Chapter Text
A green rabbit.
Gee, Kei wonders why Dad could’ve possibly asked them to go find a toy like that, of all things. Definitely nothing to do with a particular green-eared hero costume, or a particular little girl currently being treated at a secure hospital. The one that Uncle Shō gave Dad special clearance to come work at before the raid, that Dad said he couldn't talk about because patient privacy and blah blah blah.
Hey, Uncle? Would’ve been nice to let Dad know that Kei was part of the raid team. Y’know, so he could just be honest with them and say he’s treating Eri, instead of getting all up in knots about policy.
Double-checking that the toy remains stashed safe in their bag — like hell they’re going to lose it, after having to bike across half the city just to find one — Kei exhales and steels themself for the inevitable bluster and explanations that await inside. To be honest, they are glad Dad’s working with her. He’s good at what he does — excellent, even, with nearly two decades of experience — and Kei knows the poor girl will be in safe hands with him as her nurse. She’s the sort of kid that he’d probably say his entire career has been building toward helping.
They just… wish, not for the first time, that he could be half as devoted to his own children as he is to these bleeding-heart cases.
A receptionist at the front desk smiles at them as they enter the building, vibrantly green hair curling around her shoulders and multiple vine-line tendrils typing away at the four monitors surrounding her. Huh, creative quirk application— Kei wonders how hard it is for her to split her attention between the different keyboards. Then again, maybe it just takes practice like regular typing. “Hello! How can I help you?”
“Ah, I’m here for Nurse Akane— if you send him a message, he’ll explain.” They heft their bag awkwardly, letting the strap fall back on their shoulder as the receptionist blinks and turns to the third of her four monitors. “He asked me to bring some things for his quirk.”
“Just a moment, please.” Matsumoto — as her nametag declares — nods towards a nearby bench. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from him.”
“Sure, thank you.”
Kei makes for the bench, more than ready to rest for a few moments after enough cycling to make a lesser man turn into jelly (and not in a fun quirk way), but a voice calls from the front doors before they can sit down. An unexpected, but unfortunately familiar voice.
“Kei! Hello!”
One minute, that’s all they asked for! Sighing, Kei turns to wave. “Hi, Mirio. Oh—” He’s not alone, and it’s not the other 2/3 of the Big Three with him, “—Uncle, Midoriya, good afternoon.” With those three together, that means— “Visiting Eri?”
Uncle Shō nods. “She’s been asking to see them. And you…?”
“Dad wanted me to pick up some supplies.” Kei gestures to their bag again, and Uncle makes a noise of understanding. Not surprise— but that’s only fair, since he’s the reason Dad’s treating Eri to begin with. Not to mention that he and Dad knew each other years before Kei ever got a chance to meet him themself (thanks for that, Dad). “Plus one or two of Saki’s old things, just what she doesn’t need anymore.”
A wide smile stretched across Mirio’s face. “Ah, so Akane-sensei is treating her! I had wondered!”
“Yeah, Uncle requested him.”
“I’m glad Eri-chan’s been in such good hands!”
From the reception desk, Matsumoto calls cheerily, “Akane-san, thank you for waiting, your father said to send you back. And— ah, Eraserhead, welcome!” She smiles at Uncle, who just nods before jerking his chin towards Mirio and Midoriya. “These two are with you? We will still have a three-person limit in the room, but they should be fine as long as they’re both up to date on their vaccinations.”
“I’m good!”
Midoriya fidgets under Matsumoto’s gaze, but Kei thinks they can figure the reason why. “I- I’m up to date as well.”
“Wonderful— Eraserhead, if you’d like to show them the way, her room hasn’t changed.” She offers Kei one more smile, this one markedly warmer than her first greeting. “Akane-san, Nurse Akane is still with the patient, so please follow Eraserhead as well.”
Well, that simplifies things. Kei inclines their head in gratitude, and follows Uncle as he leads the way down a hall to the elevators. Mirio and Midoriya fall into an easy pace behind them, even though the hallway is more than wide enough here for all four of them to walk side-by-side if they want. The feeling of eyes on their back makes Kei’s shoulders twitch, and they turn to press their back against the elevator wall as soon as they get inside.
Midoriya twists his fingers together for a moment before asking, eyes wide, “Um— excuse me, Akane-senpai, but why do you call Sensei ‘Uncle’?”
… Not really where or when they wanted to have this conversation, but fuck it, Kei’s running low on the energy required to care. “My dad’s birth name was Shirakumo,” They explain, keeping the words short and to-the-point and ignoring the way Midoriya’s eyes blink even wider than before, “And Uncle Shōta was the one to rescue my sister. What,” The next floor dings, and Kei really doesn’t want to see Dad with this sort of somber mood, so they add, “Uncle never told you about your cousins? Uncle, I’m disappointed.”
The elevator door opens to the sound of Mirio choking on a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Uncle sighs. “Izuku, this is Kei, the reason I will go grey young.”
“Big words coming from the man who taught me how to fall off a roof,” Kei snipes back, earning a heavier sigh and a laugh from Midoriya. “Also, seriously, I have not listened to you fretting about your Problem Child for the last five months for me to be only reason.”
The boy in question flushes red and, instead of joining the conversation, elbows Mirio with a hissed, “Stop laughing, senpai!”
“Pfft, sorry, sorry!”
As Uncle leads the way down the hall again, Kei falls back into step next to Mirio, leaving Midoriya space to trot up next to his soulmate. They haven’t exactly had time to catch up with their classmates much, between the work with Hawks and everything at home, so they chance a glance over Mirio while he stifles chuckles. He looks… healed, physically. No pain in his expression, skin color’s normal, clean clothes and hair that say he’s been taking care of himself. Fresh white petals stain the palm of his right hand, a soulmark so new it almost glows off his skin. Even so… “How are you doing?”
“Hm?” It takes a moment for his eyes to pull back from Midoriya and Uncle’s backs, coming down to meet Kei’s with one brow quirked. “I’m doing fine! Well,” He amends near-instantly, “Not fine, but well enough. Nejire and Tamaki have been very patient.”
“That’s good.” A question sits, heavy on their tongue, too loud for this hallway and these people. “I— and Sensei hasn’t been giving you any trouble?”
Mirio shakes his head. “She told me to take time to recover, and not to push myself!”
Coming from Bubblegum, Kei rather thinks that she probably wouldn’t mind if Mirio doesn’t come back to Heroics classes at all, but they’re not about to say so. He gets along with their teacher, somehow, and Kei loathes to taint that good relationship with their own bitterness. Mirio’s dealing with enough, right now.
Again, the question they can’t ask presses against their lips. Instead, Kei glances down at their bag — just the satchel they usually bring to school — and back up at the hallway ahead.
“Hey, Uncle Shō?”
He pauses, turning back to look at them. From an open door just down the hall, Kei hears a melodious hum. “What is it?”
Kei shrugs the strap of the bag over their shoulder, offering Uncle the entire thing. “Here, can you just bring this to Dad for me? There’s a toy for his quirk, Saki’s old weighted blanket, a worry ball— you know, the ones you can kind of knead if you’re stressed—”
“Kei?”
“—and some art supplies, since he thought maybe drawing might be nice for her, since we’re not sure what her reading level is,” Kei continues past the interruption, keeping their eyes fixed on the open door, “And I threw in a couple of Kaori-san’s rosebuds, in case any of the scents are calming. You know how they work, you can show Mirio and Midoriya.” Come on, Uncle, just take the hint already. The wonder duo are staring.
(A horrible, horrible question fills Kei’s throat, and they think about Uncle Bo who can’t make clouds anymore. About Shigaraki, with his red shoes, staring at the five-point gloves like he’s never seen them before. About Dabi, feverish in bed, refusing offers of help.)
(About the taste of bile and sour petals, and a blinding glow filling the nurse’s bathroom. About a dad who never came home.)
Uncle Shōta stares at them, nodding slower than the setting sun and lifting the bag from their hands. “Come pick this up after class tomorrow.” His eyes say they’ll talk then, and Kei almost wants to laugh. Like they’ll have any time to spare.
“Sure. Bye, Mirio, Midoriya.”
If either of them responds, Kei doesn’t hear it, because they turn and make for the elevators at a perfectly reasonable walking pace, grey noise humming in their ears. They don’t want to see Dad there, treating another patient— not even that little girl, who deserves every kindness the world can spare her. They don’t want to look at Dad with that question threatening to strangle in their throat, bad enough to ask and worse in front of him. Even though it’s been years, even though they’re not the one who’s suffering here, even though everything should be just fine and there’s nothing about any of this that should affect them—
(Do you feel free, now that it’s gone?)
(Do you feel free?)
(Do you feel—)
---
“Why are you here, again?”
Control makes a ridiculous pouting face, like a brat who just heard Dad’s going to miss their birthday again. “I told you, call me Tora! It’s not that hard, you know!”
As if that changes anything— hero society’s never going to treat her as anything or anyone but Control, the vigilante, so why even bother? Dabi rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t answer my question— are you babysitting us, or something?”
“Pretty much!” Well, at least she’s as straightforward as she is infuriatingly chipper. Control swings one foot idly against the edge of the couch, flipping through options on the TV remote like she’s done it a million times. “Besides, who else is gonna make a Sports Day Cake for Saki?”
From his own spot on the other side of the sofa, Tomura slumps against the arm with a disgruntled face. Without the raw skin and taxidermy, it’s not as effective— man, to think Dabi used to be intimidated by this guy. “What the hell is a ‘sports day cake’, anyways? Those hero brats didn’t eat cake after the festival.” Just how much was the League spying on U.A. back then, anyways? “Seems stupid. I thought this shit was all about winning.”
With an eyeroll so dramatic it almost looks painful, Control points the remote at him like a knife. “Ah-ah-ah, no grumping and moaning, Mr. Grumpy-pants! Saki happens to be my most favorite soul-sister in the world, and soul-sisters deserve cake when they do good at conquering scary things! Like competitions and closets.”
Dabi almost wants to point out that none of the closets in this apartment count, since they’re all missing doors for some reason, but holds his tongue. The last few days have felt like back-to-back League nonsense— Toga going on and on about getting in touch with ‘The Doctor’ and Giran again, about how the Heroes got Tomura and they’re going to get him back because they’re friends now, and Dabi’s pretty sure he’s nearly bitten off his own tongue more than once holding back what he really thinks about that bullshit. Fucking exhausting.
Last night, she'd explained that the doctor has some sort of challenge for them — something to prove they’re keeping up ‘Sensei’s’ legacy, or whatever — and if they win, he’s got a way to make their quirks stronger. Something that was apparently being saved for Tomura, but since he’s not there…
Which honestly just makes the whole thing more suspicious, not that Dabi has any room to talk. He wouldn’t mind having a stronger quirk, especially since Toga made it sound like ‘stronger’ could include fixing him instead of just making things go hotter (if anyone suggests he needs to go hotter, he's going to remind them what cremation means). And especially if this shit all goes kaput. Something in his pocket that the heroes don’t know about could be life-or-death— or, well, successful-death-or-meaningless-death.
Either way, though, the challenge means a ‘fun party camping trip’ (as Twice put it), and Dabi really would rather not spend his last night with a roof over his head playing host to an ex-vigilante who won’t shut up. “Look, whatever, just leave me—”
“What’s a soul-sister?”
Fuck’s sake, Tomura. Never thought he’d see the day, but Dabi wishes for just a moment that the erstwhile man-child would stop holding a normal conversation. Why can’t he just go back to being a creepy video-game gremlin for once?
As if to spite Dabi, Control smiles even brighter and bounces in her seat. “Well, maybe this is just me, but I like to think of soulmates as family like in-laws are family, except way better! So since Kei’s my soulmate, that means Saki’s basically my sister too!” She pauses, tapping one black finger-pad against her lips, “I mean, I’ve also got my regular little brother— and I love him too, don’t get me wrong! But he got real mad at me for the whole vigilante thing, and y’know, dealing with pissed-off family members while you’re dying? Not very fun!”
There’s that again— those weird references about dying. Didn’t Kei do that too, sometime? Something about saving her life, or whatever— honestly, Dabi just assumed it was hero superiority again, acting like becoming a vigilante was as good as death. What horseshit.
Straightening slightly from his slouch, Tomura cocks his head. He’s still wearing that dumb zig-zag hairband. “Akane’s your soulmate?”
“Mhm!” Control pulls down the collar of her stupid anime shirt — what the hell anime is about cats and riceballs, anyways — to show off a bright blue bra-strap and pale pink flowers decorating her shoulder. “Ever since I was born! Isn’t it pretty?”
Why the hell does Dabi have to sit here and listen to this. Why.
“What’s that one mean?”
She makes a face, peering down at her own skin. “Well, cherry blossoms can mean youth, or kindness, or transience.” With a shrug, she slips her shirt back into place, leaning back against the couch cushions as she rambles, “I guess for most people it’s probably one of those first ones, but I think for me and Kei it’s definitely the last one. I mean, I would’ve been a goner without them, can’t get more transient than that!”
Tomura squints, like the hamster wheel in his brain is spinning overtime. Fuck, Dabi is tired. “Didn’t Akane arrest you? I don’t get it.”
“Yeah, they did.” For the first time, Control’s smile falls completely, and she turns away to face the TV instead of either of them, remote tapping against her folded legs. A preview for some soppy rom-com plays soundlessly on the screen, next to a still from one of the half-dozen cooking shows Dabi watched through the nights when he couldn’t sleep. It looks like the over-the-top baking one, with ridiculous challenges and sets that look like they’re supposed to be more edible than the actual dishes. (The sort of thing Natsuo would’ve loved, but Dabi doesn’t care about that.)
(He doesn’t.)
After a few moments, Tomura asks another question, quieter. “Weren’t you angry?”
“I was.” Control pauses, lips pursed. “But only for a bit. They didn’t— I knew they didn’t do it because they hated me, or anything like that. I made a bad choice and that choice had consequences, and that wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine.”
Dabi snorts, picking at the false skin covering his cheeks. It almost itches worse than the shit on his arms, and that’s saying something— fuck all knows why he’s going along with this bullshit from the rat, because he certainly doesn’t. “Right, because vigilantism is such a terrible thing to do. Totally deserves punishment from the oh-so-holy heroes.”
“Don’t say that.”
The words come out so harsh, Dabi almost asks who the hell just took over her body, but the question dies in his throat at the glassy-eyed glare that Control shoots his way. Her hand, the one not holding the remote, clenches into a fist in her lap. “Don’t— I wasn’t punished. You can’t just— you can’t just assume that you know what happened to me, or why I did it, just because I’m a vigilante. Just because I’m— I was— it’s not that black-and-white! I’m not like you, you know!”
“I didn’t fucking say—”
“I was a vigilante,” Control bites out, and— what the hell, is her hair puffing out like in those old animated movies? “Not a villain. I was— I had fucking cancer, okay?”
… What.
“I had fucking—” Alarmingly, she starts tearing up, and Dabi feels the overwhelming urge to be anywhere but here right now. “—I got the diagnosis right after the Sports Festival, and I knew Mom couldn’t— we didn’t have the money, I couldn’t get treatment. I just wanted— if I was going to die, I wanted to actually help people before I did. And then I— eventually, I dropped out, I even ran away from home for a few months.” Swiping a hand across her eyes, she shakes her head. “I knew someone was going to hunt me down eventually, but Kei— we were just first-years, you know?”
Although he doesn’t reach out, Tomura’s face twists into something alarmingly close to— maybe not sympathy, Dabi’s not sure he’s capable of that, but definitely not the usual disdain. “The same age as— Eraserhead’s class.”
(Midoriya’s class. Shōto’s class.)
“We were just kids,” Control says again, shaking her head. “And I— Principal Nedzu paid for all of my medical treatment, in return for me doing the rehab program. If it weren’t for him— if it weren’t for Kei catching me, I wouldn’t even be alive now. So don’t— you can hate your dad, that’s none of my business and he’s a flaming piece of shit anyways,” She glares at Dabi, green eyes as sharp as glass, “But don’t you dare act like he and Kei are the same.”
But aren’t they? Sure, you can preach to the choir and pretend that one hero is an angel and another a devil, but aren’t they all upholding the same corrupt, infested industry on that crumbling pedestal? Just because Endeavor has a special place reserved in hell, doesn’t mean other heroes are suddenly paragons of virtue and good and blameless of all faults.
(If heroes didn’t exist, a kid wouldn’t have burned alive on a mountain, alone. If heroes didn’t exist, Shōto wouldn’t have that scar.)
(If heroes didn’t exist, Dabi could have lived a real life.)
Quietly, in a tone that sounds less hesitant than uncertain, Tomura asks, “So, it wasn’t… even though you got mad, it’s still okay, because you’re soulmates?”
“Yes!” Immediately after the outburst, Control clamps a hand over her mouth and takes a deep breath. “Yes. It’s— well, it’s not just because we’re soulmates, but— I don’t think I could ever really hate them, and that’s part of it. They were in my life for a reason, and that reason is why I’m still here today. Even if we fight or disagree, that stuff doesn’t change what we mean to each other.”
A mumble, so quiet Dabi strains to hear it. “…and if you weren’t soulmates…?”
Control hums. “Well, it might have been harder— but I think we would have been friends no matter what, soulmark or no soulmark, so my answer’s the same.” Her hair un-fluffs, falling back into the usual short bob (so different from the long ponytail she had as a vigilante, except now Dabi knows why and feels a little sick, it’s one thing for him to die for this cause but anyone else—). “The soulmarks make it easier, but soulmates aren’t the only people who make those big changes in our lives, y’know? I think if someone’s important enough, and you affect each other enough, that’s basically the same thing—”
She pauses, then perks up like a damn dog. “That’s like Saki for me, actually! Seeing her get better made me want to get better too, and we’ve been getting better together! Together better-getting!”
Fuck it, Dabi’s done.
He unfolds himself from the floor, stretching out his shoulders until the sockets pop and ignoring Control’s nagging questions. Screw this, he has no interest in sitting here and listening to her talk— maybe Tomura likes it, for whatever fucking reason, but Dabi doesn’t want to hear about soulmates and recovery stories and hero worship. If it weren’t for heroes—
As he slopes out of the room and down the hall to steal Tomura’s bed, the conversation trails back into something about baking again, like the universe is taunting Dabi specifically and letting up the moment he’s gone.
(Todoroki Tōya used to have a soulmate. He used to watch Mom bake, and used to look up to Heroes for being strong and cool and powerful.)
(Todoroki Tōya didn’t get a recovery story.)
(And that’s fine. That’s fine. He’s going to do this stupid program and fuck up All for One’s stupid plans and then bring Endeavor’s stupid head down onto the pike he’s earned. Dabi’s life still has a purpose— he’s reason enough for himself, no soulmates or family needed.)
(That’s fine.)
(It’s fine.)
---
The apartment feels awkward as hell.
No Akane or chibi Akane — still off at school, or whatever. (Tomura never got to go to school. It sounds insufferable, sitting around being talked at all day instead of doing what he wants, but Akane and Saki seem to like it. Something about getting to see friends, or learning new things, or getting actual guidance from authority figures instead of… actually, maybe it doesn’t sound as bad, putting it that way. Not like Tomura knows either way. Sensei said school didn’t matter.)
But worse than that, no Dabi either. He doesn’t tell Tomura what’s going on with the League, and Tomura’s never gotten together the courage to ask (honestly, he’s not sure he even wants to fucking know), just that this time he’ll be gone for a little while. Something about an organized thing.
That was four days ago, and Dabi’s been gone since. Which means Tomura is stuck here, in the apartment, with no company except Kurogiri.
Who isn’t Kurogiri anymore.
… Maybe he hasn’t been Kurogiri for a while, and Tomura just didn’t want to see it. Looking at him now, sitting on the far end of the couch with one hand covering the scars on his chin as he reads a packet of papers, nothing about him resembles the man (creature?) that watched over Tomura for so many years. No pressed shirt or bleach-clean gloves, just a light grey cardigan catching on the sharp edges of the neck-brace he’s still wearing. (Because without it, his neck will snap, and he’ll die for real. Because before Sensei got him, he died already.)
(Why did Kurogiri have to die, for Tomura to meet him? How much of it was Sensei, and how much of it was just Tomura himself causing harm?)
The back of Tomura’s neck itches, and he scrapes a fingernail against it absently. It hurts less, through the fabric of the glove. Relieves some of the itch, but doesn’t leave him raw—and if it does, there’s medicine in the bathroom cabinet that’ll make it better. Right next to the scar cream, the moisturizer that smells like cherry blossoms, and the melatonin Akane hasn’t touched in over two weeks. Kurogiri said that Eraserhead said they’re supposed to take it every night.
(Kids with scars. Heroes who don’t sleep. Kurogiri with one yellow eye and one blue, and a neck that won’t hold on its own anymore.)
(Even when Tomura scratches, the flowers on his neck never fade. If he’d put all five fingers down on that day…)
Something in the pit of his stomach twists weirdly, like a bad Tetris block getting stuck in the wrong spot, and Tomura swallows down the weird taste in his mouth. Would be preferable to just go back to sleep, but honestly, Tomura’s sick of sleeping. Being sick fucking sucks. It leaves all his energy crawling around like ants under his skin, buzzy and disgusting.
And there’s nobody to talk to, except… “Giri?”
“Huh?” Kurogiri looks up, blue eye first, thin eyebrows furrowed in the way that says he’s confused but not about to freak out. He didn’t have eyebrows, before. “What is it?”
“Do you—” Ugh, gross, Tomura’s palms feel sweaty, and he presses them against his jeans in the hopes of the gloves absorbing it. Talking sucks. (Hana used to come to his bedroom after dark, after Father got mad, and she’d talk and talk even when he couldn’t respond. Like talking was enough to fix things. And then— and then Tomura’s soulmate talked too, and it was—) “Do you hate me?”
Kurogiri blinks a few times, and his eyes get wider with each blink. For a moment, Tomura wants Father’s hand back to hide behind, and then feels nauseous at the thought. (Father died because of him. Hana died because of him. Mother, Grandmother, Grandfather, everybody—)
It takes a moment for him to respond. “… That’s a complicated question. I’m not— you don’t want to ask that, Tomura.”
“I want to know.” The raw feeling in Tomura’s throat itches.
Paper rustles as Kurogiri sets his packet aside and turns in his seat, leaning his back against the arm of the coach and tucking his toes between the seat cushion and the backrest, an odd look on his face. For a few heartbeats, he doesn’t say anything, just staring at Tomura with one blue eye and one yellow. “… It’s not going to be a simple answer. I’m not— I can’t— there’s no easy way to answer that question. I don’t want to say something that—”
He swallows hard, the motion barely visible thanks to the brace. “I don’t want to give you an honest answer if it'll make you angry.”
Sensei said things that made Tomura angry, sometimes. On purpose, so that he’d learn the anger, learn how to live in it and feed it and make it himself. But Sensei lived on the other side of the screen, most days. The worst Tomura could do to him was throw a tantrum and turn the bar to dust, and then he'd be more hurt than Sensei would.
To Kurogiri, though— “I want to hear it. Even if it’s shit that makes me angry.”
“Even if— fine.” Something flinty-hard enters Kurogiri’s blue right eye, like a chip of metal. “Yes, Tomura. A part of me does hate you.”
The feeling like a lopsided Tetris block gets worse, hard and uncomfortable in the pit of Tomura’s stomach, while the floor wavers under his feet. Of course. Of course that’s the answer. Why wouldn’t it be? Sensei was great at making people hate— he taught Tomura everything he knows about hate, about anger, about resenting and rejecting and watching all of the harm and unfairness in the world. Why wouldn’t Sensei make Kurogiri hate too? (The feeling in his chest doesn’t feel like itching. It feels like something else that hurts a lot more.)
“… But not all of me.”
Tomura blinks, and his blurry vision — what the fuck, why was it blurry, his eyesight is fine — resolves into clarity as Kurogiri sighs and leans towards him. Just a bit. “Like I said, it’s— it’s complicated. I lost fourteen years of my life to you— to him, but he did it for you, and I can’t— I can’t just not care about that. I lost relationships, I lost family, I lost— lost the chance to see my friends become Heroes, lost my own future before I even finished growing up.” For a moment, his face looks haunted. “My soulmate thought I was dead for almost half our lives. He was grieving me for fourteen years, and I didn’t even know who I was until you— until we kidnapped Izuku.”
Eraserhead’s soulmate. Kurogiri’s soulmate, apparently. (Tomura’s soulmate, too— he has a claim too, that has to mean something, right?)
(Right?)
“But even— even though I can’t— nothing I do or feel will get that back.” Kurogiri purses his lips, the scars at the corner of his mouth standing out starkly. Tomura’s palms itch. “And you— you did a lot of horrible things, Tomura. I won’t sugar-coat that for you. But you were just a kid, when that man— when I died. And he hurt you too.”
What? But— “Sensei didn’t hurt me. He didn't—”
A sad tilt enters Kurogiri’s expression, like a melancholy character sprite in a visual novel right after you choose the wrong dialogue. “He didn’t hurt you physically, but the way he raised you— it wasn’t right, either.”
… And the worst part is, Tomura can’t think of anything to say against it. The yakuza kid that Akane and Midoriya rescued, she was being taken apart and put back together, just like Sensei did to Kurogiri. And that was wrong. Overhaul kept her hidden away where none of the heroes knew about her until she escaped, just like Sensei kept Tomura hidden so they wouldn’t find him. That was wrong too. Sensei wanted to take Eraserhead’s quirk, so he could control Tomura’s — control it, instead of teaching him, or helping him, the way Eraserhead and All Might helped Midoriya go from breaking limbs to crackling like lightning in barely a season. Tomura lived with painful, itchy skin for years and years, and Sensei never taught him how to treat it.
Just how to use the pain.
Sensei made Kurogiri a nōmu, because… because if a human took care of Tomura, would they have known it was wrong? Would they have said something?
Like he can tell what Tomura’s thinking — is that another quirk, or just fourteen years of experience — Kurogiri smiles faintly, a dim echo of the oversized grin in the photo on his nightstand that Tomura tries not to look at. “So, I can’t— I can’t just hate you. You remind me of a lot of things that hurt me, but not all of it was your fault. Some, but not all.”
“How come—” The words try to stick in Tomura’s throat, uncomfortable and dry, and he really wishes he’d gotten a glass of water before starting this stupid conversation. This was a bad idea. “—how come you let me stay, then?”
Kurogiri hums quietly. “I didn’t want to, at first.”
“At first?”
“I raised you for fourteen years, Tomura.” Mismatched eyes, strange sky and familiar light, meet Tomura’s with the sturdiest gaze since that night in Kamino. Unflinching, without a waver or a flicker, steady and calm. “It’s not what I wanted to do with those years, and I didn’t have a choice— but I spent fourteen years taking care of you. And when Dabi showed up here, with you, and told us that you asked him to burn those awful hands—”
A defensive retort rises in Tomura’s throat, that those were his family, and— and they really were awful, weren’t they? Carrying around the hands of the family he killed, and not letting them rest?
With a soft sigh, Kurogiri continues, “—I felt the same hope that I felt in Kamino. I— for the first time in fourteen years, you took a step out of that man’s influence, and did the hard thing instead of the easy one. I wanted— I wanted to see more of that. To see you get better.”
Tomura grabs the doorframe, solely just to look casual and not to keep himself upright. “What the— why? Why would—”
“Because a part of me loves you, too.”
… Nobody’s loved Tomura since Mom and Hana. Nobody was around to love him, and he didn’t need anybody to. Sensei raised him (Kurogiri raised him), Sensei taught him (Kurogiri taught him), Sensei protected him (Kurogiri protected him), but Sensei never…
The fabric of his gloves really is absorbent, when he wipes them across his face. Sensei never gave him gloves. “Hey, uh—”
His voice cracks. Ugh, glitch in the dialogue.
“Uh— so, since you’re not— you’re not—” Shit, words, why is all his dialogue glitching now, Tomura’s not supposed to glitch, “—I shouldn’t call you Giri anymore, right? So, what should— what should I—”
A startled gaze meets his, blue and yellow glowing softly over a slow-growing smile. One of the biggest smiles yet, one of the brightest Tomura’s ever seen— from him, from anybody. Almost like the smile in the photograph. “Shirakumo Oboro, Tomura. You can call me Shirakumo.”
“Shirakumo…” Blinking away the weird blur in his eyes, Tomura rolls the sound of it over his tongue. “Shirakumo, huh?”
It doesn’t sound bad. It doesn’t sound bad at all.
Actually, it sounds a little like tomorrow.