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The moment he stepped inside, he knew something was amiss. He could feel it, as real as his own fragmented life. The atmosphere was heavy, the air having suddenly taken a stale and thick nature. Weighting on his shoulders and lungs, the pressure forcing him to take a deep breath, feeling muffled. Suffocating him. It had become like this, day after day.
Shouta would come home from patrol, and lay next to her in bed. The traces of her form diffused in the darkness, chest rising and falling with each controlled breath. Pretending. She would be wrapped in the sheets, keeping it – and her body – to herself. Like a dividing line between them both, made even more solid by the deafening silence that perpetuated it. He craved her warmth, to pull her close to his chest, encouraged by the illusion of intimacy created within the ethereal quality of the night’s cloak. Wanting to use the feel of her to put to rest that strange uneasiness, the cold and unyielding doubt that gnawed at his bones. He would extend his hand then, faintly brushing strands of hair from her back, testing. Trying. He would hear her breathing change with tension. And despite being such a slight shift, concealed with deceit, it would still have the force equal to that of a fist, squeezing his heart painfully. So, he would retreat. A stranger in a bed that didn’t welcome him, with company and yet alone. It’s alright, he understood.
He knew, as the pleasant mornings they used to share turned into nothing more than a foolish veil of empty politeness. He would lean to kiss passive lips, hoping. Her reaction would be precise and expected, spiritless in their automatic response. So correct. So fake. The coffee would turn into rancid mud in his throat even as he drank it fresh, along with words left unsaid. Because he would notice her eyes boring on him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Thinking he wouldn’t have realized.
It was truth, Shouta was not necessarily the type to pay much mind to such subjective aspects of their relationship. Not so much out of inability to notice them – in fact, the opposite was more accurate – as for them both having agreed to talk. To tell things straight, to make it as uncomplicated as humanely possible. He needed that, for peace of mind. He needed honesty.
And yet there he was, battling just so air could reach his lungs and petrified in place. Considering turning back to his endless patrol, to his job. Where things were easier, simpler. Back to the falseness between them. Instead, he made his way to the couch where she waited for him. She would normally be asleep at such a late hour. He sat down haltingly, dread enveloping his chest, tight as ropes. She wasn’t looking at him, and gave no signs of awareness of his presence except for the slight clutching of fingers around her mug, fingertips going white from the pressure. He waited, perfectly still. Silent.
Minutes dragged without a sound. Shouta felt as if he could extend his hand and physically touch her thoughts; solid things twisting the air between them, taunting him. And what good would that do? He closed his eyes, utterly tired.
“I…” Her voice reached him, so thin it could barely be called a sound. “Shouta, I…”
He looked at her then. Meeting her eyes for what felt like the first time in a long while. Yes, that was true. How long had it been? How did they reach that point? Looking at each other without seeing. But he saw her now and the sadness he found there seemed to lurk its way into his very core, wrecking damage through his bloodstream. Leaving him cold and bare, with nothing to hold onto. And there was something else as well, showing itself in every line of her pained expression, palpable and real… Guilt, that was it.
Shouta gave her no response, no evidence of recognition as she so obviously searched for words, trapped in her own personal version of hell. And then it finally poured from her mouth, like poison.
“I cheated on you.”
Ah, there it was at the very least. Honesty. Should he be glad?
Yes, he should have known. The invisible force that separated them throughout the last few months finally taking form, revealing itself. Another person. Stealing her, fulfilling her heart and being what Shouta could never be. The explanation was so complete as it was empty. Meaningless.
“Leave.” He heard himself say, without having realized when exactly his brain made the decision. But it was the truth, concrete and definitive.
She whimpered softly, voice trembling as tears swelled in hear eyes, nose and cheeks outrageously flushed with sorrow. “Shouta, I… Wait, I love yo-“
“Don’t you fucking dare.” He snapped, voice as sharp as broken glass. He found himself up from the couch, looking down at her trembling body. Some part of his mind registered his quirk activation, the bright red reflected back at him through her irises. Jagged and unforgiving. “You don’t get to say those words. Not to me. Not ever again. You lost that right, you hear me?” His tone bore no argument, terminating any possibility of empty explanations. He had no space left for bullshit.
She got up, slowly. Broken. He fought to control his temper, pride forcing him to recover the reins of his quirk. To not give her the satisfaction of noticing how out of control she was capable of making him, how deeply mere words had affected him. He wanted her to see emptiness, like she had made him deal with for too many months to count. And not how his insides were twisting, and shaking and rotting with every single breath. In and out, burning his lungs like hot coals of shame. Of betrayal.
She didn’t raise her eyes any longer, didn’t try to speak again. Her spirit deflated, subsided by the sheer harshness in his tone, the weight of his eyes on her back. Having the common sense of looking abashed. Good, he preferred it that way. To not give him the opportunity to break, to cave in and pull her back. Make her stay.
He was dangerously close of doing so. But instead turned his back, and the door closed behind her with a gentle click. Literally abandoning the life they’ve built together, dooming the memories, turning all the shared words and whispers into dust and ashes. The sound felt like a life sentence and weighted in his heart, dirty and unwelcome. His stomach turned in a silent protest, making him sick to no end.
Eyes dry and burning, he cried out. Not registering the pain as his fist encountered the wall, cracking the hard surface with a dry crash. He needed more pain. He needed something. So he drenched his feelings away in desperation, until there’s nothing left but teared flesh. Remains of blood lost in the splits of the drywall and his knuckles.
He found himself panting on the ground, with no recollection of having fallen. Drained and empty. His thoughts twisted and disappeared in the void, with nothing to give them meaning. Nothing to give him closure.
Why? Why did this happen?