Chapter Text
A ripple of life shining brighter, entwined with the innocent inborn ataraxy of nightime. The single spark offered comfort, a solace of war among many. Blackness expanded, morphing into a soul-bound song, as if married to a poetry of stars. The noble starry-black smiled back, a restfulness sent from above that held hope. It calmed the soul, a sweet tune to a resting heart.
Born from a blinding road of immortality, the charming glow brightens up the velvet night. An angel with glued-on wings breathes out, chilling the starlight with her presence. Like a chorus of star-crossed lovers, the hymn of galaxies unknown lingers on. Crafted from divine hands, the dimensional wonder welcomes its moonchild home.
The chilly wind soon started up again, nipping at his skin. Clinging to the boy’s bony frame lies a too-small hoodie, a particularly strong gust came around sending aches through his bones. Shivering, the boy in question hugged the thin sleeves closer to his body, trying to preserve what little warmth he had.
A faint trail of smoke rose up into the skyline. From a fire or a factory, it didn’t matter to them. At the end of the day, none of this was applicable to him. As long as he had food to eat and a roof over his head, he was fine. Well, as fine as I can be living off moldy bread and rotten apples, that is.
The lingering smoke dispersed up into the atmosphere, bringing his attention to the clear sky. Vantablack, it hung as a backdrop for the stars littering it. The luminescent specks of light splattered the sky like tiny polka dots, much like the teen’s freckled cheeks.
Breathing out a sigh, his breath sent a small, misty cloud of condensation floating up into the air, disappearing the higher it went. Such a peaceful night, the back of his mind remarked. I wish I could stay here forever. Instead, he brought his glittering emerald gaze upwards, vivid nebulae and constellations catching his eyes.
The way the ravishing purples and blue swirled together to create a polychrome kaleidoscope of colors enveloped the boy in a blanket of pure bliss. Gently closing his eyes, the teen let a rare smile grace his lips. The same rare smile that he hadn’t shown the world in months, maybe even years. The world is pretty beautiful, after all. It deserved to see this side of him.
It was well past midnight, but that didn’t matter to Mikumo. Not now, at least. Mother forgot to lock the door to his so-called ‘room’, so he took what little chance he had and did what most kids his age would try to do, consequences be damned.
Sneak out.
Which is how he found himself sitting on the edge of an abandoned building’s roof, swinging his legs much like a child would. Sans the rooftop part. Shit. Deep in thought, his furrowed eyebrows perked up at the telltale quiet footsteps coming from behind him.
Years of honed instincts made his ears pick up the near soundless noise, head whipping around. Scanning the area with brilliant malachite irises, they rest on something. Or someone. A tall, seemingly muscular bloke stalked closer, trying to appear nonchalant. Mikumo narrowed his eyes, seeing past his well-hidden facade instantly. The former was concerned.
As the man approached closer, Mikumo took in his appearance. Shoulder-length onyx hair with matching eyes, a gray scarf --no, a capture weapon-- nested comfortably on his shoulders, the only color on him if not counting the bright yellow goggles that hung around his neck.
A hero.
Mikumo could handle that. They don't care anyways, once he figures out what I am.
Turning his piercing gaze away, he looked down on the city below him, indifferent. The quiet bustle of the late night workers and the familiar signs of druggies set his anxieties at ease. Mikumo had always taken comfort in being up high. Calming, even.
A soft noise brought his attention out of his deepening thoughts. Wearily glancing past his bangs, he took notice in the hero’s current position.
The man in question sat on the edge, close enough to provide comfort if needed be, yet far enough to not make him uncomfortable. Mikumo could feel the man’s gaze rest on him, but showed no indication as he continued to kick at the air.
The hero beside him sighed, eliciting the boy to finally lift his head. “What are you doing up here, kid?” With as much softness one can expect from such a strong, gruff hero, the man continues. “You’re what, 9 years old? How did you even get up here?” Alibet quieter than the words spoken before, this sentence seems to be spoken more to himself than the boy.
“Sir, I’m 11, not 9,” came the soft-spoken words of Mikumo. He fingered something sharp in his pocket, car horns blare in the streets below. He chose to ignore the second question entirely, noncommittal. His lips turn into a small frown, brow slightly furrowed in thought. What does he think I did, scaled the wall? Blasphemy. The “hero” doesn’t need to know I picked the lock.
“That doesn’t help your case here, kid.” The hero pinched his nose in exasperation. “It’s late, won’t your parent’s worry if they find out you’re up here?”
Mikumo felt his shoulders further tense up, but let out a sad chuckle to hide any traces of it. Sorrowful eyes locking with endlessly tired ones. Despite the soft words that flowed past his chapped lips, the volume the words sent unwilling shivers through his aching heart. “It’s not like they would care for a useless child like me, anyways.”
Flashes of distant memories burn in the back of Mikumo’s mind, resurfacing unwanted experiences that plagued him in his almost nightly nightmares. His arms and torso itch, phantom pains racking up his scarred body. The boy distantly wondered why he was giving out such information to the “hero”.
“If I jumped, no one would miss me.”
Aizawa Shouta had a long night. And for someone who spends his waking hours teaching and his sleeping hours patrolling the streets, that's saying something.
Firstly, he had finally found a lead to Trigger. He and a couple other underground heros gathered around an old abandoned warehouse to bust the joint and hopefully take them down.
But as they raided the place, it was all for naught. They were ambushed! There were at least 20 guys, possessing a multitude of weapons. And when Shouta faintly heard the cocking of a gun, he took a golden bullet that nicked his arm One that could’ve been near fatal if he had not dodged in time, one might add.
Ouch.
And for the crooks to be brought down by a slowly rising in fame vigilante left a sour taste in his mouth. He’s a hero, for god’s sake! A stupid vigilante with a stupid --yet powerful, he refused to acknowledge-- fire quirk decided that he needed saving. Wow, just wow.
Suffice to say, it’s been a total crappy day, and all he wanted was to drown himself in a tub of coffee and then cocoon himself in the safety of his sleeping bag while he snuggled with his many cats. Mind set, he began hopping from rooftop to rooftop (a far more efficient and faster way of travel instead of resorting to boring, old walking). But when his tired eyes found a small figure sitting on the edge of a rather tall roof, he felt an oncoming headache form.
On second thought, he might have to reschedule his coffee-drowning session for a later date. He sighed to himself at that thought. Now don’t get him wrong, he liked to help people. One might call him a work junkie, and he wouldn’t disagree, as he often worked himself until he dropped. Quite literally. But when it came to situations where he had to have touchy-feely conversations that dealt with emotions, well...let’s just say it’s not exactly his forte.
Oh well, he chose this job, which means he has to follow through with it to the end. Personal feelings be damned. Belaying himself to the roof with his ever so useful capture weapon, he walks on careful boot clad feet toward the person. As if they had some sort of mind reading quirk, the person’s head abruptly turned. Glowing green eyes scrutinized him up and down, judging and fearful.
And as Shouta analyzed the kid -- no adult could be that tiny-- he noticed the plethora of cuts and bruises emblazoning the left side of his face. Wonderings on the tip of his tongue, he began to marvel at the thought of someone deliberately hurting an innocent child. A curly mop of hair adorned the top of his head, framing his face. The boy’s brows furrowed and broke eye contact in favor of looking at the streets below vehemently.
Fishing a jelly pouch out of the depths of his many pockets, Shouta gingerly slurped on it. His attempts at offering one to the kid was thwarted as said kid refused politely. Quickly downing the entire thing of his own, he threw it away and sat down a reasonable distance away from the former. I don’t want to scare the poor kid, he looks like a kicked puppy… no, a kicked cat. yeah.
They sat relatively in silence. After a while, Shouta let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand down his face tiredly. The kid in question raised his tilted head. He even looks like a cat, with his sharp glowing eyes, Shouta’s mind remarked. I wonder if he can see in the dark.
After a while of asking him some questions, the kid let out a response that he didn’t expect. The kid’s lips formed into what seemed like both a grimace and a snarl, exposing sharp canines. Yup, a cat, he confirmed. A sad chuckle bubbled from the curled lips as he looked up at the hero. Shouta noticed something familiar in that gaze. He reminds me of when I was younger.
His musings were cut short when a soft, albeit hoarse, voice started. “It’s not like they would care for a useless child like me anyways.” Shouta opened his mouth to interject, before he heard something so quiet, he almost missed it. Almost.
“If I jumped, no one would miss me.”
Expecting the worst, Shouta’s eyes widened, tossing his captured weapon instantaneously around the boy like a lasso. I’m not gonna let an innocent kid like him die on me. He activated his quirk on the boy just in case, hair defying gravity. Not again. Eyes turning a shade of cinnabar, he mentally prepared himself to talk him out of doing anything he would regret.
“I’m not gonna jump, Eraserhead,” came his voice again, raspy like he’d been yelling. Or crying. Maybe both. Eyes minutely widening, Shouta nearly blinked. How the hell does he know who I am?
Pushing his ponderings to the back of his mind for later, he pressed on. “Then why is a kid like you up here, on a rooftop, this late at night?” He couldn’t be older than 9, despite being told earlier.
“I needed some fresh air, is all.”
“Then why are you on the roof?”
The kid’s mask snapped, if only for a second. A flood of emotions peeked through, none of them being any a kid of his age should feel. Anxiety, fatigue, emotions of the like made an appearance among other ones. Depression. Fear. Self-hatred.
”Uh, I like the view?”
“Then how will I trust you enough to know you won’t jump?”
The kid shifted in obvious discomfort under Shouta’s scrutinous glare. Crap, I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable. The latter curled in on himself, as if trying to make himself smaller than he already is. But to no avail, he tried to hide in the folds of the capture weapon. Shouta’s glare softened, seeing himself in the kid the more the two spoke.
“L’appel du vide.”
“What?” Shouta was utterly lost. Why are we talking French? The older of the two’s eyes narrowed.
“The call of the void,” the kid said expectantly. “The instinctive urge to jump from high places for seemingly no reason. Scientifically, it's just a simple phenomenon where you think about it, but won’t act on it.” The kid took in a breath, casting his gaze back towards the streets below. “It’s basically the mind’s weird, paradoxical way of appreciating life.”
“Oh. Interesting,” Shouta murmured, more questions fitted on his tongue. Taking a hold of his capture weapon after releasing the kid, he hid a fond smile in the folds of said object. His joints cracked as he stretched, remembering something he should ask before leaving.
“Hey kid, what’s your name?” Shouta had to strain his ears to make sure he heard the teens soft, albeit strong, words correctly.
“Akatani… My name is A-akatani Mikumo.”
Hiding his surprise at the familiar name, he hummed in response and hesitantly reached his hand out. Underneath it, Akatani violently flinched, as if expecting a hit. Frowning into his scarf, Shouta paused his movements, not knowing if to press on or not. He eventually gave in to the itch, gently resting his calloused hand atop the boy's head, ruffling his unruly, surprisingly soft, curls.
Shouta felt his heart squeeze as Akatani leaned into his touch. Touch starved, the poor boy. They stood there for a moment or two, before a strong gale sent cold chills up their spines, reminding them of exactly where they happened to be.
“Stay safe, kid,” Shouta said, retracting his hand. “Do you want me to walk you home?” Tense shoulders that changed into a rapid shake of the head was the only answer he got. Nodding his head in some type of anti-social-but-not goodbye, he set off.
Hisashi , he thought, remembering his curly black haired friend classmate from years ago. I wonder how your mission in America is treating you? He hid a smirk behind his capture weapon. I officially met your son. He was too young to remember me so back then didn’t count. His smirk decreased in size, recalling how the boy flinched as if the hero was gonna hit him or something. What happened to him after you departed…?
Shouta internally shook his head and continued on, jumping from rooftop to rooftop in the direction of his apartment. The wind nipped at his face and dried out his eyes even more than they already were. This is one of his favorite times. Where he can just be . He doesn’t have to worry about lesson planning, not the next time he has to buy cat food, not anything. Just the wind in his hair and his feet hitting the pavement below. Maybe that’s why the kid was up on the roof. To escape his own problems.
He soon arrived at his apartment building. Once inside, his cats pawed at his legs, begging for food --- those cheeky chucklefucks--- as he stumbled toward his bedroom. Shouta curled up into his sleeping bag like a cocoon and practically collapsed in bed, not bothering to take his hero costume off. He let a rare, fond smile grace his lips as he felt his husband’s warm arms wrap around him.
Letting his tired eyes slide shut, his mind wandered through the events of the previous hour. Huh. Guess I’ll have a talk with a certain detective tomorrow… And maybe try to call up Hisashi, too. He internally groaned at the mere thought of socializing as he succumbed to the sweet bliss called sleep.
As Eraserhead’s hand left Mikumo’s hair, all the warmth left with it. His hand felt so gentle, so warm , so unlike Mikumo’s mother’s rough and unkind hand. The hero soon left him all alone, so lonely so lonely, I’m all alone again not again please no-- on the rooftop.
And the sad part? He missed the hero’s company. He missed being able to just sit in the little peace he has in this cruel world without anyone hurting him. Most heroes he encountered were fake, writing him off, but he knew Eraserhead, he knew what he sacrificed in order to save.
No one had ever cared about him like the other had, and it clearly showed in the jaded look in his eyes. The look that some pros held. The same look that soldiers carried; neck-deep in so much shit that they knew they were forever in its grasp, never to escape.
A sob ripped from his already sore throat, causing him more pain. Physically and emotionally. Scratching at his neck, he made a futile attempt to breathe. His breath caught in his throat, coming in fast, desperate pants, much like one would do after running a marathon. Hot tears welled in his eyes, but none fell. He found out the hard way long ago about showing weakness.
Despite his quivering lip and chattering teeth, the boy couldn’t feel anything. Couldn’t feel anything besides the aching, crushing feeling in his chest. To the point where he couldn’t even notice the way his hands were shaking. From the growing coldness encasing him or his shaking body, no one would know.
To the point where he didn’t notice the bobby pin falling out of his pocket, off the edge of the building.
And when he did notice that it fell off, well, let’s just say he spent the rest of his night on that very same rooftop, cold and tired, with no way past the locked metal doors.