Chapter Text
The first step to Midoriya's no good, very terrible idea is taking the soonest train to Minato.
His words, not Shouto's. He doesn't actually quite know what this bad idea is exactly either. Midoriya shuffles him out the door with four bottles of water and a handful of snacks, cagey and unforthcoming the entire way except for that they need to catch a train. To Minato. Which… is easier said than done.
"Ugh," Midoriya groans softly, pacing restlessly by the caution line of the platform. Shouto watches placidly from a station bench, fists flexing in his lap. "The next one is twenty minutes… We have to get there before three… "
Shouto narrows his eyes, and breathes carefully through a muggy inhale and exhale. He's forgetting something. "What's in Minato?"
Pausing mid-stride, Midoriya turns and flaps his hands. "You'll see, I can't… you'll see," he says, and bites his lip briefly. "We just need to get there before three…"
That gives them about four hours. At least one hour now will be traveling by train. They'll be cutting it close, Shouto thinks, to whatever it is Midoriya wants to avoid. But, what else can Shouto do?
Eventually, Midoriya bleeds off enough nervous energy, and after a frown from the station guard at how close he gets to the edge of the platform, he sits down next to Shouto. People amble by; a couple have black bandanas and shiny pins, but here, underground, Shouto finds it easier to just be even if he doesn't have the time.
He closes his eyes against the muddled murmurs, the distant screams in his ears, and says, "I think there's something wrong with the shooter."
"What?" Midoriya squeaks, and when a few heads turn their way, he ducks his head. "W-What do you mean?"
"Something's wrong." Shouto peeks at Midoriya from the corner of his eye. "I can't… Am I such a pivotal figure that the slightest change I make upends everything or… am I not alone?"
It makes sense. Shouto has never been so important to anyone or anything besides that man, and he doesn't think that'll change now. It's odd, looking back. At least a couple times he didn't do much of anything but pass out and something different but equally horrible happened anyway. Is he alone? Or is he… not the only one?
"That… That is a good question," Midoriya allows, and bounces his leg as he mulls it over. "... This isn't a movie, but if you were pressed to a singular, unchanged ending regardless of what you do, I would say no, it's just you, but… I don't know, either you're that important or maybe… the shooter is trapped too."
Alone, but not alone. Shouto thinks that might be worse.
More silence passes. He almost misses the noise of the crowds, and is startled when Midoriya continues with, "Thank you, though. You, you're trying so, so hard to keep us safe and, and I just…"
Plenty of people have thanked Shouto before for doing his job, even for doing it well, but this? It's unnecessary as always, but maybe he needed to hear it anyway.
"Thank you," Shouto says in turn. "For everything."
For believing me.
Midoriya smiles tentatively. "I'd say anytime but… that might be a l-little too on the nose, y'know?"
Tick tock.
With a hum, Shouto tries to smile in turn. It’s the barest curl to the edges of his lips, but it seems to be enough when Midoriya's widens just a hair. He thinks about potentially ruining it to sate his burgeoning curiosity, but decides not to in the end. Maybe later.
He's done enough already in this loop and it's barely lunch.
The ensuing quiet is near companionable. Shouto feels a little bad about earlier in a more normal, mentally healthy adjusted way. He wonders where Bakugou is. If maybe he can go apologize to Abe, to thank him for the help. He hasn't had anything to look forward to in what feels like forever, even before this mess.
He may be heading toward a solution. It's relieving. Being a glass half full sort of person clearly has its benefits.
Overhead, the station intercom chimes, and people cluster closer to the edges of the platform. Shouto follows Midoriya up and toward the yellow line. Glancing down the tunnel, he can just see the glaring, yellow beams of light—
"Forgive him, he means well," the villain says, letting Shouto sip at the tepid water in the glass. His yellow eyes glow in the gloom of the freezer. "He's never had friends, and sees kindred spirits in the two of you for our cause."
Bakugou snorts across the room, the chains clinking with his shivers.
"Thank you," is all Shouto says, desperate to keep his voice even, and Bakugou sends him a venomous glare. " I've not had many friends until now, so I understand the desire."
He can only wonder how they know so much. Who told them? Who are they going to tell? Would anything change if they did? Suddenly, the prospect of the entirety of Japan knowing his family's dirty secrets isn't a relief. Shouto knows he's a little too free with some things, Tsuyu's said so, but.
He took her arm. They both did, and it ended her career. Shouto doesn't want to be a villain's friend, even if it means everyone knows. A trivial amount to pay, if it means they live to see another free day.
So. So, he can play nice even when barbs sit at heel just behind his teeth, caustic, bland remarks he knows will—
"Ah," Shouto says quietly, blinking rapidly. The train car is thankfully not packed, and he can't help but sag further back into the seat. "Hm."
Midoriya snaps up from his phone, eyes wide with worry. "Are, are you okay?" he murmurs softly, eyeing the few passengers who might find fault with the talking but speaking anyway. "You kinda just… spaced out. Was it a, uh, flashback…?"
Flashback. Right. Those. Shouto nods minutely. He definitely has those, sometimes, more frequently in recent memory than he realized or thinks is fair, but. Well.
With a grimace, he says, "It's fine," and knows Midoriya still doesn't believe that.
Of course, it's not like his career isn't public record. Like that summer isn't a blemish on an otherwise above-average portfolio. Midoriya may even know about it. May have even seen the tail end of it, like too many people did. Shouto isn't one to dwell on the past, but it sneaks up on him anyway when the days are bad, the nights even worse. Time's worn it down, but it's just blunted instead of sharp and cutting.
Grudges though… hm. Yeah. He can't help but hold onto those.
Shouto tilts his head, turns just enough he can glance out the windows before up at the station display board. Looks like he's missed most of the first ride, not long at all. That's fine. He rubs a hand over his lower face, and briefly closes his eyes, sighs.
It doesn't take much longer for the overhead announcement to chirp Kayabacho, which is followed by Midoriya getting to his feet. Shouto follows, tugging idly at the collar of his jumpsuit, aware of the curious eyes they draw as they exit the train, shuffle over for their connecting car. Hrm. Before he can really think about it, he's unlatching the front of the chest plate, unzipping the oversuit down to his under compression suit.
"Can you hold this?" he says to a startled Midoriya, who takes the then shucked armor with little prompting, and then slips free of the upper layer's arms and ties them off at his waist. Shouto takes the chest plate back with a murmured, "Thanks."
Quickly, he crushes it down to size along hidden seams, and then dumps it in the nearest trash can. It'll be there when they come back or it won't, doesn't matter, really; Shouto feels lighter without it.
Midoriya looks torn between protesting and asking why, so to head it off, Shouto shrugs. "It's hot."
That's half of it, anyway. Wiggling back in, phantom fingers pinch at the seams between hot and cold, worry a hasty rebuilt seam. He wishes he knew where they were going. The uncertainty is a beast on its own, and he's glad for it, he is , but. The uncertainty… is feeding the helplessness again. Shouto flexes his hands, and glances at Midoriya.
He's typing furiously at his phone, eyes narrowed. Frowning, Shouto touches his left ear and finds the earbud gone. Ah. That might cause a problem.
"Can I borrow your phone?"
"Huh?" Midoriya says, glancing up, drawing it to his chest. "I, uh, what?"
Shouto exhales. "Your phone," he repeats, "can I borrow it to text someone. I don't have mine and I think my comm fell in a sink."
Tink.
Of course, there's trackers in the armor and in his boots, but that's a pretty bad scattered picture to paint today of all days. Midoriya must think the same thing because he quickly swipes some stuff away before handing it over. With a nod, Shouto takes it and immediately types out Jiro's comm extension in the SMS field. It'll only work one way but it's good enough.
I lost my comm. I am currently investigating a lead on a tip. I'm fine, cover my beat? Do not call this number. It's a civilian's phone.
Once it pings as sent, Shouto deletes the message log and hands the phone back. Midoriya squints at it but doesn't otherwise comment. A jingle chimes over ahead, and then they're on the next train, this one emptier than the last.
"We're getting off at Hiro-o," Midoriya mumbles, unpinning the pin from his bandana before untying that. Shouto watches as he flips it inside out before twisting it back around his neck, now white and corded. "Then it's about a fifteen minute walk, ten if we book it…"
Roppongi, specifically. Hm. Shouto is forgetting something. Minato. Minato.
I’m on my way back to Minato, echoes a familiar timber, and Shouto feels vaguely like an idiot, that he deserves something right now like a participation ribbon.
Maybe one question won't hurt.
"...Can I ask you a question?"
Midoriya pauses, and then nods, hair flopping. "Sure…" he says, soft, clearly tense.
"How did you learn about… Yagi?"
Startled, Midoriya blinks at Shouto, not expecting that. "Oh, um," he stammers, and rubs the back of his neck. Shouto's never noticed before, but the skin of that elbow is warped and raised too; it looks like the burns along his now partially bare neck. "Yeah, yeah that, uh… D-Did you hear about the firebombing in Edogawa three years ago?"
Shouto nods, already regretting asking. It'd made headlines, but Shouto'd been knee deep in his first week of sidekick-ship with Fatgum on the other side of the country, so he hadn't paid it much mind. It hadn't been… very important to him at the time. Probably, uncharitably, not to many people besides the fact it was so visibly violent.
"Y-Yeah, well, that was us," he admits, "the Creature Rejection clan didn't like us setting up shop there, so… yeah. Yagi-san just happened to be there, and y'know..."
He saved us, goes unspoken. Shouto can't remember if there were any fatalities, but knows there were injuries, plenty of them, and very few arrests. He definitely doesn't know how any of it's panned out, living in his own little bubble.
That'll certainly do it, though; what fragile power Yagi has left is best spent on helping others, that's just how the man is. "I see," Shouto says lowly, curling his fingers, and thinks of Shouji, thinks of Kouda and Kamakiri. "I don't really understand hate like that… I'm very sorry that happened to you and your friends."
Midoriya sniffs. "It sucks," he replies, because it's an empty platitude he's had to have heard before, "but we rebuilt. Things will get better."
Not if we never get to tomorrow , Shouto can't help but despair, running a hand through his mostly dry fringe.
And, it's probably meant more for himself than anything, but Midoriya continues with a mumbled, "But, fear… fear does have its use, doesn't it."
Glancing fully at the other man, carefully noting the pale knuckles around the dark phone and taut line to his shoulders, Shouto repeats,"Fear?"
Almost absently, Midoriya nods, an unreadable look overtaking the brief steadiness of earlier. "Yeah, fear," he says, and looks somewhere off into the distance. "It's changed the world when you think about it… Wanna know how?"
Not really, but. "How?"
"Sorry to answer a question with a question, but what's procedure for a riot?"
That gives Shouto pause. It feels much like a trap, but slowly, he answers, "If we know beforehand, pros with crowd-control orientated quirks would be on-hand, but otherwise, containment and attempts at reducing injury and property damage while we wait for the appropriate heroes and police to reach the scene."
"No tear gas? No sound cannons or rubber bullets?"
It's not the words that send a shiver up Shouto's spine but the way they're said. Desolate, but angry, simmering and tired.
"No," he says, dreading what comes next, and Midoriya nods.
"Of course not because," Midoriya says, and takes a breath, "because there's this fear now, of quirks and this evolution we still don't really get, y'know?"
Perhaps not so weirdly enough, Shouto does. They glossed over it, a small paragraph in a thick textbook, but he knows. Given enough stress, enough terror and fear, quirks can mutate. And in a crowd of untrained civilians, it's a recipe for a tragedy. He thinks about bright blue fire.
Thirty percent of quirkless diagnoses are just late bloomers.
It's what makes Trigger all the more dangerous.
"And it's," Midoriya continues, running a hand over his hair," and it's so funny, we don't have a permit to march. Not as long as we intend to, anyway, but as long as no one misuses a quirk… it won't escalate. We've long since traded in being hosed down with irritants for Pro Heroes with proper quirks, but only if a quirk is misused. And that threshold is very, very low and very black and white. It’s what makes Trigger so dangerous."
Shouto withholds a shiver even as he wipes sweat from his forehead.
“And the societal safety pay for at the expense of personal freedom is a tricky balance, but, well, I wouldn’t be in Chiyoda today if I didn’t think it more unfair than not. Does that make sense?”
It… does, Shouto will admit. He doesn’t have much of answer besides a nod, though, and Midoriya accepts it with a small, sharp nod of his own. That seems to be the end of it, however — the rest of the ride is in silence. The they’re back out into the heat and hustle and bustle of life.
Midoriya takes them off the main street and into a winding maze that only someone who knows would be able to navigate — Shouto follows him down barely person wide stairwells and quiet alleyways. Stops only at his heels outside an iron rod gate.
“Okay, we’re… here.”
The house beyond is quaint.
Enclosed by the usual concrete walls, Shouto wouldn't know it any different from any other neighborhood. It's not as grand as what he grew up with, but it's not the simpleness of the apartment he now resides in. He can just see the top of a half trimmed hedge, the neat grass and the top of a lush and green tree—flowers, carefully placed rocks. Someone cares extensively for the flora, Shouto can tell that much.
Out of the corner of his eye, Midoriya straightens his curved shoulders, and offers Shouto what can't be more than a smile for himself, let alone Shouto. “Let me just,” he says, and then steps up to a what turns out to be a keypad.
It clicks open with a buzz, and then the gate slides off to the side, wide enough for a car, but the carport seems more weather weathered than tire compared to the outside of the wall. No one here drives, and Midoriya knows them well enough to have the code to the gate.
Shouto doesn't comment, though the words nip at the back of his lips. He merely follows Midoriya up the short flight of steps, and hovers far enough to be polite as he knocks once, twice, and then waits.
The door clicks open softly, and Shouto straightens, aborting a reflexive step back in surprise.
"Toshinori?" comes a familiar voice, and glasses glint in the slight sunlight.
“Sorry Sasaki-san, it’s just me,” Midoriya says, a sudden forced upbeat and unworried cadence to his voice. “Could use your advice on something really, really important, if you have a second.”
That gets a hum, one yellow eye roving languidly between him and Shouto. “Fine, come in,” says Sasaki Mirai, long since retired Pro-Hero Sir Nighteye.