secret, “But yeah, I'll give you that. I’m tryin’ to, y’know, fit in ‘n whatnot.”

“I understand,” Shouto knows all too well about exclusion, “I… don’t think I fit in.” 

Sero smiles, “Well. Ya got a spot right here, in this lil’ smoker’s den of mine — ours, if you want it.”

And Shouto’s heart skips a long beat for the first time in his little life. ]

Shouto smiles at the memory. 

Over this past year, Sero’s balcony became his solace. A place to vent and scream and curse at the moon. A lighthouse to guide his shivering body out of the roaring oceans of hurt and anger that perpetually marinate in the slim meat of his bones. The warmest blanket of the softest kind of understanding Shouto’s ever known, a constant heat to battle the eternal ice that regularly threatens to freeze him from the inside out. Out of 240 nights, Shouto has spent over half of them hopping onto cold metal that does not belong to him, to sit next to a boy who invites him to belong instead.

Sero’s balcony is where Shouto fits. It is the only place where he can take the world off his shoulders, and be the sixteen-year-old boy he would have been, had he been born under a different God. 

It is where Shouto made his first friend. (It will be where Shouto will have his first kiss.)

Because here, under the cloak of quiet galaxies and fading smoke, Shouto is a sixteen-year-old boy with a nearly ten-month-long crush on the person who was kind enough to coax him into their small, star-speckled haven, and offer it as his own.

The secret of Shouto’s affections weighs heavier every day. Touya’s words rattle in his head, ‘maybe you should just — I dunno, tell him that.’ But how? It is often said that Shouto is brave, but in the same breath, Shouto would argue that he has spent the majority of his life alone, with nothing to lose, and he believes bravery without sacrifice shallows itself down to the same arrogance his father suffers from.

With everything that’s happened recently with Touya, with his father under arrest, it doesn’t make sense how, at this moment, the only thing on Shouto’s mind is the way Sero Hanta’s lips wrap over that cancer stick, and how much Shouto wants to lean in and take its place, grab that pointed chin between his own chilly fingers and plead, ‘breathe me in, instead.’  

However, losing the peace Sero offers him to a silly moment of desire is not something Shouto thinks he is ready for.

Shouto looks away to mentally shake off his thoughts, and lands on the first thing he sees — a familiar, worn cigarette pack with a unique design oddly felicitous to Sero, “The box is pretty.” 

‘It fits you.’

Rogue blue waves rising up to meet a dark sky with an overly bright and full moon. Shouto likens the design to finding serenity in the reality of mother nature's chaos. 

Sero takes the box and thumbs over the design absent-mindedly, “Yeah, it used to be the only brand I smoked, really. A bit of a nuisance, though, fuckin’ hard to find — one of those, if you know you know.” He flips the box open, “It’s kinda dumb, but I usually just put the ciggs I buy now in this pack ‘n throw away the original box.”

“Did it taste better than others?” Shouto thinks it must have, to be Sero’s favorite. 

“Huh, well, not really. ‘S more like, sentimental value, I guess,” Sero’s laugh rings like rusted, broken bells, “All of ‘em taste the same, really, one way or another. Some’re just extra, y’know, harsh on the throat.” 

Shouto thinks that judging by the smell alone, smoking still doesn’t sound very pleasant, “I’ve heard it tastes bad. It smells… strong.” 

The shrug of Sero’s shoulder bumps his own in a blissful moment of contact, “Ya get used to it.”

Now, Shouto knows his face tends to be quite expressive — for someone who wasn’t allowed to express much growing up — and so, when Sero looks at him and ticks the corner of his lip in a way Shouto has only ever seen a handful of times when Sero would talk about the more cheeky experiences of his life, he knows he’s been caught. “Why? You wanna try?”

“I don’t know,” He really doesn’t know but the lowered lid of Sero’s large eyes makes Shouto want to try anything, just to keep that dark gaze on him for a few seconds longer.

Sero lays the cigarette box down and scoots closer. The left side of Shouto’s face fills with blood and the heat makes him woozy. 

‘Is this what it’s like to feel drunk?’

Shouto can’t really think about yet another teen experience he fears missing out on because there are cool, slender fingers grasping his chin the same way Shouto daydreamed about minutes ago. 

Sero briefly turns his head away to take a long drag of his cigarette before facing Shouto again, his whispering mouth barely a centimeter from his own, “C’mere.”

And Shouto listens, leans, lets his body loosen to the calloused thumb pulling at his bottom lip, and opens his mouth. As if on autopilot, at the sound of Sero’s exhale and the reality of being this close to a boy Shouto has spent countless, dreamless nights with — Shouto inhales.

Something rushes to his brain. The smoked tar itches his throat but Shouto was born with the breath of fire. When he exhales, there is a tightness in his chest but Shouto knows it is not the nicotine that affects him so, but the boy whose bottom lip grazes his own and lingers in the lightest caress of a question Shouto has known the answer to for months.

All it takes is the tip of Sero’s strong nose nuzzling the side of his own for Shouto to throw all his cautions to the windless night, lean in, and press.

Sero’s soft kiss is everything he imagined it would be, and more.

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