Summary: A beat passed between them, each taking in the other. Despite the desert night cloaking most of Lotor’s figure, Hunk still caught sight of the deep crevices rimming his eyes. “Yellow paladin,” Lotor said, relaxing his arm. A flash of violet light enveloped his fingers and a moment later, his sword disappeared. "I apologize. I did not realize it was you." [Post-Canon] / AO3 Link: HERE
A/N: For the @voltronrarepairflashbang! I chose Lotor/Hunk because they’re the rarest of my rare pairs and they both deserve copious amount of love and affection. My artist was @squirrelnova and she did an amazing job with the colors and the ambience of my little piece. Thank you so much for your time and commitment - it’s been a pleasure working with you! Please see their work HERE.
Hunk had to be honest: Lotor bordering the edge of the Galaxy Garrison's roof, arms crossed and face lifted towards the moon? Little unnerving.
Though not surprising. Lotor seemed like the type to brood and isolate himself as others reveled in the joy of victory. He recalled when they found him on the steps of the bridge, his eyes hard and fingers twisted together, claws digging into his thick gloves. Sure, he'd just killed his father, but they’d struck a tremendous blow to the Galra Empire. If not for Lotor, Zarkon and Haggar, infused with Oriande alchemy, may have proved too difficult to overcome.
(Had it not been for Lotor, Haggar wouldn't have found Oriande at all).
"Great," Hunk sighed, scratching at his shoulder. If he left the door ajar and backed onto the staircase, maybe Lotor wouldn't notice. His frame was still and pristine, like a porcelain doll inside a sparkling glass case. Only the ends of his hair swayed against his uniform, giving life to his otherwise static form. "Wanted to wallow and got beat by the prime prince of wallowing himself. Absolutely peachy."
Lotor's ears twitched as Hunk's exasperated mumbles tapered off, his shoulders stiffening further, his legs rigid. Hunk held his breath, hopeful Lotor would compose himself if silence filled the rooftop yet again. Just keep quiet, ease your foot back...
But Lotor turned instead, his eyes nearly luminescent against the blackened desert. While his fingers stood curled around his arms, Lotor's words cut into the night, every syllable laced with calculated intimidation, "I know you're there. Show yourself and perhaps I'll let such a naïve assassination attempt slide."
Hunk winced, berating his lack of insight. Even a wallowing Lotor continued to survey his surroundings, picking up on sounds and sights others assumed trivial. One victory wouldn't change that.
Another five seconds passed before Lotor turned his entire form to the door, unlatching his hands from his chest, his right arm tense and his fingers prepared to squeeze his sword's polished hilt. The door cast a shadow over Hunk, keeping his face hidden. "Come out, craven. You're not making this easy on yourself."
Hunk's nerves swelled against his skin and his neck flushed despite the desert's dry chill. Lotor wasn't one for the slow approach either. He'd always been in a rush - to find Oriande, to build his ships, to enter the quintessence field, to wipe Allura and Voltron completely from the -
"So be it," Lotor growled and took a step forward, his slim blade materializing beneath his grasp. "May your god be merciful, for I'll not be."
Oh shit.
Hunk lunged out of the door, his pulse throbbing across his collarbone, making it difficult to breathe or speak. One fist clutched the doorknob while the other clenched his sweatshirt, his heartbeat hot and quick beneath the thick fabric. "Lo-Lotor! It's me - it's just your Hunk - oh my gosh, I mean, it's Hunk! You know..."
He trailed, swallowing a hefty chunk of air. Lotor stopped his approach, his eyes as wide as a pair of twin yellow moons. Hunk briefly wondered if Lotor would take such a notion as a compliment. "The yellow paladin of Voltron?"
A beat passed between them, each taking in the other. Despite the desert night cloaking most of Lotor’s figure, Hunk still caught sight of the deep crevices rimming his eyes. “Yellow paladin,” Lotor said, relaxing his arm. A flash of violet light enveloped his fingers and a moment later, his sword disappeared. "I apologize. I did not realize it was you."
Hunk tried to chuckle, but the sound felt stiff and weary against his throat. Cool: Hunk had to keep cool. Alarming Lotor any farther could prove detrimental. "Yeah, sorry about that! I was coming up here to stargaze - couldn't sleep, you know - and saw you got here first. I tried to leave, but you found me out anyway, heh..."
Another moment flickered by and Hunk's heart stuttered in anticipation. God, had he ever been alone with Lotor? This was new territory. Something unsettling… and yet, not unwelcome.
"I could leave if that's what you desire," Lotor said, his face blank, hiding any feelings on such a proposal. "This facility has other roofs I can sleep on, I'm sure."
"Uhh," Hunk blinked and released his hold on the door. "You want to sleep out here? I don't know much about Altean-Galra hybrids, but an advanced resilience to freezing desert nights seems pretty slim.”
A mix of a snicker and a cough escaped Lotor, his lips twitching in the barest of smiles, "I'm afraid it has nothing much to do with want, paladin, and everything to do with necessity."
"Oh." Right. Half the people inside wanted him dead. The other half, imprisoned for the rest of his foreseeable future. Not the most comforting of environments to sleep in. "But everyone's asleep now! I'm sure you can sneak into one of the community rooms and crash on a couch. Little lumpy and might smell like dirty socks, but it's better than a steel roof."
"Then what happens once morning arrives?" Lotor asked, turning his face until his eyes captured the moon once more. "If even you stumble in my presence, then invitations for a hot breakfast or a warm shower will be near impossible to find."
If even you. Hunk’s body warmed at the words, every syllable sloshing across his stomach like a satisfying cup of hot cocoa. Hunk couldn't decode them just yet, but... Lotor thought Hunk different. Someone not beyond his reach.
Lotor stood by them as they claimed victory over Haggar and her druids, over the rift creatures that threatened to consume the entire universe. And still, no one trusted him. Not Shiro, not Keith, and especially not Lance or Allura. And it was in their right to do so.
Hunk, however... Hunk remembered Lotor's arm around his shoulders, his mouth close enough that Hunk could feel his soft, playful words brush his cheeks. How he smiled when Allura thanked him for all his knowledge. When his ears dipped and he frowned at Lance's teasing.
Such things were unforgettable.
"Well, here's an invitation for you," Hunk grinned, waiting for Lotor's gaze to fix back onto him. His brows twisted in doubt, the moonlight highlighting his worn eyes and pale lips. "I have a room and extra blankets. You'd probably fit into a few of my shirts, too."
The reply was immediate. "Why?"
Still keeping his guard up, Hunk thought, fighting the urge to laugh. "I'm tired. You're tired. I have a completely unoccupied room no one else can use. And if you need a reason, consider it payback for using one of your sentries as a lesson in robotic autonomy."
Lotor crinkled his nose, nostrils flaring in mild disapproval, "You did what to one of my sentries?"
"See? Payback!" Hunk exclaimed, lobbing his hands into the breeze. "Come on. It’s past midnight and once morning hits, someone’s gonna be knocking on my door demanding a plate of muffins and cinnamon rolls." That someone would positively be Lance, but that tidbit could remain unvoiced.
Hunk shifted his feet towards the door, encouraging Lotor to join him. The man beside him hesitated, his expression fiddling between uncertainty and longing. "Are you sure, paladin? I don't... I would not want to make you uncomfortable."
The words pricked at his skull, reminding Hunk of why he'd meandered onto the roof. After the day's battle (after the war's decisive and relieving end), everyone else drifted off with their respective families and loved ones, leaving Hunk alone with the cool evening breeze and the dwindling sunshine.
Alone in his dorm, his eyes stood locked on the ceiling and his fists bunched the blankets above him. His eyes had stung, his chest heavy and legs weak, but something within him jittered, driving him to stay awake.
He supposed as Lotor stared at him, a hint of desperation wafting over his imposing figure, this might have been why.
"I'm sure," Hunk beamed, hoping his expression radiated enough warmth. He wanted to assure Lotor, guide him back to his room with Hunk’s fingers clasped onto his forearm. But that could prove too forward, too much in such a little span of time. Lotor had helped them, but he'd done a lot of damage, too. Everyone else had already severed their ties to him, Allura included.
But both could use the company, and Hunk deserved a warm body to rest beside.
"And it's Hunk," he said, his smile widening. "Not yellow paladin. Just Hunk."
Lotor tested the name against his lips, voice faint and smooth, “Hunk.” The curious lilt tickled Hunk's neck and pleasurable goosebumps shot across his shoulders. Well. Maybe that was a bad idea. "Thank you. Your kindness is truly appreciated." He returned Hunk’s smile, eyes gentle.
"No problem," Hunk weakly chuckled, ducking his head into his hoodie, praying the vibrant red staining his cheeks would fade soon enough.
What’s fucking me up with Voltron is how bad they are with developing, maintaining, and balancing relationship dynamics. Especially with ones that are supposed to be meaningful. For example (and more under the cut):
Axca and Lotor. What the hell did Lotor do for Axca that made her so unwaveringly loyal? Why did she continue to work with him (in ~~secret~~) even after he killed Narti, her fellow general and comrade? We have no idea WHY she’s this way – she and Lotor don’t really talk to one another unless it’s battle exposition. And that goes for all his generals, but Axca is shown to care and protect Lotor at a substantially deeper level. But what we are not shown (or told) is the pivotal WHY. Hell, we know and understand her relationship with Keith more than with Lotor! We actually saw those two bond and the audience can understand Axa’s struggle to fight/kill him in combat. We have no idea how Axca got to that point with Lotor, why it’s so hard for her to leave him. Since it’s meant to be a meaningful relationship you would think the writers would have them interact outside of battle – what motivates Axca to stick around, discussing old times. WHATEVER. Just something so the audience understands why she’s so ride or die for this dude!
Hunk and Lance. We’re told these two are best friends. In fact, the writers have stated that Hunk and Lance are supposed to have one of the strongest bonds on the team. And initially, we were shown that. But as the seasons rolled, the two often just take cheap shots at each other. And it never seems particularly friendly – Lance kind of tells Hunk to shut up A LOT, and Hunk teases Lance excessively, to the point where it’s outright mean (like when Lance is hurting over Allura’s growing feelings for Lotor. If these two are really best friends, Hunk should notice the change and comfort Lance rather than shoving it in his face that Lotor and Allura are probably gonna get together. Like where’s the sympathy??) Which, sure, best friends do all of that: they tease, they laugh at the other’s expense at times. But that can’t be the entirety of a friendship. Especially if they’re supposed to have as strong of a bond as Shiro and Keith. So, how did they become friends? Why are they so important to each other? What do they like doing together? Where are the little interactions that convey to the audience that these two have a history and that history is pivotal to their dynamic? You know, that strong bond we were told about? It’s never really explored and makes that statement pretty damn hollow.
Allura and Pidge. They have this great scene in the first season, where Allura WANTS to befriend Pidge because she finds out she’s not surrounded by a bunch of dudes. She obviously wants female companionship. But then they don’t explore it! They barely talk! When was the last time they talked for more than five seconds on-screen about anything other than battle or strategy? Like yeah, they got that one scene this season in episode 3, but that’s it. We know nothing of their friendship, if they have anything in common, if they have little “sleepovers” or “girl’s night” to distress and get away from all the testosterone in the castle. We don’t have anything except that one scene from season one – that was their last meaningful interaction!! We only have 1/3rd of this fucking show left and you’re telling me the two girls on this team have less than a handful of decent/meaningful interactions? I mean, I’m not surprised given that these writers were also responsible for Korra and Asami only interacting once for five seconds in all of season 2.
Hunk and Shiro. Developed a solid relationship in the first season only for it to be squandered. Again, don’t interact outside of battle/strategy all that much (though this is a problem with Hunk’s underutilized character in general. And he JUST started getting development again – in Season 7!! Holy shit!!)
Keith and Allura. You would think the canon couple of most incarnations of this franchise would interact more. But after season 2 and the whole reverse racism plot, they’ve had like what? Two scenes together? Maybe three??
Shiro and Lance. Probably the biggest bomb of all this shit. One of our first establishing moments for Lance is when he yells that Shiro is his hero. He has another when Shiro offers his hand and Lance hesitates, seemingly because this is his hero and he gets to work alongside him. But then that angle is never explored again! Not with Keith and how he’s buddy-buddy with Shiro. Not with Lance trying to seek validation from Shiro during battles. We get little tidbits here and there – like when Shiro says “that’s why we bring our sharpshooter.” And obviously Season 5 explored their relationship to some extent. But it’s never through the lens the first episode established and what the audience expected. Where was the hero-worship? Where was Lance realizing Shiro is fallible and makes mistakes? And even when they DID receive development in season 5 – it didn’t go anywhere! Lance doesn’t solve Shiro’s mystery – Keith does. Even though this was set up as an arc between Lance and Shiro, that Lance would be a pivotal part of this arc’s conclusion – it all leads back to Keith. I’m glad the writers at least acknowledged Lance dropped the ball on all of it because of his pining, but they just made Lance completely self-centered on his own misery rather than thinking about Shiro’s problems and missteps. You know, his hero.
Zarkon and Hagger. Yeah, they unveiled their past in S3, but then Haggar never confronted Zarkon about it? They never had a conversation?? And then Zarkon just died?? Zarkon has always been a weak villain given his one-dimensional motivation and his lack of interaction with the paladins sans Shiro. But he could have been an engaging character if his relationship with Haggar was explored outside of battle exposition or plot-driven dialogue. This also applies to Sendak, Zarkon’s favorite over his own son. Why does Zarkon favor him? Why did he train him personally? We don’t know and probably never will since Zarkon is dead and Lotor is now drifting off crazy in a quintessence rift or whatever.
And hey, I get it. Some relationships are not supposed to be as important as others. Like Hunk and Coran or Pidge and Keith. Those are relationships that, yeah, we can put on the backburner since they’re not fundamental parts of the story Voltron is trying to tell and/or those relationships are not essential to the characters’ arcs or motivation. But the relationships listed above are supposed to be and were established as meaningful, as fundamental to understanding these characters and their actions throughout the plot. But when you don’t follow through on these “essential” relationships, everything rings hollow. Axca’s loyalty feels cheap and lazy, Hunk and Lance’s jives at each other are plain unfriendly, Pidge and Allura lack any real sisterhood or companionship, Hunk and Shiro feel less like teammates and more like acquaintances, and Shiro and Lance never have the dialogue/arc necessary to create and outgrow a hero/admirer relationship. This leaves the audience wondering what they’re missing, if they skipped a few scenes from “Axca betrays Lotor and plans on handing him over to Zarkon” to “Axca was actually working with Lotor the whole time even after killing her comrade.” And you shouldn’t be leaving your audience THAT mystified over such a substantial act between two characters.
It really seems that the writers are only capable of focusing on one relationship at a time. Allura’s a little lucky because she finally got relationship development with two characters simultaneously, but that was at the expense of her heart being shattered and stripping of her of any romantic agency. And of course, Shiro and Keith are THE relationship of the series, but it seems like their drama and chunk of the plot overrides and absorbs every other relationship in the show, including Pidge/Matt, Pidge/Shiro, Lotor/Allura, and Allura/Lance. After these five, it seems no one else can cultivate or develop meaningful relationships that could contribute to character development and motivation. Because of this lack of relationship building and consistency, most of these characters feel shallow even after six seasons. And it’s part of the reason why so many people latched onto Lotor when he arrived. He had a charismatic personality AND meaningful relationships that drove his motivation and progressed his arc. Besides him and maybe Shiro and Keith, none of these characters feel like they’re living. They’re not pursuing and developing relationships like real people do. They just they move through the plot and banter with whoever is standing by them at the time. And yeah, this is a plot-driven show (or that’s what I’ve been told haha), but there should be instances where essential relationships are explored and pushed further, developed. Like I love Hunk/Pidge, but why can’t those two interact with anyone else during their downtime? Why can’t Hunk have a casual conversation with Shiro about baking or Pidge talk to Allura about their research or even just hair care? Hell, Hunk and Pidge are MUCH better friends (bordering on best friends) than Hunk and Lance ever were.
Anyway that’s the end of this word vomit. Voltron has the potential to be more than it is. But it’s flattened by its flaws, and weak relationship building between their main cast is a constant reminder of that.
I’m begging writers everywhere: please stop taking a woman’s romantic agency away. Please do not present her with a choice and then promptly pluck one of those choices away via standard cliches like death or “lol he was evil all along.” When you do this - when you strip a woman of the choice to choose her partner and instead submit her to betrayal, to being used because she fell in love too fast or she let her attraction cloud her judgment - you compromise the only other choice she is left with in the narrative. Her other relationship, if she chooses to pursue it, is marred by the physical or emotional loss of another, and the readers/audience are left to wonder: would she have chosen this person willingly? Would she have realized she loved this person instead, even with another highly compatible option vying for her affection?
A “choice” that isn’t a choice but an acceptance - almost a resignation of love and happiness - is something that woman have to deal with on the daily. Women (and especially women of color) resign themselves to mediocre men who they don’t really love because they’ve been told all their lives that the love they want - the one that sweeps them off their feet, that leaves them moonstruck and whimsical - is an impossible, childish dream. It’s a fairy tale, an un-reality. It won’t happen to you. And if it does, be wary because there’s something darker underneath that charm, something that will eventually destroy you and leave you broken. My mother believes that. I believed that, and I submitted myself to a terribly unhealthy relationship because of it.
If you want two characters to fall in love - if you want them to be your endgame please develop their relationship and SHOW why they’re compatible, why they’ll eventually fall for the other. And if you want conflict with another suitor, fine. But don’t treat said character as a mere plot device that can be thrown to the side once they reveal their true colors. Please do not take away a woman’s right to choose her partner and exercise her romantic agency. Please allow little girls and teenagers to see stories of woman falling in love on their OWN terms rather than accepting another’s wants and desires because the narrative demanded it. Because there was no other choice.
I don't care how long ago @ojiroweek was. I'm doing all the prompts and you can't stop me (and yeah, I missed his birthday by almost a week. I still feel terrible about it orz).
Pairing: Ojiro/Shinsou
Summary: There's not much need or desire for an elaborate birthday ruse orchestrated by his friend, but Ojiro can roll with it. If it makes Hagakure happy, then it makes Ojiro happy, too.
AO3 Link: HERE
"Okay, okay! Just take my hand and follow my lead. And don't you dare peek!"
Ojiro chuckles as soft fingers interlace with his, "Hagakure, you put two blindfolds on me. There's no way I can see out of these."
"Yeah, that's a precaution," Hagakure replies and tugs at Ojiro's arm, her steps impatient. "This is supposed to be a surprise. I don't want it spoiled!"
Ojiro laughs again but complies with Hagakure's demands, "You got it, ma'am. I'll even keep my eyes closed."
"Good!" Hagakure exclaims and continues to lead him down the hall. She stops when they presumably reach the elevator, and Ojiro can hear her bouncing up and down against the carpeted floor, her clothes shuffling. A soft, excited hum soon escapes her as the elevator climbs up the dorm complex, and Ojiro smiles at her unbounded enthusiasm. He suspects she might even trump his joy with this whole surprise birthday party. And he's the actual birthday boy.
His birthday landed on a Monday this year, so he spent most of the day in class and training. Not like it was a bad thing: Kaminari offered to buy him lunch and Hagakure made cookies for their whole table to share. They were his favorite, too: cinnamon chip snickerdoodles. And he'd spent the weekend with his parents back home. They had gifted him with a few new outfits and a bright red running watch that could monitor his heart rate and the intensity of his workout regimes. For Ojiro, his birthday was already great. There's not much need or desire for an elaborate birthday ruse orchestrated by his friend, but Ojiro can roll with it. If it makes Hagakure happy, then it makes Ojiro happy, too.
Besides, there's something about this whole escapade - walking into the elevator blindfolded, Hagakure's hand wound tight around his - that warms his shoulders and elicits a soft flurry of butterflies to swish through his stomach. He's reminded of a similar scenario last year with Iida. Their whole class had prepared a birthday celebration in honor of their class president. It had been at Uraraka's request, but almost everyone was on board, given how much work Iida put in as their dutiful representative. That had been special because Iida's special. It had brought their whole class together. Even Bakugou, with all his foul-mouthed charm, took part in the festivity.
Ojiro knows his class cares about him. They're his friends, his partners.
But this is beyond morning greetings and cordial conversation. This is special.
Ojiro feels special.
When the elevator opens, Ojiro can hear hushed whispers to his left and several pairs of feet move closer together. Hagakure pulls away from Ojiro and settles behind him, her fingers fiddling with the double knot on the back of his head. She giggles, her breath tickling the base of his neck, "Okay... you ready, Ojiro?"
He smiles and curls his fingers into eager fists, relishing the anticipation. This is special, this is exciting. This is something Ojiro thought unlikely for a boy like himself. He really must thank Hagakure the next time they're out shopping. Maybe buy her a gourmet lunch at one of those bunny cafes she adores.
"Definitely," Ojiro nods, waiting for Hagakure to untie the blindfolds. He keeps his eyes closed, keeping a hold of the jittery expectation floating across his skin. This kind of unified joy, focused solely on him - he has to savor it, bottle it up for future bouts of doubt or insecurity.
"All right..." Hagakure trails as she finishes unfastening the knot, her hands on either side of Ojiro's head. "Blindfold comes off in three... two... one!"
The blindfold's soft fabric lazily hits his shoulder, and Ojiro opens his eyes to the sight of his classmates popping confetti bombs beneath an assortment of white and yellow streamers. Their faces are bright, smiles wide and laughter hearty.
"Happy birthday!" they (mostly) shout in unison, crowding around the birthday boy as he approaches. It's a little warm and Ojiro's cheeks flush, but he doesn't mind. Midoriya and Iida pat him on the back and offer their congratulations while Kaminari and Ashido present him with trinkets to decorate his "absurdly plain" dorm room. Ojiro begrudgingly returns their well-meaning grins and thanks them for their gifts. Admittedly, the Hawks' figurine will be a nice addition to his tidy desk, and the squirrel plush can sit atop his bed near his pillows.
"We got you something, too," Jirou says to his right, gesturing towards Yaoyorozu. Their fellow classmate holds out a hardcover book, titled: The Indomitable Spirit of the Martial Arts Hero. "We thought you could read it for inspiration."
Yaoyorozu bows her head. "You're a wonderful classmate and friend, Ojiro. Please accept this gift as a token of our appreciation."
"No need to be so formal, Yaoyorozu," Ojiro chuckles and takes the gift from her hands, his fingers skimming over the glossy silver letters. "This is a really nice birthday gift and I'll be sure to read it. Thank you!"
"It was our pleasure," Yaoyorozu attempts to bow again, but Jirou swipes at her shoulder and frowns.
"He just told you not to be so formal!" Jirou chides, though her words lack any real bite. Must be a girlfriend thing.
"Oh, I apologi-"
"Momo!"
Ojiro laughs at the pair's antics, reminding him of the harmless scuffles in his own relationship. Though, that thought stirs another: did Shinsou help plan this party? He hasn't heard from him since last night, after Ojiro made it back to the dorms.
"Yo, birthday boy! Turn around and take a look at this cake," Kaminari's voice rings from across the kitchen. Ojiro tries to turn around, but two pink hands clasp onto his shoulders and prevent him from doing so.
"Wait, Ojiro! Close your eyes. It'll be better that way," Ashido chirps at his back, her fingernails strumming against his collarbone.
Her grip doesn't loosen until Ojiro complies and scratches at his temples, a little embarrassed. All this attention - it's overwhelming. He's not used to his classmates doting on him, catering to his happiness alone.
However, despite his abashment, his heart sings and laughter seems to spill endlessly passed his throat. He closes his eyes and hopes the cake was prepared by Satou, like Iida's. Then he'll feel on par with the rest of his classmates, like he's worth all this celebration. "All right, they're closed, Ashido. You can turn me around now."
Ashido wastes no time and twirls Ojiro around, unable to contain her frivolity, "Great! Now I'll count down like Hagakure. Get ready to open those big ol' eyes of yours in three... two... one... go!"
And when Ojiro snaps his eyes open, his mouth drops and his breath hitches, the image before him both unexpected and captivating.
Shinsou stands four feet in front of him, a large three-tier cake iced with a thick layer of maple frosting sitting above his hands. His smile is small and lopsided, and his eyes shimmer, the seventeen candles lit beneath him highlighting their soft violet hues. He's even dressed well - a pair of black slacks, accompanied by a navy blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Ojiro decides then: this evening has surpassed special. It's one of those nights your mind carves into your subconscious, to push you through when tears sting your eyes and your body aches with grief.
Before Ojiro can voice his delight, Shinsou cocks his head and his smile widens, devolving into an impish simper, "I know I look good, but please try to concentrate on the burning cake in my hands. Or else I might have to steal your little birthday wish."
"Ack, Shinsou, play nice!" Hagakure jumps to Ojiro's side, an invisible hand clutching his bicep. "Let Ojiro make a wish when he's ready."
"Yes, Ojiro should be provided ample time to come up with a wish worthy of his character and ambition," Iida says to his left, hovering close to Shinsou and pointing a finger to the ceiling. "Stealing a birthday wish from not only a friend but a romantic partner seems both thoughtless and obviously rude."
"Iida, I think it was just a joke," Uraraka tugs at her friend's sleeve, her smile nervous. "Right, Shinsou?"
"Yeah, calm down, you dolts," Shinsou shrugs, keeping his gaze locked onto Ojiro. "See what I have to put with? You're lucky Satou's a decent guy, or this cake would have been a pile of mush."
It's then that Ojiro notices Satou a few feet behind Shinsou, his large hands fixed onto his hips. He shakes his head and beams at the cake, wax dripping past the candles' stems and coating the frosting's top. "Don't sell yourself short, Shinsou! I hardly touched the thing. You should have seen him, Ojiro - looked like a total pro in the kitchen."
Warm adoration blossoms over Ojiro's chest, and his fingers tingle, aching to cup Shinsou's chin and kiss his exhausted eyes. He opts to take a cautious step forward instead, inspecting the cake Shinsou made from scratch. "You... made this? For my birthday?"
Shinsou looks away, his grip on the porcelain plate tightening. "Satou's being modest. I just followed his instructions."
"But you made it, right?" Ojiro presses onward, feeling the weight of his classmates' stares. They've seen little of their fledgling relationship, most likely curious about their daily interactions and affectionate gestures. "This... it was all your idea, wasn't it? With Hagakure?"
"Can you please ask questions later and blow out these damn candles?" Shinsou retorts, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "This cake's gonna turn into nothing but hot wax soon."
Ojiro chuckles, closing in until his hand brushes against the other boy's forearm. He forgets Shinsou can be... cute. It's still odd to think about, given where their relationship started. "Okay, okay. I'll make a wish, but... thank you. This means a lot."
Shinsou neglects to smile as Ojiro's classmates gather around, encouraging him to make a fun, exciting wish. Ojiro shuts his eyes and reflects for a moment, trying to come up with something. But with his friends around him, with Shinsou glancing down at the cake, processing Ojiro's gratitude and gentle touch...
There's not much else to wish for.
Still, Ojiro blows out the candles and his friends clap and cheer, setting off another round of confetti bombs. He makes a wish and approximately ninety-seconds later, it comes true.
He bites into the snickerdoodle cake, rolling the cinnamon chips and maple frosting across his tongue. While everyone else squabbles over the largest piece, Ojiro briefly kisses Shinsou's jawline, his words faint and giddy against his neck, "This tastes amazing."
Shinsou turns his head and stares at Ojiro before whispering back, his voice soft and earnest, "You deserve it, Mashirao. Happy birthday."
And once Ojiro's heart flutters, once Shinsou kisses his temple and Ashido spots them, shrieking in response - he knows. This evening has indeed moved beyond special.
I’m finally getting around to finishing all my WIPs, and this was one of them! It ended up being a little bit of a monster, and I have three more chapters to get through, haha. But I hope ojishin fans enjoy it!
Pairing: Ojiro/Shinsou
Summary: Shinsou doesn't need to reflect any further. He knows what he did was wrong.
AO3 Link: HERE
Shinsou doesn't need to reflect any further. He knows what he did was wrong.
But it doesn't stop Aizawa from rebuking him, and his half-hearted apology is ignored with a bored scowl.
"I know you wanted to win. That's the whole point of the Sports Festival," Aizawa starts, hands behind his back and straggly black hair falling into his face. "But you can't let your ego blind you if you want to be a hero. Your power is incredible and a lot of heroes were interested in your potential. But I suspect the reason you received no nominations had to do with your complete disregard for the feelings of those you possessed. These weren't villains or petty common criminals: they were students, your peers. Using them and then insulting them afterward shows a lack of discipline and restraint, something that heroes cannot afford when civilian lives are at stake. Had you been apologetic and explained yourself, I doubt they would've held as much of a grudge. That's what a hero would have done."
The last of his words sting and Shinsou swallows down a retort. He wants to point out the hot-headed idiot who won the damn thing was gagged and chained during the award ceremony. Frustrated tears had rimmed his eyes, threatening incomprehensible carnage because he couldn't ring the runner's up neck. He had received plenty of nominations, and he was callous and rude and barbarically arrogant.
That's what they deserve, is what he wants to shout, what he's believed since he entered this school. All talented and gifted, coupled with charming personalities and pretty faces (minus a few obvious exceptions). All on the path towards legacy and riches, towards dreams that continue to elude Shinsou's grasp. But he keeps silent; he knows Aizawa is right. If he wants to be a hero, he has to learn cooperation and discipline himself. If he uses his peers for his own gain, no hero will recruit him. And if he disregards their feelings, their very agency...
He'd be no better than a villain.
That thought gnaws at his sides and festers in his throat, making it hard to breathe during his warm-up exercises. He is fortunate Aizawa sees promise in him and trains him after classes are over. They meet in a lesser-used gym, stocked with old training weights and worn bench presses. When Aizawa first approached him, he remarked on Shinsou's lack of strength and endurance, another reason nominations didn't flood his homeroom teacher's mailbox.
"All you have is your quirk," Aizawa says as he hands him independent study forms requiring his parents' signatures. "Once you become a hero, villains will recognize you and take notice of how it works. If you can't trick them into answering your questions, you'll be stuck fighting them off. And if you can't throw a punch or land a kick, you're as good as dead."
Once Shinsou becomes a hero.
That word sticks with him as he swings his tired muscles in Aizawa's direction, every move swiftly deflected or evaded. Shinsou spars with Aizawa once a week, to monitor his process, but he has yet to land a single punch on his agile teacher. His arms and legs beg for rest, skin numb against his gym uniform. Shinsou's sure he's ran farther and completed more push-ups this week than he has in the past year, and the intensity of his training weighs his body down like a rusty anchor. He doesn't stop, however, even as a sharp pinch burst through his thighs and he stumbles, giving Aizawa a clear opening. He uses it and slams his foot into Shinsou's waist, throwing him across the room until he lands flat on his back. The thick, blue folding mats cushion his fall, but his back still shudders at the impact, and his arms wobble as he tries to push himself up.
"That's enough for today, Shinsou," Aizawa approaches him, arms crossed and looking as pleased as he can. He's not smiling, but his stare isn't apathetic or disproving, something akin to approval swirling in his bloodshot eyes. Shinsou decides he should aim for that look after every training session. "You need rest. And I promised your parents I wouldn't send you to the hospital."
It's not a joke, but Shinsou still grins and lifts himself off the mat, his legs shaking and feet unsteady. Aizawa doesn't offer his help, and Shinsou wouldn't expect him to. Wouldn't want him to. "I suspect you are correct."
"Shower and head home before it gets dark," Aizawa replies. "And take tomorrow off. It'll be Friday, and you've made some decent improvements this week. Your body needs a breather. There's something else I want you to do for me instead."
Shinsou nods, "Okay. What do you want me to do?"
Aizawa doesn't hesitate, and his brows stitch together as he speaks, "A hero owns up to all of their mistakes. They apologize to children, to businesses, to government officials, and to their comrades. You made a mistake at the Sports Festival, and you need to take responsibility for it."
A sliver of agitation rolls up Shinsou's spine, his lungs hot. He wants to refuse Aizawa: he knows where this is headed, what he has to do to make amends. But if he refuses, Aizawa would undoubtedly put an end to their lessons. And that's something Shinsou cannot afford. Although sore, his body is stronger than it's ever been, arms and legs broadening, his back and waist exposing full muscles under his pale skin. If this ends now, Shinsou wouldn't have the resources or the permission to continue.
So he remains silent and continues to listen to Aizawa, resisting the urge to scratch the back of his neck until blood stains his fingernails. Even if he doesn't want to apologize to those entitled hero brats (least of all to that blonde monkey), he has to. His future depends on it.
"Do you understand?" Aizawa asks once he's finished, taking in Shinsou's clenched fists.
"I have to explain myself and apologize to the people I brainwashed. That's what a hero would do. A hero is selfless and doesn't use their quirk for personal gain," Shinsou parrots, the words heavy against his tongue. A lump of something plops into the bottom of his stomach, and he's not sure if it's guilt, regret or anger. But it makes him nauseous and his next words almost wheeze, "If I ignore others' feelings and use my quirk in abandon, then I'm selfish and no better than the villains."
"Good," Aizawa turns his back and heads towards the exit. "Don't forget that."
The words stay with him as he walks home, his backpack draped over his left shoulder and his feet dragging against the concrete road. The sun is setting and the trees are glossed in its waning rays, the leaves golden and their barks deep tangerine. He's avoided riding his bike to and from school since the tournament. The last thing he wants to do after his training is sit his sore butt on a saddle and climb uphill. His occasional walks used to be livelier: his friends alongside him, lamenting the next exam or gossiping about the new girl their class president has a crush on. But since his training with Aizawa started, he's had few opportunities to socialize. Cramped stomachs, rigid bones, tired eyes... it's a wonder he can stay awake in class and chat at lunch, his chest squeezing and threatening a violent coughing fit if he starts to laugh.
Shinsou would believe this a necessary sacrifice, seeing his friends less, working his body until his legs collapse from underneath him, but the hero class has their training implemented into their curriculum. Their gym time is daily and almost twice as long as the other classes. An hour of gym three times a week doesn't make Shinsou any stronger. It hardly makes him competent.
His heart plummets and his chest caves in its absence, leaving him hollow and bitter. He remembers Aizawa explaining his tactics at the Sports Festival were ruthless and self-centered and he bites back a growl. Why should he have to apologize to them, to the students he used? If they were fooled by his unassuming voice and lax stature, they had no business being heroes. Just because they were strong and kind and -
Shinsou notices him walking away from the winner of the obstacle course, his smile sheepish and apologetic. The boy's arms appear toned and strong, perfect to carry him from behind. And his tail could prove useful for defense. He also doesn't seem to be aligned with anyone else at the moment, but Shinsou's opportunity will vanish if he continues to dawdle with indecision. And another face could deter others from walking away from him altogether. All he has to do is ask them a question, anyway. Then they'd be his to control.
Still, he's nervous as he approaches the boy. Shinsou has yet to use his quirk on any of the hero class students. As he moves closer, the boy is looking to his other classmates, eyes jumping back and forth between two groups, deciding who might be the better team to join. He seems a little anxious, too. A little unsure.
Not like he should worry. He's part of the precious Class A elite. Those students could do no wrong, could trample on the dreams of the rest of their peers without consequence. That other blonde had called him an extra, considered him insignificant. Shinsou's sure this blonde monkey thinks the same, with his impressive physique and massive tail. Just another student with an accessible, heroic quirk. Someone the world of heroes welcomes while Shinsou is flung aside, discarded.
If the monkey's nervous, Shinsou doesn't care. That's something he can take advantage of.
Shinsou speaks when he's less than ten feet away, and he's surprised by the blonde's average height. He looked taller from afar. "Your friend really did himself in. I didn't think winning the obstacle court would come with such a terrible disadvantage."
The boy doesn't jump, but he turns his head and blinks, taking in the newcomer beside him. His black eyes regard Shinsou with mild curiosity before he smiles, expression void of suspicion. "Yeah, I feel a little bad for him. But I'm afraid I wouldn't be much help. I probably stand a better chance chasing someone down than defending them for fifteen minutes straight."
Shinsou nods and points his thumb at the two Class A groups talking strategy. He keeps his voice calm and interested though he already knows the boy will answer his question. This one isn't the type to be impolite to strangers. "They're from your class, too. You think you stand a better chance with either of them?"
The boy chuckles through his nose and scratches his temple. "Yeah. If you want, we can -"
Shinsou doesn't wait for the boy to reply and disregards he said "we" instead of "I." He stares at him and watches his black eyes hollow, arms limp against his thighs and mouth open. There's a piece of him that wants to know what it feels like, to lose complete control of your will and body. But that piece of him is small and consumed by his desire to prove his worth. He wants nothing more than to move on to the next stage of the festival. To accomplish that, this boy's body is necessary.
"Follow and stand behind me," Shinsou instructs as he scans for his next isolated target. He needs at least one more person if he hopes to be competitive. "And smile like you want to be around me."
The boy complies, and the pair stalks off.
The memory simmers and loops beneath his eyelids while he trudges up another hill. It affects his vision, his eyes dry, the sky blurred. He hates remembering the monkey and his unassuming, unremarkable smile. He hates remembering his hardened stare as Shinsou snickered and thanked him for his unwilling help. Out of everyone he brainwashed that day, the blonde monkey sticks out and invades his thoughts daily, reminding him of his failure. Despite the use of his quirk, Shinsou was still ousted in the first round of the tournament. Had that boy not figured him out, he might have made it to the second round. Maybe even the third.
"Everyone gave their all in round two, but I was just someone's puppet," the boy says. Shinsou can hear him even as he keeps his head turned and eyes focused on the white walls circling the stadium. He ignores the stares from the boy's classmates and tries to suppress the guilt settling inside his stomach. The boy's stupid: who cares how he got to the tournament? He should be thankful - without Shinsou, he wouldn't have made it this far. All Shinsou wounded was his delicate pride. And that's a resource Shinsou cannot entertain if he hopes to become a hero. "No way - I don't want to advance if I don't even know how I got here. It wouldn't be fair."
Shinsou bristles and almost whips his head back to tell the little monkey off. Fair? What did that precious elite know about fair? His quirk was made for heroism - he was born blessed. The guilt melts, replaced with a frothing resentment that chars his lungs as Midnight grants the monkey's "noble" request.
There's nothing noble about it. The boy and his pride are just a waste. Just another competitor Shinsou won't have to deal with.
The front door rattles open as Shinsou closes the gate, and he hears tiny paws scamper down the walkway. He shakes his head and redirects his attention to the present moment, recollecting his thoughts before he greets his mother. A soft body rustles between his legs, accompanied by an affectionate purr. Shinsou smiles and kneels, reaching out to rub his cat's black ears.
"Hello, Sumi," Shinsou coos, his voice bordering on sappy. "Did you miss me?"
Sumi purrs again and it rumbles in her throat, tickling Shinsou's thighs. He's about to pick her up when his mother calls from the doorway, her voice pleasant. "Welcome home, Hitoshi. Did your training go well?"
His mother usually opts to ask about his training since he turned in the independent study forms. It gives her a much more enthusiastic response. And training with Aizawa is a dream - something Shinsou hopes he never wakes up from. But today's training reminds him of his task tomorrow, so his reply is a little delayed and cautious. "It was... fine. I sparred with Mr. Aizawa, but I still have yet to hit him. It was fun though."
"That's great!" his mother ushers him into the house and makes her way to the kitchen. He smells chicken and fresh ginger and his stomach growls in response. His training has produced an ample appetite, delighting his mother. Food isn't something he takes serious joy in, but the long stretches of hunger between his training and his walk home help him appreciate his mother's dedication to their evening meals.
She continues to speak to him while she cooks, and Shinsou watches her grill several pieces of marinated chicken from the doorway. Her thick black hair is tossed in a bun, a few stray locks sticking to her cheeks and the base of her neck. "Do you have any homework? You should finish it before your father arrives. He wants to watch one of those DVDs his friend got him for his birthday after dinner."
"Not really," Shinsou answers. "I have an assignment from Mr. Aizawa that I have to complete during school tomorrow."
"Really? What is it?"
Shinsou almost skirts away from the question but decides against it. There's no reason to lie to his mother. At least, not completely. "I have to... socialize with people outside my class tomorrow. He thinks it'll help me with team building and partnership."
His mother nods, her dark violet eyes understanding. Reading between his apathetic tone and stilted words. "That's great, Hitoshi. I hope you can make some new friends tomorrow."
Doubtful, given who he'll be talking to. The blonde monkey flashes across his eyes and he suppresses a grimace. Regardless, Shinsou agrees. "I hope so too, Mom."
She then asks if he can help with dinner and Shinsou concurs, forgetting about his assignment and his inevitable confrontation with that boy.
His sleep is restless. It's never been great, except tonight there's an anticipation, a raw energy quaking his shoulders and curling his toes. He didn't think he would have to revisit the unsavory parts of the festival so soon. In fact, Shinsou isn't sure he ever wanted to. He could have gone on without explaining himself or apologizing. That would have been just fine.
But heroes can't choose when they'll be heroes. They can't decide who they say sorry to. Mistakes breed consequences, demand apologies.
Shinsou eventually drifts off, but not without tightening his fist and cursing his quirk for the umpteenth time. If he had any other quirk - any other one -
"If you want, we can team up," the blonde suggests, pointing to a few of his classmates. "They're friendly enough. I'm sure being the only student from your class is pretty tough."
"You don't even know what my quirk is," Shinsou replies, suspicious of the boy's intentions. What would a student from the hero class want with him?
"Ha, yeah. You're right," the boy chuckles. "I mean, I'm kind of in a pickle myself. A lot of my classmates are already talking strategy. I thought it'd be easier if we team up. If anything, I can just hoist you on my shoulders and we can make a wild scramble for points."
Shinsou scoffs, "You're kidding me. You're that strong?"
The boy flushes, embarrassed by his own confidence. It amuses Shinsou. "Well, I'm stronger than I look. But I'm sure we can find someone else if we hurry."
They stare at each other for a moment more, and Shinsou reflects on the apprehension flooding the boy's face. It's more than amusing - it's endearing. He seems to care if Shinsou rejects him. Perhaps he judged the hero class too soon.
"Lucky for you," Shinsou finally says, extending his hand. "I'm also stronger than I look."
The boy's eyes brighten, and he smiles. Like he wants Shinsou around. Like he's happy rather than relieved. The boy grasps Shinsou's hand, his palm cool and rough. A pleasant buzz reverberates around Shinsou's head and he returns the smile.
"Great. Now let's see if -"
His phone alarm sets off and Shinsou cracks one eye open. His head continues to buzz and his body warms, chest light and empty of worry. The dream and its feelings start to fade, and Shinsou closes his eyes, trying to hold on to the monkey's kind words and cheerful handshake before angry disappointment fills its space.
Cooperation. Teamwork. Aizawa told him that without either, Shinsou would never make it as a hero. The Sports Festival had been a test on all kinds of skills. And unlike that Midoriya, Shinsou had failed a fundamental part.
Now, instead of celebrating success, Shinsou would have to apologize for his hostile behavior.
The recesses of the boy's smile vanish from Shinsou's mind and he crawls out of bed, ready to meet his self-inflicted fate.
The first half of the day goes by without incident. His muscles are stiff, but they're not as sore as they have been. He talks to his classmates, asks them about their weekend plans, and even agrees to meet a few of them at a noodle stand near his neighborhood. The conversation is stale and the plans unexceptional, but it keeps Shinsou from thinking about his lunch hour and free period. He's not sure how he'll excuse himself from his usual table, what he'll say to that kid with the waist belt or the short boy from Class B.
Or how he'll approach that boy at all.
The lunch bell rings and his classmates ask which line he'll be standing in. Shinsou lies and says he's brought his lunch, that he'll be in the library for an early finals study session.
"But I might join you a little later if it doesn't work out," Shinsou grins and his classmates laugh, waving goodbye as they make their way to the cafeteria. No doubt they'd see him in some capacity in that hour. He's saving that boy for last, and he usually sits at the same table with a few of his classmates. Not like Shinsou keeps tabs on him. It's just easy to spot his tail - it's almost harder not to notice.
Shinsou catches his first target in the hallway, joined by a few of his Class B peers. He's the shortest one in their little crowd, talking to a girl with bangs that cover her eyes. Unfortunately, before Shinsou can approach them, a taller boy with a short braid looks back and spots him. His brows furrow in confusion and he pokes the boy's shoulder, gesturing to Shinsou.
"Isn't he the guy who brainwashed you during the calvary battle?" he asks, stare thickening with distaste. Shinsou avoids frowning, from doing anything at all. He just wants to apologize and move on.
The short boy's eyes widen in recognition and he walks towards Shinsou, closing the gap between them. The boy's peers protest, but he ignores them, his gaze neither afraid nor agitated. It's calm. He's calm.
"Yeah, he is," the boy nods when he's a few feet away from Shinsou, hands balled into pudgy fists. "Is there a reason you're here? If one of our classmates said anything to you, I apologize. I asked them to leave you alone."
Shinsou rubs the back of his neck, keeping his gaze fixed on the boy. He doesn't seem belligerent; even asked his classmates to stay away from Shinsou. Perhaps this was one he shouldn't have worried about. "No, it doesn't have to do with your classmates. I came to speak to you."
Before the boy can answer, his classmates rush to his side and stand on either side of him, shielding him from Shinsou. As if that would save him from being brainwashed. The girl speaks first, and Shinsou's surprised by the ferocity behind her words, "Don't answer him, Shoda! He could use you again."
Shinsou can't help himself. This time, he frowns and his voice drips with sarcasm, "Oh, yeah. I definitely stopped by to take all his lunch money and make him sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' through the loudspeakers."
"Don't get cheeky, pal!" the taller boy exclaims, jabbing a scaly finger into Shinsou's chest. "We have no reason to trust you. You used one of our friends - we have every right to think you'd do it again or to one of us."
A part of Shinsou wants to explain his quirk, that it won't activate unless he asks a question and the person answers. But the larger part of him (the part that's bitter and resents every hero class student) wants these kids to fear him and his abilities. There's something powerful in the way they glare, haphazardly defending themselves against a quirk they have no express knowledge of.
But those are the kinds of thoughts that put Shinsou into this situation. Thoughts Aizawa told him to refrain from if he wants to be a hero. So he tucks them into a distant corner of his head and sighs, "You're right. You have no reason to trust me. But there's something I have to tell him, and then I'll be on my way."
The pair of white knights begin to growl, but Shoda speaks up, voice devoid of anger, "It's okay, guys. He knows we can't use quirks on other students outside classes. I'm sure he'll honor that rule."
It's a subtle dig, but Shinsou allows it. Shoda waits for his classmates to settle down before continuing, hands clasped in front of his waist. "What did you want to say, Shinsou?"
Shinsou's taken aback - he didn't think this boy remembered his name. He certainly hadn't remembered his. It humbles Shinsou, makes him feel a little more guilty. He bows his head and closes his eyes, leaving himself vulnerable. "I came to apologize for my behavior in the cavalry battle. I should have tried to cooperate with you instead of only relying on my quirk. It wasn't fair to you, and I acknowledge the error in my judgment."
He can hear Shoda suck in a breath, can hear his classmates' clothes shuffle, giving him their full attention. Shinsou stands straight and opens his eyes, finding Shoda with the same doleful expression. It doesn't seem like his words had any effect, but then the boy's lips twitch and his large eyes brighten. "Thank you for your apology. I accept. I hope we can work as equals at the next Sports Festival."
Shoda extends his hands and Shinsou accepts, ignoring the suspicious glances from the other two. If they doubt his intentions, so be it. "Maybe we can. Thank you."
Shinsou waits for the trio to leave, then moves on to his next targets. The boys he controlled during the obstacle course are easy to find: they're from another general studies class and occupy a lunch table on the outdoor patio. He's spoken to them a few times before the Sports Festival and a few times after. They might not even remember Shinsou brainwashed him; he had abandoned them after the robots. Not much they could do after, with the canyon and landmines.
When Shinsou approaches them, the boys and the rest of the table greet him. Because of the festival, everyone in general studies knows who he is. One boy speaks, his spiky white hair bouncing with every word. "Yo, Shinsou! What d'you doing out here?"
"You wanna sit with us today? There's room!" a girl scoots over and pats the seat next to her, smiling. Two of the boys snicker from across the table, causing the girl to curl her hand back, cheeks red. "I mean if you want to."
"Thank you for the offer, but I have to decline. I need to speak with these three," Shinsou replies, cocking his head towards the front of the table.
Spiky Hair speaks for the trio, "Sure, dude. What's up?"
Shinsou explains himself as he did with Shoda, and they chuckle, insisting it's "no biggie." They're proud Shinsou represented general studies in the competition, and they don't mind being used for a short while.
"It would have been cool to make it to the next round, but it was a long shot by far," another one of the boys leans back, clutching the table with yellowed talons. "You saw your opportunity and took it! If anyone blames you for that, that's their problem. Not yours."
That's what Shinsou believed, but he still offers them a short bow. There's no point explaining his motives or Aizawa's reasoning.
There's no point to the monkey's scowl intruding his thoughts, but it does so all the same. "Still, I apologize. Thank you for understanding."
After he's finished with the conversation's concluding pleasantries, Shinsou spots the other blonde boy with the sparkly eyes and shiny hair. He's sitting beside a girl with pink skin and a large, rock-faced boy on the outskirts of the patio. The girl rambles on about some new arcade game and the two boys listen, nodding their heads between each bite of food.
Shinsou tries to speak first, but the girl recognizes him and gasps, diverting the boys' attention to him, "Whoa, you're that kid from general studies! The guy Midoriya had to fight in the first round. Hi, hi! How are you?"
She flaps her arms around and almost knocks a wedge of cheese out of the blonde boy's hand. Shinsou returns her wave, a little unnerved by her eccentric welcome. At least she had yet to threaten bodily harm. "Hello. I'm fine. I came by to speak to your friend."
"Oh, you mean Aoyama?" the girl points to the blonde. His eyes gleam and he starts to reply, but his voice doesn't carry and the girl continues, "Oh, oh, that's right! You controlled him during the cavalry battle. I remember!"
Aoyama apparently repeats himself, undeterred by the girl's enthusiasm, "Have you come to praise my part in your festival success? It's a little late, but I'll accept if it's well put together."
The girl snorts and mumbles under her breath, but Shinsou can't quite catch what she says. Something like "as if." Still, he shakes his head at Aoyama and replies, "I will agree that your help contributed to my reaching the third round of the festival. But I came to apologize for using you rather than asking for your help first. Good cooperation is a part of what it means to be a hero, and I failed in that aspect. If you felt in any way compromised or belittled by my actions, I'm sorry."
"Wow, that's super nice of you!" the girl exclaims, cutting off Aoyama's reply yet again. "But you don't have to worry about this goofball. He was happy enough just to make it to next round. I mean, he got wickedly destroyed by yours truly, but hey! That's life! Right, Aoyama?"
The blonde seems like he wants to scowl, but he refrains and continues on with a pretentious smile, "Right, Ashido. You do not have to worry about me, Mr. General Studies. You only used your quirk to your advantage. If I was in your position, I would have done the same."
Before Shinsou can reply, the rock-faced boy speaks up, tapping his meaty index fingers together, "Did you... did you already apologize to Ojiro?"
Ojiro. That must be the monkey's name. Shinsou shakes his head again, "No, I haven't had the chance yet."
Ashido cringes, exposing her teeth, "Ack, you're gonna have a hard time with that one. He really didn't like the stunt you pulled on him."
Shinsou fiddles with the seam of his pants, trying to keep poise, "I am aware."
"I think he's eating lunch with a few of our classmates," Ashido stands up, picking up her used styrofoam bowl. "Do you want me to show you?"
"Yes, that would be helpful," Shinsou replies, his heart racing, pulse heavy beneath his jaw. He knows where that boy is; he saw him laughing when he passed through the mess hall, sitting across Midoriya. This girl can help ease the conversation. Shinsou's still unsure, unprepared for this encounter. Even with that Shoda and his classmates, they hadn't weakened his knees or churned his stomach. It had been easy so far. Almost pleasant and friendly.
"Good luck, mon ami," Aoyama winks, watching the pair depart.
"Yeah... hope it works out," the rock-faced boy tries to reassure Shinsou with an encouraging smile, but it appears doubtful and grim. Or it can be Shinsou's pessimism coloring his every interaction until he meets that boy. Either one feels right to him.
He follows behind Ashido, her head bobbing as she hums. It doesn't appease his waning spirits nor calms his jittery shoulder. He stuffs both hands deep into his pockets, bunching up the cotton between clammy fingers. It'll be over soon. Then he'll never have to think about this monkey and his stupid smile and rough palms and -
"There they are," Ashido points to a corner table several meters away. A divider hides the bottom-half of the table, obscuring the boy from his sight. From this angle, Shinsou can only see Midoriya's cheerful face, alongside a girl with round cheeks. "You want me to tag along? I could introduce you two properly!"
Shinsou mulls it over for a moment before nodding his head. This is cooperation, teamwork. "Yes. Thank you."
Ashido lifts a fist close to her chest and grins, eyes determined. "All right, follow my lead."
She briskly walks up to her classmates, waving her hand above her head, "Everyone - you won't believe who I bumped into!"
The girl sitting beside Midoriya chuckles, "Ahh, Ashido - who is it? Do we know them?"
By the time Ashido replies, Midoriya notices Shinsou, mouth open and eyes frazzled. He glances to his right, no doubt trying to gauge the monkey's current mood. Whatever. His mood and Shinsou's floundering guilt are inconsequential to what needs to be done. "Sort of. He made a splash at the Sports Festival and he seems like a chill guy. I think we could all get along!"
"A splash at the Sports Festival? I don't remember anyone with impressive water powers."
The boy's voice is soft and relaxed, a hint of exasperation needling through. It reminds him of their initial encounter, before Shinsou took advantage of his guileless nature. His voice, his words - it makes Shinsou even more anxious, the urge to clutch the back of his neck intensifying. What if the boy walks off? What if he shouts and causes a scene in the mess hall, right in front of his friends?
He's not that kind of guy, Shinsou assures himself. In the little he knows about him, pride and honor are important to this boy. He wouldn't cause a scene, wouldn't dishonor his classmates or the hero track like that.
"Eesh, Ojiro. It's just an expression," Ashido bats one hand towards the boy's general direction and beckons Shinsou forward with the other. "But you kind of know him. At least, you and Midoriya do."
The boy comes to view as Shinsou rounds the corner, his blonde hair neat and his black eyes perplexed. It's an average face, but it forces Shinsou to recall his dream. When the boy had been happy and wanted Shinsou's help.
He speaks before catching sight of Shinsou, tone distant, "Midoriya and I? But that only leaves-"
Then he spots him. Their eyes meet. And the boy visibly stiffens.
It's not fear paralyzing him, keeping him still as his classmates quiet and hold their breaths. Animosity replaces the confusion in his stare, eyes now hard and sharp like unpolished onyx. His knuckles are white, his cheeks pale.
His body is not rigid with fear. It's bristling with contempt.
A sudden, nervous lump flops into Shinsou's stomach, and he almost winces, almost looks away from this boy. He can't, however. He has something to accomplish. Something that requires the boy's attention.
"O-oh! Hello, Shinsou - it's nice to see you again!" Midoriya forces out a chuckle, his fingers fidgeting with his disposable chopsticks. Shinsou redirects his gaze and tries to keep his face straight and empty of guilt. "Are you doing well? Finals are coming up soon, you know!"
"I'm fine. Thanks for asking," Shinsou replies, his fingernails digging into his damp palms. The lump in his stomach shoots up and sits heavy on his chest, forcing him to take shallow, uneven breaths. He can feel the boy seething to his right, his narrowed eyes never leaving Shinsou's face.
Shinsou's quirk has always elicited two reactions: fear or envy. People gasped at his power, afraid of all the frightening positions he could put them in. But their fears were never realized. He never used his quirk to retaliate against others or bend them to his will. Shinsou knew it wasn't right - to strip someone of their agency.
And a small, hidden part of himself - the part that was as afraid of his power as the rest of the world - knew what would happen if he did.
Shinsou is accustomed to fear. Not so much with hate.
"You know, Ojiro - Shinsou wanted to stop by and talk to you!" Ashido speaks up. She appears unphased by the tense atmosphere, and even nudges Shinsou with her elbow. "He has something he'd like to say."
Shinsou looks back to the boy, his stare fierce and jaw clenched. He makes no effort to speak, causing the table to squirm and shift their gazes between the pair. His reaction doesn't unnerve Shinsou further, but the raw apology floating above his tongue frets for a moment more, stewing with uncertainty.
"I wanted to speak to you," Shinsou lets out, his voice steady. "I wanted to apologize. Preferably alone."
His chest lightens, but he's unsure why he said "alone." It hadn't matter with anyone else. But the boy's eyes demand something more. Something he didn't give the others. Something personal.
The boy stands up, surprising the invisible girl beside him. He crumples the bowl in front of him and steps back, keeping his eyes on the ground, "I'm sorry, everyone. I should go."
Shinsou's eyes widen as the boy walks by him, stare fixed on the mess hall's exit. The weight in his chest expands, stilling his breath and tightening his throat. Nothing's changed. The boy won't even acknowledge him.
It's upon seeing his face so close, mere inches from his, that Shinsou recalls Midoriya is the boy's friend. He could have bridged the gap between them somehow. But the animosity rolls so thickly off the boy, tumbling into Shinsou's chest and suffocating his lungs, Midoriya and all his sunshine charm might not have been enough.
When his back is turned, the boy replies, Shinsou's stomach dropping at the even, formal tone, "I respectfully decline."
He continues walking, disposing of his thrash. The invisible girl rises, mumbles her own apology, and rushes to the boy's side, consoling him in a soft, hushed tone.
"Wow, um - I'm sorry, Shinsou," Ashido frowns. "I didn't think he'd do that. Ojiro is usually super calm. He gets along with everyone in our class."
Probably because no one brainwashed him, Shinsou reflects. He nods to Ashido and then turns to Midoriya, trying to appear undeterred. There's no point to giving up. The boy doesn't have to accept his apology. All he has to do is listen. "Where does he spend his free periods? Maybe he'll listen if I approach them there."
"You think that's a good idea?" Midoriya asks. "Ojiro... Ojiro didn't like what you did to him. I think I know what you're trying to accomplish but he might not give you that chance."
Before Shinsou can reply, another boy chimes in. It's the runner-up of the Sports Festival; he'd been tending to his food the entire time. "We should tell him. He's at least trying to make it right. Ojiro's not the type to hold a grudge, so long as the other party accepts blame."
Midoriya accepts his reasoning and tells Shinsou as much as he can. The boy trains privately in the school's master gymnasium, inside one of the many studios. It's across from the gym he and Aizawa use. Content with the information, Shinsou thanks the table before departing. He sits with his friends for the rest of the hour, unable to tear his fists out of his pockets.
Free period begins and Shinsou dashes out of his classroom, his friends' startled shouts fading within a few strides down the hallway. There's no time for pleasantries; no time for walking either, but he can't afford a detention so he walks as fast as possible. Despite his sore legs and pounding heart, Shinsou descends the stairs and makes it to the studio gyms in less than ten minutes, hoping to catch the boy before he starts his workout. But given the many personal studios he has to check, that's unlikely.
Shinsou consoles himself as he walks down the gym's hallway, opening every door he comes across. A few are locked, but he doubts the boy is behind one of those. He seems like the type to keep his door ajar, just in case someone's lost or looking for a friendly spar. That would listen and help if need be. Shinsou's reminded again of the boy's kind smile, of the gentle laugh that escaped him in his dreams. Had he not brainwashed him, would he have helped Shinsou? Would they have formed a team, anyway?
Yellow light peeks through an open door at the end of the hall, a large cement brick wedged in-between it and the frame. Shinsou slows his pace and pushes his nerves down to the pit of the stomach, providing mild relief to his shriveled lungs. When he approaches the door, he can hear rough grunts filling the studio's space, accompanied by swift kicks whacking against some kind of training bag. It's only that boy. Shinsou's sure.
With a deep breath, he steps over the brick and enters the room.
And he almost jumps back into the safety of the hall.
The boy's back is turned to him, exposed. Naked. His shoulders are brawny and well-defined, the curve of his glistening back tapering into a prominent v-shape. He readies himself for another onslaught, his tail bending to the right, and Shinsou catches a glimpse of the deep dimples resting above his hips. Shinsou's never seen a back like that - didn't know such a back was possible. All the time it must have taken, the dedication that went into honing his body, building his muscles...
"That's not it - I'm talking about my pride here," the boy says as his classmates protest his decision. "I refuse to give that up."
It appears he has much to be proud of.
Shinsou must have made a noise - a gasp, a skid against the wooden floor - because the boy abruptly stops and whips his head around, tail stiffening upon seeing his unwelcomed spectator. His breaths are short, chest rising and falling with each passing second. Loathing unfolds onto every corner of his face, his lips bordering on a snarl. He stands straight and tightens his fists, revealing an impeccable set of abs. Shinsou's never seen abs like that either.
He pinches his thigh, rebuking himself. He's not there to gawk.
"What do you want?" the boy hisses, resting his hands on his hips. Shinsou wishes he'd cross his arms or find his shirt. Anything that will make it difficult to dip his treacherous gaze downward.
"You know what I want," Shinsou replies, keeping his distance.
"I thought I already gave you my answer. I have no intention of listening to some shitty, half-assed apology."
"Oh?" Shinsou cocks his head, forgetting himself and the situation at hand. The nerves sitting in his stomach boil into well-worn agitation, his next words biting, "I didn't think a goody-two-shoes like yourself knew how to cuss. You've earned my most esteemed respect."
The boy knows he shouldn't respond, but his shoulders shake and he growls, tail upright and still. That's probably a bad sign. "Did you just come here to mock me? To find me alone and treat me like your little puppet?"
"Given I have yet to ask you a question and that you can clearly kick my ass if I tried: no. I didn't come for either." Shinsou doesn't know why he keeps the animosity stewing between them; he should just apologize and leave, tell Mr. Aizawa that he couldn't reach an understanding with the dumb, arrogant monkey. There's something about the boy that sets him off, poisoning his intentions and straining his throat.
"Then what do you really want?" the boy asks again, taking a step forward. "You didn't come to just bow and walk out of this building with a clean conscious, that's for sure."
What do I want? Shinsou thinks. Is there anything he actually wants from this meeting, from this boy?
The words spill out of his mouth before he has a chance to reconsider. "I have to apologize. I have to make amends or else Mr. Aizawa won't continue my training."
Clumps of thick tension dissipate from Shinsou's body, leaving his arms light and chest relieved. Several beats pass between them, the boy's eyes wide with skepticism. But Shinsou finds himself unconcerned if the boy believes him or not. Perhaps it wasn't wise. Perhaps it was foolish to unveil his newest secret to a boy who hates him. Shinsou hasn't told any of his friends.
"Why..." the boy trails, his shoulders slacking. "Why did you tell me that?"
Shinsou's fingers clench his warming neck, "You just deserve to know."
There's no reason for it. The boy's supposed to be his enemy. Just another student barring him from the hero track.
The flashes across his eyes: the offer, the smile, the handshake. He remembers his skin tingling, his body warm. The want to stay in bed, to hold on to that happy what-if.
Guilt had not been the source of his dread. Not with this boy. It had been regret.
The boy tries to coax Shinsou into further explanation, his voice taking on an air of genuine curiosity, "Why do I deserve to know? I thought you didn't like me all that much, and that seems like a pretty big deal. I'm sure no one else in the hero class knows."
"They don't," Shinsou replies. "And you're right. I don't like you. I still think you're a fool for giving your spot up in the tournament. You obviously have the talent and dedication, and yet you squandered that opportunity all because of some arbitrary thing like pride."
"My pride is not arbitrary!" the boy exclaims. "Just because you don't understand why -"
"But I do understand why," Shinsou elaborates, closing the gap between them. He keeps his eyes on the boy's face, gauging his comfort with every step. "At least, I understand now. I thought your spirit was weak, for having given in so easily. But that wasn't it at all: your spirit's strong. You were born with a heroic quirk, but you needed more than that to get you here. You trained, and you endured. And for someone to take that away from you, to carry you along without showing off your own merits... I understand. Your pride is well-deserved. It's something my quirk can't take away from you."
Shinsou pauses when he's less than an arm's length away from the boy, his fingers scraping the back of his neck. The boy doesn't look uncomfortable - he seems to be holding his breath, gaze awash in wonder. It's clear he had expected none of this. "I regret using my quirk on you. Mr. Aizawa told me that cooperation and teamwork are a fundamental part of what it means to be a hero. If I can't move past my petty anger and if I treat my potential future teammates as nothing more than a means to an end... then my dreams will never be realized."
The boy shuffles, folding his arms against his chest. He leans back, contemplating Shinsou's face, "You mean all that? You're not just saying it because you have to?"
"I mean everything I say," Shinsou affirms. "Lying isn't something I'm particularly good at."
"But you are good at pulling the wool over someone's eyes," the boy's lip twitch, almost smiling. "You fooled me fine at the cavalry battle."
Shinsou scratches his neck, recalling the encounter again. This time, instead of feeling regret, his head buzzes with satisfaction. "Yeah - lying isn't my forte, but I am good at manipulating someone to my advantage."
"Yeah, well... you got me, that's for sure," he replies, that same sheepish look he gave Midoriya slipping onto his face. "If Mr. Aizawa is training you, he obviously sees potential in you. He wants you to succeed and learn how to be a hero. And that means I'll have to be at my absolute best during the next Sports Festival."
The boy unfolds one arm and extends his hand, palms red and weathered. "I'm terrible at holding grudges, especially if people own up to their mistakes. I know you did what you had to do at the tournament - I understand completely. As long as you understand my side, and I understand yours... you wanna call a truce? At least until the next festival?"
Shinsou smirks and takes the boy's hand without hesitation. His skin is just as rough as he imagined, contrasting with his own smooth, clammy palms. Hopefully, he won't comment on it. "I can do that. But you're definitely the primary target next time around. I'll make yours and Midoriya's lives a total hell."
The boy chuckles and Shinsou's core squirms at the sound. It's a nice, earnest laugh. One that Shinsou can get used to. "I can only imagine. But this is a little exciting, actually. I've never had a rival."
Shinsou cocks his head at the word, "Rival?"
"Yeah," the boy nods, dropping his hand to his side, "What else would you be?"
The dream pops into Shinsou's mind and he almost steps back. Of course, he couldn't erase everything that happened. The dream was a dream, a culmination of Shinsou's regret and frustrations. It wasn't real. This new rivalry between them... it's far more practical, far more concrete.
It still stings; still reminds that, yes, actions have consequences.
Becoming friends, after what Shinsou did, is far less tangible. It's not even something he should want. This feeling...had not been present with the others.
"Right," he nods, suppressing his disappointment. "Rivals it is."
"By the way, we never had a proper chance to introduce ourselves," the boy bows his head. "I'm Ojiro Mashirao."
Ojiro. He's not just some boy anymore. Not a monkey. He gave his name: Ojiro Mashirao, his rival.
"Shinsou Hitoshi," he tips his head back. "A pleasure."
"Hey, I thought you said you didn't lie," Ojiro chuckles again, his breath a little easier.
"I don't lie..." Shinsou trails. "But I can occasionally bend the truth."
"Okay, okay. I got it," he looks to the clock at the front of the room, his face glossy from dried sweat. "We still have a half hour of free period. You wanna put your training to good use and spar?"
Shinsou laughs through his nose, "I'll pass. You seem okay now, but you won't go easy on me. I brainwashed you and my body is practically dead. You'd ream me and then I'd have to take the bus home."
"Welcome to my world," Ojiro quips, rubbing at his shoulders. His chest protrudes, and Shinsou wills himself to keep his stare straight. Ojiro's complete comfort with his body and appearance confounds Shinsou (but it's not an unwelcomed sight). "If something isn't sore by the end of the day, I definitely didn't train hard enough."
"I'll keep that in mind," Shinsou turns his face towards the door, readying himself to leave. "Thank you for speaking to me."
Ojiro grins, his black eyes polite and free of any lingering animosity, "Likewise. I'll see you around."
They say their goodbyes, and Shinsou makes his way out, one hand fiddling with his belt loops. He knows there is something else Ojiro wants to say, but he won't tease it out. That's not his responsibility.
It's not until Shinsou is at the door, one foot stepping over the cement brick, that Ojiro calls out to him. His voice isn't strained, but there's an air of distance between his words. As if he's still grappling with the conclusions of their conversation.
"It feels bad to be used like that," Ojiro pauses, and Shinsou suspects his fists are tight, his tail stiff. "To be treated as nothing. To be treated like a pawn. You know what I mean?"
Shinsou thinks of his former classmates, salivating at the thought of his quirk. He thinks of himself immobilized. Incapacitated, at the mercy of a total stranger.
With his quirk, he can make anyone do anything. Shinsou could have made Ojiro do anything. And he wouldn't have remembered. He would have been powerless to stop it.
Shinsou understands, truly. What his power meant to this boy. Why they may never be friends.
So he replies, exiting the gym, "I do now."
The weekend passes without incident, and during his next training session when Aizawa asks how his Friday went, Shinsou neither smiles nor frowns. He glances at his right hand, the one Ojiro shook to call their truce.
He wasn't entirely forgiven, but he was understood.
He's not a villain. Shinsou knows this. Ojiro knows this.
"It went well."
0808080
END NOTES:
Me, falling in love with all the minor ships and characters in BNHA: ahh, still have to make my own content. Great.
I partially wrote this because I feel like the fics I've read about Shinsou don't do justice to the way he used his powers in the Festival. And I don't think Aizawa would blindly praise him for his callous approach. If he is training him, I think teaching Shinsou about cooperation would be a main part of the curriculum (though I mean, he tries with Bakugo and look where that gets him haha...)
This fic was only to be like, AT MOST 15K but given this chapter, that's not gonna be possible anymore orz. I am happy with how it turned how. I'm most excited for the next chapter!
Thanks @blackmoonbabe for inspiring me with this post here! Finally got to write out some Lotura, and I’m pleased with the result. I hope you all enjoy!
Pairing: Lotor/Allura
Summary: If the princess noticed his tone—noticed the worry that seeped from his veins and cloaked his skin—she ignored it. Allura’s face brightened at Lotor’s approach, her smile dazzling and elated. She ran to meet him at the temple’s front steps and she paused just as he reached her, arms outstretched and reaching towards him. As if reaching to embrace him.
AO3 Link: HERE
He didn’t want to believe it. That he was outside the temple, re-entry impossible. That he had failed this test—this test he had waited decades, centuries to take—and couldn’t fathom why. He was good enough. The marks were there. Everyone in the castle had seen them, Allura included! He had not climbed these cliffs, walked through those hallways to be denied his birthright. To be denied his destiny.
But he had been denied. He had failed the one test he wanted to pass, the test that would prove him worthy of his Altean heritage. It left his chest empty, a black void clasping onto his lungs and filling his throat with frustration and dread. He wanted to scream, but his body felt tight and motionless, as if he was made of stone. And it was cold: his anger was often hot and flooded his veins with rage, just as it had when he fought the lion mere seconds before. But this anger left him stiff and numb, staring at the temple in a defeated daze.
Perhaps it wasn’t anger, then. Perhaps it was contempt, directed at only himself.
All this work, all his research. All the mocking, all the abuse and isolation. They’d been for nothing.
Nothing could make up for this failure. He had lost his generals over this. He could lose the paladins’ trust if he came back empty-handed, especially if Allura couldn’t find—
“Allura!”
Desperation latched onto Lotor’s voice, the name sounding feeble and strained as it slipped past his lips. The chill encasing his skin and coiling over his stomach intensified, but neither fury nor self-pity settled into his chest. Something else pricked at his heart, and he pressed a shaky fist into his sternum to temper the nagging sensation. It drained him, more so than even the fight. He hunched over and breathed through his nose, almost coughing as he exhaled and warm air wafted over his face. It was a troubling feeling, and while his thoughts focused on Allura and her battle with the lion—what was her strategy, was she losing, would she survive—the feeling pooled into his throat and bordered on nauseating. Like he was sick, like he'd been drugged.
Like he was worried.
Lotor gasped and his breath stilled, leaving his heart to squirm. It had been so long since he’d worried. Or at least, worried about anyone but himself. He had never worried about his generals. They were skilled fighters, capable of completing any mission he gave them. His father was beyond worry: that was a given. The paladins were his allies with a powerful weapon to lead them to victory. Concern for their safety and well-being would prove futile. And with the witch, fear and loathing were all had ever mustered.
Allura was capable and skilled. She was a princess and leader of an entire coalition. She, too, like his father, should be beyond worry. He should trust she’d be fine, that she would make it out of that temple with the knowledge he had dreamed of receiving himself. To worry meant that Lotor did not trust Allura, that he thought her frail and weak.
Allura was strong. Allura was resilient and resolute.
He knew all of this—he had seen all of this—but he could not ease his quivering heart nor halt his thoughts of Allura in danger or Allura in pain or Allura collapsing onto that airy white floor, her eyes wide as the lion’s claws swipe at her chest, ripping through her flesh—
Blinding white and yellow lights shot out from the temple and through Lotor, interrupting his paranoia. He shielded his eyes, but the light dissipated a moment after, the cracks between his fingers revealing the calm pink sky above. Lotor returned his hand to his side and blinked, focusing his attention on the temple’s entrance. At first, he saw the lion and fear and anger struck at his core. Had the lion defeated Allura? Was it here to finish Lotor?
But like the lights, the lion vanished. And in its place was Allura, mouth open and eyes glazed in wonder.
Seeing the princess safe and whole dissolved the rage wedged into Lotor’s arms and legs, relief washing over his shoulders and chest in its stead. Feasibly, it could have been a trap by the lion, a way to ensnare him in that temple forever. That should have crossed his mind as he raced towards Allura, steps heavy and pounding the polished marble beneath them.
It didn’t. Because even if Allura failed like he had, she was fine. She was alive and they would leave together.
“Allura!” Lotor cringed as her name spilled from his mouth. It sounded scratchy and unsure. It could give the impression he’d been worried and thought her helpless.
If the princess noticed his tone—noticed the worry that seeped from his veins and cloaked his skin—she ignored it. Allura’s face brightened at Lotor’s approach, her smile dazzling and elated. She ran to meet him at the temple’s front steps and she paused just as he reached her, arms outstretched and reaching towards him. As if reaching to embrace him.
That was unexpected, and a jolt of panic and something else—something bubbly and warm and akin to joy—surged through Lotor, inhibiting him from further movement. Gods, when was the last time anyone embraced him, least of all someone he thought of as highly as Allura? How would his body react to her hold, to her lean arms wrapped around his waist and her fingertips pressed into his back?
Before Lotor could compose himself, however, Allura’s smile dropped, noticing his tense reaction. She immediately shoved her arms into her sides, fingers curling into tight fists. She recovered soon enough, a wide smile filling her face and a gentle, nervous laugh escaping her. Perhaps she hoped to ease him, reassure him that her hands would stay away.
Not that there was anything to ease or be nervous about. Lotor recalled when he held her hand, how small it felt underneath his. That night, he had idly wondered how small the rest of her body would feel against his.
But the moment passed, just as those thoughts had. He would not learn the answer today.
“I’m glad to see you are safe, Lotor,” Allura said, folding her hands in front of her. “When the lion separated us, I feared it would be some time before I found you again. Luckily, that was not the case. It seems the lion was far more generous at the test’s conclusion.”
Lotor had had that same fear and remembered calling out to her in that white-drenched plane. He hadn’t noticed his worry then, the way it crept into his voice so effortlessly. What was it about Allura that gave rise to such reactions? That made him want to reach out and…
And what?
“But are you okay, Allura?” Lotor asked, deciding to push those ambiguous feelings aside. He wasn’t here to question the change between them, however slight and natural it felt. “Your test lasted far longer than mine. I was—”
He paused, the word “worried” threatening to spill from his lips and make his feelings known. Allura didn’t want his worry. Allura needed his trust, his faith.
“You were…” Allura trailed, head tilted and eyes curious. Every second he scrambled for something, anything else to say thickened the air surrounding them, making him appear awkward and daft. And Lotor knew he was neither. But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and it was terribly difficult to think while Allura’s illustrious blue eyes stared into him.
“I was—I was sure you’d pass before myself, given that you learned so much from your father,” Lotor said, suppressing the urge to wince at his makeshift lie.
Allura seemed disappointed in his answer as well, turning her stare away and towards the floating cliffs. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, her posture formal. “Oh, I see. That does make sense. I’m afraid I didn’t think of the solution until the very end. But I’m glad I did. The sages… it was all so beautiful.”
Before Lotor could ask her to elaborate (and consequently admit his defeat), Allura’s face brightened once more, and she took a step closer, her face only a foot away from his chest. “But you, Lotor! It sounds like you were waiting for quite some time. You must have figured out the solution right away! How did your test go? I would love to hear about it.”
Lotor’s eyes widened, but he did not turn his face away. Rather, sharp heat rushed over his neck and knots of embarrassment festered inside his stomach. Of course, he had to tell her, especially if she passed. There was no way to lie about this. And he didn’t want to lie to Allura. She deserved the truth. She always would.
His resolve didn’t make his words any less stilted, however. Nor did it steady his thunderous pulse. “I... failed, princess. I fought the lion and defeated it. But in doing so, I was banished from the temple. I did not receive the sages’ blessing.”
A brief pause hung between the pair, and Allura’s lips parted, brows lifted in surprise. She glanced down at the marble beneath her, catching sight of Lotor’s shaking fist, his knuckles a pale lavender. “I’m so sorry, Lotor. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have,” Lotor replied, trying to keep his voice soft and non-combative. He didn’t want Allura to think him envious of her achievement. They’d been here for her, anyway. Oriande was never for Lotor—he could see that now. There was too much anger holed up within him, too much pain to ever learn the secret wonders of Altea. “But it doesn’t matter. As long as one of us received the knowledge of Altean alchemy, then this trip was well worth it. Do not concern yourself with my failures. We should celebrate your success instead and depart the planet soon: the castle's oxygen levels must be dangerously low by now.”
Lotor offered Allura a small smile and turned his back, hoping she’d follow without further contention. He didn’t deserve her comfort or compassion. He had failed, and he would get over it.
Probably. Eventually.
But then a firm hand took hold of his forearm and he froze. Goosebumps flared across his arm and shoulder, warmth blossoming near his heart and spreading towards his stomach. Her fingers curled, and he was compelled to turn around and meet her gaze, understanding and kind.
All that from Allura’s fingers. All that from her touch.
“I know what it feels like to fail, Lotor,” Allura started, her voice solid and gentle, something Lotor imagined only she was capable of, “I know that it can humiliate and lead to doubt. But I want you to know this changes nothing. You brought me here of your own volition, you brought us here to help me. You have my absolute gratitude for that alone. Without you, we would have never found Oriande and my father’s abilities would still remain beyond me. So, please: allow me to thank you again. Everything that has happened today has meant so much to me, and it’s all because of you.”
The last of her words quickened Lotor’s heartbeat, and the warmth within his chest swelled and deepened. She had said words like that before, mere hours ago, but it did not diminish their effect. Despite his insistence he was fine, despite his desire to repress his embarrassing failure and push it far into the back of his mind, Allura would not stay quiet. She voiced her thoughts, how she felt about him and his defeat. But unlike his father or the Galra soldiers that mocked his small stature and interest in Altean civilization, Allura praised him, even when he failed. Even when he had done nothing to earn her praise.
Still, a smile crawled onto his lips, just as it had before. She had not let go of his arm. He hoped it stayed there. “Thank you, Allura. I am humbled by your praise.”
Allura returned his smile and stepped forward, her stare a touch more relieved. As if she’d been concerned. As if she’d been worried.
His head buzzed at the thought, and it surprised him, how his chest sung with joy. Rage should have shuddered his shoulders, should have shaken his legs and stabbed at his ribs: to worry about someone meant they were incompetent and weak, unfit for battle and victory. But Allura’s worry did not seem to stem from his failures. It was just about him—who he was and what he meant to her.
Because she was beginning to care about him. Just as he was beginning to care about her.
Emboldened by her smile, Lotor reached and clasped his free hand over hers, enjoying how small it felt in his own. He only wished her skin was exposed so that he could feel her lithe fingers against his own. He spoke again, and he remembered why he called her name in that plane, why his voice softened and constrained, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” Allura replied, eyes sparkling, a hint of pink spanning across her cheeks. “Very much so.”
Allura was strong. Allura was resilient and resolute. But that didn’t mean she was beyond protection.
If she would have him, have him despite his failures and mistakes, Lotor would protect her. Because she was his ally, because she was the future the universe depended on.
