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It’s cold.
The rain is back. Or is it. Izuku can’t tell anymore; the lines are blurry again. Either way his socks are wet.
He chuckles.
Soggy socks.
He stops laughing.
Izuku's feet are cold, numb even. Where is he again? It’s quiet for a second before… it’s not. A shrill noise pierces through the air, shattering the silence. He drops what he was holding to cover his ears. What was he holding again? He can’t remember. The icy wind nips at his exposed fingers. Someone hands him a gun and tells him to get down. A gun. A gun!? Why does he have a gun? Everybody is yelling. Why are they yelling? Why is he yelling?
It’s cold.
“You need to get out of the house more,” Shouto says, monotone, standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
“My feet are wet,” Izuku chuckles. “Soggy socks.”
He ignores Shouto and continues to face the window. Shades of grey fill his vision. The abstract lack of colour makes his head hurt. The never-ending colourless skies, they keep going and going and going. Why don’t they stop. Shaking him from his thoughts is Shouto’s hand on his shoulder. Izuku turns to face him and sees tears forming in his eyes. They grow and grow before a stray trickles down his face. He catches the droplet on his fingertip before throwing it away in the hope that Izuku doesn’t see it. But he does. It reminds him of something. Of liquid crystal. Of rain.
“Where is the sun?”
He didn’t mean to say that out loud. He made it worse.
Violent sobs rack through Shouto’s body. His grip loosens on Izuku's shoulder but tightens on the doorway, like he might collapse if he lets go. Like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him stable. Izuku can’t blame him. The doorway is years old. They’ve lived in this house since they moved out of the dorms. It hasn’t changed a bit.
He has.
Seems the only thing that hasn’t changed is his ability to make Shouto cry. He made him cry before he left. Izuku didn’t like it. It felt like he was drowning. In despair, or perhaps guilt. He doesn’t like it now. But right now, it’s the only stability he has. They have. However, the longer it continues, the louder the rain gets.
He doesn’t like rain.
“It’s alright Sho,” his pitiful attempt at consoling him.
“It’s not alright,” he hiccups “You lost your arm.” And your humanity.
The last part isn’t said but they both hear it. The comment about his arm he doesn’t mind too much. Afterall, he can’t remember what happened to it, only the blinding whiteness and the sudden disorientation. Well as for his humanity. He doesn’t like to think about that.
Its torturingly easy to slip back into old habits. War is simple . No one’s feelings get hurt because no one can feel. But he can, Shouto that is, and it makes him ache. In pity or jealousy, he can’t say. Sometimes he feels hollow. If someone dropped him, he’d smash into tiny little pieces which would blow away in the wind. Shouto would try to glue him back together but it’s in vain, too many pieces are missing. Like an incomplete puzzle that lays forgotten in the cellar. Maybe the rats will come and nibble on him. On his feet and his wet socks.
He chuckles.
Soggy socks.
And then… there’s something. It sounds like a distant thump on a window. It’s probably Shouto but he can’t concentrate. The only occupying his mind is his soggy socks. With the pitter patter of rainfall.
Drip. Drip. Drip
The rain.
I suppose it always loops back to the rain.
It’s cold.