Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The late Kansai afternoon was the kind that you read about — the sun hanging low over the city, the last minutes of daylight clinging stubbornly to the skyline, the breeze light and refreshing and smelling faintly of the sea and fried food and nostalgia. The bustling Osaka market was filled with the hawking of street food merchants, the laughter of families and friends exploring the various stalls, and the song of the birds, making it known to all that they were single and horny and prepared to make it everybody's problem.

The perfect day for a little mayhem.

So, by that logic, it should also be the perfect day for some unlucky hero to be on patrol, right?

You would think so, certainly. But in six hours, you'd had no such luck.

You could feel your shoulders growing tense, both with the peaking of your frustration and the unrelenting sun on your skin, and you rolled your neck, relishing in the stretch. Your mind unhelpfully supplied that you should have worn sunscreen.

In your defense, you hadn't expected it would take quite this long to find a hero in the busiest marketplace in Osaka on a beautiful day like —

"Oi, Suneater! Back again today, huh?"

Your neck almost cracked with the speed at which you turned to the source of the voice — 'Suneater', he said?

Pretentious, dramatic, and tasteless. Reeks of testosterone. That could only mean one thing.

The man in question — a hero, you confirmed, ignoring the involuntary pulse of revulsion in your gut — said something back to the vendor, too quietly for you to hear, a white hood pulled up over his head.

You took a deep breath, dusting your hands off on your pant legs, and made your way over.

It's show time.

You swallowed down your bile and plastered on your brightest smile.

"Excuse me, hero?"

The man flinched — flinched — at your sudden interjection and pivoted just enough to glance at you over his shoulder before facing you head-on. He cleared his throat, swallowing down what looked like a very large piece of takoyaki and made an obvious effort to meet your gaze.

"Uh. Yeah?" he responded eloquently.

You mustered your courage as you gave him a quick once-over — he was striking, with sharp, deep blue eyes hidden beneath a tinted visor and a mess of unruly dark hair. His entire body was covered in a white, hooded tunic with a golden trim; you couldn't help but to admire the simple elegance in the design. Beneath that, the armored, black body suit, golden plating, and carrier vest he wore made it clear that whatever quirk he held must require high mobility, evident even by his feet — which were bare but for the loop of fabric at the bottom of his pants around either sole.

He looked impressive, admittedly.

It was nauseating.

The man's eyebrows drew together in a frown as he looked away from you, his nerve seeming to fail him. "Do you need help?"

His voice was deep, soft. A little uncertain. Unexpected.

"Oh, no!" you said with a laugh, internally scolding yourself for getting lost in your thoughts. You scrambled, realizing too late that, in the heat of the moment, you had approached the hero without any semblance of a plan. Off to a great start. "I just... wanted to know what your recommendation was for the, uh..." Your eyes flicked to the vendor behind him, rotating small balls of dough on a huge, sizzling pan and then to the small handful of takoyaki the hero was holding in his bare hand. "The takoyaki here! I've never had it."

Smooth.

His eyes fell on you again before darting away, a confused curve in his lips. "You've never... had takoyaki?"

"Never," you lied with as charming a smile as you could muster.

"Well..." he started as he continued to look pointedly away from you. Everything about his body language screamed: I don't want to be here. "I prefer just octopus usually, but some of the others are pretty good, too. I'm new to the area but this place here sells a really good variety."

You perked at the new information. "You're new to the area?"

"I was just transferred from Esuha City," he responded shortly, beginning to walk away from the vendor and back into the crowds in what felt a little bit like an escape. You doggedly fell into step beside him. He visibly shrank at the realization that you weren't about to let him get away just yet, tugging nervously at the edge of his hood with his free hand.

This guy sure isn't making this easy.

"Oh?" you prompted, stubbornly picking up your pace to keep up with his much longer (and suspiciously hurried) strides. You thought you could make out a grimace from your view of his profile as he noticed you accelerating to match his speed. "Which agency are you coming from?"

"Fat Gum's."

"Oh, yeah, I know him! Big guy, big smile," you grinned. "They transferred you here instead?"

He nodded, slowing to a reluctant stop at an intersection and giving it a look like Christmas was canceled forever and this specific intersection was to blame. "Commission said they needed more heroes patrolling in this part of Osaka."

The knot in your stomach gave a violent lurch at the casual mention. "Makes sense," you nodded seriously, eyes narrowed. You definitely understood — after all, you were a part of the reason they needed more patrols so badly, but this hero, even spineless as he apparently was, didn't need to know that. Still, their caution was definitely something you would need to be wary of. "And what was your hero name, again, hero?"

He swallowed another bite of takoyaki, eyes glued to the red 'Do Not Walk' light overhead. It was getting harder and harder to make out his facial expressions in the waning sunlight, but he was still visibly uncomfortable.

"Suneater."

"Suneater," you parroted back in a mocking, imperious tone. The hero finally turned his head in your direction to balk at you — you felt a spark of satisfaction deep in your gut despite your common sense telling you to behave yourself, damn it, you want to leave a good impression. However, it became clear to you that someone wasn't accustomed to being teased by civilians and you relished in his shock. You reminded yourself to reel it in. "You must have quite the quirk for a name like that. Do you breath fire? Extinguish lights?"

He gaped for one more moment before snapping his jaw shut and continuing to walk — rather, flee — over the crosswalk, the light having decided to take mercy on him and turn green once more. "N- no," he said, tucking the rest of his takoyaki into one of the pockets in his vest, to your vague horror. "My quirk is called Manifest."

"There was okonomi sauce on that," you pointed out, gesturing at his vest. "Also, what is —"

Your question came to an abrupt halt as the hero — Suneater — yelped, tripping on the fabric of his cape and landing hard on the pavement.

The two of you remained completely frozen for a split second, other pedestrians sparing barely a glance as they hurried to the other side of the street, giving you and the fallen hero a wide berth.

You knew it was rude to laugh.

But that was the funniest damn thing you'd ever seen —

There is no way this guy is a hero, I mean, come on —

The man on the ground looked like he would very much enjoy melting into the earth, never to be seen again. One arm had been pulled up to shield his face from view, shoulders hunched in dejectedly.

You let one more breathless chuckle escape before taking pity on him, leaning over to tug at the wrist holding his hood down to cover his flushed face. "Come on, get up," you said, offering your hand as he peeked out at you. "Shit happens."

He shot you a withering look, but gripped your hand and allowed you to pull him to his feet, seemingly more in resignation than in actual willingness. His hand was large, warm, calloused. "For a hero it shouldn't," he grumbled.

"Nah, shit happens even to heroes, I'm sure," you said sagely with a slow nod, releasing his hand. You wouldn't have bet any money on it, but his lips looked suspiciously like a smile for a fraction of a second in the multicolor neon lights. "But... didn't you ever see 'The Incredibles'? You know what Edna Mode says about capes."

Suneater's eyes went comically wide. "I haven't seen it."

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. "And to think, you call yourself a hero."

The color drained from his face. "It — It wasn't part of the curriculum, I —"

You barked out a laugh. "Relax, I'm kidding. It's just a kid's movie," you said. You quirked an eyebrow at the man, as wavering as ever, looking him up and down once again. He fidgeted under your scrutiny. "You're so skittish."

He pursed his lips, and his intent gaze on the ground felt like an admission.

Your eyes narrowed in consideration. You felt like you had developed a good grasp on this hero.

Not this one, you decided. He's not the one.

You sighed in disappointment, about to raise a hand to bid farewell and walk away from this utter waste of your time.

It was fine, anyway, it wasn't likely that you would have found a good fit on your first try but you had hoped —

You blinked in surprise as you felt a droplet of water hit your cheek. It slid down and fell away, landing on some undisclosed location in the cloth of your shirt, a harbinger of so much that was yet to come.

In hindsight, those first few raindrops changed everything.

You barely had time to register the first drop before the heavens opened up above you and the market was swallowed up by rainfall.

"Shit," you hissed, lifting your arms above your head in a pitiful attempt at defense. It didn't help.

The people around you started scurrying away in varying directions, the noise all but drowned out by the torrent. The market was now lit almost exclusively by headlights and neon signs, the sun having bowed out at last.

You felt a rustle beside you and was shocked to find Suneater entering your personal space of his own volition. You fought back a shudder at his sudden proximity. "What are —"

The rain falling on you suddenly stopped and your voice died out alongside it, arms falling uselessly to your sides. You noted with confusion that the rain still pounded relentlessly against the surrounding pavement and buffeted the awning of a nearby souvenir stall, yet somehow, you stood amidst it all, unaffected.

It took two heartbeats for you to register the tawny wing that was now stretched over your head, attached to the hooded man who looked like he'd prefer to be standing just about anywhere else.

You stared, finally at a loss for words.

"I can wait with you until you hail a cab or something," he said quietly.

Your wide eyes took him in yet again, observing the feathered appendages that definitely had not been there before, even hidden under the white cape. This man seemed determined to keep you on your toes. "Manifest, huh."

He shifted on his feet under your scrutiny, but the wing stayed firmly above you, steadfastly shielding you from the downpour. He didn't respond to your unspoken question.

You and the hero remained side-by-side as the rest of the marketplace descended into chaos and gradually began to empty; shoppers taking refuge wherever they could find it, vendors hurriedly rushing their wares under the relative safety of faded vinyl awnings. Many stood along the curb, huddled beneath a dynamic, rainbow spattering of umbrellas, fighting for the attention of the too-few taxis passing through. The delighted shrieks of children darting between the shops and through the torrent rang through the air, sharp over the chatter of the other pedestrians sharing the street with you.

It all felt oddly distant from within the makeshift shelter he offered.

Finally, your own hails were answered, and a taxi pulled up to the curb before you.

You turned back to Suneater once more.

"Well," you huffed, rubbing at your biceps with cold, shaking hands. "Thank you for, uh, for the wing."

You couldn't tell for sure due to the lighting, but his cheeks seemed to darken in a flush. "No problem," he responded quietly, stepping forward with you and pulling open the back door of the taxi.

You hesitated, but couldn't quite place your finger on why. You were mildly surprised to see that, for once, Suneater's gaze was firmly holding your own.

You shivered, but it wasn't from the cold.

"Bye," you breathed at last, quickly sliding into the backseat of the taxi.

The door shut behind you and with it came an unsteady quiet and a tangible sense of relief.

You had much to think about, plans to bring to life, but in that moment, your thoughts were occupied only by dark blue eyes and a deep, quiet voice.

Suneater, huh?

Suneater.

Your fingers clacked mercilessly against the keyboard.

About 1,430,000 results (0.59 seconds)

Damn, that's more content than I was expecting.

Maybe Suneater shared his moniker with a brand, or maybe it was a homage to another hero. Surely the meek hero with pockets full of bonito flakes wasn't this famous.

Nope, these pictures are definitely the man from the market.

You browsed through the top pages and you could feel your face going slack as you began to understand what — who — you had found today.

Amajiki Tamaki - Wikipedia

'Everything You Need to Know About Japan's Mysterious Number Eleven'

'UA's 'Big Three' Answer Fan Questions While Playing With Puppies'

'Lemillion Spills All About His Childhood With Suneater'

Just who the hell was this guy? Number Eleven? The Big Three?

How had you never heard of him?

You clicked into several links, eyes scanning the words but your brain having a hard time absorbing all of the new, earth-shattering information.

He was no small fry — Suneater had earned a reputation as a formidable up-and-coming hero during his time as a student at UA high school. He had consistently been placing high in the rankings the last several years, but didn't do much in the way of publicity — and when he did, it was almost always alongside other high-ranking, high-profile heroes such as Lemillion, Nejire-chan, Fat Gum, and Red Riot.

You right-clicked and opened up a video that had over 25 million views, catchingly and descriptively titled 'Suneater Goes Ape Shit'.

The video was taken in a parking garage.

Your brain kicked into overdrive as you watched — the quiet man you had teased not thirty minutes ago taking command of both your laptop screen and your attention, talon and tentacle, a steely gaze of focus and conviction as he restrained four separate individuals with crushing, unrelenting power and unshakable confidence. The wings that had gently offered you shelter from the rain were held aloft, mighty, fierce, aiding his mobility as he darted around the burning cars like a demon straight out of the innermost circle of hell.

You learned a lot about him during the one minute and seventeen second clip that you watched from within the confines of your dark apartment.

He had a good reputation.

He was strong, fast. Intelligent.

He was terrifying.

He was beautiful.

He was a force of nature.

You were wrong about what you had thought earlier.

Suneater wasn't only a satisfactory option for the next part in your plan.

Suneater was perfect.

And you were going to ruin him.

Chapter Text

Amajiki Tamaki was the perfect hero for the next part of your plan — and frankly, it seemed like a sure sign from some higher power that your mission was destined for success that he just so happened to be the one you met in the market that fateful afternoon.

But that didn't mean it was going to be all smooth sailing, either.

As it turns out, Suneater was not only the least sociable hero you'd ever heard of; no, he was also likely the least sociable person you had ever met. He seemed to interpret each attempt to initiate conversation as a personal attack, rejected any complimentary comments with so much ferocity it felt as though he might truly believe they were laced with poison, and, as though to serve as the icing on the proverbial cake, would quite unsubtly begin to speed-walk in the exact opposite direction whenever he noticed you approaching him during his patrols.

Which, admittedly, was often.

Gaining intel was, needless to say, proving to be a complicated endeavor. And while you were never under the impression that this would be easy per se, you were still not pleased to know that Suneater seemed keen on making sure that advancing your plan was going to be as difficult as possible. If it weren't for the fact that he was just so damn perfect for this, you'd maybe even consider moving on from this reticent hero and try to get in good with a friendlier one on a different (maybe less greasy) patrol route.

But let no one say you were a quitter. The fact that Suneater was a challenge only served to ignite your competitive spirit and make you want to win him over even more.

Plus, his "quiet and enigmatic" public persona could only aid your ulterior motives — even if the air of mystery was only serving as a front for the reality, which you had learned was an absolutely disastrous, nervous wreck of a man who cowered under the attention of passing civilians, had pockets full of loose takoyaki, and has been known to trip on his cape in the middle of a busy intersection during rush hour.

However, slowly but surely, he seemed to accept that you were intent on becoming friendly with him. Reluctantly, resignedly, things with him seemed to be improving.

The distinct sound of crunching pulled you from your thoughts and back into the present, where you were walking alongside the hooded hero, his mouth full of yakitori.

Recently, he had started allowing you to trail along behind him as he made his route — which you did before anyway, but now he didn't put up as much fuss. Getting answers out of him that contained any substance was still like pulling teeth, but at least it had been over a week since the last time you saw him literally run away from you — and spoiler alert, he was very in shape and very, very fast.

The falling sun stained his white tunic an attractive burnished red as the two of you weaved in and out of the oncoming foot traffic. His eyes flicked to you for only a moment before facing forward again.

"What are you doing here every day, anyway?" he asked, his voice as soft as ever, almost unsure. Your eyebrows rose minutely — in the two weeks you'd been trying to get to know him through brief walks in the market, it was a rare occasion that he would initiate any sort of conversation on his own. If he couldn't be called responsive, he definitely couldn't be called proactive. "Or do you just come to bother me."

"Oh, I work near here," you replied, the rehearsed not-quite-a-lie (technically, this could be considered work) rising easily to your lips. "I guess my commute home just so happens to coincide with your patrol. Bothering you is a bonus."

"Maybe I should switch things up," he muttered under his breath.

You grinned, eyes glinting dangerously. "You wouldn't dare."

He wouldn't. Right?

He sighed, easily relenting with a shake of his head. "It would be a pain."

Your smile quickly morphed into a triumphant one. You could claim this as a win.

You two continued to walk in near silence, the intersection that signaled your parting of ways arriving too soon, as it always inevitably did. You bid him goodbye with a lazy wave and he nodded at you before continuing his patrol in the opposite direction.

It was never enough time.

It took a while, but finally you felt like you were getting somewhere with him. You couldn't call your relationship 'friendly' yet by any stretch of the imagination, but you had developed some sort of rapport, surely.

Nonetheless, at the rate things were going, he was never going to provide you with the way forward you were waiting for.

Until, when you least expected it, an opportunity crash landed right in your lap.

You startled awake, chest heaving, lungs screaming for air. Images flashed through your mind like a VHS being rewound at light speed — images that you would have been more than happy to forget if only your subconscious would ever allow it. You rubbed at your face, angrily scrubbing away the wetness that clung to your cheeks, hoping that if you managed to wipe them all from your skin, you could pretend that you had never shown such weakness at all, even if the only witnesses were yourself and the moon.

Aside from the rain battering the window in your one-bedroom apartment, it was silent.

The silence made it worse, as it always did. It was too familiar. It made you feel like you needed to scream until you were hoarse, if only to break it.

You lay in your bed for a long while, trying to tame the racing of your heart. As the minutes dragged by and turned into hours, the rain slowly began to subside until the only sound remaining from beyond the window was a steady drip onto the ledge.

You sat up, shaking off the nightmares, willing the exhaustion from your body. You pivoted, swinging your legs over the side of your bed — the cheap, threadbare sheets scratching against your skin. It was even harder than usual to see out the window due to the veins of water from the foregone downpour, the fogged-up glass streaked with smog and age. The white paint on the frame had long since started peeling off. The walls — which you imagined must have been white at one point — were more of an unappealing earth-toned gradient. The carpet was patchy, stained, and smelled like cigarettes, and the sliding door to your balcony always got stuck when you tried to close it.

Your apartment was shit and your neighbors were menaces, but it was all you could afford on a fugitive's budget.

It was home.

The only home you'd ever had. But right now, it was too damn quiet.

You rose from the bed at last, stretching your arms up over your head until you felt your shoulders pop, and pulling on a coat and some boots. You grabbed the collapsable umbrella by your front door, just in case, not bothering to lock the door behind you as you exited into the piss-yellow hallway of your building. You had nothing to steal.

You descended down the six flights of stairs to the ground level and made your way out onto the street, where the aftermath of the rainy evening brought you some comfort. The wet pavement reflected the light from the streetlamps; the air smelled like damp earth. The streets were all but empty, a single car speeding past in a spray of water as you stood on the curb, hands buried deep in your coat pockets, nowhere to go. Alone.

So you walked.

You always preferred Osaka in the early hours of the morning, after most of the people had long since gone to bed. It was clichéd, but it felt like a completely new city. Once the nightlife died down and the last bars closed, it felt like everything went into stasis, patiently awaiting the arrival of the new day, ready to start it all over again. But that brief window of rest between final call and the sunrise was your favorite.

Tonight, especially, the city felt washed anew.

You walked — and as always, you found yourself traveling along the same path you always did. You were surprised that you hadn't worn a groove into the sidewalk from many nights of pacing along the exact same route with the exact same destination. The familiarity of it alleviated some of the lingering fear from your failed sleep; it was a balm on your tired soul.

Finally, the stone archway flanked by two yellowed street lamps came into view.

The park really wasn't much to look at — merely a small patch of unexpected, unlikely, stubborn greenery nestled between all the cement — but the winding cobblestone paths dotted with trees and bushes and, most of all, weeds were always more than enough for you on nights like this when the past just started to feel too loud.

You absently wound your way through the park, appreciating the glitter of dew on overgrown patches of grass and freshly budding shrubbery. The spring here always was your favorite — after a long winter, you loved to see willful life creep its way back into your tiny park, your little green anomaly amidst the grey of the city.

Eventually, your eyes began to feel heavy again, signaling that your park had done its job and that it was time to head back to your dingy apartment for a few more hours of uneasy rest.

You turned to make your way back home, but stopped dead in your tracks at the sight of another person hunched over on one of benches nestled away in the growth.

There was never anyone else at your park. That's why it was your park.

You swallowed down the urge to be nosy, deciding to share your park and leave the poor soul to their wallowing, when they lifted their head and dark eyes bored into yours.

You almost didn't recognize him without the hood and visor. He was still in uniform, but his hood had been pulled back and his visor was nowhere to be seen. He looked like he'd been in a fight — a bruise was developing nicely on his jaw, a small cut on his nose.

You froze. He looked at you tiredly.

"It's you," Suneater said at last.

You scoffed. "Wow," you said tonelessly. "Don't sound so excited to see your favorite civilian."

"What are you even doing here?" he shot at you, resting his elbows on his knees and sitting up a little straighter. As usual, he refused to meet your eyes for longer than a second at a time, but you found yourself taken aback by his uncharacteristic vehemence. "This is a little much, don't you think?"

"What are you doing here?" you retorted. "This is my park."

"This park belongs to the city. I just wanted to sit for a bit."

You snorted, sulking over and throwing yourself down on the bench beside him with a huff. "You look like you've been in a fight."

His lip curled distastefully. "That's because I was."

You rolled your eyes. "This is where you say, 'you should see the other guy'."

"It wasn't a big deal," he mumbled. "There's not much to see. Dropped her off at the precinct already."

You observed him with a careful eye, resting your chin on your hand as you scanned over his face. He looked... softer without the hood and visor hiding his eyes. He looked like a person, not just some nameless, faceless hero.

Too bad that's all he really was.

"What happened to your nose?" you asked, to break the quiet.

His expression darkened. "She punched me. My mask shattered."

You couldn't help the smug grin that came to your lips behind your fist. So that's where the damned visor went.

"What, does 'Edna Mode' have opinions on masks as well?" he snipped, a surprising bite in his tone that brought a genuine laugh to your lips. He was in a mood tonight.

"Not that I'm aware of. I might have an opinion or two, though, if the mask is made out of a material that can cut your face when you get punched. And isn't getting punched, like, part of your job description?"

"It was a good punch," he grumbled back, a small note of whining in his voice as he gave you an uptight frown and a split-second of shameless eye contact.

You snickered again, enjoying putting him on the defensive.  He was too easy to rile up. That was good. "I'm sure it was."

He turned his head away from you again, raking a frustrated hand through his disheveled hair. "I'm glad you're enjoying this."

You looked over him again. He didn't seem too worse for wear, and yet his obvious bitterness tonight settled on you like a weight. It was different from his usual brand of self-effacing melancholy.

"What is up with you tonight?" you asked with a quirked brow, finally sitting up straight. "Are you always this pissy after a successful arrest?"

He let out a long breath, and you could almost visualize him trying to release some of the tension. "Sorry," he breathed. "It isn't that. I'm just... I'm just stressed, I guess."

"Really?" you deadpanned. You don't think you'd ever seen him not stressed, but you'd bite. "I hadn't noticed. Why?"

He sniffed quietly, unimpressed by your tone. His face was still hidden from you. "Why do you even want to know?"

You shrugged, taking a shot in the dark. If there was any time to get him to open up to you, it was now. "Maybe I can help."

He exhaled shakily, scratching at the back of his neck. "I sincerely doubt that."

You stared him down, challenged by his skepticism. He shifted uneasily at your scrutiny. "Try me, Suneater."

He remained quiet for a few seconds, then sighed, visibly deflating at your side. "There's a sort of... party coming up. For heroes. It's kind of like an awards ceremony."

"Oh," you said, eyes wide. "That's, uh... I don't see the problem?"

Suneater scowled, meeting your gaze for a moment. His hands were wringing one another in his lap — likely a nervous habit. "It's going to be televised."

Oh.

Oh.

"I see." Suddenly, everything was clear. You might finally have found an opening. Now just to get a little more — "You don't like being on TV."

"That's one way of putting it," he mumbled. "I don't like... I don't like... the attention. And I'm in the top ten this time."

"Oh, shit, you mean the Hero Billboard?" you said, only for confirmation at this point. He grunted in affirmation. "That's not just a 'party', Suneater. That's amazing. Congratulations, I'm happy for you."

He fiddled with the edge of his collar. "That makes one of us."

"What?" you taunted, smirking. "You don't like the recognition?"

"I don't do this for recognition."

"Badass," you droned. "It can't be that bad."

He groaned quietly. "It is that bad. No, it's worse."

"Don't be such a drama queen," you said. "When is the party?"

"In two days. On Saturday."

"I see," you said, leaning back against the bench and folding your hands behind your head. "So it's, like, soon. Really, really soon."

"Yes," he sighed. "Thank you for the reminder."

You beamed. "Where is it going to be?"

"Why are you so curious?" he asked, the first note of suspicion leaking into his tone as he shot you a wary look.

You internally scolded yourself for coming on too strong.

Think! This is the opportunity you've been waiting for, don't mess it up!

"Not all of us are big, fancy heroes who get invited to big, fancy galas," you drawled with a lazy smirk. "I'm living vicariously through you."

"They try to keep the locations of these things private as long as possible for a reason."

"It isn't like I'm going to take to the streets with flyers," you said impassively. "Humor me."

He still wore the same dubious look, but relented. You quietly thanked whatever gods were listening for him being the literal biggest pushover. "It's at the Maruyama Center in Tokyo. The big glass triangle thing, you know?"

"Oh, yeah, I've seen that," you said. "It must be incredible inside."

"I wouldn't know. I've never been," he said with a shrug. "This is the first time they're hosting it there. I try to avoid Tokyo."

"It's Tokyo," you said with a laugh. "I'm sure you'll have a good time."

Not if I can help it, spoke the tiny devil on your shoulder.

"I'm sure Mirio will drag me along to something," he lamented, "but I don't know about having a good time."

"Mirio?"

"Sorry. Lemillion," he corrected.

You whistled. "Someone's got friends in high places."

He shook his head, releasing a short, humorless laugh. "We grew up together."

You peered at his profile. "That must have been nice."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It was. He's a good person. It's been nice having his support all these years."

"Sounds like he's important to you."

"He is," he said, staring out in the dark. "He's incredible. I don't know why he's stuck by someone like me for this long."

You couldn't contain the laugh that bubbled up at his self-deprecating tone — it wasn't very becoming of one of Japan's finest. "Okay, emo."

He flushed, avoiding your gaze once again.

You were quiet for a moment, reflecting on everything he'd said. Bad mood aside, he had been far more communicative tonight than he'd been the entire time you'd been following him around in the market — even so much as providing you with exactly the sort of in you'd been waiting for all these years.

The Hero Billboard Chart Japan.

You couldn't believe your luck — it was everything you could possibly have asked for. This will be the moment that sets everything into motion.

It would be disastrous if anyone from the HPSC recognized you there, but it had been a few years, so you were confident you could fly under their radar easily enough.

Evading Suneater until the time was right was going to be the greater challenge. He'd seen you almost every day for the last three weeks — he will be the one you have to watch out for. He couldn't see you until the very last moment — and you'd have to be able to get close enough to touch his bare skin.

You fingers itched in anticipation.

You'd done your research.

You had chosen your hero.

And now, you had your stage.

All that was left was to draw the curtains and let it all play out as you'd planned.

It was time to destroy them.

Your daydream was shattered by his quiet voice.

"It's late," he said.

"It's probably more accurate to say that it's early," you responded.

His eyes flicked to you, hesitant. "Let me walk you home —"

Your stomach clenched. Absolutely not.

"That won't be necessary," you interjected brusquely.

Suneater's eyes snapped to you, wide and surprised, almost hurt. "You sure? ...It's late."

"It's early," you repeated. "And I got here fine on my own. I can make it home on my own, too."

"I — Um. Okay," he said, scratching again at the back of his neck. "I'm just gonna go then."

"Okay," you said, relieved that he either respected you enough not to question your decision or didn't have the balls to push the issue. Didn't matter to you either way, so long as he kept his distance (and you wilfully chose to ignore the hypocrisy in this sentiment). "Bye. Have fun on TV."

He gulped, standing up and nodding at your still seated form on the bench. "Uh, yeah. Take care."

You waved goodbye and watched until he had long since disappeared into the darkness of the early Osaka morning, and the first traces of color began to show in the sky.

This was it.

Now, everything would finally begin. The next step was going to be risky — there was a very good chance that Suneater would discover you before you could accomplish what you needed to, or that you'd be recognized by someone in the HPSC, or that any number of things could happen that could bring the last years of isolation and planning to an abrupt, bloody end, with your mission in shambles, your enemies triumphant, and you rotting in a cell in the depths of Tartarus.

Well. That was a thought you'd prefer not to manifest.

There was only one way forward to achieve your goals.

And if you had to go through Suneater to get there, then that was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

Chapter Text

Maruyama Center towered before you, a marvel in architecture constructed of glass, metal, and money.

It was Saturday. You'd spent the last two days trying to prepare yourself as much as possible for this moment — and you had everything planned, right down to the most minute detail. You had foregone your routine visits to the market yesterday and the day before in favor of research (the full blueprints to this place were not easy to find, and you wanted to have a handle on exactly who would be here and the exact schedule for the proceedings — where which heroes would be and when they would be there, amongst other things), as well as shopping; and the formalwear you had picked up seemed to allow you to blend in well enough, but you still didn't feel quite comfortable without your usual attire which allowed for more mobility, especially now that you were swimming amongst the sharks.

And, judging by the technicolor array of Japan's gaudiest douchebags swarming about you like flies on shit, you supposed you really were in the sharks' den.

Now you just had to avoid being seen by Suneater or any members of the HPSC until the ceremony, when all the cameras would be rolling. At that point, they certainly wouldn't be looking at you.

You fought to contain the anxious, excited racing of your heart.

You let yourself scan the area — there were several work vans emblazoned with the logos of various news stations, camera crews, civilians, public officials, security personnel (you wondered at this obsolete choice as you watched a six-and-a-half foot tall brick shithouse of a hero in yellow spandex walk through the cluster of black-clad men with their stupid little batons — surely mall cops couldn't offer any more security than the literal horde of professional heroes), dozens of reporters, and many of the biggest names on the hero billboards. Every eye in Japan was turned to this event — and the Hero Public Safety Commission had plastered their name and logo on it all.

Your disgust would have been greater if it weren't for the satisfaction of the fact that you were about to ruin it.

Finally, piece by piece, you would put an end to them.

Maybe, eventually, you could even be free.

You wondered absently where Suneater was as you grabbed another hors d'oeuvres from passing waitstaff and popped it into your mouth.

It had been over an hour since you'd arrived. You'd been milling about in the lush courtyard outside the Center, flute of champagne untouched in your hand, trying to avoid being bumped into by any of the other attendees, frenetic and smelling of the entire bath and body aisle in the department store. A few people had tried to start a conversation with you, but you didn't have the energy to entertain any of them, and eventually they all left you in search of greener (friendlier) pastures.

You were growing impatient and frustrated, and fighting hard to not let it show on your face.

At long last, the doors to the massive glass pyramid must have opened, because you were swept up in a strong current of people being herded into the building at the other end of the courtyard. You followed along easily enough, dropping your still-full flute of champagne onto one of the serving tables as you passed by.

The interior of Maruyama Center was as stunning as you had imagined.

The architecture was a marvel; modern and angular, the windows all seemingly angled in just such a way that the entire venue was lit by refracting shards of sunlight. The few opaque walls that divided the space were a painted stone, the murals upon them lovingly rendered in pastel blues and greens. As you walked down the wide hall towards the seating area, the sound of the bustling people around you seemed to ricochet off the glass, sharp and resounding.

But even that was nothing compared to the main chamber. A soft instrumental piano track warbled from speakers tucked away throughout the venue. The sight of the windows high above you was dazzling, but currently there were dark, steel shutters that prevented the full effect of the sunlight from bathing the stage. However, the inner chamber couldn't be considered dim by any sense of the word. What wasn't lit by the natural lighting was covered by sconces dotting the metal pillars supporting the structure, as well as the dozens of rows of balconies around the edges of the chamber. It gave the entire atmosphere a surreal quality, almost like you might have been underwater all along and just not noticed until you tried to breathe.

You shrugged to yourself. Windows are structural weaknesses.

Obligatory architectural appreciation completed, you found your way to the catering.

If you were going to suffer through a stuffy party like this, you were going to make damn sure to enjoy the fancy, high-end food while you could. Unfortunately, it seemed that the appetizers that had been passed out in the courtyard were a better quality than what they had set out in here — or maybe it had just been fresher. Not that you were one to judge, money was hard to come by for you so you often only ate —

"You can't be serious."

You froze, mid-chew. That voice, soft and familiar, currently incredulous, filled you with untold dread.

You cursed your stomach for leading you here.

You turned around and came face-to-face with the very last person you had hoped to see. He looked fully healed from the other night, the cut and bruise gone, his visor replaced.

You swallowed, a nervous laugh rising in your chest. "Suneater. Hi."

He didn't say anything, muscles rigid, face stern.

Not good. Not good at all.

You smiled, rubbing awkwardly at the back of your neck. "We would meet by the food, wouldn't we?" you joked.

He didn't seem to find the humor in your quip, eyes hard as he stared you down. Gone was the flustered man from the other night and the weeks before it — here was Suneater, and this time, he was definitely suspicious. "What are you doing here?" he asked at last.

You hadn't wanted or anticipated this exchange. But still, you had prepared for it — just in case — and now, you were incredibly grateful to your past self that you'd had the forethought to plan an answer to this question ahead of time, as every other thought that had previously occupied your brain had fled the instant you heard his voice.

"I came to support you," you said, heart beating against your ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage much too small. Your fingers twitched. Your neck felt hot. "I knew you were nervous."

His eyes widened almost comically; even from behind his visor, he looked like a caricature of himself. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Rinse, repeat. Finally, his eyes fell away from you. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Why, indeed.

"I decided last minute," you said. "And I wanted to surprise you."

He shook his head incredulously. "Why, though?" he asked, meeting and holding your gaze yet again. "Why bother with me at all?"

You searched for any excuse that could make sense. The truth, the reason he was a good choice — he was popular, strong, influential. He was soft, easy to manipulate. He hadn't questioned you until now. He was convenient.

"I just..." you began, cursing how small you sounded. What do I need to say? What does he want to hear? "I really enjoy your company."

Your answer robbed him of any of his remaining composure. He looked like nothing short of a deer caught in headlights with cheeks dusted pink, shock plain on his face, mouth falling open.

You were concerned for a moment that you had broken him.

Finally, his face split into the most genuine smile you'd ever seen. You noted with a vague sense of wonder that, when he really smiled, he had dimples, that his dark blue eyes crinkled at the corners, that one side of his mouth lifted slightly higher than the other. You could feel your own heart beat once, loudly, in your chest.

No one had ever looked at you like that. Like you were a good person.

For the first time in a decade, you weren't certain.

"Thank you," he whispered, his smile still robbing you of your breath.

You needed to remember why you were here.

You needed to remember what he was to you.

You tried to return his expression, but weren't sure you could ever pull off something that looked so warm. "Well, it's the least I could do for you keeping me company on my way home all these weeks."

He hummed, his smile smaller but no less kind. "I didn't see you the last few days."

You nodded. "Yeah. I had to, uh, stay late at work."

"Oh," he said, turning towards the food. "Um. What do you do?"

"I, uh," you faltered. "I work in a-an office. Answering phones. Nothing as interesting as you!"

He laughed softly, nodding, this answer apparently satisfactory. "Most days, I just walk through the market, waiting for something to happen but hoping it doesn't. My job isn't always interesting either."

You laughed uncomfortably, happy to let the conversation die. You were quickly running out of nerve for this exchange and his uncharacteristic curiosity.

You felt exposed, vulnerable. You felt that he was looking a little too closely, that if he kept looking, surely he'd see. He'd see the sort of person you were underneath all the kind lies.

Surely he'd know.

Suneater perked up suddenly, eyebrows so high they disappeared behind his hair as he looked back to you. "Oh God, I've never asked," he said. "What's your name?"

He's going to see.

Your vision started to blur.

He's going to know.

The room was spinning. You hadn't had any of the champagne, had you?

My name?

You were frozen.

He knows.

He's stalling. He's tipped them off. They're coming.

They're coming. They're coming. They're —

"Um, hello?" he said, eyebrows drawn together worriedly as he peered into your face. "Are you alright?"

You snapped back to reality, your horrified stare capturing his own.

It wasn't supposed to go this way.

You clutched at his hand.

He jumped at the sudden touch, his gaze flicking between your panicked eyes and his bare palm wrapped in your fingers, a question within them.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He didn't sound suspicious anymore. He only sounded concerned.

You couldn't do this.

You let instinct take over.

It happened fast, as it always does. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, the warmth of his skin; you could feel his synapses firing, the blood in his veins as it rushed to his cheeks before you even had time to see them flush. You became aligned with his body in a way that not even he himself ever could — you could see the map of it, the currents of electricity, the chemistry of his brain.

And then — you sent it all into hyperdrive.

His heart began to race. His pupils dilated. His adrenaline spiked.

His hand unconsciously began to squeeze back against yours, tight, painful.

More.

His breathing began to pick up. His eyes glazed over. He started to shake.

This wasn't supposed to happen yet — the opening remarks hadn't even started, you weren't sure if the camera crews had finished setting up, you were sure that not everyone was seated as they still fumbled around you, uncaring, oblivious, half-empty drinks in hand. There was a good chance that you were just throwing all your planning away.

It didn't matter anymore. It was too late to turn back now.

Just a little more —

You sent more glutamate, put more stress on his nervous system; more dopamine. More imbalance. You needed him to snap, even hallucinate, you needed him to —

With an inhuman growl, his hand ripped out of your grip and he buckled, falling to one knee, hands covering his face. He shook like a leaf.

Had it — had it worked?

You took a step back,  cautious, heart thrumming. "...Suneater?"

Despite the crowd, you could hear only a muted silence as you waited for a reply.

Then, suddenly, the world around you exploded.

You gasped as you were hit in the stomach by what you realized too late was a massive tentacle and thrown several feet into one of the serving tables. There were some shouts, and you registered someone kneeling at your side, asking if you were alright; distantly, your mind recognized him as Gale Force. Still dazed, you couldn't find it in yourself to nod, your eyes lifting until you found Suneater.

No one else had noticed him yet. He rose slowly back to his full height, head lowered, face hidden beneath his hood. Tentacles emerged from his left hand, writhing. His entire body thrummed with energy, shaking violently, nearly vibrating.

He was terrifying.

It was quick.

With a sweep of his arm, Suneater sent Gale Force, a half-dozen folding chairs, and a table with hundreds of champagne flutes flying into the nearest glass partition, and then through the next, and the screaming began.

"Evacuate!" came a female voice from somewhere overhead. "Get everybody out!"

"What the hell —"

There was too much happening at once — a group of heroes rushed in, looking for the threat, not yet realizing quite yet that it was one of their own. Civilians parted for them like water, tripping over one another to try and get to the nearest exit. You vaguely heard a man screaming for Amajiki, but didn't recognize his voice.

"Spiral! There's someone over there, under the table!"

You felt yourself get picked up into a bridal carry by yet another hero — you didn't recognize this one, a man with dark hair and a white uniform covered in neat, tight swirls along the neck, arms, and legs. "I've got you," he said, taking off with you in tow towards the exit. "You're safe now."

A crackle of electricity ripped through the air next to you; someone slid past so quickly all you could make out was a pink blur. The chaos was coming to a crescendo; everyone was jumping to action, in or away from the danger, but when you looked... Suneater was nowhere to be seen.

You fought to regain control of your senses — you could still feel the aftershocks of Suneater's system racing through your own, clouding your thinking and your vision. Your head spun; before you knew it, you had exited the surreal lighting and pandemonium within Maruyama Center and had ended up back out in the unfiltered afternoon light of the courtyard.

The hero — Spiral, you assumed — placed you down gently, a safe distance from the flashing, quaking structure. "Are you alright? Do you have any injuries?" he asked, voice raised to be heard over the commotion, yet still calm, attentive.

"I — No, I don't," you said. "Just disoriented. Thank you."

He looked you over and nodded, giving you a brief smile, before darting back into the fray. Attendees slowly began to crowd around you more and more as everyone exited from the Center.

The sounds from within were horrifying. Screaming, explosions, rumbles — it was hard to decipher what exactly was happening in all the disarray. You watched as sheets of glass collapsed inwards from the roof of the building, the previously proud behemoth crumbling in on itself — the thought almost made you sad, but sacrifices were necessary and buildings were replaceable. Outside in the courtyard, reporters were speaking animatedly to their crewmen — you couldn't make out the words, cameras were rolling, phones were out.

That was good, at least. You hoped they had gotten some of the beginning, as well — of Suneater. You wanted everyone to see what their beloved HPSC dogs were capable of.

Only a scant few minutes had passed before the evacuation seemed to slow — headcounts of the people were being conducted by several heroes hovering in the air. Suneater had still yet to reappear. The chatter around you never ceased.

"Did you see? That was Suneater! He went insane!"

"He was supposed to be named Japan's number six today, he moved up in the ranks again —"

"Has he — has he been a villain all along?"

"What has the HPSC been doing all this time? Things like this need to stop happening!"

"Is everyone alright?"

A blonde man finally emerged from the building — Lemillion, you thought. The friend. A few other familiar faces who had gone in after Suneater, as well. They looked disappointed, speaking to each other by the doors of the Center — were they not able to apprehend him?

The ground shook as sheets of glass fractured across one entire side of the pyramid.

"He's going to —!" screamed a woman from somewhere above. "He's going to take down the whole building!"

Your ears quirked at the shouting, but the building is what drew your eyes — creaking and shattering as it slowly began to collapse in on itself at the destruction, the metal of the triangular frame slowly starting to warp and bend under its own weight until it was unrecognizable.

"What if there are still people in there!"

"He's going to kill them!"

"He's going to kill himself!"

No. Death wasn't part of the plan.

You didn't want anyone to die!

You didn't want Suneater to die, you'd just wanted —

Unbidden, a memory flashed in your mind — Suneater, smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners, lips curved up with gratitude for you.

Even in your mind, he was warm.

Damn it.

You couldn't let him die.

You groaned and ran out from the crowd of evacuees, ignoring the confused cries behind you as you darted around the side of the courtyard and over a hedge, out of sight from the heroes, crashing back into the crumbling building through a shattered window.

The inside was unrecognizable from what it was before — the stage had been demolished, the chairs all crushed and swept away. Everything was coming apart at the seams, and Suneater was out of sight. You could still make out the muffled sound of the instrumental track playing from somewhere beneath the wreckage, warped and haunting.

A green flash shot by you — that must have been Deku. You knelt, hiding beneath a piece of fallen drywall and tapestry. The last thing you needed was for one of the heroes to spot you and drag you out again, thinking you were a civilian. You could make out another hero ahead, carrying an unconscious man out of the building on her back.

Had there been casualties?

You felt sick to your stomach but buried it down deep, continuing on your way toward the apex of the destruction.

This wasn't what you wanted.

You had wanted to frighten, to shock; you wanted to ruin their reputation, their silly little party, to use their own heroes against them, to make the people distrust them even more, to put their inadequacy on display for the world to see, you had been working so hard to ruin their name and this was just supposed to be the last straw —

You didn't want anyone to get hurt.

You'd been blind.

You could barely hear anything over the pounding of your heart. You managed to make your way behind the stage, where you thought you'd seen —

You couldn't believe this was the same Suneater you'd known until now.

He was vibrant; he was electric; he was horrifying. He looked like a fallen angel, or a demon, or a monster. Tentacles extended from his hands, large, lashing, his chest and arms armored with some sort of chitinous exterior. Wings, similar yet so distant from the ones that had gently sheltered you from the rain, were held high above him, beating powerfully, cracking against the falling glass that littered the ground at his taloned feet like a halo.

His face held no recognition when he noticed your presence.

You managed to dodge the sweep of a tentacle — somehow, the instincts from training you endured over a decade ago still resided within you — and barreled directly into a shower of debris, hissing as it cut into your skin. You slid under a collapsed bar, inching closer and closer to the eye of the storm.

"Suneater, stop!" you called.

He either didn't hear you or didn't care; either way, it didn't matter. He screamed, a wrenching sound that shredded into your soul, gripping another metal support from above the stage in several tentacles and pulling, hard, eyes shut tight with the exertion. You could hear the metal groaning under the pressure, see the end connecting it to the mainframe begin to twist inward —

"Suneater, you need to calm down, you're going to kill y —"

You were too late — you watched in abject horror as a final twist of the beam above the stage caused it to come down, and everything came crashing down in a glittering shower of broken glass and warped steel and colored fabric. It would have been beautiful, Suneater standing amidst the chaos, feral and powerful and terrifying and terrified, surrounded by a swirling galaxy of iridescent shards as the remains of hundreds of windows thundered down around him like rain. You felt the pain as though it were your own as his wings were torn, his tentacles crushed; as he howled in pain, as the metal column finally came down like the final nail in the coffin lying the grave you had dug for him and he wasn't able to move quickly enough to avoid it.

He folded underneath its weight like he were made of nothing more than paper, but he continued to fight and thrash, even as his breath was forced out of him and he aggravated his own injuries.

"Suneater!" you called, trying to dodge another swipe from a tentacle, less successfully than the first time — it sent you hurtling to the ground several feet to your right, but you managed to drag yourself forward on your hands and knees.

"Suneater!" you tried again, voice cracking.

He still couldn't hear you, one hand reverted back to normal as he clawed at the ground around him, trying to escape his confines with the desperation of a wild animal. His eyes seemed to see everything and nothing all at once.

You had to reach him, somehow. You crawled forward again, hissing as the broken glass on the tile cut, searing, into the soft flesh of your palms.

"Amajiki, Ama —" His head whipped towards you at last, pupils blown black with panic and adrenaline, tattered wings lashing at his sides as he tried to pull himself out from under the pillar with his free hand. The sight made something familiar ache deep in your chest. "Tamaki!"

He stilled and exhaled, eyes firm on yours, just long enough, and you reached out.

Your bleeding palm cupped his cheek, and you let his heart instantly sync with your own.

You could see clarity rushing back into his gaze — his arms went slack at his sides, and the wings, tentacles, talons, all of it, disappeared as though they had never been there to begin with, leaving nothing but a terrified, broken man. You brought up your other hand to hold his tear-streaked face between your palms, willing him to come back to his senses, lowering his adrenaline, lowering his pulse. His gaze was locked onto your own and his own hand came up to grip your wrist with bruising force. You winced but held him steady.

Then, he ripped himself away from you as though he had been burned, trying to back further away but unable to from his position under the rubble.

"What —" he croaked, coughing violently. "What have you done?"

You leaned away from him, ignoring the cut of the glass in your legs. "We need to get you out of here."

"What have you done?" he said again, voice raspy, wheezing as he tried once more to pull away from metal holding him against the ground.

"Suneater —" you started, hand outstretched.

"Don't touch me!" he snarled, recoiling away from you. The metal shifted above him, settling further onto his battered body, and he groaned.

Your brows furrowed in frustration. "I'm trying to help you!"

"You betrayed me!"

You hated how your voice sounded — cold, detached. "You should never have trusted me to begin with."

He winced, elbows digging into the ground beneath him as he struggled. He gasped in pain, eyes finally rising to meet yours. "Who are you?"

You finally managed to reach him again, hand curling tightly around his wrist and lowering his pulse just far enough that he'd lose consciousness.

"You can call me Render."

You weren't sure whether or not he heard you before he was out.

Chapter Text

You were left with a problem, standing there amongst the falling glass.

You had revealed yourself to the unconscious man at your feet.

Unfortunately, the coexisting facts that he now both had an opportunity to destroy you and needed immediate medical attention did not escape you.

The way you saw it, you had three options.

First option: you could leave him for the heroes to find; this was risky. It seemed the majority of the heroes had evacuated the collapsing venue themselves, and there was no guarantee that those remaining would be able to find him before the ceiling fully caved in, putting a bloody and untimely end to the hero Suneater by your hand.

Second option: you could drag him out to the courtyard on your own; this was also risky, for obvious reasons. The last thing you wanted to do was draw attention to yourself (and you imagined a civilian single-handedly dragging the unconscious body of the hero who had just finished collapsing a building out of said collapsed building was worthy of a few curious, unwelcome stares), but this would be the only surefire way of ensuring that Suneater got out of the building and to the nearest hospital as quickly as possible.

But neither of these options worked. Both situations ended with Suneater either dead or telling the HPSC all about what had happened to him that night, simultaneously ruining all the progress you'd made and putting you at severe risk of being thrown into Tartarus for the rest of your days. Both of these possibilities were unacceptable, and therefore, those courses of action were unviable. You could attempt to mess with his brain chemistry and make him forget everything that had happened in the last few hours, but were nowhere near confident enough in your ability not to break his mind doing so, so this was also not a feasible option.

Suneater's presence — and your moral code — were inconvenient, to say the least.

And yet, your third option was still the option you liked the least.

You could bring him back home with you until you figured something else out.

This option took care of the possibility of him ratting you out, and would allow him to get aid — albeit, only the aid that you yourself were able to offer. Your quirk would help his healing a little, and you had working knowledge of first aid, but your care would still be nothing like the quality he'd receive in the VIP (read: hero) ward of a hospital.

Still, he would live. And would become your responsibility.

But you'd be buying yourself time, at the very least. And time was what you needed most.

Your sigh was bone-deep as you continued looking over the crumpled hero.

Your course of action was clear.

And that is how you found yourself begrudgingly (and very carefully) dragging Suneater out of the wreckage of Maruyama Center and hoisting the six-foot, limp man into the backseat of your stolen sedan. Avoiding the heroes searching the area had been a nightmare, but you'd managed, even with your battered body and tiny pieces of glass still embedded in your hands and knees — it would have been much easier if it hadn't been for your unexpected cargo, but nothing was ever easy, was it?

You were grateful that you hadn't let yourself fall out of shape, even after all these years; he was heavy, dead weight on your shoulders and back, and your bruised ribs screamed for relief, but it wasn't impossible, and 'not impossible' had always been enough for you to get the job done.

The parking garage was mercifully empty — of people, not cars. Avoiding CCTV as much as possible, you continued your slow crawl through the dark cement floors, ducking behind parked vehicles where you could. You couldn't use the elevator — there would be no avoiding being caught on tape in there. The cars provided decent cover for you; if anyone saw Suneater being dragged away by a mysterious 'accomplice', you at least wouldn't be easily identifiable. You were sure that everyone from the Center was probably still hovering a quarter mile away, trying to catch sight of what was happening in the wreckage, calling family members, talking to news crews. Thankfully, no one seemed to have made their way back to the garage yet.

Finally, you had gotten all the way to the small black car you had lifted in Osaka and situated Suneater as comfortably as you could along the backseat — and you internally thanked every god you could think of that it was made from artificial leather and not a fabric that would be much harder to get blood evidence off of. You hadn't anticipated any need to bring a tarp or anything to cover the seat with; you didn't even have a jacket to spare. You debated internally on whether or not to buckle him in; you were a good driver, but didn't own a car so didn't have much practice. Plus, you weren't exactly in the best shape or headspace right now.

You frowned and strapped him in — at least, as well as you could considering he was currently horizontal across all three seats.

You let yourself take stock of his condition while you gently buckled him in. His hood had fallen back and his visor was, once again, nowhere to be seen. His hair was unruly and tangled, matted with blood, his face dark with cuts and bruises. You noticed for the first time that the ears that poked out of his dark hair were pointed.

His skin was pallid, sickly — you would have to stop once you had put a safe distance between you and the Center to address some of his larger wounds and avoid him losing any more blood. You were sure he must have some cracked ribs from the collapsed platform. His hero costume was ripped in large portions along his torso, revealing expanses of ashen skin riddled with lacerations. You were glad to see that neither of his legs seemed to be broken.

His injuries were serious — but nothing you couldn't handle, and heroes were hardy. Your greatest concerns were his ribs and the risks of infection or bleeding out.

You had a long, long night ahead of you.

You drove home with nothing but your thoughts, the sound of his soft breaths, and the quiet hum of the sedan.

You would periodically pull over to check on him after your initial stop at a pharmacy to pick up some bandages and antiseptic — and address his more serious injuries — just to check, make sure he was still out, and make sure nothing new required attention. Each stop so far had gone smoothly — you'd monitor his pulse and use your quirk to keep it low and steady, make sure his breathing wasn't getting too difficult. So far, so good.

You made it about four hours without incident.

The rustling sound from the back caused your stomach to flip, your spine to straighten and your shoulders to tense.

"Wha —" Suneater mumbled groggily, shifting slightly. He groaned, a low and pained sound.

Shit.

You pulled the car over to the shoulder as quickly and smoothly as you could — which was to say, not all that smoothly — to avoid jostling him further. The car behind you swerved past, horn screaming off into the distance. Suneater coughed weakly.

"W-Where am I? What's going —" he stammered, movements still sluggish as you leaned over the center console and placed a hand on his as fast as you could.

"Shh," you murmured, bloodied fingers shaking as you clutched his own. You were relieved that his hand didn't feel too cold or clammy, but it definitely didn't have the same warmth it had when you'd grabbed it earlier on in the evening.

Sleep, you willed, trying to focus more on his slowing heartbeat than the cars still speeding past you. You need to sleep.

Suneater eased back into a deep rest once again, his panicked breaths evening out, but you slumped into the driver's seat, still trembling, drained, and grappling with your own drowsiness and injuries.

You'd been using your quirk much more than you'd ever had to before, and it was beginning to take a toll.

Two hours to go.

Moving Suneater from your car into your apartment was much easier than moving him from the Center, if only because you were no longer dodging heroes. On the other hand, your adrenaline had fully worn off and the pain you had been ignoring had arrived full-force and with a vengeance.

Once inside your tiny apartment, you laid down an old blanket on your bed, setting the unconscious hero on it, and peeled off the rest of his bloody clothes, preserving his modesty to the best of your ability (you may be considered a 'villain' but you weren't about to ogle an indisposed man, hero or not — you had principles). You finished cleaning and dressing his wounds once more, and eased him into the shirt and pants you had bought on your way home. You'd have to go out for more supplies another time. It was as good as it was going to get until he was awake again, and able — hopefully, willingly — to cooperate.

All that was left to do now was wait until then.

Before he even opened his eyes, Tamaki somehow understood that he was in trouble, but couldn't remember why. And then he tried to sit up.

He gasped, falling back limply against the bed — foreign and scratchy and uncomfortable — once more. His skin pulled and burned, excruciating; his ribs felt barbed. "Hurts," he blurted, unwillingly, his voice a crackling wheeze. He was mortified in some distant backroom of his mind at the action, weak and pitched and rasping (shouldn't he be stronger than this?), but decided to try and push that away for now. He wasn't even sure where he was.

He winced. It had been a while since he'd taken a beating this bad.

Slowly opening his heavy eyes, Tamaki tried to take stock of his surroundings, with little success. He blinked hard, trying to clear the sleep from his vision, but everything remained blurry. He couldn't see much, the room was almost colorless and seemed too barren to be a hospital room — plus, it smelled too stale and not enough like disinfectant and sickness — and he could only hope he wasn't being held in some lair somewhere. When he didn't hear any response to his waking, he tried to shift his body to assess the extent of his injuries, flexing his shoulders against the abrasive fabric beneath him, so unlike the hospital beds he was used to. He also registered that it was unusual not to wake up to the soft beeping and whirring of hospital equipment; in fact, all he could hear were the sounds of the city outside and a television playing softly in another room.

Conclusion: Amajiki Tamaki was seriously injured and definitely not in a hospital. He felt a flare of panic rise up in him.

"You have a few cracked ribs," came a voice, and Tamaki jumped, just barely containing the squeak that would have put an end to whatever dignity he had left. "You're lucky they didn't puncture anything."

Tamaki froze in place, eyes glued to the ceiling as he searched his memories.

That voice... sounds familiar.

A strange sense of dread washed over him.

How did he know that voice?

"You also have a few pretty large lacerations and a lot of bruising," you continued in a clinical, detached tone. "I did the best I could."

His eyes finally snapped to the location which the voice was coming from, over by the crooked little door into the room, and landed on you — wary, careful. Watching him. Your face did not betray any emotion.

He felt a twinge of confusion.

The civilian from the market? Where am I? What happened? —

He never did ask for you name...

Unbidden, your voice echoed in his mind.

You can call me Render.

Tamaki felt a rush of nausea which had nothing to do with his injuries as the events from before he lost consciousness returned to him with the force of an ocean through a broken dam.

The Billboard. The Center. How warm he felt when you said you'd come to support him, the way you'd clutched at his hand when he'd finally asked your name —

The red. The shadows, writhing. His fear, his anger. The shards of glass falling around him, the platform collapsing above him —

You. Throughout all of it, a conductor standing amidst the symphony of destruction, stood you.

His gut lurched.

No, no, no, no, no, no —

"I think you might also ha —"

"Stop," he hissed, painfully dragging himself upright and clutching at his head, shielding his eyes;  he needed to think, he couldn't take the feeling of your eyes on him, cold and calculating —

Villainous.

"I wouldn't move too much if I were you," you said, voice flat. "You'll make it wors —"

"Were there casualties?" he asked from between his fingers.

You watched him carefully, mouth pulling into a thin line. He noticed that the hands you had crossed in front your chest were gloved. His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes bored into your own.

"No," you said finally. "Only minor injuries. You're the only unknown. They're trying to determine whether or not you died in the collapse or if you were working with any accomplices."

Tamaki barely felt the relief from your words before the burn of white-hot anger rolled over him. "Why?" he snapped, arms falling lifelessly to his sides, baring his face, his emotions, to you. His eyes burned hot. He hated how he couldn't control the shaking that wracked his entire body as he waited for your answer; for you to make any of this make sense to him.

Why do you care? Why did you do this to me?

He couldn't bring himself to be concerned with how pathetic he sounded, how pathetic he surely looked, how his voice cracked with emotion every time he spoke. How he bit back furious, devastated tears. How foolish and hurt he felt that he had allowed you in, just a little, only for you to betray him in the worst possible way.

Why would you have bothered to help him heal after all of it? What did you stand to gain? Or, what was it that you stood to lose? Why not just let him die? What was it that you wanted from him, even now, as he lay at your mercy, shattered?

Why did your face right then, so neutral and impassive, hurt him almost worse than the betrayal itself? Why did it make a sadness deep inside him ache so keenly?

Why didn't he believe your indifference?

His thoughts, scattered, wounded, only manifested in a single word, clipped and broken: why?

You were silent for several long seconds. "I have my reasons," you said at last.

Tamaki would have laughed if he thought he'd ever be able to again. He felt a surge of bitterness that tasted a lot like bile. "Your reasons," he repeated. "Do you you even understand what you've done?"

"I understand perfectly," you refuted with narrowed eyes. You clearly weren't interested in having this discussion. He didn't care.

"I have —" he started, then his jaw snapped shut, mind whirring. "All I've ever wanted," he tried again. "All I've — all I've ever worked for was to be a good hero. You just took that away from me in a few minutes."

You snorted, the sound so familiar, yet the hard edge to it new and unwelcome. "Oh, I assure you," you said breezily. "It took a hell of a lot more time than that."

His temper flared. "I was supposed to be able to save people!" he rasped. "I'll never be able to again. No one will ever trust me again. You took that away from me, and you can't even be bothered to look sorry."

"Don't be a fool," you sneered. "I'm not sorry. All you're doing is defending false ideals imposed upon you by corrupt leaders. It isn't my fault you were stupid enough to drink the kool-aid."

Tamaki gaped at the sudden shift; your anger was raw and chafing. Deep. "Who even are you?"

"I told you," you said, schooling your face back into its inscrutable mask. "Render."

"That's not your name," Tamaki pointed out.

Your eyes on him were hard, unyielding. "It's the only one that matters."

Tamaki felt mild surprise that he was no longer deterred by your coldness. He was past stress; the instincts that he usually reserved for when he was in a fight slowly working their way back to the forefront, pushing his insecurities down. He had to think critically. He had to assess the situation. He had to know.

Somehow, he knew he wasn't in any danger from you at that moment; but that didn't change what you were, or what you obviously capable of.

He held your gaze, firm. "But then who are you?"

You didn't falter under his pushing. "No one."

"You're not an office worker."

"Wow," you droned, the word dripping with sarcasm. You continued to hold his stare. "Heroes really are perceptive."

"What does Render even mean?" he continued his questioning, eyes narrowed, searching for a chink in your armor. "Is that a villain alias?"

You broke at last and rolled your eyes with mean laugh. "How typical and one-dimensional. Sure. If it makes you feel better."

"I've never heard of you."

Your lips curled into a slow smile. It looked to Tamaki more like you were baring your teeth in a threat than expressing any positive emotion. "Then I've done a good job."

He considered you a moment, thinking through everything he knew about you as calmly as he could through his racing heart. Admittedly, it wasn't much, and the thought made him frustrated. He was at a steep disadvantage and both of you knew it — and he was more than aware that you wouldn't entertain his prying much longer. "Did you choose the name for yourself?"

He almost missed the way your eyes widened marginally in surprise; almost. He had found something that he could work with in that — a sore subject. He tucked the knowledge away for later.

"It was chosen for me," you said quietly.

He was shocked by the admission. Maybe you were as well — your face morphed into one of disgust and discomfort.

"By who?" he pressed cautiously, matching your softer tone. He hoped not to scare you off right when he was getting somewhere.

Evidently, he failed.

You turned, eyes falling away from him, and opened the door out of the bedroom. "You've asked enough questions."

"And you've barely answered any of them," he retaliated.

"That's enough," you repeated more forcefully, still looking away from him; but Tamaki could hear the finality in your tone and recognized that he had lost the battle. You left the room for a moment and he thought that was it, but barely a few seconds had passed before you entered again, small box in hand. You passed the threshold of the door this time and approached the bed. "I need to change your dressings. You reopened one of your wounds when you —"

"Don't touch me," Tamaki spat angrily, losing whatever semblance of control he'd managed to gain over himself in the last several minutes. "You —"

"Are going to change your dressings before you get blood all over my furniture. Again," you finished for him. Your eyes held a challenge as you sat on the edge of the bed, opening up the small box with your gloved hands — a first aid kit. Tamaki reflexively leaned away from your proximity, trying to conceal the groan that arose at the motion. Your eyes flicked to his midsection, alerting him that you had noticed anyway. "You don't have to trust me, Suneater. In fact, I'd wholeheartedly recommend that you don't, on principle. But that doesn't change reality. I've been doing this for you so far — two days, by the way, in case you're curious — and haven't killed you yet, despite the fact that your continued survival presents little more than inconvenience to me. Nothing changes just because you're awake to be a little bitch about it, except that killing you will be slightly more difficult for me to accomplish. Now lay back before I force you to."

Tamaki stared at you, aghast, rendered momentarily speechless from your rant and trying desperately to digest the new information he'd obtained from it.

One detail stood out from the rest.

"Your furniture," Tamaki echoed. "You live here?" he asked, bitterly obeying your command and laying back. "On purpose?"

"Just because I called you a bitch doesn't mean you have to actually be one," you muttered, an unquestionably offended expression crossing your features. "Yes, I live here. We don't all have the luxury of a hero's salary. Now shut up."

Tamaki flinched as he felt you bunch his shirt up past his stomach, and even if he knew it was coming, your fingers against his skin were still sudden and disagreeable, and he was sore, and vulnerable, and exposed, and angry and sad and — and — and scared, and now, as if it to top it all off, he was cold, too. He grunted and screwed his eyes shut as you got to work replacing the bandages he knew must be spread across his abdomen; he recalled the feeling of the platform as it ground him against the tile of the Center, crushing his wings, and sent it away just as quickly with a shake of his head. You were quick, no nonsense, and it was unpleasant from start to finish, but still... you had been more gentle than he had imagined you would be.

That didn't make it any easier to allow you to touch him, gloves or not.

Finally, you leaned away, pulling his shirt back down to cover his stomach. Tamaki barely contained the sigh of relief as your hands finally left his skin. "Done," you said, snapping the kit closed. "Try not to move too much so we don't have to do this again until tomorrow. I'll bring some food in for you."

Tamaki felt just a little of his bad mood dissipate at those words. His eyes snapped to yours and he hoped he didn't look half as hopeful as he felt. "Food?" he asked, as nonchalantly as he could muster.

You let out an amused laugh but the sound didn't reassure him. "Don't get too excited, I can't have you squidding out on me," you mocked, smirking. "Hope you don't mind eating vegetarian, tako-breath."

Tamaki physically felt a small part of his soul wither away.

Chapter Text

The next few days were painfully quiet.

You weren't sure how you'd managed to make it through that first conversation with Suneater — if you were being honest with yourself, you had been terrified that you had underestimated his quirk all along and that, even incapacitated and having not eaten any of his 'usuals' in a few days, he would find a way to bring you down, and hard. You'd had training, sure, but it had been years, and you were no professional. That, plus you still had a good amount of lingering pain from being thrown about by stray tentacles and crawling on broken glass on Saturday night, not that you wanted Suneater to know that particular weakness of yours. The gloves seemed to have hidden the wounds on your hands so far, though, and he hadn't questioned them.

Also, while you'd been respectful, you had seen him while you'd been tending to his injuries or changing his bandages. The bulky outerwear of his costume may have hidden it well, but it didn't take training to see that he clearly had been keeping a very strict exercise routine to stay in peak physical condition.

Yeah, if he truly decided to confront you, you wouldn't stand a chance.

Since that first conversation, though, you'd barely spoken a word to one another. After changing his dressings, you had given him vegetable broth in a sippy cup (because he was lying down and it would be easier for him, and not because it had filled you with a sadistic feeling of satisfaction to watch the hero's face crumple when he saw the vibrant multi-color unicorns prancing along the glittering side, actual three-dimensional sparkles obnoxiously bedazzled on — you'd picked it up especially for him, in the midst of a fit of pique, on your way home from dumping the stolen car), went into the living room, and lain awake, staring at the TV and not processing any of what was said on the screen for hours. It was a news channel — all they were doing was recapping the disaster at the Hero Billboard Chart, once again, and you didn't need to hear it for the thirtieth time.

You had been there.

You slept fitfully on the couch in your living room, tossing and turning and doing too much godforsaken thinking, and the next morning, after the sun had come up and you'd decided you'd been considerate quite long enough, you went in to check on Suneater — and breathed an audible sigh of relief to find that he hadn't used his tentacles to escape your sixth story apartment like some disturbing, fishy Spider-Man knockoff in the night. He woke easily (you wondered if perhaps he'd slept as poorly as you did, despite his exhausted body and mind), wordlessly followed your commands for him to move this, lift that, does it feel any better than yesterday? (he grunted, a sound which you took to mean complete indifference, but definitely wasn't a 'no'), and when you were done, you brought him a piece of toast with some jam for breakfast and left him to sulk in peace.

The routine had proceeded similarly since, and while it certainly wasn't comfortable, it was at least straightforward and predictable.

Suneater, all things considered, was an easy and quiet charge. He'd made no more snide comments about the apartment or asked any invasive questions about you or your past. He gradually stopped recoiling away from you quite as hard whenever you went to tend to his injuries, cooperative and obedient under the fabric covering your destroyed fingers. He ate without complaint, accepting whatever it was that you managed to scrounge up for the two of you — admittedly never much considering your main source of income was petty theft, and you preferred to keep a low profile, especially when you were injured. The theft was something else he didn't need to know about, and you imagined that, if he found out, it would likely be low priority on his list of grievances with you, but that it would maybe cause him to stop offering the quiet nod you translated as an obligatory 'thank you' when you brought him your ill-gotten gains — which you, frankly, knew you didn't deserve but enjoyed the civility of anyway.

There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that there was no history between the two of you whatsoever. You were just two strangers cohabitating in a too-small space, content in trying to pretend one another didn't exist until meal times or until his bandages needed changing. He never started a conversation with you, and never, ever made eye contact.

It was resignation. Tolerance. Nothing more.

He didn't seem like the same man you'd gotten to know, just a little, before the incident.

That thought didn't make you feel good, that much was certain. It settled in beside the ache in your battered ribs like it intended to make its home there, whether or not there was even any room.

Later that week, on Thursday, after three days too long of this exhaustive, colorless impasse, you took pity on him.

He very nearly refused you, when you asked — 'I don't want you touching me any more than you already are.' / 'The feeling is mutual, trust me, but I'm just trying to be nice. Take it or leave it.' / 'Hmph.' — but eventually, his boredom won whatever jousting match it had going on with his pride and he allowed you to pull his less-injured arm delicately over your shoulder and guide him out into the living room and onto the couch, your arm circled securely around his waist as you lowered him down.

What could you say? You may be considered a villain, but you weren't evil enough to deprive an convalescing man of the simple pleasure of channel surfing, even if your TV was older than you were and in the same weight class as your microwave.

It seemed like a good idea, at first.

As it turned out, Suneater didn't have much interest in channel surfing. There wasn't enough of the indecision element for it to be considered 'surfing', by any stretch of the imagination. He knew exactly what he wished to use (or abuse) his new privilege for.

His eyes sharp and alert, he was glued to the news — namely, whichever channels were currently (still) discussing the disastrous event from almost a week prior, a deep frown cutting into his face, growing only deeper and unhappier with every mention of 'the rogue hero, Suneater'. You were definitely pleased to see that much of the discourse seemed to be going the way you'd hoped it would — talk shows discussing the pros and cons of the HPSC (the cons list steadily outpacing the pros), anchors recapping other incidents in the recent past of the HPSC failing as an organization tasked with hero oversight (this you were also acutely aware of, as you'd had a hand in several of the aforementioned 'incidents' involving unflatteringly failed missions or anonymous sources bringing incriminating intel to light). While all of it was music to your ears, it didn't necessarily mean you wanted to hear it on loop until kingdom come.

Suneater had no such reservations. The news anchors droned on, and you prayed that eventually it would just become background noise for you, something that blended in with the sounds of the city outside, or that maybe he'd get his fill and put on literally anything else —

The roar of the incessant rain outside wasn't helping, either. It reverberated in your skull and ricocheted between your ears like it was trying to break the world record for the longest continuous ping pong match and you missed eating chicken but couldn't keep it in the house anymore because of your unfortunate new housemate and his inconvenient quirk and your hands still fucking hurt.

You were tired.

"— latest incident is further proof that the commission cannot be trusted," the woman on the TV was saying in an impassioned rant. Suneater watched, his expression stony. "Just last month, we were all very concerned about their motives when an eighteen-wheeler under HPSC orders was overturned on its way to their Tokyo location," — ah, that one actually brought a smile to your face, you were still proud of how that had turned out — "And in the process, spilling what turned out to be thousands of rations in one of the least affluent areas in the city and coincidentally, the same area in which many had recently lost their homes after a large-scale villain attack a week before. Hundreds homeless, and the Commission claimed to be unable to offer any relief. Thankfully, the driver of the truck sustained only minor injuries, but none of the rations have been recoverable and the cause of the accident remains unknown. The public has expressed skepticism about what need the HPSC had to withhold —"

You picked up the remote and clicked the TV off. The screen went to black with a small zap of static. "Okay, that's enough. No more news. It's been hours."

Suneater turned an empty stare in your direction. His eyes met yours. It was inscrutable, dense. Weighted. "Why did you bother saving my life?" he asked, point-blank.

His forwardness robbed you of your ability to speak. His question contained none of the uncertainty you'd come to associate him with — this question was heavy and naked, and bared you as much as it bared him.

He wasn't stupid. He knew his death would have only made sense. He knew he was an inconvenience. A gamble. He knew. And yet, here he sat.

He knew, and so he asked: why? This was the first thing of substance that had been said between the two of you since your conversation, days ago, had left you both with a flimsy and precarious truce neither one of you'd had the luxury to reject.

You felt that this answer deserved a bit of thoughtfulness. This answer felt important. And yet, the right answer came easily; without much thought or consideration. You realized that it was merely the truth.

"I didn't want you to die," you said simply. "I never really wanted to hurt you in the first place."

"Well, you failed," he said, voice flat. His dark blue eyes gripped yours — steady, unwavering, jarring after days of avoidance — and cut into you like a knife, burned you like a livewire. "You did hurt me. And I'm not just talking about dropping a building on me, you hurt me. I think dying would have hurt less than this."

You couldn't think of anything to say in response to that, to this unanticipated shift in his sullen demeanor, and your breath left you in a shaky exhale. You remained silent as he finally, mercifully turned his gaze away from you and towards the balcony, where the rain continued to hammer violently against the aged glass of the slider. The television remained off. His response had brought a sudden end to the unexpected conversation, the words echoing throughout the dreary space you shared; the sourness on your tongue tasting like condemnation.

Clearly, the change of scenery and the hours spent watching the news had awakened something ugly inside him, determined to ruin the fragile peace you two had built. His mood only flattened as the afternoon went on.

If he was resigned before, he was downright unresponsive now. He didn't so much as acknowledge anything you said to him; no nods, no grunts of affirmation. He refused to eat the lunch you'd offered him — at least, you assumed it was refusal — and honestly, it was one of the better Suneater-proof meals you had devised that week. Fried tofu. You'd made a sauce and everything.

Needless to say, you didn't care for this absent, hollow Suneater. It was even worse than resigned, tolerant Suneater.

The day carried on. He didn't afford you so much as a glance.

You knew, somewhere inside, that anger wasn't the solution, but frankly, you were impressed that you'd managed to contain your temper for as long as you did. Eventually, after he didn't so much as flinch when you tried to get his attention, you felt the dam burst, and the words came flying out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to screen them.

"What is the matter with you?" you hurled, face drawn tight and hot with irritation. This seemed to jolt him back into your apartment from whichever celestial body he had been orbiting — his eyes flicked to yours at last, stunned wide at your sudden outburst. The innocent, guileless expression — as if he hadn't been the one slowly picking away at the cement of the dam with his own two hands — didn't make you want to throttle him any less. "I don't like you being here any more than you do, believe me."

He went rigid, his expression pinched. He leaned back against the couch roughly, fists clenched against his thighs. "It isn't like I have anywhere else to go," he muttered lowly. "You made sure of that. I'm stuck here," he spat the word like it was a swear, gesturing at the apartment as a whole, "with you."

"I'm sorry if the accommodations aren't up to a hero's standards, but if it's good enough for me, it's going to have be good enough for you. At least until I can think of a way to get you the hell out of my life. And my apartment."

He scowled, shifting on the couch so he faced away from you. The rain continued to pound against the slider. "The sooner, the better."

You scoffed at the expanse of his back in the stupid, novelty tee-shirt you'd stolen for him. "Well, if you have any ideas for how to accomplish that 'sooner', then by all means!" you said, throwing a hand in the air above your head. "Share with the class!"

He turned his head just enough for you to make out the angle of his nose. "Turn yourself in."

You glowered at the back of his head. You hoped he felt it. "You're stupider than you look, tako-breath."

He rotated fully back around towards you then, wincing as the motion jostled his wounds. "At least I didn't trap myself in my own home with a hero I refuse to kill but don't know what else to do with."

"I'm not a killer," you hissed. "And I'm only a 'villain' because your beloved commission says so."

"You almost were a killer. Anyone would label you a villain after what you did at the Billboard," he said. "People could have died."

Your eyes burned. Your skin crawled. Your fingers itched. Suneater's face was hard, accusatory. "Don't talk about things you don't understand," you said at last. You hated how your voice sounded. Shaky. Weak.

His gaze never left your own, penetrating, searching. "How am I supposed to understand if you refuse to explain?" he asked.

You fought to maintain your composure under his probing. His anger seemed to have subsided somewhat, allowing his critical thinking to take the reigns — this was significantly harder for you to face. He's going to see. "I don't owe you an explanation," you said, haughty.

"If we are going to be stuck together — as a result of your actions, I might add — for who even knows how long, I think you do."

His insistence was beginning to remind you of the rain just outside; it was unrelenting, steady, and exposing. It was wearing you down. It was useless fighting against it.

Your eyes fell shut and you chose your next words carefully. "It went further than I expected, okay?"

He was silent long enough that you opened your eyes again, morbidly curious to see what expression he was wearing; to see what his judgement looked like. He was still angry, definitely, but he looked almost pensive as well. Analytical. "What do you mean, further?" he prompted. "What did you think was going to happen?"

Your chest felt like it was going to explode. "Shit," you snapped. "You were supposed to throw some chairs around and scare people on live TV! Ruin their pissing contest! Rob the Commission of a little bit of the blind faith people place in them. Not destroy the entire building and nearly kill everyone inside. I... I took my quirk too far. I'd never tried to do that before."

A crease formed between his eyebrows. "What did you even do?" he asked. "What is your quirk?"

You swallowed down your heart from where it sat in your throat. "I can manipulate the physiology of any living organism. Raise or lower heart rate, alter brain chemistry, things like that."

His frown deepened. "And when you touched me?"

"Use your brain, I'm sure you must have one in there somewhere," you growled. "Like I said, I'd never done that to anyone before, and clearly, I pushed you too far."

"And what did you plan to do after?"

"Go home! Alone," you said, wrapping your arms tightly across your chest. This conversation was getting to be too much, but part of you wanted to make him understand. You knew he never could, that you could never deserve to ask for it, but some small, lonely fraction of you ached for it anyway. "Clearly, the night didn't go according to plan. And now I've screwed myself, as you've so helpfully pointed out."

He appraised you for a few long seconds, his expression calculating. "Just leave me here and run. By the time anyone got here, you'd be long gone."

You shook your head, helplessness scratching at the back of your mind. "I can't."

"Why not?" he asked. "If you aren't here for the commission to arrest, it won't matter what I tell them."

You could feel your nerves begin to fray further at his continued interrogation. "They can't know I'm alive!" you rasped. "They think I'm dead. They can't know I'm alive. They can't."

He froze, unblinking. You could almost see the gears turning in his mind. You wanted to touch him with your bare hand and throw a wrench in them. "Who are you?"

You exhaled sharply. "Stop asking me that," you gritted. "You're never going to get the answer you want."

He looked as though he had smelled something awful as his eyes moved between your own, looking for answers that simply weren't there. "Fine."

"Glad we could come to an understanding," you threw over you shoulder as you turned to walk away — promptly tripping on the worn area rug leading into your kitchen. Fortunately, you managed to catch yourself on one of your dining room chairs. Unfortunately, that meant you'd instinctively slapped your gloved right hand onto the hard backing of it.

Pain ignited in your palm and wrist like a flashfire, screaming up your forearm in blinding white pulses.

"Shit," you hissed quietly before you could tamper it down, sucking in a sharp breath and cradling your hand gingerly against your chest. You covertly let your gaze fall on the opposite side of the room, to your couch and its tenant.

Judging by the look on his face, Suneater had seen the entire thing. His expression was indecipherable.

Shit. There goes that particular secret.

"What was that?" he asked, tipping his chin toward the chair in the kitchen.

"It's nothing," you said, making a point to wave your stinging hand dismissively. You had to force yourself not to grimace at the motion as stars exploded across your vision. See, hero? Just fine!

"That looked like it hurt," he said. "A lot. What happened to your hands?"

"It's nothing," you repeated, forcing yourself to sound as cold and final as possible, praying that he would decide he didn't care enough and just drop it.  Doubtful, but you hoped. "Let it go."

"Is that why you've been wearing gloves?" His face was surprisingly stern. "Is it from the Billboard? Tell me."

You sighed, already getting the feeling that you weren't about to win this fight, either. It was too late to hide it anymore, anyway. "It's not a big deal."

His eyes went comically wide at your indirect admission. "Was it me?"

You felt your stomach clench at the tone of his voice — he sounded almost afraid. You shook your head, holding your right hand lightly. "No, not these."

"Not those?" he echoed, voice wobbly, eyebrows drawn. "What did I do? I can't remember any of what happened, nothing real, anyway, I — did I attack people?"

Your eyes went unfocused as you tried to think through the incident — it was a blur, it all happened so fast. "Just me, I think," you said, finally. "Oh. And you sent Gale Force through a few windows, but I think you were aiming for me, and he's fine. No one was seriously hurt," you said. "And the HPSC has clearly been keeping the fact that you hit him under wraps. I already told you, Sun—"

"I attacked people," he interjected.

"You attack people all the time, idiot! It's literally your job —"

"People could have died!" he rasped, voice hoarse. "I could have killed someone, and I can't even remember any of it."

"Even if you had, it wouldn't have been your fault!" you yelled, marching across the floor and leaning down into his face. Up close, you could see that he was trembling. "So that's enough with the guilty bullshit. It's aggravating. If you want to blame someone, blame me, and spare me the self-deprecating theatrics."

His gaze held your own, wide and watery, for a few long seconds. He let out an exhaustive breath, closing his eyes. You could see him trying to reign in his own emotions as his shaking began to subside. You waited it out.

Finally, Suneater opened his eyes again, a familiar, resigned wetness to them. He gestured to your gloves at your side. "Show me your hands."

That hadn't been what you expected. "...Why?"

"Just let me see," he said. You searched his gaze for any sign of deceit. He definitely didn't seem to be up to anything, but you couldn't determine what it was he could possibly want from this. "I'm just trying to help. Do you want this arrangement to be civil or not?" he urged, impatient.

You heaved a breath and sat on the couch next to him, relenting easily enough that you shocked yourself. "Fine." You shot him a look. "This was from the floor," you explained as though he were a child, gingerly pulling off the gloves, finger by finger, one after another. "I mean, the whole building was made of glass. Poor design choice, if you ask me."

"Windows are structural weaknesses," he agreed, nodding.

Finally, you managed to get one glove off, then the other. After he gestured for you to remove the bandaging underneath as well, you sighed and slowly peeled them back, revealing the mess of criss-crossing wounds across your fingers, palms, and wrists. You couldn't find a square inch of skin that wouldn't be scarred over once the cuts had all healed.

He sucked in a breath, fixated on your ruined skin. "Shit."

"Yeah," you agreed. "My, um... knees got it pretty bad, too. Hands were bare, though, so they took the brunt of it."

"And you mentioned other injuries?" he asked. "That I... directly caused?"

You were hesitant to answer, but you stowed it. You'd come that far. You sighed. "I got... hit by the tentacles, a few times. Just have some bruising. It's manageable."

He scowled, eyes still locked on your palms. You both were quiet for several long minutes, the only sound coming from the storm raging outside.

"I have an idea."

Your eyebrows shot up at his sudden statement, turning to him by your side. "Oh?"

"I have an ointment at my apartment that will help with this. It happens a lot to me, what with the, uh... manifestations. It just... it helps."

You couldn't help the rush of skepticism that came over you at the proposition. You shot him a sideways glance. "In your apartment."

"Yeah," he answered.

You squinted, tilting your head toward him. "You aren't trying to pull anything, are you?"

He actually rolled his eyes at that. "You literally took my phone, so what could I even plan? The HPSC probably finished searching it by now, too. It will help me, sure, but it will also help with your hands."

You considered this.

He didn't really seem like the lying type. And, more importantly, your hands still fucking hurt.

"Fine. Okay," you said, standing up. "Give me a second, I'll get you a note to write the address."

You tossed a thick stack of neon pink sticky notes on the table in front of him, and he scribbled an address in neat, slanted penmanship. "The ointment is in the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink. You can't miss it."

You hummed, taking the note from him — noting that he'd also doodled an approximation of a small jar with a herb symbol on it — and tucking it into your pants pocket. "You better not try and get up to anything while I'm gone," you warned, eyes narrowing on his. "It won't go well for you."

He turned to you then, glaring, looking more murderous than you'd ever seen. His hair hung around his face in a messy shag. His jaw ticked, the muscle jumping with his gritted teeth. "I can't even leave bed without you escorting me," he said, a furious, mortified flush rising to his cheeks and coloring the tips of his pointed ears. "What could I even 'get up to' at this point?"

"I don't know," you countered. "Turn into an onion and roll your freak ass down the stairs?"

His mouth fell open and snapped shut again. "That is not how it works," he protested weakly. His voice cracked.

You angrily recalled the pea soup you'd both eaten for breakfast. "Maybe you could leave a trail of peas like Hansel and G —"

"Also not how it works," he interjected, looking distinctly aggrieved. "Plus, you're the evil witch in this analogy, you know."

"No," you argued, insulted. "The breadcrumbs were to help them find their way back home."

"Okay, but didn't their parents try and leave them to die in the woods or something, then?"

You couldn't remember enough of the fairytale to refute him.

"Whatever," you said, by way of a comeback. "It wasn't a good analogy."

"Whatever," he mumbled in return, huffing as he turned away from you to watch the rain once again.

Only a minute later, you were grabbing your wallet and keys from the table and tossing the remote back into Suneater's lap.

"Behave," you threw over your shoulder as you shut the front door behind you and actually locked it, for once. You didn't wait to hear if he responded — you doubted he would.

You trotted down the six familiar flights of cigarette-scented stairs, and jogged through the rain, umbrella held closely above your head, to the nearest bus stop. The ride on the bus wasn't long, only about ten minutes — Suneater's apartment was thankfully closer than you had expected it to be, and before you knew it, you'd arrived at the correct stop. The walk from there to his building was brief, and the rain had slowly begun to let up, just a little. The dying sun sent the last few fingers of grayish light crawling across the sky, just enough to illuminate your destination as you approached.

His building looked incredibly expensive. Double-digit stories, sleek modern architecture, huge, spotless windows.

He lived near the top — floor twelve. It wasn't the penthouse, by any means, but you understood now why your apartment had seemed so subpar to him.

Shit, your tiny little apartment seemed subpar now to you, too.

You resentfully punched the code he had provided into the door's console, and it swung open without so much as a sound. The apartment inside was actually smaller than you had expected — still at least twice the size of your own, but it was a reasonable amount of living space for a single person — one who could afford it, anyway. The wall opposite you was almost entirely uninterrupted windows, with a sliding glass door leading out to a much larger balcony with privacy dividers on either side to protect from the view of the neighbors — you felt a twinge of jealousy at the twelfth-story view he had of the landscape of Osaka, wide and bright and far-reaching and alive, so much better than the view from your own rickety balcony of the neighboring apartment buildings and the dirty, greasy alley below.

Despite the fact that you knew he couldn't have lived here longer than a couple of months since his transfer, the space was obviously well-loved and lived-in, and he kept it very clean. His kitchen appeared well-stocked and highly organized, and you weren't surprised, seeing as he had a food-based quirk — he even had a pasta hook attachment over the stovetop, an addition that had you wondering just how well the hero was able to cook. Maybe he had a personal chef. God knows he could probably afford it.

You snapped your eyes away from the kitchen and continued to the bedroom in the back of the apartment and the adjacent bathroom.

The bedroom was equally as clean as the rest of the apartment, but had an even cozier atmosphere. It felt like a sanctuary. You could tell this must be where he spent the majority of his time when he was home — the bed was made, but messily so; he must have been in a rush the morning of the Billboard. He had a huge bookcase covering the wall opposite — hundreds of books of various genres covered the shelves in some sort of order that must have made sense to him, but meant nothing to you. A long shelf was hung over the bed, holding a half-dozen framed photos — some of classmates and friends, faces familiar even to you — Lemillion's shock of blonde spikes, the pointed edges of Red Riot's disarming grin. A photo of Fat Gum squishing both Red Riot and Suneater tight against his stomach, the two smaller heroes smiling and grimacing at once. An older woman who looked enough like Suneater that she could only have been his mother.

There was a small, plush, green armchair in the corner over by the windows — one of them had a mustard yellow curtain drawn over it, the other's still wide open, letting the day's last rays of sunlight fall onto a small table beside the chair and its little, green occupant.

You didn't know much about plants. You liked them well enough, but were never sure what the next day would bring for you and didn't want the responsibility of having one in your home in case, one day, you didn't make your way back and it wilted and died.

You looked over the plant, debating only for a moment — it would be uncomfortable to carry it home on the bus, but it was a discomfort you were willing to endure for the leafy little thing in its silly, colorful, tiny ceramic pot. You didn't know how to care for it, or even what kind of plant it was, but Suneater hopefully would.

You noticed some of its leaves browning slightly at the edges with a sad twinge in your heart. You cradled one delicately in your hand, as gentle a touch as someone like you could manage, running the pad of your thumb along the rough edge.

Yes. Home it was.

"You... brought my mint back with you."

"It's mint?" you asked, curiously rotating the pot in your hands and looking over the plant with something that felt suspiciously like fondness. "I didn't know."

He gave you a strange look from across the table, poking at the fried tofu he had rejected earlier in the day. He took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. "Why?"

"Why what?" you asked, quirking an eyebrow defensively. "I've never kept plants. I know nothing about them."

"That's not what I meant," he murmured, shaking his head and placing his fork down beside his plate. It was strange to be seated at your little table with him; the table, supposedly designed for four, felt much too small for the two of you. It was the first day since you'd brought him here that he'd gone beyond the hallway and into the living area at all, and it only made sense for him to eat at the table now, rather than in bed. However, taking your meals with another person was an altogether foreign experience to you as it was, let alone having dinner with the hero Suneater. "That's not what I meant," he said again, voice a little more solid. "I — Why did you... bring the plant back?"

"Oh." You paused, confused at his question. Your head tilted to the side as you looked at the little pot in your hands. "I didn't want it to die."

His eyes followed yours and landed on the plant, considering. "Sounds familiar," he said at last, and picked up his fork. "Seems like a theme with you."

You watched him as he began to pick at his food once more. He wasn't some nameless hero, not right then; angry and injured and with no one but you for company in your shabby, poorly lit kitchen. But he was here, and he was alive — and he had a mint plant, and shelves full of books, a beautiful view of the city he fought to protect, and a row of picture frames filled with people who loved him. He was alive.

You shrugged, brushing the brown edge of one of the leaves with a gentle touch. "Maybe it is."

He swallowed the bite he'd taken, brows furrowed, before asking: "Can you get me a glass of water, please?"

"Yeah," you said, rising from the table and moving over to the sink, plucking a dollar store plastic cup from the cabinet and letting it fill under the tap. You passed the cup to Suneater, and he gestured for the plant in your hands. You placed it gently on the table in front of him, beside his newly emptied plate. He poured the water around the base of plant slowly; he didn't use all of it.

"Thank you. She should be fine on the coffee table, right there. It's a good amount of indirect sunlight, but not too much."

"Okay," you said, moving the plant to the spot he specified. "Is this alright?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding.

"Okay," you said again, looking over the little plant in its new place and feeling an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You liked its pot — it was simple and bright, covered in bold little diagonal streaks — maybe painted by a child? It felt fitting as a splash of color in your bland, dreary living room. You turned, looking at the hero over your shoulder with a small smirk. "You call it a she?"

He jolted, eyes refocusing, as though your sudden attention had startled him out of some deep thought.

"Y-yeah," he stammered, averting his gaze and scratching at the back of his neck. "I guess I do, I... I don't know why. It just seemed to fit her. I mean, it."

Your smirk warmed, just a little. "Well, does she have a name then?"

He slid down in his chair, hand moving to cover the right half of his face. You could see his neck turning ever-so-slightly red beneath his collar. "No," he said. His voice was defensive, but something about the way he uttered the word made you feel inclined to believe him.

Boring.

You scowled. "That's so uninteresting," you droned. "I expected more from you, Suneater."

He visibly shrunk under your glare, deflating even further into himself.

You scoffed. "It isn't like you don't have time on your hands."

He looked up at you, perplexed. "What?"

"Think of a name for her," you said. "It seems you've got plenty of time."

His face went slack as he scanned your face; dark blue eyes filled with some unidentified emotion. "Okay."

The next morning, the unnamed mint plant in the tiny rainbow pot had begun looking better already, her little leaves slowly beginning to heal under the gentle Osaka sun.

Chapter Text

"— unprecedented rains continue to shock all of Japan as the —"

Suneater sighed from his place on the couch. You echoed his sentiment from the opposite end. The nameless mint plant, were she able, would have expressed similar feelings, you were sure. The rain continued to fall outside. You changed the channel.

Suneater sighed again.

Three weeks had passed since Suneater had initially woken up, and during that time, there had been little change in the state of the world outside your undersized apartment. You were grateful that he was able to move around on his own now (the first morning he walked out into the living room, as shaky on his legs as a newborn fawn, you'd nearly had a heart attack and dropped the coffee you had just finished brewing) and things had gotten easier in the days since. His regained independence was definitely something that brought you no small amount of anxiety and paranoia, but if it meant that you no longer had to deal with the astronomical levels of secondhand humiliation you felt from Suneater turning that familiar, vibrant shade red whenever he needed to ask you to help him across the hall to the bathroom, you could deal with it.

Now that he was back on his feet, Suneater felt more like a weird roommate than a responsibility — a weird roommate who had been put on a strict vegan diet that he resented (by you), was a trained professional hero on an unwanted hiatus that had been forced upon him (by you), was still recovering from a multitude of injuries sustained in a recent villain incident (orchestrated, yes, by you), presented the very real possibility of turning you over to the police or the commission at any given moment, and also probably hated your guts (frankly, you couldn't blame him).

You decided, in light of all the aforementioned misfortunes bestowed upon the hero (by you), the least you could do was allow him to continue commandeering the singular bedroom, and he didn't seem to have any inclination to put a stop to this arrangement. Sleeping on the couch every night certainly wasn't ideal, but you had gradually begun adjusting. Your bed wasn't much of an improvement, anyway, so you took comfort in the fact that Suneater was probably suffering from the same back pain that currently plagued you. Plus, when you were sleeping in the living room, you were able to make sure he wasn't sneaking out at night — not that it seemed like he had much interest in leaving in the first place.

The two of you had reached some unspoken, begrudging acceptance that, at least for the time being, the smartest course of action seemed to be to wait out the continuing avalanche of news reporting about Suneater and the Billboard event — in hiding, together. You were, as always, trying your best to remain under the radar, but Suneater was actively being pursued by authorities across all of Japan, so the tiny shithole in Osaka you called your own was as good a place as any for him to hide out, even it meant an undesirable amount of reluctant proximity to you. The fact that you also had cursory knowledge of first aid and happened to be the only soul in Japan that believed in his innocence (even if it was because you were the one who stuffed him into a villain-shaped grenade launcher and fired him at the largest televised HPSC event of the year) only helped the matter.

You looked over at Suneater from your spot on the couch, analyzing his profile in the near-silent living room. You knew he was still wanted for the incident in Tokyo, but you were nonetheless still perplexed by his apparent reluctance to attempt to clear his name. Self-critical nature aside, he surely believed he had at least accumulated enough goodwill over the last several years to earn him the benefit of the doubt. Yet, he displayed not an ounce of interest in cashing it in.

You knew no movements from him was a good thing for you, but you couldn't help but feel rattled by the stalemate you'd found yourselves idling in.

You huffed and rose from the couch, leaning back and stretching your arms high above your head until you felt the joints in your shoulders pop, and let out the longest, loudest, most obnoxious yawn you could summon.

Suneater turned a blank stare in your direction.

You offered him a sly grin, letting your arms fall back to your sides. You kept your eyes on his own. "Beautiful weather we're having, huh?" you drawled.

He blinked. No bite.

You sighed, prolonged and exaggerated. Annoying. "I'm bored," you moaned. "Can't we have a normal conversation for once? You know, like we used to?"

Finally, his dry expression melted into one of distaste. That was an improvement. "We don't really have much to talk about," he deadpanned.

Your lips pursed thoughtfully. "Have you thought of a name for the plant?"

"No."

"You disappoint me," you remarked good-naturedly. "Are you always this disappointing?"

"Yes."

"God. Lighten up," you scolded, turning on your heel and leaving Suneater to sulk on the couch. The rain kicked up beyond the glass, howling outside the window loudly enough to drown out the noise of your footsteps. Suneater's scowl disappeared behind the wall as you padded barefoot onto the grimy tile of the kitchen, flinging open the refrigerator with so much force that the scant condiments seated in the door all clattered against one another in complaint. The automatic light flickered on inside, unenthusiastically performing its solitary task as though it were threatening to quit once and for all. Not even your damned appliances wanted to be stuck in the apartment any longer.

"It's hard to 'lighten up' when you're on the run and stuck with the person who framed you," he grumbled, his voice barely carrying over the clamor from outside.

You shot the wall blocking his face from view a dirty look. "Technically, you weren't framed," you said, choosing to ignore how petulant the words sounded.

"Instigator," he muttered.

You frowned, but chose to ignore the comment. "Thoughts on dinner?" you called over your shoulder, head buried in the fridge, looking over the scant contents. "I'm running out of ideas and I'm sick of veggie stir fry."

Suneater groaned softly, the sound long and pained, profoundly dramatic. You rolled your eyes, but the only audience to your exasperation was the dairy-free milk on the top shelf. "I'm sick of veggies, period."

You grunted, shoving aside a bag of thawed broccoli florets, revealing... more broccoli. "Well, veggies are all you're getting, ponyboy."

He was quiet for a moment, but you could visualize the look of offense on his face as you wickedly chose yet another quirk-based nickname for him — something you knew he hated, so you did on purpose, and often, with the intent of getting a rise out of him. You had to get your entertainment somehow.

"I don't eat horse," he protested.

"Sure you don't," you said with a dark snicker. He was always more fun to be around when he was annoyed; it was better than the soulless mannequin he became when left to stew in his thoughts for too long. "I saw that video of you doing that centaur shit at the foundry."

"That was bull," Suneater told you, and even though you couldn't see him, you knew the exact expression he was wearing. "Not horse."

"Whatever, same thing," you said dismissively, smirk hidden in your fridge.

"It, quite literally, is not."

You snorted, leaning far enough out of the fridge to peer around the corner of the kitchen and into the living room. Suneater was, as expected, pouting on the couch. You sniggered as his eyes caught your own and he huffed, looking away, arms folded defiantly in front of his chest. "You've got a little bit of an attitude today, hero. Good."

He let out a resentful noise but said nothing else.

You waited for him to continue, but he didn't bite. You sighed, straightening up. "Look, I hate eating this crap every day as much as you do, but I can't risk —"

"Risk what?" he interjected, flinging one irritated hand into the air next to his head, a gesture to the roiling storm. "I'm not going anywhere. I would have tried by now if I wanted to or thought it would be worth it. It isn't really like I have anywhere else to go. Thanks for that, by the way," he added, that rare note of sarcasm in his voice.

"Be that as it may," you said, casting him a sidelong glance, letting the fridge fall shut and opening the cupboard beside it. Just about nothing in there, either. "The last thing I want to do is hand you a loaded gun. If that means we're doing stir fry again, then so be it." You thought for a moment. "I'll add a different sauce or something this time..."

"Don't you think I've proven that I'm not trying to cause trouble?" he wheedled, getting up off the couch and walking towards the kitchen, a slight limp still in his gait. "Even when you leave to shop or steal or do whatever it is you do when you leave, I haven't done anything."

"Seems like it, sure," you agreed, letting the cupboard fall shut as well and facing Suneater, who had made it to the archway where the carpet met the tile and was leaning heavily against the peeling frame. His expression was earnest, even hopeful, and it almost made you want to believe his words — but even if you believed he was telling the truth, you couldn't afford to let down your guard. "But you can't prove it."

"What about if I can prove it, then?" he challenged, a determined set in his jaw. "That it wouldn't make a difference."

You laughed, a bright sound that bounced off the blank, colorless walls of the room around you. "You can't."

You didn't like the look on his face at all as he said, "And what if I could?"

"You couldn't. Alright, end of discussion," you called dismissively, letting out a last chuckle. You sidestepped Suneater to make your way back to the couch. "We'll just make another stir holyshitwhatthefuck —"

You let out a mortifying squeal as you felt something distinctly inhuman scoop you up from beneath your arms and rotate you back towards the kitchen so that you were, once again, face-to-face with Suneater's unimpressed glower. You kicked your feet weakly, but made no contact with the ground or any of the surrounding furniture, dangling there helplessly like a kitten scruffed by it's mother before giving up the brief struggle.

"See?" Suneater said, self-satisfied. "This is from breakfast," he explained. "I could have used parsley to fight you if I really wanted to, so please. Please can we just have something with more substance than vegetables for once?"

You sagged in his grip, unhappy. You took a look around you to confirm his words — a long, thin plant that did, in fact, resemble the aforementioned herb, albeit greatly scaled-up in size, held you up underneath your armpits and wound chaotically through the air between you until it disappeared somewhere underneath Suneater's black long sleeve. He stood watching, making the entire endeavor look utterly effortless and adding to your shame.

"Please?" he asked again, shoulders slumping weakly.

You sighed, helplessly kicking your right foot once more for good measure and to retain a little of your dignity. You realized too late that it probably had the opposite effect. You scowled at no one in particular. "Fine," you relented. "Put me down."

Gently, he placed you back on your feet. You noticed belatedly that he had intentionally avoided grabbing you by your injured ribs — you chalked this up to his nature as a hero, and not to any hidden consideration he had for you, specifically. The moment the leafy little vines released you, you made a show of shuddering and straightening out your clothes, sending a glare over his way that you hoped communicated the depths of your displeasure. He looked mildly uncomfortable — so, his normal. You glared harder. Finally, he had the good grace to look at least a little sheepish.

You grunted, placated. "I'm only doing this because I want some good food, too, just so you know."

"That's fine," he told you buoyantly.

"You better not make me regret this," you warned.

"I won't," he assured.

You scanned him, warily noting the utter lack of vines protruding from his V-neck and feeling more than a little uncomfortable (and maybe a little foolish) that that had been an option for him all along and you hadn't even known it. You thought you had found a way to neutralize his quirk, keeping him — and by association and convenience, you — on a strict diet of only non-animal products. You'd never seen nor heard of him utilizing plants in the field, so it hadn't even occurred to you that it was even a possibility for him. You had been eating leaves and beans for weeks, and for what?

Well. You live and you learn.

"I'll be back, then," you told him gruffly, marching off to the entry and slipping on your shoes. "I'm going to the store. I'm hungry as hell."

You heard his uneven steps as he came up beside you. "You're leaving now?" he asked hesitantly. "It's raining."

You angled a long, meaningful look at the drowned balcony and then slid it back to meet Suneater's own gaze.

"Right," he said uncomfortably, wincing. "Yeah. Sure. It's, uh, probably not gonna stop anytime soon."

You hummed. "If I wait for the rain to stop, we'll starve in this dump," you said, grabbing your umbrella and hefting open the door. "I'll be back."

"Bye," you heard as the door clicked shut behind you.

A minute later, you found yourself standing in the grim entryway of your building, umbrella half opened, staring out into a nearly opaque sheet of rain without a plan. You knew Suneater wasn't a picky eater — you'd seen the man put away an assortment of every kind of greasy street food there was in Osaka — but you found your thoughts drifting back to a ritual you hadn't done in almost a month now, and somehow, managed to feel nostalgic for: walking through the overcast market, Suneater by your side, takoyaki in hand.

Your stomach grumbled loudly in assent. Takoyaki it is.

Unfurling your umbrella and bracing it against the rain, you made your way out into the storm. The nearest takoyaki stand wasn't far from here, but you would have bet the little money that you had that it wouldn't be open in this weather. The merchant surely had more survival instinct than you, and would have locked up days, if not weeks ago, when the rain began picking up in earnest.

You went in the opposite direction, hustling towards the small grocery a few blocks west from your apartment building. If you couldn't buy it premade, you weren't such a coward as to bow out of the challenge of making it yourself, disgraceful culinary ability be damned. You hurried through the rain, umbrella tight over your head, keeping your arms pulled in as close to your body as you could in a miserable plea to stay warm in the freezing wet.

At the store, you picked up all the ingredients you imagined were in takoyaki — pre-boiled octopus, for starters. Ginger, you thought, as well. Bonito flakes. Green onions. You picked up the ingredients you would need for the batter — you didn't keep much in the way of baking goods in your home, so you selected flour, baking soda, eggs, and the rest of the basics you thought you might need. How hard could it be? Nonetheless, you were infinitely grateful that you were able to find a premade takoyaki sauce so you wouldn't have to venture a likely horrifically inaccurate guess at how to craft it yourself.

Finally, in the name of authenticity, you picked up a cheap, little takoyaki pan — a circular contraption with a handle and seven little round indents; six around, one in the center. You could use it over the gas stove. It was as good as it was going to get, and infinitely better than what you might have managed with the muffin tin you thought — but definitely were not sure — you had in the pull-out drawer beneath your oven.

You stood in the checkout line with a world-weary sigh (three bags of groceries and almost no other shoppers in the nearly abandoned store meant it would have been tough to leave in your customary manner — unnoticed, stolen goods in-hand), and quickly paid for your goods. Holding your bags close protectively, you stepped back out of the sliding glass doors of the store and into the crushing torrent.

You were not two steps down the street before your umbrella bent under the force of the wind, was pried out of your hands, and sent hurtling off into the night.

You swore under your breath, the nasty little word following after the umbrella, lost in the storm. That would figure.

Nothing to be done about it now. Onwards!

The trip back home was, somehow, even faster than your trip out to the store — propelled by both your aversion to freezing rain and your hunger, you darted up the street at speeds that you didn't even know you were physically capable of. In half the time, you found yourself barreling up the echoing, yellowed stairwell of your building, likely causing a disturbance to your neighbors. You couldn't find it in yourself to care. They were shitty neighbors. They could do with a taste of their own medicine.

You haphazardly threw open the door to your apartment, letting out a soft 'oh, shit!' as it slammed against the wall from the force. When it swung back closed, there was a dent you didn't think was there before.

Suneater looked up at you in alarm from his place in the living room, TV droning on quietly in the background. It looked like a nature documentary. "What's go — are you alright?"

You shot him a grin, hoping it wasn't nearly as manic as you felt. "My umbrella broke!" you proclaimed. "But I got stuff!"

He blinked owlishly. "Like, food?"

You nodded hard, droplets of water dancing in the air around you as they broke free with the force of your enthusiasm. "Food-food."

His eyes lit up like he had just heard the best news of his life. "What did you get?"

"Stand back," you commanded haughtily, unpacking the few bags onto your bare countertop with a proud flourish, while Suneater watched on in anticipation. "Prepare for the feast of your life."

Your takoyaki was fucking awful.

It turned out that no number of YouTube videos and cooking blogs manned by middle-aged moms could compensate for your utter lack of skill and preparation — you had managed to hit most of the essentials, but definitely did not manage to grab all of them. The dough was slightly overdone and a little tacky, the exterior daringly toeing the line between 'crispy' and 'burnt'. Your poor, brand-new takoyaki pan looked like it had gone through hell. The octopus was thankfully already boiled when you had bought it, because the center of some of the balls didn't seem to reach a temperature that would have meant that they were safe for human consumption.

They were messy, falling apart, unevenly heated, and ultimately, pretty bland. The sauce was good, though. Suneater didn't have to know it had come in a bottle.

The takoyaki were, frankly, a marvel in poor cooking. They tasted like an unflattering metaphor.

Suneater was seated across the table from you, looking dubiously at the doughy, little ball in his hand. You were about to call it off, warn him to spare himself the suffering and that you'd try something different tomorrow, but you were too late — he popped the bastardized takoyaki into his mouth whole.

You winced. He looked thoughtful, chewing slowly.

"These are..." he started, swallowing thickly. His face looked pinched, like the very action had caused him pain.

Your felt the back of your neck get very hot and you waved a flippant hand. You laughed meekly. "Uhh, yeah, I don't really —"

"Thank you," he said, picking up another ball from the pan and taking a smaller, more deliberate bite this time.

You watched him intentionally take another bite — like, on purpose. "What are you doing?" you gawked.

"Eating," he replied.

You watched him as he continued to pick away at ball after ball.

"Are you not going to have any?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at you, mouth full.

You stared incredulously at the sight for a second longer, before a light, easy laugh bubbled up in your chest, effervescent and fizzy like champagne, and left your mouth against your will. The hero across from you paused. "Sure," you said, reaching for the pan. "Why not?"

The two of you continued to eat in silence, but it was different from the silences that you had grown used to in the last weeks — this one didn't feel charged with anything. It was comfortable.

"So, what else have you manifested in the past?" you asked conversationally, sniffling as you took a sip of water.

His eyes widened a bit and he swallowed the bite he had taken. He cleared his throat. "Um. Lots of things, I guess."

"Like?" you prompted.

"Well, all the animals you'd expect. Cows, pigs, chickens. Seafood things, too, like fish and clams and crabs," he said, listing things off on his fingers as he thought. "Some more exotic stuff that I've had imported in, out of curiosity or for missions. I've eaten insects. Tried alligator once."

Your brow furrowed. "What did that taste like?" you asked with a scrunched nose.

"That's what you want to ask?" he asked incredulously, hand freezing on its way to pop another ball into his mouth. "What it tasted like? Not what I manifested?"

"Well, that too," you admitted, picking at pan again. You were realizing that the more you ate the horrid little things, the better they were tasting. Still offensive, but better. "But I'm curious. Indulge me."

He scratched at his jaw, eyes unfocused. "It tasted a little fishy, honestly. Chewy. Wasn't bad," he said. "I manifested the hide, which is very thick and tough, and also the teeth and something weird happened with my jaw. Ultimately, the jaw wasn't useful, but I do keep some alligator vacuum-packed in my freezer and at the agency in case I could use the hide."

You grimaced at the thought of the menagerie that must exist in this man's freezer. "You're a real weirdo, you know that?"

He wilted under your teasing. "That's just cruel. You asked."

Your laugh was boisterous, sudden. "Oh, come on, Suneater. Don't be like that."

He cringed then, as though he had finally tasted your appalling attempt at dinner. You peered at him curiously.

"Please, stop... that," he said jerkily, voice a little unsteady.

You rose an eyebrow. You'd thought you were being civil enough, compared to usual. He was throwing you for loop after loop the past few weeks — and at that point, you weren't sure you knew which one of his moods you were dealing with. You could almost feel reassured in his apparent nervousness, the familiarity of it, but couldn't be certain of what if meant.

"Stop what?" you finally asked, at a loss.

He sunk in his chair. His face twisted unhappily. "Calling me Suneater," he muttered. "Here, anyway, it... it doesn't feel right." He was kneading his hands together and looking off towards a blank wall, the fridge, anywhere that wasn't you. "Just... just Amajiki is fine."

Oh. You hadn't expected that. He looked like he wanted to retract the words back to where they'd come from, like he wanted to be anywhere that wasn't there, at your kitchen table.

You were still as you mulled this development over. He fidgeted under your study. It didn't take you long.

"Alright," you said, and his attention focused back on you. "Amajiki, then."

He nodded, and you could have imagined it, but you might have seen the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"You know," he said quietly, conspiratorially. "In polite company, this is where you'd introduce yourself."

"Nice try, Amajiki," you said with a laugh. "Unfortunately, I'm not 'polite company'."

He shook his head. Yeah, he was definitely smiling now.

It was the worst food you'd ever been subjected to; you were wet and freezing and tired and sitting with someone who was certainly only biding his time, waiting for you to be arrested.

You smiled and grabbed another takoyaki. It was the first dinner you'd ever really enjoyed.

Chapter Text

Tamaki woke with a gasp.

Once his eyes opened, he could no longer see the burning air or writhing shadows tucked in between panes of cracked glass. He could no longer hear the frightened screams calling for him, familiar and unfamiliar, unable to tell if they were heading toward him or running away. He could no longer feel the cut of the shards piercing his borrowed wings, or the pressure of hundreds of pounds of metal crashing down onto him by his own traitorous hands. He could no longer see your face, smiling so warmly at him beneath the glittering pyramid, before it all smeared away like chalk in a storm.

He breathed in deep. He was here. He was alive. He was listening to the rain.

He was alive, but his mouth was dry. He rose from the creaky old bed, letting the threadbare sheets pool around his feet at the floor before heading to the kitchen.

The bedroom door opened silently (this was probably the only feature of the apartment that functioned as intended and without complaint) and, as he made his way out into the hall, Tamaki paused to listen for signs of life from the next room over. It was still late and the sun hadn't made its appearance yet, weak though it would have been from beyond the cover of the clouds.

Even so, the sound of a strangled cry brought him to an abrupt halt, midstride. He remained frozen, heart racing, continuing to listen. He didn't have to wait long.

"It w-wasn't me."

Tamaki's head snapped to face down the hall — he recognized your voice, but his eyes blew wide at the soft, terrified waver in your tone. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost have been certain that it wasn't you at all; but Tamaki had had enough time listening to your relentless teasing and cutting remarks that he was sure he'd recognize the sound of your voice anywhere — pick it out from a crowd of hundreds. But the very sound of it right then, pitched and warbling, brought a chill up his spine and settled in his chest, heavy and cold.

You sounded afraid.

He heard a rustling from somewhere in the dark just as he'd begun to relax his shoulders from where they'd bunched by his ears. "No, n-no, I swear," you whimpered.

Tamaki felt himself drawn down the hall, almost unconsciously, padding silently past the door to the kitchen and into the cramped living room, his quest for a glass of water completely forgotten. The living room was dark; he could barely make out more than a lump on the couch beneath a single blanket, indistinguishable as a living being but for the violent shivering and soft, quick breaths.

He crept closer, trying to keep as quiet as possible so as not to frighten you, even though he imagined it wouldn't have made a difference. He was close enough that he could make out one of your hands, gripping painfully tight onto the thin couch cushion, quivering.

"I-I promise, I didn't —" you pleaded, and Tamaki wondered who it was who could have ever inspired the terror in those words; he found himself repulsed by them. He found himself filled with something that felt searing; white-hot.

His eyes lifted from where he found them on the floor. He watched the blanket as you twitched and convulsed, in the throes of whatever visions overtook your mind while you slept. He watched as you curled further in on yourself, an action far too familiar to him in his own memories, like you wished you could disappear. He watched, angry.

Angry. He was shocked to find that he was angry. He was more shocked that his anger was, for once, not directed at you.

He couldn't place why.

Finally, with a shuddering jerk, the blanket fell away enough to reveal your face, pinched with pain and streaked with tears. You released a single, pathetic sob, the sound now unmuffled by the cheap, scratchy fabric.

Tamaki almost wanted to turn away, pretend he hadn't seen anything.

But then, he thought of how warm you'd felt by his side in the rain, your eyes wide with surprise at his kindness before a backdrop of tawny feathers. He thought of the gloves you'd worn to hide raw, torn palms. He thought of the mint plant in the colorful pot on the coffee table and the way your hard eyes softened whenever you looked at it. He thought of your windswept grin coming in from the storm, bags of groceries in hand; your truly revolting attempt at takoyaki, doughy and bland; the way you had sounded when you laughed and you meant it.

His heart fractured.

"Please," you croaked, and though Tamaki knew the word wasn't meant for him, he bent beneath it.

He walked the rest of the way into the living room and knelt quietly between the coffee table and couch. He hovered his hand above you for a moment, hesitating to touch you. You'd touched him before several times while changing his bandages, but you'd always worn the gloves and never touched him with bare hands. He never reached out to you himself. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn't shake the fear he had of what might happen if you were to touch his bare skin. Of what might happen if you were to grab his hand again.

He swallowed, compromising with himself and gently placing a hand on your shoulder, the blanket serving as a barrier between your skin and his. "Hey," he whispered, not wanting to alarm you further, cursing how his voice shook uneasily. "Wake up... You're having a nightmare."

You didn't stir, still gripped by dreams Tamaki couldn't see. His confidence wavered, but he shook you gently, grinding his jaw. "Wake up," he whispered more urgently. "Hey!"

You suddenly quieted and went still as the dead at Tamaki's jostling before turning your damp face towards him in confusion. You cracked open a red-rimmed eye to peer at him over the blanket, voice hoarse and cracking. "Ama... Amajiki?"

"Hey," he breathed again, relieved to find he didn't have your fist in his face, but suddenly finding the majority of his vocabulary had flown away from him in a blink. "I'm, um, I'm sorry for waking you up. You were having a nightmare."

You looked at him for a long time, eyes swollen and face sweaty and red-tinted. Your gaze was murky and your breathing uneven; Tamaki waited for you to say something, anxious and uncertain; he waited for what felt like certain consequences of his unsolicited help.

He bit back a startled yelp when you suddenly leaned forward into his personal space and groaned, head hanging over the edge of the couch.

"Shit," you exhaled, leaning back up and away from him once more, your entire body trembling. You looked like you could fall over at any moment. "I don't... feel good."

Tamaki felt his eyes get even wider as he observed you with a sinking feeling, your face flushed and breathing quick and shallow. You looked up again, your unfocused gaze somewhere on his face and yet far, far away. Your forehead was dotted with sweat, your cheeks unnaturally ruddy.

He spent a few long, hard seconds looking over you, the splotchy redness in your complexion, your tear-stained face. He could still hear the echoes of your nightmares in the back of his mind. He felt his brows furrow. "You're sick."

You came to a little more then, your face morphing into a familiar, disapproving frown. "Not sick," you told him indignantly. "Just a cold."

"You have a fever," Tamaki insisted. "Do you, uh... do you have any medicine here?"

You fell back against the couch and sighed, arms falling limp by your sides. "No. Just drop it."

Tamaki stood up, making his way down the hall and into the bathroom, opening up the medicine cabinet and rifling through the scant contents. Extra toothpaste. Neosporin. He huffed, discontent with his findings. "Do you have anything that could help? Aspirin? An ice pack?" he called down the hall, opening up the cabinet beneath the sink next — nothing, just some extra cleaning supplies and an old dishrag. He came back into the living room, standing awkwardly by the coffee table as he wracked his brain for a solution.

"Go away, m'fine," you mumbled groggily, hoarse but still distinctly aggrieved. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. Don't need medicine. Just leave me alone. Sleep it off."

Tamaki knew his expression must have conveyed his doubt; he crossed his arms over his chest.

Well. If there was nothing here, that left him only one option.

"Where are your building keys?" he asked, moving towards the coat rack by the entry and digging through your jacket pocket.

You suddenly forced yourself up to a sitting position with a grunt. He barely noticed, continuing his assault of your hanging outerwear and entryway cabinetry. "Wait, no. Stop," you said, voice uncharacteristically small. "M'not giving you my keys."

Tamaki paused his search for only a moment, unable to decipher the tone of your voice, before discarding the jacket and moving towards the kitchen, rifling through the drawers in there as well. "You need medicine and you don't have what you need here." He gave up his fruitless task and made his way back into the living room, crouching by the couch. "I'll just run to the store, really quick. I'll be right back."

You lifted your face then, and Tamaki's heart stuttered when he finally noticed your expression. Your eyes found his own, watery and heavy-lidded, fresh tears streaking down the curve of your face. "No," you whimpered, quiet and fragile. Your shoulders sagged and you looked tinier than you ever had to him. "Don't go. Please."

Tamaki felt a pain, sharp and radiating from somewhere deep in his chest, slam into him like a freight train. Your vulnerability was almost enough to knock him flat; he wondered distantly whether you were setting some sort of trap he couldn't foresee, something cold and barbed that would leave him more broken than he already was. Yet something about you, right then — something felt raw and exposed, and he knew that whatever was happening to you right now, none of it was for show. None of it was the front he knew that you liked to put up for him sometimes in order to protect yourself, whenever you felt too threatened or helpless or exposed, or when something hit too close to home, wherever home even was. He knew that wherever you had been before he'd woken you up had continued to cling to you as surely as his own demons clung to him. He knew that, more than anything right now, you were afraid — but of what, he couldn't know. He fought to find the right words to ease you, but came up just about empty-handed. Useless. As always.

"I just want to help," he said shakily, in place of something better.

You hiccuped. "You'll never come back," you whispered, hoarse, reaching out and digging a wobbly hand into Tamaki's shirt, clutching him as though he might simply vanish if you were to let go. Tamaki couldn't find it in him to feel anything but a bone-deep ache at the feeling of your trembling fingers pressing against his chest through the thin fabric.

He took a deep breath. "I won't be gone long."

Your face twisted into a lonely, miserable expression he'd never seen you wear before — and hoped never to again. "I'll be alone again."

His heart, already fractured and weakened, broke apart in his chest.

"Listen to me," he said, trying to hold your gaze steady on his own. His hands quaked by his sides, unsure of what to do — almost wanting to reach out, yet too terrified to risk touching your bare, dangerous skin. Your hand, beyond his control, still pressed almost painfully hard against his ribs. He could feel his own heart beating rapidly, too rapidly, against the heel of your palm like that was all that was holding it in place. He swallowed thickly. "I am not going to leave you alone. I promise."

You collapsed back, eyes squeezed shut, your chest weakly drawing in a rattling breath. Your grip on his shirt loosened, your hand limp once again. You exhaled and it sounded like it hurt you. "Fine," you whispered, your voice breaking. "S'not like I could ever stop you, anyway." Then you reached below the couch cushion, dropping a small, bronze key onto the floor at Tamaki's knees.

"Thank you," he said, hoping you didn't hear the catch in his own voice, trying desperately to identify what it was he was feeling. "I'll be right back. Promise."

You rolled over away from him, curling into the back of the couch. You didn't say anything more, but your silence was loud and punctuated by wavering breaths.

Tamaki grabbed a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table by the couch. He grabbed his jacket, hood up, and put his shoes on before heading out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You heard the door click shut behind him.

You fought it as hard as you could; the feeling of despair that the expanse of your closed door and the silence that followed wrought.

You were used to being on your own. You thought you had managed to convince yourself that you were comfortable that way.

Growing up, even when you were surrounded by other people, you had always felt, first and foremost, alone. You had never felt like you belonged, or like you were welcomed. You'd never felt like you weren't better or worse than anyone else; that being better or worse didn't matter; that you weren't being judged by your every action to determine what side of worse you would inevitably be on. There was always expectation, and isolation, and a dehumanizing brand of "care" that always left you feeling like you needed an additional bath to rub it from your skin, but the loneliness remained, thick and viscous and all-encompassing like a flood. There was always this unspoken distance that settled between you and the rest of the world, and you'd come to think of it as an inextricable part of your life; it had moved in, and it intended to stay.

There hadn't been any of that with Amajiki.

In barely more than a month, you'd felt a warmth with him that you'd never experienced before, ever, in all your life. He was hurt, and angry, and guarded, and scared, but in all, you felt that warmth that was just so intrinsically him, which drowned out the cold you had gotten so accustomed to; the chill you thought you had learned to live with. He stood for everything you fought against, everything you hated, and yet he had been forcing you to question yourself and your mission at every juncture since you'd met him.

He'd been your only warmth, and you hadn't even realized it, and you had just let him walk away, leaving only a frigid draft in his wake. If he had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever, he'd never come back. He had to know that someone like you could only extinguish him.

You wished you had been able to share a few more dinners with him first, though. But only the few would have to suffice keep you warm through the rest of an endless winter.

Before you could stave them off, you felt the telltale burning behind your eyes return, as tears began to spitefully slide down your cheeks. You couldn't remember the last time you'd truly allowed yourself to cry, and yet here you were now, unable to stop. What had happened to you?

Fucking heroes.

Maybe the fever was just making you delirious. You let yourself fall apart.

At some point, you must have fallen asleep.

You awoke, and the sky had finally lightened, letting you know that the sun had come up at last, illuminating your living room. The rain hadn't stopped. Your head pounded and every inch of your body felt sore and overheated, but you were thankfully still alive and in your apartment.

But not alone.

Your heart thundered when you heard metal clacking from somewhere else in the apartment, and noticed belatedly that the lights were on in the hall and kitchen where before there had only been darkness. The dividing wall blocked the majority of the kitchen from sight, but you could hear the clattering and footsteps coming from somewhere beyond.

This is it, you thought, mind still hazy with sleep and fever, but betrayal was sharp, serrated. He's sent them to come arrest me.

You rose from the couch as silently as you could, scrabbling desperately for your mental faculties. The shuffling and clattering from the kitchen continued, oblivious. You managed to pull yourself to unsteady feet, balancing yourself with two hands on the back of the couch, before creeping slowly towards the entry.

You almost made it.

"Wait!" came a familiar voice, followed by a few hurried steps. "Where are you going?"

You turned, one hand extended toward the handle, and almost collapsed from relief.

Amajiki had darted into the archway, holding a bowl in one hand — you noticed a golden liquid splash around within it; though, miraculously, not a drop escaped.

Your eyes then drifted to the kitchen behind Amajiki — and realized that the noises you had heard before must have been the sound of him doing dishes. A cutting board, a pan, and some utensils were drying on the countertop and a large, metal pot sat on the stove, a foreign sight in your tiny kitchen.

"I also bought stuff for soup," Amajiki said, explaining your observations with a self-conscious glance behind him. Something vital still evaded you. Your mind seemed to have gone completely blank. "I figured it might... help."

In a daze, you walked back to the couch, lowering yourself carefully back down. He placed the soup on the coffee table in front of you before returning to the kitchen for a moment and then settling on the opposite end of the couch with his own.

Then, you took the aspirin he'd placed for you and began to eat. He remained there with you, quiet, his gaze averted toward the balcony, only occasionally lifting his spoon to his mouth. Lost in thought, maybe.

You managed to finish the bowl of soup, and wordlessly, he took it and his own into the kitchen. You heard the sink running for about a minute, and he returned to the couch empty-handed.

You played with your hands in your lap, blanket pulled tightly around your shoulders, as he sat down in his spot once again.

Words were hard.

"You came back," you said.

His eyes rose to meet yours then and he held your gaze, a serious expression pulling at his usually soft features. "I promised I would."

He came back.

Suddenly, the dam burst, and you were drowning, but the water was warm.

He promised he would.

You didn't even realize you were crying until you noticed your hands were wet as tears fell from your face and into your lap..

He promised.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, voice low and gentle. "Take the bedroom. Get some rest."

Exhausted and boneless, you obeyed, walking down the hallway and collapsing into the bed you hadn't seen since Amajiki started walking again. It smelled different. It smelled nice.

Your head had barely hit the pillow before you lost consciousness.

Tamaki had no idea how you'd been doing it all this time.

He would never have said the bed was comfortable, by any means. The bed was a few metal spikes short of a torture device and frankly, he thought it couldn't get much worse.

He'd been wrong.

He'd spent the rest of that day and the first part of the evening while you slept trying to put it off as long as possible, despite his exhaustion — The couch itched. He cleaned the kitchen. It smelled like a basement. He flipped through some magazines printed over a decade ago. It wasn't particularly flat. He did some light exercise in the living room. When he was sitting on it, Tamaki could almost convince himself that it was acceptable, but being on it horizontally only increased the surface area of his body that came in contact with it and made it all the more apparent that the couch was not designed for comfort. Yet, he would deal with it, as you had for weeks. Hours had passed, however, and no number of sheep had allowed him even a few minutes of proper rest.

He opened his eyes as he heard the door open down the hall and saw your form slowly move into the near pitch black of the kitchen. From where he was lying, he couldn't see you, but he heard the soft thump of a cupboard opening and closing and the tap running.

He couldn't get the image of your tears out of his mind.

It had been easy for him to pretend that you were nothing more than a villain, at first. But every passing day, you revealed something new to him — some new depth, a new softness that he hadn't been able to detect before, and he was starting to wonder if you were truly a villain at all. And if you were not a villain, what you were instead. A vigilante? He couldn't say. He didn't even understand anything about what your goals really were, let alone whether or not you were acting for a cause, just or otherwise.

His thoughts were interrupted by you exiting the kitchen once again, glass of water in hand. You walked slowly into the living room, rubbing at your eyes, maybe on autopilot after the month and change of calling that horrible piece of furniture your bed — until you noticed him on the couch and froze mid-step.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Feeling any better?"

You paused for only a moment longer before smiling at him, weak but genuine, and nodding. "Yeah, a bit."

His pulse jumped inexplicably. "That's good."

You nodded again, smile gone, but with the softness intact. "Good night."

"Good night," he echoed.

Off balance despite lying flat, Tamaki watched as you shuffled back into the bedroom and heard the door shut softly behind you.

He smiled.

Finally, shortly after, Tamaki found sleep.

Chapter Text

You were warm and comfortable.

I mean, not entirely warm and comfortable, but more than you were accustomed to. Waking up warm was a rarity — generally speaking, you were at the mercy of whatever the weather decided to be on any given day, with the nature of the poor insulation of your apartment — the living room, especially, with its thin walls and its huge, drafty slider. Cold, that wasn't unusual. But to wake up almost warm, almost comfortable, almost content — if a little achy — that was unusual. A reassuring, familiar scent that you weren't able to place invaded your senses.

Hm. Something was... off.

You snapped awake, catapulted instantly from your drowsy stupor, feeling every inch of your body go stiff at the realization that you were on the bed — your bed — but Amajiki was nowhere to be seen.

Your groggy brain went into hyper-drive. Where was he? What had happened? Had he left —

Your thoughts skidded to a halt as quickly as they had taken off.

No. No, he hadn't left.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Your train of thought died off mid-derailment as your memories made their walk of shame back to you, drenched in the fog of delirium and embarrassment.

The rain. Your fever. Amajiki leaving you — your tears — and then him returning and making you soup. Staying with you. Letting you sleep in the bedroom.

You could still feel the beating of his heart beneath your palm, as strongly as though it were your own. His bare skin protected from you by only a thin fabric barrier, yet he did nothing to try and stop you from using his solid presence to steady yourself.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

You fell back against your bed, willing your turbulent feelings away as you allowed the previous day's events to return to you; allowed yourself to remember them, and find a place to tuck them safely amongst the scant few echoes you chose to hold close. The consistent rhythm in your hazy memories almost lulled you back to sleep.

It was just beginning to dawn — you must have slept almost an entire day. Long enough.

You sat up, pulling free from the sheets and standing so quickly that you felt brief vertigo. You made your way out into the living room to find — and you were surprised only by your lack of surprise — that Amajiki was still there. And already awake, too.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment in quiet. Your neck itched. For the lack of anything better to do, you stretched your arms out above your head in an exaggerated display of nonchalance so unsubtle, it made you want to cringe. He pulled himself upright on the couch, yawning into his hand.

The silence stretched on.

"Still raining," you observed pointlessly.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Um. So... how are you feeling?"

You smiled uncomfortably, welcoming the lucidity that came back to you with the added benefit of a clear head. "Better, I —"

Your voice is cut off my the sound of sirens approaching, the pitch haunting from beyond the rain.

They were getting louder. Definitely coming in this direction.

Amajiki also had come to a complete standstill, ears poking out of his unruly morning hair, eyes wide and alert. Focused.

The sirens continued, louder still.

Please keep driving, please keep driving...

The sirens came to a crescendo as the squad cars arrived at your building, and the sound did not continue down the street and into the distance. They wailed ominously from the main street below.

They were here.

"Shit," you cursed, running to the balcony and peering out into the rain to see if you could make out the main street at all through the downpour. You could barely discern more than the flashing multicolor lights. "Shit. Someone must have seen you when you went out the other night. Did you use your quirk at all?"

"No," Amajiki said quickly, rushing to your side to look out as well. "It was dark, but I had my hood up and everything."

You nodded, heart hammering unpleasantly against your ribs. "Okay. Shit," you said again. You vaguely registered a shadow darting across the gap between your building and the neighboring one. "I think they brought pros, too."

Amajiki remained frozen for a moment, a deer caught in headlights, before turning and darting over to the fridge.

"Open the balcony," Amajiki said over his shoulder, swinging open the refrigerator door and digging through the contents with a frenetic energy that made you want to fidget.

"What?" you gawked. "Is now really the right time to have breakfast? Want me to make mimosas?"

"Please just open it," he said again, shakily pulling a cooked chicken breast he must have bought for the soup out of a small square container. "Fuck, this is gonna be so embarrassing," he mumbled, barely audible, throwing a piece of the chicken into his mouth.

"Amajiki," you said nervously, frozen, swallowing thickly as the sirens — your worst nightmare — continued to shriek out in the storm, louder and layered now, the cutting sound sinking into your bones and making your teeth ache. "Please tell me what you're thinking?" you asked, struggling to hide the wobble in your voice, the nerves in your face. "What if they see me? They can't — I can't —"

The chicken now gone, Amajiki came back into the living room, his eyes obviously trying very hard to hold your own. Despite his obvious anxiety, his voice was steady. "It's okay," he spoke calmly. "It's okay. Please trust me, just for a minute."

Trust him?

Your mind was hazy with fear and the remnants of fever and sleep, yet the very word roused something violent in you — you couldn't trust anyone, especially not someone with the Commission. Especially not —

Your gaze flicked up from the floor to the blue of his eyes — his eyes were sincere. Familiar. Pleading. Kind. They caught you in an unfamiliar snare, nonthreatening and warm. Maybe they always had.

"I trust you."

The very words left you almost as if against your will; yet you knew, they were not. Somehow, you trusted this hero.

"Thank you," he said, lips curling into a tiny smile. He tugged open the door to the balcony, remembering to yank it past the spot where it always catches, and pulled it shut once more with the two of you on the other side, barely protected from the rain by the building ledge above you.

The sounds of shouting from somewhere below made your heart leap into your throat and you pulled your arms around yourself protectively, barely suppressing the panicked noise that rose unbidden in your chest. "What next?" you asked breathlessly, looking over to the man at your side.

He looked down below before meeting your eyes once more. "You need to trust me just a little longer," he said, wrapping a jacket you didn't realize he had around your shoulders and scooping you into his arms before you could get another word in. "Sorry," he added, pulling the hood up over your head before donning his own.

"Why —"

Then, Amajiki launched himself from your sixth story balcony and your mind went blank.

You land roughly on the pavement below, shockingly in one piece.

"You can open your eyes now."

You hadn't even realized you had closed them, but at his words, you realized you had unintentionally turned your entire body into as much of a ball as you could manage from in Amajiki's bridal carry, in which you were still firmly held. Once you opened your eyes, all you could see were his nervous eyes staring down at you, the huge, familiar brown wings spread broadly behind him.

Your irritation reared its ugly head at his sheepish expression.

"Put me down!" You thrashed until he placed you back on your feet, huffing angrily. "Holy fucking shit, Amajiki, that was awful."

He flinched at the sound of his name. "Don't say that out here!" he hissed. "What if someone hears you? Of all the times not to use some stupid nickname —"

"I thought it was all over for a moment," you intoned. "They were going to find two of Japan's most wanted smeared on the pavement of this alley. Humiliating."

Even in the pouring rain, you noticed that his cheeks were a vivid red. "The wings are hard sometimes, okay?" he grumbled. "I'm too heavy to be able to use them well, so I can't really fly, and I was holding you, too —"

You shot him a glare. "Next time you want to jump out the window, leave me out of it."

He made an indignant noise. "I did it for you, too, you know!"

"Yeah, yeah, tako-breath," you drawled, peering behind him towards the main street. The lights of the cruisers still flashed obnoxiously, and your stomached churned. "What now?"

He looked over his shoulder in the same direction. "We won't be able to come back for a while, they'll be searching the building. Is your front door locked?"

You snorted. "Um, no?"

Amajiki's mouth fell open in disbelief. "Oh my God, why not?"

You shrugged. "I have nothing to steal."

"Nothing to..." he started, before thinking better of it and shaking his head. "Never mind. Is there anything of mine in there? Any proof I was there?"

You wracked your brain. "Uh... your cell phone," you said, "but it's hidden pretty well."

"Okay," he said, nodding. "What about my costume?"

You grimaced. "Oh. That."

"Yeah?" he prompted. "Where is it?"

"I trashed it," you told him.

"You what?"

"It was ruined!" you defended. "I wasn't gonna keep it."

"Keep your voice down," he whispered. "Shit. You know what? That's fine. Whatever. I guess right now that's convenient. But Hatsume is gonna be mad at me," he added miserably.

"Whoever that is," you said, "they are the least of our concerns."

"You haven't met Hatsume."

"Okay," you sighed. "Just follow me."

"Where are we going?" he muttered, pulling down the edge of his hood nervously.

You spun around, walking backwards in front of him. Mischief tugged the corners of your mouth up into a wide, shit-eating grin. He frowned suspiciously.

"I'm gonna give you a taste of villainy!" you proclaimed.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am!"

"No."

Neither of you ended up partaking in any villainy.

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle after about twenty minutes of aimless wandering, weaving in and out of various streets throughout Osaka, talking about nothing in particular.

Eventually, as it always did, your route led you to the park.

"Welcome to my park," you said with an expansive swoosh of your arms. "Make yourself at home."

"This park belongs to the city."

"So you've said," you retorted. "But I don't see any proof."

"There is proof," Amajiki said. "Right there. That plaque."

"Folly," you called with a wave of your hand.

You wound up the familiar pathways until you found your favorite bench — nestled in greenery, labeled in memoriam of some dead guy whose name you had never heard before.

"Let me guess," Amajiki said as he took a seat beside you. "Is this your bench too?"

"No, it's Nakamura Shuichi's," you said matter-of-factly. "There's a plaque."

"Oh, pardon me. Of course," Amajiki said, barely concealing his chuckle.

You two sat in silence for several long moments, the only sounds around you the distant hum of traffic and the dripping of rainwater through the foliage around you. The sirens were a long bygone memory.

"Why do you come here?" Amajiki asked quietly.

You were quiet for a moment longer, considering your answer. "No reason in particular, I guess," you said. "It's just somewhere I always end up. It's calming."

He considered this and nodded. "I understand that," he said.

"I like to walk when I need to clear my mind," you explained further. "I guess it's just nice to have a destination, you know?"

"I do."

You glanced over at him. "I'm sorry about the costume."

"Thanks, but it's fine," he said with a small smile. "I overreacted. It happens. My support tech just terrifies me," he said with a shudder. "I've been meaning to get some modifications anyway."

You sent him a sidelong smirk. "We sticking with the cape, or no?"

He laughed then, a nice sound that you recognized with a jolt that you were growing far too fond of. "You would love for me to say that you've swayed me, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps," you conceded. "But it wouldn't be my influence. That's all Edna Mode."

"Edna Mode," he said thoughtfully, eyes crinkling at the edges.  You found yourself absently looking for the dimple you had seen once before. "I think I need more teachings from this mysterious Edna Mode from The Incredibles."

You grinned then, standing and bowing imperiously.

"Say no more. Think the cops are gone by now?"

Later that night, you returned to your building and learned from a neighbor that the police had shown up to arrest a car thief three floors below yours. There had been no pro heroes onsite, as far as they knew.

"Better safe than sorry," you mumbled bitterly, as both of you dragged yourselves up six flights of stairs in soaking wet clothes.

He insisted you shower before him, both of you getting into dry clothes afterwards. Finally, you set up your laptop on the coffee table in your living room, signing into the "borrowed" Wi-Fi from one of the other residents of your building.

You grinned at Amajiki once he'd finished grumbling about the WiFi theft, as you settled onto the couch and threw a spare blanket at him. He caught it deftly. "Prepare yourself for your new favorite film."

Two hours later, the credits rolled while the invigorating action theme song played in the background.

"So," you said, pivoting ninety degrees on the couch to face your companion. "What did you think? Any comments on the philosophies of hero attire?"

Amajiki's face was nearly expressionless from his spot on the other end of the couch.

"Uh," you said, brows furrowing in concern. "Beast Boy. You good?"

Finally, he leaned forward, picking the small, rainbow pot up from the coffee table and moving it onto his lap.

"I've finally thought of a name for her," he said seriously, gently brushing the little leaves with the tip of a finger.

You tilted your head, quirking an eyebrow at the hero sitting in pajama pants in your living room. "Well, let's hear it."

"Edna," he said, a satisfied little smirk tugging at his lips.

And you laughed, and tried very hard to ignore the twinges of guilt and sadness that were settling in beside the warmth in your heart.

Chapter Text

"I never said thank you."

Amajiki looked up from his place over by the sink, the sleeves of his white V-neck pulled up to his elbows, suds crawling up the length of his arms. "For what?" he asked, placing a cleaned plate onto the drying rack to his left. You watch as the water lazily dripped onto the countertop.

You maintained as neutral an expression as you could muster. Detached. Polite. "For the medicine," you said simply, cursing the warmth rising to your cheeks as your efforts to appear nonchalant began to fail. "And... everything else."

Amajiki spared you a brief glance, eyes darting, nervous. "It was nothing," he responded quietly, reaching back into the sink for the other plate. "Anyone would have done it. You were sick."

"And for staying," you continued, ignoring his habitual dismissal of anything that resembled gratitude or a compliment. "No matter what you say, most people wouldn't have... just. Thank you."

He paused then, hands still submerged in the soapy water. You waited with bated breath for him to say something. You couldn't see his face. The air felt charged.

"You're welcome."

You exhaled, but Amajiki said nothing further, and the soft clinking of the dishes within the sink began once more. You approached the counter and took the newly cleaned plate from his hands to dry.

Since then, things had gotten almost comfortable in your little apartment. They started to feel almost... normal.

For several nights following your fever, Amajiki had insisted that you take the bed to recover, and afterwards, he'd tried to refuse taking it back — you were able to convince him to, at the very least, compromise on the matter with a few well-placed, needling verbal jabs that you knew would get the tips of his pointed ears flushing a vicious red. He had relented, flustered, if for no other reason than for you to afford him some mercy and put a stop to your gleeful ribbing. You now alternated sleeping in the bed in the back room each night. You'd also learned in the weeks since that Amajiki makes a pretty good pot of coffee, and he had a pair of mugs ready before you woke up most days.

Then, there was dinner.

You hadn't known a thing about cooking, as was made obvious by your notoriously bad attempt at takoyaki, but you were learning. As you'd guessed after seeing his beautiful kitchen in his recently abandoned apartment, Amajiki's quirk meant that he'd learned a fair amount about cooking and meal preparation. He would go to the nearby market once a week, hood pulled up high over his ears and his distinctive dark mop of hair. Usually you would accompany him, out of curiosity and boredom. He'd pick out various meats, fruits, vegetables, and whatever else caught his eye. You'd watch with wide eyes as he browsed through foods you, honestly, were embarrassed to admit you had never even heard of before. He would pack it all neatly into a squeaky carriage, and head to the check out aisle with you following not far behind like a toddler. He'd pay — in cash — quietly thank the cashier, and then the two of you would carry all the groceries home.

When you returned to the apartment, he would cook.

He'd explain what each food item was and how it should be prepared — sometimes even ask you for your preference. You never knew how to respond to that. You didn't know if you'd ever had any preferences.

If you asked him to, he'd give you tasks — chopping up vegetables, getting a pot of water to a rolling boil, peeling potatoes. If you asked, he'd even let you assist with the more complicated tasks, teaching you how to cook whatever dish you had both decided on for the evening. Despite your inexperienced and clumsy hand, under his guidance, the food was always delicious.

You were struck each time by how familiar it all felt. The domesticity of cooking side-by-side. The normalcy of sitting across from each other at your small, rickety dining table and eating together in comfortable silence. It almost felt right to have Amajiki in your space, existing alongside you; natural to have him hovering near your shoulder, giving overly-complicated instructions on how to properly dice an onion, his breath tickling a stray hair by your ear.

You cleared your throat and jolted, both onion and knife still in-hand, the aforementioned hero so close that you could swear you could feel his body warmth. You nearly took off a piece of your finger in your alarm, and Amajiki squawked weakly behind you in protest before hurriedly confiscating the knife and finishing the onion himself.

One morning, you had woken up and wandered out into the kitchen while Amajiki was still in the middle of his coffee ritual, his bed hair defying all known laws of physics and sticking out every which way about his head.

"Morning," you greeted, covering your yawn with a lazy hand.

"Good morning," he responded. A tentacle flicked to the upper shelf and grabbed your favorite orange mug with ease. "Coffee will be ready in a minute."

Your legs came to an abrupt halt, eyes zeroed in on the happy orange ceramic.

"That's your mug now," you said with narrowed eyes, accusatory.

Amajiki frowned, looking over his shoulder at you in the archway to the kitchen, tentacle still gripped deftly onto the handle of the mug. You had to fight to hold back your grin at the purely offended look on his face.

"I was going to wash it first," he grumbled.

"I should sue for emotional damages."

"Please don't be like this. It's too early."

"This is a hate crime. Tentacles. On my favorite mug."

He sighed, grabbing the dish soap from the sink, tentacle vanished from sight. "I'd rather be in Tartarus."

The banter had become easy, too — well, your teasing and his begrudging acceptance of it, anyway.

It was almost as though both of you had forgotten the incident that had landed you stuck with one another, in hiding. It felt almost like it didn't exist.

Like none of it had ever existed, but for one little detail.

On the nights Amajiki was sleeping in the bedroom, door shut tight; once you'd waited enough time to be sure that he was out cold, you'd silently get up from the couch in the living room, neatly folding the blanket over the back of it. You'd slip on your shoes and your jacket, carefully open the door, and pull it shut slowly enough as to not make any noise as the handle clicked into place.

The next morning, however, no matter how silently you'd left and then returned the night before, it was always obvious that Amajiki knew that you'd been out. Even if he hadn't any way of knowing where you'd been.

He never once mentioned anything about it. Maybe he didn't know how to bring it up. Maybe ignoring it simply made living together easier. He would shoot worried, curious, suspicious glances your way while he made coffee, and a thick, uncomfortable void would expand between you like a heavy, humid smog.

That night, you realized early on that it would be harder than usual to keep your late-night foray a secret from him, even if they were a secret ill-kept at the best of times.

Your mission was a rough one and had been several weeks in the making — three men, working class and all under the age of thirty, arrested for crimes that they, upon further investigation by yourself and some contacts, apparently did not commit. Arson and two counts of grand larceny. You'd had your suspicions, knowing how the commission operated; it had taken you many nights, however, to obtain all the intel you'd needed. Fraudulent charges, made by HPSC officials trying to increase their metrics and conflict resolution rates by framing easy targets. Their typical brand of diabolical.

Whether or not the arresting heroes themselves had been aware that the men they had beaten and arrested were innocent didn't matter to you. The heroes didn't matter, no more than the hammer matters in the decisions of carpenters. Tools, utilities, unthinking weapons in the hands of those who can choose to build or destroy.

When it came to the commission, the answer was destruction, every time.

The men — the victims — weren't being held in a high-security facility, so there were thankfully no heroes on guard when you'd arrived, creeping out from the back of a covered van like a shadow in the night. Preferably, you had wanted to remain undetected, to be able to sneak past the armed guards, all either quirkless or unauthorized, yet fitted with government-issue guns and security batons. You'd known, however, that such an outcome was not probable. Quirks or no quirks, the guards on watch still were not keen to give up without a fight; and fight they had.

Metal impacted against your arms, clattered against your ribs; bullets were dodged, albeit narrowly; rounds that you had suspected were non-lethal concussives but those suspicions didn't alleviate the jolt in your chest whenever one had whistled past you, closely enough that you'd felt the burn and the wind current catching your dark, nondescript clothing.

It had taken almost ten minutes, but you'd succeeded in knocking out each guard along the path to the holding cells without triggering the alarm.

One of the captives had refused to run. Frustrated as you were, sub-optimal as it was, you couldn't blame him.

He was innocent, after all. Probably a good, honest man. He didn't want to give his family or anyone else any reason to believe he had set those fires.

With the two remaining prisoners in tow, aching head to toe and avoiding the sea of flashing police lights, you had escaped the facility and made your way back into the shadows of the dreary, damp Osaka night.

Any hopes you had of Amajiki still being asleep were dashed as soon as you opened the door.

The TV had been turned on and security camera footage filled out the small screen. You saw yourself on the grainy CCTV recording, dark hood fallen behind your head, as you grasped at a guard's throat for only an instant with an ungloved hand, his knees buckling beneath him before the pads of your fingers had even made full contact; he hit the floor, hard. Next shot, more of the same. Large, white-on-red text scrolled lazily across the bottom of the screen in a sickening marquee; Do you recognize this person? Call the crime reporting hotline... You felt your stomach leap into your throat, watching yourself commit your usual sins on a loop not three feet in front of you, on a national news channel no less, in front of the country — this was not good for your anonymity, but at least you couldn't see much of your face from the angle the security camera was shooting from and the method used to take down the guards vague enough that no one would be able to pinpoint your quirk —

The commission shouldn't be able to put two and two together. They shouldn't. They can't.

"What were you thinking?" Amajiki hissed from somewhere behind you.

Heart clenched, you spun, facing the wide-eyed hero. You had half a mind to play dumb — deny his suspicions — but the jacket you were wearing was too similar to the one on replay behind you, your arms and legs too battered; you could tell your face was likely a few shades short of a watercolor painting; your mind too weary to resist.

You had fought quite enough that night. You didn't have it in you to fight anymore. Especially not him.

You sighed. "It isn't any of your business," you said, loathing the defeated tone of your voice.

"This is insane," he said, incredulous, sounding almost angry. "You can't just be going out like this every other night — do you really think I don't notice?"

Your mouth drew into a hard line and shame roiled in your gut; embarrassment that you had even attempted your ruse for so long. You should have known better. "Do you really think I care if you notice, hero?" you spat. "Just go back to turning a blind eye and licking your wounds in this shithole. You know what I am, and it isn't my fault you wanted to pretend anything different. Besides, there was no harm done."

His jaw dropped almost comically at your response. "No harm done?" he parroted. "Look at the TV! Do you really think that?"

"I do," you retorted, stubbornly refusing to look back at the screen he pointed at and startled at the tone of confidence you managed to pull off; even if you yourself didn't believe it. "I accomplished my goal and didn't get caught in the process."

"And what is 'your goal'?" he fired back, flailing his arms out in an all-encompassing gesture; the room, the apartment. The city, even. "What could possibly be so important to make it worth all of this?"

Your forehead ticked in irritation. "And what do you mean by that?"

"I mean, look at you!" he rasped, eyes looking pointedly at the fresh bruises blooming on top of older bruises. A mottled, multicolor display; a macabre garden. "Every time you leave, I can't sleep, I'm so worried. You come back hurt and exhausted and I pretend I don't know anything. And despite all your grand efforts, you aren't getting anywhere!"

"How dare you," you growled, latching onto his last statement because the others were far too much for you to process at that moment. "You have no idea what I'm even doing. Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"You can almost tell that it's you!" Amajiki continued, seemingly unable to stop now that he'd gotten going, his words spilling out hard, frantic, fast. "I could tell right away!"

You felt your chest constrict in dread at the thought of the footage of you playing on TVs all across Japan; the thought of wild west wanted posters being slapped on every vertical surface, your face in caricature on the huge screens in ever city center from Nagasaki to Sapporo. "Just... shut up!" you shouted back, your frustration robbing you of anything resembling eloquence, the childish words ricocheting in the confines of the small room. "Shut up! Why do you even care?"

He exhaled sharply, arms falling limply at his sides. "Because!" he started, eyes blinking wildly before the end of his sentence dropped off into nothing. Further words seemed to fail him and he blinked once more, hard, a confused look crossing his face. "Because," he tried again, defeated by some unknown force within him, his voice cracking. "You're going to get caught, or hurt, or worse."

The argument you'd had lined up died in your throat. Of all the things you had expected — anger at you risking your mutual cover, his strict hero's moral code, any number of other things — the last thing you'd expected to hear from his lips was any sort of concern like this.

Concern for you.

Wholly shocking; even more so undeserved. The roof of your mouth felt dry, your legs felt weak. You were worried that they might fail you if you were to hear the answer to your next question.

But you had to ask.

You swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to meet his gaze, more difficult still to look away. "Wouldn't that be a good thing for you?" you asked, the question hoarse and fragile.

His eyes failed to hold yours, instead drifting off to his right, unfocused. Only a few mere feet away, yet there was an ocean between you. He was silent for a long moment. When he finally met your gaze again, he looked immeasurably sad. "No," he said. "It wouldn't."

You could feel your heart hammering in your chest as the tide pulled you in.

The voice on the television cut through the silence.

"Next up — an update on the Hero Billboard situation. No progress has yet been made on discovering the whereabouts of the villain Suneater, yet the commission's manhunt continues in force —"

Grateful for the interruption, you pivoted towards the TV once more. You cleared your throat awkwardly, grasping at the opportunity to change the subject. "That's good at least. They don't seem to have anything on us yet."

You heard a choking sound from behind you.

You turned to find Amajiki staring at the screen, face gone stark pale, mouth open, eyes wide.

An uneasy feeling settled in your gut. "You okay?" you asked.

He made the same noise again. "Villain?" he echoed, the voice of the anchor still droning on in the background. The villain Suneater. "They're calling me a villain?"

His entire body was shaking.

This was what you wanted, wasn't it? To destroy the legitimacy of the Commission and all their obedient dogs?

If you had once, you'd had no idea it would feel like this.

Villain. The word felt so much more malicious now than it had before.

"Hey," you said, cautiously. "It's fine. It's just a word."

He wheezed, eyes still focused on something you couldn't see. His hands rose to hide his eyes from your gaze — an anxious, defensive habit you hadn't seen him do in weeks. His chest rose and fell quickly, his breath coming in short bursts.

"Breathe," you instructed slowly, wanting to do something, but no longer sure how to operate your own limbs. "You're going to be alright."

He shuddered, wildly shaking his head. "I can't breathe," he wheezed from behind the shield of his trembling hands. "I can't breathe."

You realized again with a pang of guilt that this was your doing. And you didn't know what he needed in that moment. You didn't know how to help him.

The best you could do was try what had always helped you stay grounded when it felt like the world was falling out from beneath your feet.

You hoped it would work. It was all you had.

You approached him slowly. "Hey. Look at me," you coaxed quietly, receiving no response. "Amajiki," you tried again, reaching for one of the wrists still concealing his face. Your skin had barely brushed his before he ripped his arms away from his face and out of your reach, turning his gaze on you like a cornered prey animal.

Making you the predator.

Don't touch me. The words went unsaid but hung between you like a tangible being, lumbering and hungry and vicious. It made your stomach hurt. It made you want to scream, to crawl out of your own skin, to be anyone and anywhere else —

villainvillainvillainvillainvillain

Despite the power you knew he possessed, he looked terrified. Of you. Because of you. And now there was nothing you could do to fix it.

But you had to try.

You held your hand out to him, palm up. A request. A plea. A surrender.

"I won't hurt you," you swore, willing every ounce of the sincerity you felt into your voice, trying to be the rock for him that he'd been for you. "I will not use my quirk on you, ever again. I promise. I just want to help you."

He remained frozen, eyes wet and breathing erratic while he studied your face, hands still held defensively away from you. You watched his gaze dart between each of your eyes, searching, as he waged some internal war you didn't understand.

He was listening. He could hear you.

You offered him a smile; a small, fragile thing. You wanted to cry. "Please trust me, just for a minute," you said, returning the words he'd gifted you weeks ago back to him.

He studied you for a few more seconds, his eyes hard and assessing, darting between each of your own, your extended hand, everything — seconds that felt like an eternity.

Something gave.

He tentatively held out his hand — unsteady and trembling, trusting. A wordless show of faith that you didn't deserve. You exhaled, gently closing the gap and squeezing it softly in your own. Your wordless response — a thanks. This was the first time you'd touched his skin since you'd betrayed his trust, a lifetime ago. His hand was large, but felt fragile to the touch. His fingers were elegant, calloused, warm. Contradictory and comforting. Just like the hero himself. "Come on," you said, gently squeezing his hand again. "Let's go sit outside."

His eyes fell to your joined hands. He nodded, gently curling his fingers around your palm, and you felt some of the tension drain out of him.

Your heart thudded loudly. It ached.

You walked to the slider, Amajiki following closely behind. You opened the door as smoothly as it would allow before leading him out onto the balcony and closing it behind you. "Sit," you told him gently. He obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the bare slats of your balcony, breaths still coming fast, too fast, his hand squeezing yours too tight to be comfortable. You sat beside him and leaned up against the foggy glass behind you. You motioned for him to lean back as well, letting him settle at your side before pointing up, far, far away.

"Look out where I'm pointing," you told him. "You see that up there?"

He looked up, eyes stretching out beyond the end of your pointed finger to the dark sky beyond, and nodded.

"That's Ursa Major," you explained, eyes following the path of the stars. "They call it 'the great bear'. It's one of the largest constellations in the sky, so it's really easy to find usually. It's also part of the Big Dipper, which you can see there," you continued, moving your hand slightly to the left. Amajiki's gaze obediently followed. "Ursa Major is a big figure in Greek mythology, too. It is said that it's Callisto, a beautiful nymph banished to the heavens."

"That's sad," he said quietly.

You hummed in agreement. "But it's only one of many stories about Ursa Major. You see that over there?"

"Yeah," he said. You were relieved the hear that his breathing seemed to have slowed, just a little.

Your finger followed along the edge of the sharp angle forming yet another cluster of light. His finger joined yours, close, yet not touching your own. "That's Pisces," you told him.

"I'm a Pisces," he remarked absentmindedly.

You nodded sagely. "Ah. That explains a lot."

He withdrew his finger and shot you a scandalized look. "What does that mean?"

"Now over here," you said, moving your finger further to the right and dismissing his question entirely, your shoulder bumping lightly into his.

And so you continued, pointing out various collections of stars that made their way to you through the night sky, providing facts and stories here and there about the constellations while you listened to his breathing continue to slow back to a normal rate. Occasionally, he would ask questions and you would do your best to answer, sometimes making it up if you didn't know, weaving increasingly ridiculous tales that had him snorting in a manner that told you he knew you were full of shit. He didn't seem to mind.

His hand never left yours, clasped between you like it was all that was keeping him from drifting away.

The entire time, you fought to ignore the way seeing him hurting — hurting because of something you had done — had made you feel.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. You had a goal. You had to remember your goal. It was all you had — all you really had, anyway. All that was actualy yours.

Eventually, you had run out of stars and stories, and things had gone quiet between the two of you once again. It wasn't uncomfortable.

You listened to the nearby sounds of cars driving through wet streets and closed your eyes. You could still feel his eyes on you.

"I want to understand," he whispered in the dark.

"Why?" you whispered back, opening your eyes once more. The stars still stared down at you, the same as they ever were. "If I told you why I was doing what I'm doing, even if you understood, would you stand with me? Would you really be able to leave behind the heroes and help me? Even if you thought I was right?"

He was quiet. Contemplative. He ran the pad of his thumb over your knuckle. "No," he confessed. "Because what you're doing isn't right, or it isn't the right way, at least. But I'd try and help you find a better way. We could do it together."

Suddenly your throat felt tight; your eyes burned.

Together? The word felt so foreign and unbelievable. There had never been any 'together'. It had always been just you — you against the entire hero society of Japan, against all of its corruption. You and you alone. No one else knew. No one else cared enough about the injustices to challenge what they thought was true; no one else cared enough about you.

He offered together' so freely.

"How am I supposed to believe that?" you asked, sounding as small as you felt.

He shrugged. You felt it more than saw it. "I can't tell you how," he said. "But you can trust me."

That word again: trust.

How could he say these things so easily?

Together. Trust. Despite everything that you'd done to him; despite all the pain you'd caused. Despite the monument to your shortcomings that sat in Tokyo, the ocean of shattered glass, here he still sat, asking you for your trust and offering up his own in return.

He was the symbol of everything that you had despised your whole life. He had constructed himself on ideals that had been force-fed to you until you choked. He willingly chose to dedicate his life to a cause that had burned you to the ground and spat on the ashes.

Here he was, asking for you to trust him.

And in all that, all the mess, all the pain, his worst crime was?

You did. You did trust him.

You spoke.

"I was raised by the commission," you said quietly, so quietly you weren't even sure he would be able to hear you. "I don't ever remember a time before."

He was quiet, but you knew he was listening.

"I don't know anything about my parents. I don't know if they're dead or if they were paid off or if they just gave me up. I don't care. It doesn't matter. Since I can remember, I was brought up by my handlers, in a cell underground, and only let out for hero training."

"Hero training?" he interjected.

Your jaw clenched. "Yeah," you said darkly. "They wanted to create the perfect hero. What better way than to start them off before they've even learned to read?"

He swore.

"I didn't know anything other than their 'training'. I'd spend all day in the gym, running laps, doing exercises until I threw up. They'd hurt or starve me if I wasn't able to keep up. They fed me this... kibble, a 'perfectly balanced diet for a hero', they told me. They would torture me daily to give me a resistance to pain. I never saw another child, but I think there may have been others down there, too. They only brought me up from the basement and outside when they would take me on missions. I didn't know what the sun really looked like until I was thirteen years old," you said, the words coming faster and faster as you talked. "They'd use me as a trump card. Have me use my ability to make people feel pain, get answers out of them. I didn't have any say in the matter. If I refused, my handlers would punish me. I wish I'd said no sooner."

The silence that followed your story was heavy. You could feel it on your skin.

Amajiki hadn't moved in a long time. "That's unforgiveable," he said finally. His tone made your skin crawl.

"Yeah," you agreed.

He paused. "How did you finally say no?"

You need to realize your own potential.

You could destroy everything.

You swallowed back the memories.

"They..." you started. "They wanted me to kill someone, and I couldn't do it."

"Why?"

Somehow you knew he was asking why they wanted you to kill and not why you couldn't do it. The knowledge made you feel warm. "She was even younger than I was," you started. "I didn't even know what her quirk was, but they said it was too dangerous and that she was out of control. I refused to kill her. They shot her point-blank right in front of me."

You could feel Amajiki shudder beside you.

You turned your gaze back out the stars, but what you saw was much, much further away. "That night, I caused an explosion in my quarters and ran. They should think I'm dead," you said. "I intend to keep it that way."

Amajiki was silent for a long moment.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

His fingers curled tighter around yours and you sank into the feeling against your will, accepting the comfort you hadn't known you'd needed.

"So now you're trying to destroy them?" he asked softly.

You smiled humorlessly. "Yeah. It's funny, right? In their quest for a hero, they created the perfect villain."

"You are not a villain," Amajiki said resolutely. The words cut into your soul and filled you with an unfamiliar sensation; it felt both weighted and light at once. "Is that what you're doing when you leave at night? Things a villain would do?"

You shook your head. "No, I..."

"Who were those men tonight?" he interrupted.

"They..." you began. "They... they were false arrests. They were innocent."

"And so you freed them," he said. "At great risk to yourself. That doesn't sound like something a villain would do."

You let go of his hand. You'd never felt colder. "I'm no hero."

"Maybe not," he said. "But I don't think anyone could ever check all the boxes, hero or villain or anything else. We're all just people standing for something we believe in."

"Don't be ridiculous." You pulled your knees up to your chest and sighed. "Are they really what you want to stand for?"

Amajiki frowned. "They aren't what I stand for. They never were."

"Then what?" you prompted, needing his answer. "What do you stand for?"

Amajiki's voice was steady, resolute. His answer was immediate. "The right thing."

"They aren't the right thing," you told him.

"No, they aren't. But there has to be a better way than this," he said, touching a gentle hand to your bruised jaw.

You involuntarily leaned into his touch. "It's only me against all of them and their heroes. This is the only way."

He turned his hand so his palm lay across your cheek. He was warm. "It doesn't have to be."

Together. The word made you sad.

It was a word you couldn't have. You didn't deserve it.

"It does," you said at last, pulling away from his touch and standing. "They made it that way."

"Render," he said, and your heart almost stopped at the way the word sounded on his voice; it was the first time you'd heard him say it. You didn't like it. You hated the word. You hated it even more coming from him. "Tell me your name. Please."

"I... it doesn't matter," you sighed. "I don't go by that name anymore. Let's go back in."

Chapter Text

The day began quietly, as it so often did lately, with rain.

You and Amajiki hadn't spoken about anything of consequence since the conversation on the balcony. You continued your coexistence in your small shared space, still cooking and eating together, but the comfort that you had thought had been found between the two of you seemed to have evaporated entirely, leaving fragmented, gossamer feelings draped over unyielding truths. You wondered if the two of you had ever truly found one another at all, or if it was all just some extended fever dream that had outstretched long after the night you had fallen ill. Perhaps you had made it all up; perhaps you had just imagined it. Maybe it was all just a surprisingly pleasant dream. Maybe you were just crazy.

You took a polite sip from your orange mug. Well, fever dream or not, the odds certainly weren't stacked in your favor on "crazy". The jury was still out.

Even though there hadn't been complete silence — such a thing was probably impossible, with the proximity in which you found yourselves day after day — the words exchanged between you lacked the ease that you had begrudgingly found yourself getting used to... maybe even enjoying, if you were honest with yourself. But you had always been a liar.

That isn't to say that there weren't things you wanted to say to him. There was so much you wanted to say. The words were formless and abstract, but filled up your lungs and made it hard to breathe if you tried too hard or too long to identify what they were and what they meant. Too much thought and your head began to swim and your chest began to throb and your fingers began to yearn to hold something, anything — but maybe not just anything, after all. Easier to just bury it all down deep and do your best to ignore it.

And you did. But the look in his eyes sometimes when you managed to catch him peering in your direction made you think that maybe he had some things he wanted to say as well. You wondered if they suffocated him as surely, thoroughly, and aggressively as they suffocated you.

You had always been a liar, for sure. Maybe you were just a coward, too.

What would you even say? Where would you even start?

Would you say you were sorry? Were you allowed to be sorry?

You sighed, leaning back against the couch and listening absently to the sound of Amajiki's vicious scrubbing in the kitchen. The kitchen had already been spotless before he started up again with the lemon-scented multipurpose spray and a fresh dish rag. He had tidied it earlier that day already. And late the night before. And a little before that, shortly after yesterday's dinner. You wondered if he enjoyed cleaning in there now because, as you sat in front of the television in a boredom-fueled stupor, the partition kept him just enough out of your line of sight to provide the illusion of privacy. You couldn't blame him.

You sighed again, louder this time (for his benefit), and messed with the remote until you found something that caught your attention. Nothing did, so it was the news, both anchors chattering on about the unprecedented downpours per usual, that you decided to watch. The rain roared beyond the window as if to prove a point.

You could still hear the word 'together', whispered so softly in that deep, familiar voice; such a tempting and captivating promise that you couldn't bring yourself to believe you would ever be worthy of. You could still feel the rough palm of his hand as he cradled your battered cheek, the tangle of his fingers in your own. Your injuries were almost gone now. You wished you had pressed his careful fingers into the darkening bruise on your jaw, embedded the memory into your skin before it faded away. You shut down that train of thought.

You are not a villain.

Tell me your name. Please.

The news blared to life before you — yet another crisis somewhere in Osaka, it seemed. The footage of the baffled meteorologists was abruptly cut off and switched to an aerial view of the harbor. The tone drastically shifted and a bright marquee scrolled along the bottom in a charged and ominous procession — ACTIVE HOSTAGE SITUATION, it declared. A flustered reporter spoke quickly over the footage, detailing what their crew had been able to decipher in the chaos. You half-listened, uninterested, until the demands of the hostage-takers came up and you found your eyes glued to the screen with rapt attention.

Huh, you mused. Interesting.

Then, as they continued their report, your gut clenched.

You barely registered the soft footfalls approaching from the kitchen. You spared the hero a quick, nervous glance before returning to the television.

You could feel Amajiki's eyes on you. "What's going on?" he asked cautiously, drying off his hands as he came up behind the couch.

You bit your lip hesitantly. You weren't sure how he'd react. "There is an unknown group holding civilians hostage in this old warehouse," you replied as evenly as you could, gesturing to the footage of the building in question. "They... they're threatening to destroy the building and everyone inside unless the president of the HPSC is turned over to them."

Amajiki went deathly still, the towel held unmoving between his dried hands. "You don't know the group?" he asked quietly.

You shook your head. "No," you answered honestly. "I never had contact with or even heard of any group trying to take the Commission down. I've always worked alone."

He nodded, apparently satisfied with your answer. The ache in your chest deepened. "Are there any pros on the scene yet?"

You paused. You had dreaded this question. "Just one that they mentioned," you said cautiously. "Lemillion."

"Mirio?" he asked, narrowed eyes flicking to the screen. "I don't see him anywhere on the feed."

"Yeah," you said tentatively. "He —"

As if on cue, the camera shifted to a reporter on the ground before the dilapidated warehouse and a long stripe of obnoxiously bright police tape. The man had the bulky, logo-emblazoned microphone lifted to his mouth as he continued in a serious tone.

"— with just over thirty minutes remaining until the deadline provided by the villains. Pro hero Lemillion entered the building twenty minutes ago to attempt negotiation and recovery but has not yet reemerged —"

Amajiki blanched, the color draining from his face. "He's still inside?" he whispered hoarsely. "What's happening in there?"

Your eyebrows creased as you both continued to listen to the updates. The authorities hadn't heard back from Lemillion or the captors. Last they'd heard from him, he didn't seem to be able to find anyone in the building. Radio silence since then.

Lemillion was still in the building and was no longer in contact with the authorities outside, and time was very quickly running short.

"They aren't going to get out in time," you murmured, the camera feed switching back to the aerial view. "She isn't coming. The president won't turn herself over."

Amajiki was quiet for a moment before he gasped softly.

"Wait."

You tore your eyes away from the impending disaster and looked to Amajiki's pallid face, his eyes wide and jaw slack. He didn't continue.

You were quiet for a moment but he was clearly too deep in his thoughts to detect your curiosity. "What?" you prompted.

He swallowed, blinked, still fixated on the footage. "I recognize this building."

You froze. "You do?"

He nodded, his energy fraught, almost frantic. "Yes, I've been there before," he continued breathlessly. "On a mission a few years ago. There is an unmapped basement room, it's tiny — you'd never see it unless you already knew it was there, even if he went through the main floor. That must be where they are."

It made sense. "Shit," you said, exhaling roughly. You could hear the chattering continue behind you on the TV, clueless people ignorant to the victims so close by, helpless just below the surface. "He's still looking for them."

"Someone has to tell him," Amajiki said. "He doesn't know about the room. I have to tell him," he continued, the words leaving him in a frenzied rush. He inhaled sharply, and you could just about see the lightbulb above his head illuminate. "My phone!" he said, rounding on you.

You tensed at his sudden focus. "What?" you squawked. "You want to call him? Are you crazy?"

"Yes. You said it was still here." Teeth gritted, Amajiki made a visible effort to contain his nerves. "He's going to get himself killed."

"He can handle it," you reasoned, standing up to try and meet his eyes. "He's a professional."

As you approached, he reached out, gripping the end of your sleeve like it was a lifesaver and he was lost at sea. His eyes were wide and frightened; you could feel his fingers shake against your wrist. "Please. He's my best friend."

You shouldn't have even been surprised anymore.

All of the arguments you had drafted up in your mind to talk him down folded in an instant and you felt yourself give in.

You sighed. "Okay," you said, pulling away and going to the kitchen. His hand fell back to his side.

"Okay?" he parroted as he pivoted toward you, the surprise unhidden in his tone.

You pulled the phone out from above the ceiling tile over the fridge. You found yourself shocked that you didn't care that he'd seen your best — your only, really — hiding spot in the apartment. "Okay," you repeated, returning and putting the phone and charger into his hand. "It's dead, though."

He didn't waste any time, nodding and quickly plugging the phone into the nearest outlet, the room eerily silent while you both waited with bated breath for the screen to come to life. Once the cheery welcome animation had finally ended, Amajiki punched in his pin and quickly thumbed into his contacts list, selecting one of the first names.

You could faintly hear the ringing from within the shaking hand held to Amajiki's pointed ear.

It rang. And rang. And then cut to voicemail.

"He isn't picking up!" Amajiki gritted, redialing and lifting the phone back up.

You frowned. "Did you really expect him to?" you asked gently.

"No," he said, "but I can't... just..." he started, and then went silent. Alarm bells sounded off in your mind as you watched his face morph from worry into one of steel as he hung up and lowered the phone. "I'm going. I have to go, he and the hostages will all be killed.

Your stomach roiled. "No," you interjected. "You're going to get arrested."

He shot a glare at you, moving to the door to pull on one of the ratty old sneakers you had stolen for him back in the beginning when you had thought it was funny that they were pastel and would light up if he stepped hard enough. He had never given you the satisfaction. "I don't care."

"Well, I do!" you argued, following him and trying to kick his other shoe away. You failed, and he easily snatched it away from you before you could try again. He didn't even need to look at it, pivoting quickly enough to angle it out of your reach and slipping it unceremoniously onto his bare foot.

"Why?" he said, adjusting the shoe before straightening to level his stare at you. His dark eyes were piercing. "Because it would ruin your 'grand plan'?"

You ground your teeth in frustration, holding your ground. You resisted the childish, petulant instinct to cross your arms in front of you but found them there anyway; you slammed them back down to your sides where they belonged and huffed. "No."

His gaze lost none of its intensity as his eyes darted between each of your own. "Because you want to see the president die?" he asked.

You snorted and brusquely shook your head. "You know that's not true," you said, and you meant it. Cutting off the head of the snake had never been part of your plan. This particular snake was a hydra. "I don't care what happens to her. Her death wouldn't change anything, anyway."

He tilted his chin up, eyes glinting. "Then why?" he challenged.

Your gaze held his own, mind racing. This was an argument you couldn't afford to back down from. You briefly wondered at which point in your life you had actually started giving a shit — maybe you always had, but somehow, that didn't feel right. You knew you had witnessed plenty of hostage situations in the past but never felt compelled to intervene on anyone's behalf, let alone some copy-paste hero you had never met or even bothered to do research on and only even knew about through advertisements plastered along the ugly metal exteriors of public transit vehicles with his grinning face endorsing various protein shakes. You didn't think you would have that first day you met Amajiki either, out in the market during a light spring shower. Yet, somewhere along the way, these unpleasant feelings of obligation and concern had wheedled their way into your mind, making you feel responsible for people you did not know.

You knew you should just let Amajiki leave and hope for the best, cut your losses, start from scratch, but you couldn't. And not for the sake of your plan; you had already resigned yourself to the fact that you were back at square one anyway. All you had left to protect was your fragile anonymity and the hope that the Commission still had you listed as dead or missing and had just never bothered to look.

Yet the thought of what might happen to Amajiki if you let him go to the warehouse was what brought the last two functioning brain cells you had to a screeching, resounding halt.

Inconvenient, to say the least.

Some distant corner of your psyche was laughing at you, you were sure. It wasn't the first time. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

Innocent lives were at stake. Lemillion's life.

Amajiki's.

That simply wasn't acceptable.

You lifted your eyes back from where they had wandered, your mind clear with a singular goal. "Where is the entrance to the basement level?" you asked calmly.

His mouth pulled into a tight, unhappy line, but he answered. "...There is... the hatch is in the small room at the back," he said. "It looks like barely more than a closet. No one would ever think to check in there."

You closed your eyes for a long moment, letting the situation and what you needed to do sink in; allowing the knowledge of what you were about to risk to wash over you. Your mind had always been overcrowded with the ghosts of your past, haunted, echoing; yet now, it was quiet. Even the girl, unfairly burdened with a dangerous, unknown quirk, small and frightened and trembling, looking to you with pleading eyes asking for help, was gone.

You knew you didn't have a choice. Lately, it was starting to feel like you never had.

You opened your eyes at last. He was still looking at you, watching you with kind, worried eyes.

"Stay here," you told him. "Just... stay."

He didn't move. "What are you doing?" he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

You gave him a sad smile and left without a word, leaving Amajiki Tamaki confused, afraid, and alone behind you.

Tamaki watched the closed door as if it was hiding the secrets of the universe behind it, shoes and jacket still on, unsure of what to think.

All he knew was that he was scared.

Scared for the civilians. For Mirio. Maybe even especially, he was scared for you.

He wasn't sure what your plan was. What you intended when you ordered him to stay and rushed out the door.

He knew he shouldn't have let you go. He knew it was foolish. He knew he was leaving not only the lives of innocent civilians, but the life of one of the most important people to him in your hands. The hands that had dismantled his entire existence in barely an hour mere weeks before. He knew he should have stopped you, or at the very least, he should have followed.

He knew all of this. Yet, he didn't budge. Not out of fear, no; although there was plenty of that. Instead, he felt something else.

Something that felt like trust.

The minutes dragged by, slow and painful. The situation remained unchanged. Tamaki clutched his phone in his hand, so tightly he began to lose the feeling in his fingers.

What he wouldn't give to be able to just hide from it all.

If he found a corner dark enough, quiet enough, maybe he could trick himself into thinking that the world wasn't collapsing around him and that it wasn't all his fault; that the crumbling walls weren't further evidence of his shortcomings as a hero. That everything falling to ash wasn't the final nail in the coffin certifying every horrible thing he'd ever thought about himself as undeniable truth. What could he have done better? How could he have been better?

Why wasn't he able to save Mirio? Save you? Weeks and weeks ago, before any of this had happened, he should have sensed that you needed help. He should have been able to stop any of it from happening.

If he could just hide, none of it would be real.

He could pretend that you were still sitting on the couch just a few feet away, making some dumb joke about whatever rerun you were watching on TV. Or he could imagine that you were in the kitchen, panicking like it was the end of the world when the chicken noodle soup started bubbling over on the stove, while Tamaki fought back a smile and tried to help you salvage it. Maybe he could even just remember that time when he woke up and entered the kitchen to find you softly humming a tuneless melody, watering Edna in the early morning light, during a brief break from the rain when the sun found just enough space to peek through the clouds and you looked like a painting come to life, just for a minute. That is what Tamaki saw if he closed his eyes tightly enough and tried to imagine what happiness looked like.

But hiding couldn't bring any of that back. He didn't know what he could do to bring it back.

Mirio still hadn't evacuated. You still weren't back. They were running out of time. He glanced at the clock.

Just over three minutes left until the deadline.

Only three minutes until —

His heart leapt into his throat as he saw a figure in a familiar hoodie dart out from the crowd and run brazenly toward the building, through the rain and the police cordon. He could see several officers shouting after the person, but their cries went unheeded as the new arrival disappeared through the huge double doors.

Somehow, before the cameras even came into focus on the replay, he knew it was you.

He could see you, clear as day despite the poor weather. He could see your expression as the film crew zoomed in on your face, fire and purpose; as they played it on repeat over and over for the at-home audience while the surrounding gawkers chattered anxiously and the clock relentlessly ticked on towards its gruesome goal. Police attempted to move everyone back as the moment neared and the hope that everyone could be evacuated safely began to wither and die.

A minute passed. The crowd had begun to quiet, everyone standing far enough away to be in minimal danger of the blast, yet still drawn close enough by their curiosity to be inadvisable. Even all the various news vans had come to a near-total standstill.

Less than one minute left.

Forty-five seconds.

Tamaki gasped, the sound lost in the confused and relieved screams rippling through the crowd, as Mirio slammed open the warehouse doors and shepherded a half-dozen terrified people from the building and past the police tape. There was a kid among the group, quivering, being held tightly under another person's arm. They were all ushered toward the emergency vehicles for first aid.

Tamaki sighed in relief, looking over the grainy recording of the small group while news anchors reported that everyone was accounted for and appeared unharmed, but the feeling was short-lived.

You weren't among the group that had exited the building.

Tamaki wasn't sure if he was the only one who noticed that the mysterious figure hadn't left again, but —

He definitely noticed.

Had Mirio noticed? Had you spoken to him?

He watched in horror, eyes desperately scanning the crowds of crying people reunited with their loved ones and Mirio being swarmed by a horde equipped with camera crews. He smiled sheepishly and tried to brush them off to tend to the victims with a charming, apologetic smile.

He wasn't worried then. Had he even seen you?

You were still nowhere to be seen. Where could you h —

Tamaki's thoughts screeched to a halt as the building on the screen erupted into a shower of fire and debris and the video footage switched to an unsteady aerial drone again. Tamaki could feel the reverberations of the explosion in his bones despite the distance making it impossible. His teeth chattered like he'd been standing right there. They hurt.

The reporter continued in a pitched yell over the panic and the rain, and Tamaki robotically turned away from the living room. He couldn't understand a word being said but the other noise had nothing to do with it.

He was numb. Blood was pounding in his ears. Ice raced through his veins and he felt like his legs wouldn't hold him up. He might throw up. Is this what a heart attack feels like?

Where were you?

You weren't dead. You couldn't be.

Couldn't you be?

Tamaki sank to the floor. Time passed. He had no way of knowing how much. He couldn't move.

Again, he found himself wishing that he could just... hide. But there was no hiding. Tidal waves of emotions he didn't know the names of pressed in on him from all sides and pushed him down, down, forced him so tightly against the ground he was sure he'd never be able to lift himself back up again.

The world had never felt so dark. So heavy.

The door behind him softly creaked open. He almost missed it.

His neck cracked with how quickly he turned to see you panting in the doorway, breathless and grinning and looking at him kneeling on the ground like he was mid-prayer. He said nothing, face blank, utterly paralyzed.

You quirked an amused brow, a perfect, alive gesture, walked up to him, and flicked his forehead. "What are you doing down there, tako-breath? Everyone is fine."

Suddenly, he could breathe again. At the sound of your voice, Tamaki began coming down from his adrenaline high, but his heart still thundered loudly, painfully in his chest. He unsteadily rose to his feet, but when he straightened, you were no longer looking at him.

It seemed that, in all the excitement, the reporters had finally remembered the mysterious figure who had charged into the building directly before the explosion. Theories were being circulated regarding who you might have been, what you might have been doing there.

The footage was being played on repeat again, your face clear and distinct, even on the tiny television screen.

Your breathing became uneven, watching as your face was plastered before the entire nation, over and over and over. Clear as a bell. There was no mistaking who it was on the screen.

"They're going to recognize me," you whispered, so quietly you almost doubted Amajiki could hear you, yet still somehow sharp enough to feel like they were cutting your throat on their way out. You could feel your pulse beneath your skin. "They're going to see, they're going to know I'm alive," you rattled. "They're gonna know. They're gonna know."

Amajiki's hands suddenly gripped your biceps forcing you to look at him. You winced, arms limp, unable to mask what you were feeling, hating yourself for your weakness, for allowing him to see it, for wanting so damned badly for his comfort but being unable to accept it. Tears had come forth unbidden, and they wouldn't stop. You couldn't stop them.

"Thank you," he said, and his voice wavered. Somehow, in the hour since you'd left, it looked like it had been he who had been through hell, sprinting through a condemned building with only a few scant minutes to spare, innocent lives cradled in the palm of his hand. "You saved them. They're all alive because of you."

"I didn't want them to die," you said in a small voice.

"I know," he replied, and his grip tightened as a beat passed. "They aren't going to get to you," he said, resolute, a new, determined set to his jaw that you had never seen before. His hands pulled you closer by your arms, and you found your eyes glued to his face. "I won't let them. I'm going to protect you."

Your vision blurred with fresh tears and you sagged, grabbing one of his sleeves to convince yourself he was real, this was real, that he meant it.

You were in danger. You knew that there was no way you wouldn't reap the consequences for what you had done that night. You knew, above all else, that this moment, this feeling couldn't last forever. It probably couldn't even last for all that long.

But, just for now, you needed to allow yourself to have it.

Safety. He felt like safety.

Chapter Text

For days, you found your mind repeating Amajiki's words like a broken record, against your will — and then again, at will, a mantra, over and over. You'd close your eyes and grasp for that feeling of complete safety, of hands that wouldn't let you go even when they shook, of eyes that held your own as if they never wanted to look away, no matter how monstrous or broken you felt yourself to be. Of a voice, so resolute and warm, promising things you never could have dreamed of, never dared to consider, never would have asked for, never sought, yet still, you wanted. Still, you needed. Trying to both understand the words, their mystifying depths and unattainable meaning, and make every syllable and breath a part of yourself, inked into your skin. To cradle them in your mind until they became solid and true, until you could grip them in undeserving fingers.

They aren't going to get to you. I won't let them. I'm going to protect you.

Even now, alone in your living room, your pulse jumped. You exhaled, your breath raw and shaky. Your chest hurt. You blocked the words from your mind. As well as you were able, anyway.

The days had continued without much ado since the incident at the warehouse — despite the fact that your entire world had been flipped upside down — that your years of anonymity had come to an abrupt, unceremonious end, for the sake of strangers. For the sake of a cause that you'd never owned, acting as a balm for the cowardice of an organization you'd always hated, who had strangled you in the dark with one hand while donning their victory laurels with the other. Who treated justice not as a goal to strive for, but as a tool that could be used to misdirect, punish, force, or pardon, depending on what suited their needs.

Lemillion's confused eyes floated to the forefront of your consciousness every time you laid down to sleep at night. Whenever the quiet in your tiny sliver of the universe began to stretch on a little too long.

Lemillion turned on you faster than a whip as you sprinted down the long isle, lined with broken machinery and loose parts and old memories. There was not a hostage in sight. "How did you get in here?" he gaped. "It isn't safe, you need to get out before —"

"Shut up," you barked. Stunned, the hero obeyed, mouth snapping shut. "There's a small closet right over there, with a hatch down to a small room. The hostages will be down there. Get them and get out, quick."

Lemillion's mouth had fallen back open, eyes impossibly wide, and had it not been for the situation, the expression may have been almost comical. "What? How could you know that, this place has been abandoned for —"

Air burned in your lungs from the sprint, igniting every frantic, hurried word as you pushed on. "Just trust me. I'm here on behalf of a friend of yours. He knows the place."

His eyebrows scrunched together. "A friend?"

"He sends his regards," you said. "Now hurry, hero. Good luck."

And with that, you'd left him to continue his rescue and had propelled yourself out of a window into a small, hidden alley, near the water's edge — but only once you'd confirmed Lemillion had stopped gawking and started heading over to the small closet Amajiki had specified. You'd gotten far enough away that you'd barely heard the detonation just a few short minutes later, but trusted that the hero had done his job. A gamble, one with his life and the lives of innocents at stake; but if Amajiki trusted him, you could try to as well. It had paid off.

After that, and then since — They aren't going to get to you, I'm going to protect you — you'd been staying safely in the apartment, even during the nights you had the couch, making wretched attempt after wretched attempt to process the chaos that still swirled and tangled in your mind from your latest dance with danger. You felt as if you were in stasis, a spectacle frozen in time by your own fear and confusion. You hadn't even gone with Amajiki to the grocery store the other day, as had become your routine, for the worry that this would finally be the time someone would see your face and immediately connect the dots and know it had been you on the news the day — that you had been the 'mysterious stranger' Lemillion had mentioned in the interviews following the rescue of the hostages, animated and bright and captivating, unintentionally weaving a web of awe and intrigue that would surely lead to your downfall. It was all too much, and things had been eerily quiet on the Commission's side, while all involved parties seemed to lay low in the aftermath of the incident, determining their next steps. The stillness did nothing to assuage your dread — it only felt like the tranquility within the eye of a storm.

The HPSC's refusal to show their faces at the expense of innocent civilian lives had not been a good look for them — something you, and every single news outlet had not let go unnoticed. They'd said nothing of their failure to so much as acknowledge the demands of the would-be terrorists. Their silence was deafening. Objectively, this latest chain of events could only help to further your goals, and yet — your victory tasted sour.

You were unsure whether or not anyone had recognized your face on the television that day or in the many after, looping and looping and looping so much it made you dizzy. Being on camera once had been a risk, one you may have been willing to take having had the opportunity to plan, but twice — in your day clothes, not knowing where the cameras were or what angles they might have had on you, and now with your every feature carved out in debilitating detail and put on display before the entire country as a result. You hoped desperately that none had recognized you... that you'd grown up enough, that you'd changed enough, that you'd been dead for long enough that the snarling faces that gnashed their teeth at you when you slept had just not noticed or just stopped caring. You doubted all of it.

You and Amajiki seemed to have mutually, wordlessly decided to stop watching the news yourselves, even if the ignorance made your fingers twitch and your stomach churn. Even if being in the midst of the unhappy marriage between anxiety and monotony left little else for you to focus your energy on but your strange housemate.

The apartment you'd called home for years had suddenly begun to feel like a place from a different lifetime — like a familiar photo now behind a filter, an old sweater patched and made new again, a favorite song remixed. All the same corners and textures and smells and notes, but fresh, appreciated through a new lens. Not unpleasant, but rather sentimental in the way that you are when you recognize that one chapter has to end in order for the next to begin. The preemptive nostalgia of leaving something behind for some terrifying, exciting, unknown next.

Something new had developed in your turbulent dynamic with the fallen hero. A new softness, in some ways — a new edge in others. It felt like comfort, but in reality, it was anything but. It was a tempest — it filled your veins with fire and your lungs with smoke.

The way your shampoo smelled so much nicer in his hair than it ever had in yours. Every flicker of dark eyes, every moment where your bare skin touched his own, every word had your skin buzzing. Every mundane thing about your everyday life had become electrifying.

So much the same, but so much different. You wondered if that something made him feel off-balance the same way it did you. You didn't know how to ask. You didn't think you should.

Amajiki had also adopted a new habit of spending a fair amount of time looking at his inert phone; resting on the kitchen counter, free from its hiding place in the ceiling, the battery once again removed so it couldn't be tracked. You weren't sure if Lemillion would have said anything to the HPSC about Amajiki's attempted call on the day of the explosion, but both you and he had decided it would be safer in the meantime to assume that he had and take extra precautions. Amajiki's expression had turned sour at the decision but he nodded in agreement, clicking the small rectangular battery out of place himself. It had rested on the counter next to the phone since.

Your thoughts drifted back to the warehouse once again. You hadn't told Lemillion who had sent you, but if he was anywhere near as good as they said he was — or, at minimum, burdened to some degree with any amount of common sense — you imagined he'd have put the mysterious "friend" and the missed calls together. It wouldn't take a genius to decide whose words you had acted on. What he extrapolated from there, however, was anyone's guess.

Amajiki had never asked about Lemillion after the rescue. Whether he truly wasn't curious or simply didn't want to know, you couldn't say.

You could smell the beginnings of dinner.

Quiet music filled the apartment, originating from the kitchen where you could hear Amajiki cooking, the soft clinking of metal and the sizzle of something in a pan on the stove. The radio you had was second-hand — if not third-hand, fifth, thirty-seventh — but even if the audio was grainy and the connection spotty, it got the job done. The channel he selected seemed to be playing oldies. Every so often, Amajiki would quietly hum along to a line or two of the songs he knew. You were sure he didn't realize he was doing it.

It was warm. Maybe not the air itself, not in this awful and unrelenting downpour, but you felt your body heat up regardless.

You wished more than anything that you could stay to join him for dinner. But you were running on a schedule tonight. Your hiatus had lasted long enough. You couldn't allow yourself to wallow any longer. Not when there was work still to be done. Not when a perfect opportunity had finally dropped in your lap.

If you were going to be taken down sooner or later anyway, you were going to do your utmost to drag them down along with you.

You padded to the front door and slipped on your rain jacket as quietly as you could, the material loud and crinkly and uncooperative. It was not quiet enough.

"Wait."

You froze, jacket pulled only halfway up your arms. You closed your eyes in defeat.

The silence between you was loud, loaded. You waited for him to speak again. He did not seem interested in rushing.

"Is it dangerous?" he asked, and his voice was closer now. You finished pulling on the jacket and turned to face him.

No matter how many times he proved you wrong, you could never quite come to terms with the fact that so much concern could ever be directed at you, for you.

You lifted your head, a proud tilt to your chin. You, at the very least, could maintain your composure. You didn't want to give him any more reason to fret; but knowing him, he'd find a way. "It shouldn't be."

He frowned, eyes narrowing at you. As reliable as the rain, he looked nervous. His arms crossed in front of him, his fist tangling in his long-sleeve shirt. "What is it?"

You sighed, carefully pruning your words. You didn't have the time or the energy to waste with an unwanted, unsolicited argument. The clock was ticking. "The Chairman has a council tonight. It will be heavily publicized and heavily guarded," you said slowly. "Which means... while her resources are focused over there, her office should be vulnerable."

He was silent for a long moment. "So you're going to break in?" he concluded. He didn't sound impressed, by any stretch of the imagination.

You sniffed, your mouth dry. "That's the idea."

The downward curve of his mouth got somehow unhappier. "Are you serious?" he said lowly. "I'm sure they are still on high alert after the hostage situation the other day. You're asking to be caught. There is no 'vulnerability', not in this."

You bristled at his harsh tone and the uncharacteristic acid. He generally avoided being so forward, and you'd never heard him call you a fool, even if he didn't actually use the word. The insinuation was there. Instinctively, you leaned forward, the challenge evident in the tension of your stance and the angle of your brow. "You underestimate me, hero."

He shook his head brusquely, showing no indication that he was ready to back down or that he was even remotely bothered by your confrontation bait, to your keen annoyance. "No," he argued. "I worry about you."

You blinked, his admission setting you unsteady on your feet. "You shouldn't. I'm still not sure why you even give a shit," you snapped, purposefully ignoring the way he winced at your vicious, barbed tone. The words rang wrong, even to you, your defensiveness sharp and ugly and uncalled for. "If I can find any sure evidence of their corruption, I can end this once and for all — and you will be free. This is my best chance to do that. Aren't you planning to ever go back or are we just going to rot in here, together forever?"

He fell silent again, his brows furrowed. He chewed on his bottom lip. Finally he exhaled, and you could almost see him deflating. "I can't go back," he muttered. "I won't. Not after what I did."

You scowled, feeling the vindictive edge — the defensive need to bite first, and hard — begin to ebb away. "What I made you do."

"It doesn't matter," he said. He agitated his hands, his hair, the collar of his shirt. "You didn't force my hand, you just set me off. I did it. People could have gotten hurt. They almost did."

"But they didn't."

"You did," he retorted. "Everyone knows I'm a monster."

This wasn't going the way you had hoped at all. Damn it, you were all tangled up. The words stung. You weren't even sure what you were arguing about anymore, but you could not help the desperate edge to your voice. "My injuries were nothing I didn't deserve. You aren't a monster."

"And you aren't a villain," he fired back.

Your shoulders slumped, fire vanquished. "I am," you said. "I did this to you. I'm the monster."

He held your gaze and shook his head, turning to walk back into the kitchen. "You're not."

You laughed incredulously, but the sound was joyless. You almost wanted to let it end there, take advantage of the opportunity he was so unsubtly giving you to make your choice, but you couldn't let it go. You hated that he knew that you couldn't let him walk away from you with those words in his wake, to let him get the final word — surely that was all it was.

You followed him back into the kitchen and watched him poke at the food that was still in the now cooling pan. "I am certainly no hero," you said to his back, trying your best to feel big when you felt so very, very small.

He didn't sound surprised at all that you had followed him, turning back to face you, crossing his arms, leaving the pan once again forgotten. "You could be."

"No," you intoned. "They don't create 'heroes' in the HPSC. They create puppets."

"This has nothing to do with them. I'm talking about you."

"What does that even mean?" you spat. "Heroes belong to the HPSC. Inextricable, hand in miserable hand. You belong to the HPSC."

"No, I don't," he clipped. "And you can't just lash out at me and say cruel things to get me to stop talking when you don't want to hear what I have to say, it won't work on me anymore. I don't trust the Commission. What I want to do is help people. What you want to do is help people. You —"

"It's not the same," you bit out.

He stepped closer to you, sighing. "It is in every way that matters."

You closed your eyes, allowing the rest of your fury to finally drain away before responding. "How can you still think so highly of me?" you asked quietly, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. You resisted the urge to pick at your clothes to give yourself something else to focus on, a self-soothing habit picked up from the hero standing before you, whose hands were inexplicably still. "After what I did?"

He considered this for a moment. You were frozen, you were burning, somehow it felt like your entire life depended on this answer. He did not take pity on your for your suffering, clearly taking the time to choose his words with intention. You didn't think you could remember how to breathe. When had Amajiki become the calm one? You wanted to do nothing more than hide your face, to protect yourself from his perception of you.

His search didn't take long. "You've made some bad decisions," Amajiki conceded. "Some mistakes. But I know you."

Was that your own pulse that you could feel, beneath the skin of your throat? "You don't."

You tried to look away again but Amajiki's gaze was like iron, gripping you, holding you in place. "You're a good person," he said, certainty punctuating each word.

You lifted your chin defiantly, but the action held no impact. When had the two of you started standing so close to one another? You didn't remember stepping closer to him. His eyes were so blue. "You don't know me."

"I'm starting to," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind went completely blank and you felt yourself shutting down. You teetered, swallowed the emotions rising in your throat. You felt dizzy. You began backing away from him. You couldn't do this, not now, not with him. "Look, none of this is important," you said, forcing a tone of finality that you didn't even believe yourself. "I'm going to be late, the Chairman –"

Amajiki didn't follow your retreat, but reached his hand out, palm up. Open. Inviting. He had never looked so sure in all the weeks you'd known him.

"Stay," he said, low, eyes gentle and earnest. He called to you with so much more than just his words. He was a sun all his own. "Please."

You couldn't tear your eyes away from his hand. There were some scarred lacerations crisscrossing his palm and his fingers, and it did not escape you that they were a result of your own sins. It had been so long before he had allowed you to so much as brush against his bare skin; so often he had flinched away from you, as though your hands were freezing or your touch laced with poison. Now he stood, not only offering his hand, but asking for you to take it in your own, scars, callouses, bloodstains, and all.

He knew what your touch was capable of, and he was not afraid.

You didn't even realize you had reached out for him, not until his fingers had curled gently around your palm, pulling you in, giving you enough freedom to pull away, if you wanted to. You didn't. You let yourself be drawn clumsily back into the kitchen, into the space Amajiki had so freely created for you in his arms, as the song on the radio changed to a soft ballad, a piano dancing up and down in a timeless cadence.

You used your free hand to stop yourself from colliding with him, palm pressed flat against his chest, and he let his other arm fall to rest around your waist.

He was warm and solid beneath your fingers.

"I wasn't going to kill her or anything," you said, focused on your fingernails, on the green of his shirt.

"I know," he responded with a quiet laugh that you could feel throughout your entire body. "I trust you."

"A terrible decision, really," you said, looking up to meet him with a smile sadder than you had intended for it to be. "I wouldn't recommend it."

His own smile wasn't sad at all. "I trust you anyway."

The song continued to play, and a voice began to sing along to the familiar melody over the radio. You weren't sure when it had begun or who had initiated it, but for the first time in your life you realized that you were dancing, or at least doing something like it. It was little more than an absentminded sway, but your skin tingled in all the places it brushed against his. You could no longer see his face, his chin resting just over your shoulder, his temple resting against your own.

He felt relaxed, comfortable. Stable. Your shoulders were still tensed, your one hand still braced against his chest to maintain some modicum of distance while the other clutched onto his, tight, anxious, uncertain. You fought to keep it together, fought to maintain your composure, fought to preserve the space between you which you needed if you were to stay sane. You didn't deserve this, this — this comfort, this closeness. But you were losing your grip and losing your footing as he steadily unraveled the remainder of your defenses without even realizing he was doing it. Slowly, you were being worn down by the lull of the music and the not-quite-dancing. You fought, but found you were still losing despite your halfhearted efforts to resist. Losing, yet again.

Since the Billboard, all you'd been doing was losing fights against this strange, complicated man.

Something within you gave way.

Like a dam which stood between an all-encompassing flood and a high-walled city; like a stone under the pressure of thousands of years of erosion. Like an ancient ruin that persevered and persevered until it couldn't bear its own weight any longer; all things, no matter how resolute and mighty, are bound to break. Some forces are too much for any pillar to bear.

You collapsed in on him like a dying star, your fingers unconsciously bunching up his shirt, claiming as much as your selfish hands could hold. You pressed your cheek into his collar, allowing his smell — so suspiciously similar to what you imagined home might smell like — to invade your senses. Your other hand, still clasped within his, pulled closer to your center of gravity — a point now shared. You allowed yourself to fall apart and believed in him to be able to fit the pieces back together again when the dust settled.

You could feel his hair tickle the side of your face. Some of it got stuck in wet tracks — tears? Were you crying?

His arms tightened around you.

You could feel him tuck his face even more firmly into your neck, the arm he'd had draped around your waist pulling you closer, impossibly closer, needy and insistent. You couldn't remember ever being held like you were something to be cherished. Like you were something that mattered. You weren't sure you'd ever been truly held at all.

You turned in towards him, your nose against his clavicle, inevitably drawn to him; as ever, gravitating towards him.

For the first time, you thought 'Suneater' just might make sense. What were you other than rubble, endlessly and tragically doomed to circle someone who burns too bright and too hot to ever allow you to truly have him? Who scorches you to get too close to?

He never once faltered, firmly but gently holding you to his chest without a hint of fear of what might happen wherever his bare skin brushed your own. You wrapped your arms as hard as you could around his middle, fending off your fear with his all-encompassing warmth and his unending, unconditional kindness.

Everything felt at once like it was slowing down and flying into hyperspeed. Everything was him, all your senses flooded by him — the song, his hands, his breath against your cheek.

You didn't deserve to find solace in him; you knew that. You didn't deserve his compassion.

But you were a villain. Since when had you cared what you deserved? Why couldn't you just take, just accept, just this once?

Somehow, you knew you had just made a painful decision. One long overdue.

Just this once.

You lifted your head, your nose and lips tracing up his jaw until your cheekbone aligned with his. His breathing stuttered. The hand clenched above his chest could feel his heartbeat, so hard now that you were shocked you couldn't hear it.

Your lips brushed against the lobe of his ear. He shivered.

You whispered a word, just one word. A word you hadn't uttered in years, a word you hadn't heard from someone else since a childhood you were never able to remember. A word that had merely been printed, alone, without the company of a family name beside the identity that had been forced upon you.

Just a word.

Just your name.

Tamaki exhaled roughly, trembling, his arm rising once more from your waist to pull you even closer to his chest, like if he tried hard enough he could tuck you away, never let anyone hurt you again. He sighed against your neck. You could feel his fingers gently carding through the hair at the base of your skull.

He whispered your name back to you, the syllables on his voice soft and reverent, closer to a prayer than anything you'd ever heard uttered in a place of worship. He drew back only far enough to touch his forehead to yours as his hands rose up from your waist to cup your cheeks, thumbs worrying at the skin beneath your eyes. He said it again. And again.

His eyes fell shut.

Your name.

Your name, your name.

Your name.

You had long since stopped dancing, the man on the radio crooning the final note of the song as it came to a graceful close.

"I think I'm —"

You pressed a finger to his mouth, halting the words before they were able to reach the little air that separated you. You couldn't. You couldn't do this anymore. You'd made your decision.

"Just this once" had to come to an end.

Your skin still burned where he had pressed your name, spoken as carefully as though the characters were made of glass, like you'd handed him a ship in a bottle on an unforgiving sea and trusted him to treat it with care. You knew he'd let himself drown if it meant keeping it safe. If it meant keeping you safe.

He'd drown, yet you were the one who couldn't breathe. You were drowning. The pressure closed in on you, wresting unbidden things from your heart, your soul.

The past broke against the plane of your back like a cresting tidal wave. The future yawned ahead of you, wide and dark and misty, pressing down upon your chest. You stood, rooted, held captive between. You could swear you felt a rib crack. You could swear you heard the wind over the precipice you were leaning over, trying to see the other side.

You finally lowered your finger from his lips. You couldn't bear it.

"I can't do this to you anymore," you said.

He pulled away from you just a little, looking at you with worry and confusion as your hand brushed along his jaw. You tried to smooth out the corner of his frown.

You could feel his breath on your lips.

The tips of your fingers tingled as you felt his pulse align with yours. You could feel something wet racing down your face, your neck, colliding with the calloused palm pressed into your skin. He leaned in, pulling you ever closer, brushing a tear away with his thumb. His breath hitched. You could feel your cheek against your palm; but it was his hand that held it.

His eyes began to grow a little unfocused as he whispered your name, one last time. You would cherish it.

"Don't do this," he murmured.

So impossibly close.

"I'm sorry, Tamaki," you whispered, your lips just barely grazing against the edge of his mouth as he began to slump onto you. Your faces felt wet, and when you felt a heart break, you couldn't tell who it had belonged to. "Goodbye."

And then he fell.