Hey everyone! I was convinced to participate in the @bnha-big-bang this year by @purekesseltrash because they have a habit of bullying convincing me to write more and cause immense psychological damage to others :)
Coincidentally @purekesseltrash was also my beta reader for this which is the first time I've ever had a beta reader in my life so if my writing seems slightly better thank them
I also had a ton of great artists on this, like big thanks to @shabby-illustrations, @coslyons, @echodreamer, and @thespiciestbonesofall for all the beautiful art and extra musical inspiration, this story has been wildly difficult to do and I can't thank you enough for making amazing art <3
Anyways, without further ado, welcome to Crumbled Rooftops! There's a preview of the first chapter under the cut, and here's the ao3 link!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
"What's the first thing you remember?"
The two of them, reaching for him from the other side.
A name, a plea, voices that spark fragments of memories into him, pieces of someone else.
It's all he can muster in the quiet that has settled in the room. He doesn't feel like talking much today, watching the violet mist swirl up around his hands and thinking about what little he remembers.
"Can I ask you to elaborate?"
Oboro was one week out of what Hizashi had called Celebrity Rehab as a way to cheer him up, and he was already in mandated therapy. One whole week to get used to the awkwardness that came with needing to live with his⊠best friends? Certainly there were fragments that confirmed this, but the part of him that still didn't feel like Oboro felt it safer to remain distanced from them. The surprise addition of a child- Eri- had also thrown him for a loop, although so far he felt that she was the most unconcerned about his existence in the house.
He sighs, trying to make the mist dissipate and failing. Usually he can keep it at bay, but sometimes he can't, and he's more than aware of the uncertainty in everyone's looks when they notice. Everyone who knows, that is.
"I heard⊠a name. My name, I guess. And then it was like waking up for the first time in years, and my friends were there, and they were older. Then that's it."
He doesn't tell Tsukiko about the clash that happened in the brief moment before he went under again.
About how he'd felt this pull to the two behind the glass even though he felt as if he barely knew them, and how the part of him that still belonged to the League pulled back.
About how he's not quite sure if he really is Oboro or Kurogiri, because his memories from the past 15 years are far clearer than the fragments from before.
His therapist looks at him like she expects more, like she knows that there's more beneath the surface than just that. But this is only his first real visit, after Hizashi had tracked down someone who specialized in unique situations. The last "session" had been explaining what the circumstances were and why he needed therapy.
Or rather, why it was mandated that he be here.
"You recognized your friends?"
"I think so? I'm not sure if it was because they were talking about knowing me or not, but it feels likeâŠ"
There's a rooftop, and a gloomy looking teen who tenses in his presence until, one day, he doesn't.
There's a bright grin and a loud voice and goofy sunglasses, someone who is inseparable from him until, one dayâŠ
Behind the glass, there's a gloomy looking hero and some loud voice with goofy sunglasses, and they're both calling his name together.
"Sorry, I⊠I think I did recognize them."
"Your memories of them are harder to retrieve than your memories as Kurogiri, correct?"
As always, it feels odd to be referred to as if Kurogiri is gone. Oboro doesn't feel separate from Kurogiri, not in the way that he probably should. But he answered the questions the doctor at the rehab center asked well enough to leave, so someone thought Kurogiri was gone.
"Yeah. It's like- there's a fog. They're there, but they're not." He can't explain it. Often they don't even feel like his memories, like they're something that belong to someone else. He hates it.
"It's okay to not be able to explain it. You've been through a traumatic situation. It stands to reason that there will be some things that are lost."
He doesn't want them to be lost.
He wants those memories to be as clear as the ones from Kurogiri, and he doesn't know if they ever will be.
"Do you think there's a way they can come back?"
It feels like the quiet stretches between them for far longer than the seconds that tick on the clock.
"Considering the circumstances, I'm not entirely sure. A lot of times victims of trauma lose memories around the event, but this is a very different situation." Tsukiko says it carefully, like she doesn't want to disappoint him, but disappointment settles in his chest anyways, heavy and cold, and what little progress he'd had pulling back the mist is reversed.
Unlike with Hizashi or Shouta, however, Tsukiko doesn't react to it in any way.
"Okay. Yeah. That makes sense."
"However, I think as time goes on, there is a chance for things to change. Would you say you feel the same as you did when you first woke up?"
He has to think about it, for longer than he feels he should.
He isn't sure, really. To him, it was just as sudden and shocking a week ago as it was that first time behind the glass, but things were clearer last week. Like being able to grasp his name and enough details for someone else to say he was good to leave.
"That's a sign of progress, no matter how small. It's something we can work with."
And for a moment, no matter how mandated this is, he believes her.
