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Kurogiri’s experiences with mirrors tend to be… unpleasant, to say the least.
He does not like his reflection– the swirling mist and glowing yellow eyes. He looks everything like the creature lurking in the shadows of a child’s closet and nothing like… not that.
When he sees his reflection like this– black, purple, and gold– some traitorous little thing writhes in the back of his mind. It bangs its hands against the walls of the mental box that Kurogiri shoved it into all those years ago. It screams and wails and cries that the reflection is wrong, so incredibly wrong. He shouldn’t be– he is not– he is–
It stops screaming when Kurogiri looks away.
-
Looking without the mist isn’t pleasant either.
The first time Kurogiri had seen his reflection without his fog surrounding him, it had been 3 months since… since the beginning.
Tomura, all of seven years old at the time, had cocked his head and said, “Giri, do you have a face?”
Kurogiri had blinked, his brain processing the question unreasonably slow. Did he have a face? He must, right? He can see and smell and speak and he thinks he makes expressions– he just doesn’t notice when he does.
Oh. He had blinked. Eyelids and all. That must mean…
“Of course I have a face, Tomura.”
“Whadda you look like?”
Kurogiri felt himself frown, which, thankfully, confirmed that he did indeed have a face. He tried to think. He tried to recall a memory, any memory of his own face. Possibly before his quirk had come in? No… his mind was too hazy.
“I don’t know.”
He had meant to say it in that smooth monotone his voice falls into naturally. It should’ve been a simple, truthful admission, devoid of emotion– just another fact of many that was to be accepted without thought. Yet the three words, those three horrible words, came out as a shaky, terrified whisper. It was a messy, horrifying truth, said with more emotion than Kurogiri even thought possible from himself.
Tomura, with the naivety that only a child could muster, had tilted his head, said, “You’re weird,” and resumed the process of violently scribbling red crayon over his drawing of All Might.
That night, after Tomura was tucked into bed and all of Kurogiri’s chores had been taken care of, Kurogiri allowed himself to sit in his small bathroom with its permanent grime, harsh light, and mysterious dark stains that, maybe in a kinder universe, could’ve been dirt. He sat in front of the cracked mirror, ignoring the screaming in his mind as he clenched his jaw and fists, fighting desperately to pull the mist back into his body. He felt it start to percolate through his pores, returning underneath his skin. He saw it suck inward in the mirror, his silhouette diminishing. He could almost picture it, the mist disappearing to reveal… whatever was underneath.
Instead of seeing anything more, Kurogiri spent the night keeled over the toilet, gripping the seat with shaking hands as his body tried to purge his already empty stomach. At least the only other living thing that could have seen him in such a sorry state was the spider tucked politely into its corner.
So yes, unpleasant is the best description.
Even so, Kurogiri had continued that ritual– fruitless attempts at self-discovery followed by a few intimate hours with the toilet– each night for a week.
Finally, exactly one Tuesday after he started, just as the nausea was about to hit– he was already gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself, eyes squeezed shut in discomfort– the bile was unable to outrun the pace of his receding mist. For the first time that Kurogiri could remember, he did not feel the pressure of the fog that surrounded him– of the fog that allowed him that healthy distance between the world and himself. With the realization that his mist was gone, actually gone, his eyes shot open.
He was– he is– that was him.
He was younger than he thought he would be. Which, Kurogiri supposes, is quite strange. He assumes most people know their own age. He had believed he must’ve been an adult– The Doctor and Sensei surely expected him to carry the responsibilities of one– yet he couldn’t possibly be out of high school.
The boy in the mirror looked utterly terrified as he clutched the edge of the sink with white knuckles, his whole body trembling. Wild blue eyes– his eyes were blue– stared back at him. They were wide and shaking and full of so many more emotions than Kurogiri thought he was capable of expressing. It was unfortunate that all of those emotions seemed to be along the lines of panic and fear; but emotions are emotions, and Kurogiri will take what he can get. Beneath those eyes hung deep purple bags that were only accentuated by the singular fluorescent light above the mirror. His skin seemed– well, maybe it was the lighting– strangely washed out and oddly desaturated. For some odd reason, Kurogiri was sure his skin was paler than it had ever been before, despite it already being many, many shades darker than Tomura’s, Ujiko’s, or Sensei’s. He really did need to get more sun.
He lifted a careful, shaking hand to his head to touch the wisps of hair that framed his face. It didn’t feel like Tomura’s hair; Kurogiri’s was lighter, softer. It floated up above his head in a mass of gravity-defying, off-white curls. Matching the near-white of his hair was a white anti-congestion strip stuck across the bridge of his nose. Kurogiri, despite not knowing it was there a minute prior, immediately felt attached to it. Did he need it? He wasn’t sure. But it would stay on his nose, he would make sure of it.
The one thing that Kurogiri didn’t want to look at were the three vertical stitches above his right eye. They weren’t particularly unsightly, but there was something about them that felt intrinsically wrong. They made his mind scream in the same way his reflection with the mist did. The stitches also looked like they should hurt, and yet they didn’t, which was just another reminder that Kurogiri is... strange. Though he assumes that it would be much worse to have to experience the ache of those stitches every day, so maybe he should be grateful for his reduced sense of pain. Or maybe not. He never wants to be thankful for the Doctor.
He was getting lost in his head again. He could almost hear a chorus of familiar voices– none of which he could put a name to aside from Sensei’s– telling him to focus for once in his goddamn life.
Kurogiri stared at the boy in the mirror– the boy who was not purple and did not have yellow eyes– the boy who did not look like something of nightmares– the boy who actually showed his emotions on his face– the boy that was him– and Kurogiri, he– he threw up again.
-
That defined most of Kurogiri’s experiences with his own appearance. With his mist, something inside him screamed and cried and wailed, which was incredibly distracting. Without his mist, his stomach emptied itself relentlessly.
But some nights. Some nights, when Kurogiri’s curiosity overpowered rationality, he would sit in front of the mirror in his horrible grimy bathroom and he would remove his mist. After those first few times, when all he could do was stare, he started making expressions, twisting his face and watching as his reflection actually moved in response.
It had been almost a year since the beginning when Kurogiri made the first expression, experimentally raising his eyebrows and gasping when the eyebrows in the mirror copied the action. And wasn’t that a trip, hearing himself gasp? His voice was higher pitched like this, no longer unnaturally deep and echoing. No longer like the voices of nightmares. It felt… right. It matched his appearance, too: youthful and light.
He actually got the pleasure of hearing his ‘real voice,’ for lack of a better term, twice that night. First, when he gasped. Second, when he retched as he reached his time limit. Though that second time could hardly be described as a pleasure.
-
The next time he had looked at his mistless self in the mirror, he cocked his head. As the boy in the mirror’s head moved, the few curls that actually obeyed gravity bounced into his face. Oh. Kurogiri could feel them against his nose. They tickled. He scrunched his nose and oh… oh.
It had been glorious, how all the different parts of his face moved together. How, without trying, his eyes squinted, eyebrows lowered, and mouth raised up. In a moment of overwhelming emotion, the corners of Kurogiri’s mouth twitched up.
He slapped a cold hand over his mouth.
For a few seconds, he simply stared at himself in the mirror. Excitement, anticipation, Kurogiri didn’t know what, but something was buzzing in his gut. The fluorescent light above the mirror reflected in his eyes.
Slowly, tentatively, he lowered his hand.
His mouth was open ever so slightly, and the edges, though not turned up, were not turned down either. It was the faint beginnings of a smile and Kurogiri could do nothing but stare. Stare at the awe etched into his features, stare at the literal and metaphorical sparkling in his eyes, stare at the sheer level of emotion expressed on his face.
The bile crept up on him all too suddenly that night.
-
The time after that one, probably half a year later, he sat down in front of his mirror and raised his eyebrows. He scrunched his nose. He squinted his eyes. He... paused, his mind blanking on what else he could do with his face. Of course, Kurogiri knew other expressions existed, but he just couldn’t come up with them. He thought of the people in his life, what expressions they made recently. There was Sensei, with his eyes always curved into a knowing smile that Kurogiri was certain he could never emulate. There was the Doctor, who also smiled more than not, but his smile felt wrong. It felt intrusive and pervasive and all those other words that could describe the horrible, horrible, feeling of being one of The Good Doctor’s fascinations.
He thought of Tomura. Tomura, who had been smiling less and less. The other day, though, when Kurogiri scolded him for not cleaning his room, Tomura had stuck out his tongue. Just like that, Kurogiri had felt a wave of fondness overtake his exasperation.
Kurogiri turned his attention back to his reflection. He tried to replicate Tomura’s expression in that moment, the pride he took in defying orders that showed through in the childish way he twisted his face as he stuck out his tongue. Kurogiri closed his eyes, feeling strangely awkward about the process of forming an expression. Once he was fairly certain he had gotten it right, he opened his eyes.
For one moment, he was able to appreciate the truly unflattering way his features were scrunched. The next moment, completely involuntarily, Kurogiri ducked his head, letting out an equally unflattering snort as his cheeks pulled taught and his shoulders hunched up.
For a few seconds, Kurogiri was frozen, a storm of nostalgia sweeping him up, trying and failing to fit him, like a broken puzzle piece, into a past he could recall nothing but the freedom of childhood from. As the nostalgia faded, he slowly raised his eyes back to the mirror, not daring to move any other muscles.
He was smiling.
It was a big grin that showed both his upper and lower set of teeth, as well as some of his gums.
He was smiling.
He straightened his back, letting the smile bloom with its full potential across his face, letting it squint his eyes into crescents, letting it crinkle his nasal strip.
His reflection had never felt so perfectly right.
Later that night, while laying nauseous on the floor, Kurogiri smiled up at the cracked ceiling, feeling all the same muscles pinching. Thinking back to the video Tomura had been watching earlier that day– the one of All Might– Kurogiri felt a strange, uncontrollable urge to emulate the hero.
With only the toilet and the spider on the wall to bear witness, Sensei’s perfect servant whispered, “I am here.”
-
After that, Kurogiri developed a habit of smiling under his mist whenever he needed a reminder that… that he is more than just a void. With Tomura, he let the smile show in the squinting of his golden eyes; but with anyone else, he carefully kept the smile from reaching his eyes. He could still find comfort without completing the expression.
It was also in those immediately following months that Sensei needed Kurogiri more and more. Between caring for Tomura, running errands for Sensei, and sitting still for hours on end for the Doctor, Kurogiri had no time to look at his reflection without the mist.
That is, until about a year later. Months of planning and training had culminated in a mission specifically for Kurogiri. The mission, from Sensei’s perspective, went perfectly. Kurogiri portaled in, and three hours later, he portaled out with blood on his suit and proof that every single target had been taken care of. From Kurogiri’s perspective… well.
It is his role to serve, and he is nothing if not committed.
Sensei, as a reward, had relieved Kurogiri of his duties that night, leaving him with nothing but the ghosts of the people he had… taken care of. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them.
Some of them had been children.
In a fit of desperation, Kurogiri turned to the one thing besides Tomura (his boy couldn’t see Kurogiri like this– he could never see Kurogiri like this) that brought him legitimate joy.
So there he was, in his bathroom, clutching the sink like it was his first time seeing himself all over again. It took more effort this time to remove the mist. For a moment, he actually thought he was stuck like this– like this void– as punishment from the universe for what he’d done. But, like a breath of fresh air, the mist receded, and– and–
There was blood.
There was blood on his face.
There was blood that somehow managed to get through his mist onto his face.
It looked so wrong. The dark, dried blood on the boy in the mirror’s cheek. He shouldn’t be tainted with blood. He was supposed to be… be separate from Kurogiri’s day to day life. He was supposed to be… be innocent in all this. Somehow.
It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.
Kurogiri was foolish– so fucking stupid– for thinking that he could somehow separate his life– his life– from this reflection of him. He’s Kurogiri, Sensei’s servant, of course every single part of himself, every single aspect of his life– it’s all inseparable from Sensei’s empire.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was clawing at his face, at his cheek. He’d rip his skin off to remove the blood, he would do anything to get it to just go away.
He watched as flakes of dried blood and skin fell into the sink.
Good.
This was good.
His cheek burned.
He turned on the faucet, hands shaking, splashed the water onto the raw skin. It was cool, and for a moment, Kurogiri felt his mind slow.
Foolish, foolish, foolish.
When he lowered his hand, the dried specks of blood had turned into red drops. It was dripping, dripping down his face and Kurogiri squeezed his eyes shut– he couldn’t– he couldn’t look.
Foolish, foolish, foolish.
Why would he close his eyes? Why would he close his eyes?
Because there was the man with the pink, frilly hair tie on his wrist, pleading as he stood between his daughter and Kurogiri.
Because there was the woman holding a kitchen knife at Kurogiri, actually thinking that she would be able to stop him.
Because there was the elderly man who smiled softly when he saw Kurogiri appear, offering tea and cookies and calling him “Reaper.”
Because there was that man’s daughter, who walked in at that moment and screamed, throwing a book at Kurogiri.
Because there was the couple, crying, screaming, holding each other even in their last moments.
Because there were the children, staring in horror, shaking, as they learned that the monster hiding in the shadows of their closet was real all along.
He gasped, opening his eyes as his knees gave out.
He crumpled against the counter, shaking.
It was better like this. He could open his eyes. He could open his eyes and not see blood. Just dirty tiles.
He needed– he needed something to make things okay.
So he smiled. He felt his cheeks pinch as the corners of his mouth turned upwards but it was not enough.
He needed– he needed to see it. He needed to see that he is not just the monster in the closet, he is not just the writhing darkness.
Using one hand to cover the bloody cheek, he slowly stood up, legs threatening to give out again all the while.
His smile looked like– it looked wrong. His eyes weren’t squinted at all– they were wide open, bloodshot and terrified. The grin itself wasn’t like it should be either. It was much too wide, stretching fully across his face and splitting it in two, showing all his teeth in a way that could only be described as unnatural.
He stumbled back, shaking his head, trying to clear the image from his mind.
Is that what he looks like when he smiles under the mist to comfort himself?
His back hit the wall and it startled a laugh out of him. It was high-pitched, sharp and grating, and there was nothing happy about it. But it wasn’t deep and echoing and that’s really all Kurogiri could ask for.
He clutched his cheek harder, and brought the other hand up to his curls, pulling on them until his scalp screamed.
Oh what a sight he must’ve been.
It was kind of funny.
Kurogiri, Sensei’s perfect servant, a thing of nightmares, reduced to a half-out-of-his-mind teenager after just one mission.
Oh that was hilarious.
He started giggling quietly to himself, removing his hand from his cheek.
There was blood on it.
He laughed harder.
Kurogiri, Sensei’s perfect servant, the unfeeling pillar of rationality, losing his mind in a horrible, grimy bathroom in the dead of night.
Oh that was hysterical.
His stomach was churning now. He hunched over. Whether it was from the laughter or the feeling in his gut, he didn’t know. But he still stumbled over to the toilet, happy to take comfort in the familiarity of falling apart against its cold porcelain, privy to only the eyes of the spider in the corner.
-
After that wonderful trip, Kurogiri had started looking at his reflection sans mist less and less frequently. He had been busy, that’s what he told himself. In retrospect, it was because on the few occasions when he did look at himself, it just never brought the same emotions it used to. Besides, seeing himself with his mist had gotten easier over the years. He had just needed to give it time.
It was around six years after the beginning when Kurogiri indulged in his unobscured reflection again. While turning his head left and right, enjoying the pleasant experience of his curls bouncing against his head, he was hit with a sudden revelation.
His face was the same as it had been at the beginning. Which was six years ago.
He frowned.
He still looked like he should be off in a high school, carelessly chattering with other teens, not behind a bar wiping glasses and cleaning blood stains.
It had been years and he still looked like a child.
Of course, Kurogiri is no expert in aging patterns, yet he was fairly certain that in six years, someone with as young a face as his would have visibly matured. But he was the exact same.
His frown deepened.
Kurogiri, emotionally, had grown. He had grown into himself. He had grown into his place behind the bar, as a guardian and a servant.
So why couldn’t his body reflect that?
It was strangely painful, that the boy that he had taken such comfort in refused to acknowledge the growth that Kurogiri now prided himself in.
Before he could pursue that train of thought, and even before he could pull a single expression aside from that dismal frown, the taste of bile flooded his mouth.
-
Sensei fought All Might, and although he would never admit it, he lost. More than ever, Sensei, Tomura, the Doctor, they needed Kurogiri. Kurogiri, now more than ever, was the one holding them all together. Sensei needed Kurogiri to keep his empire running in the shadows, to make it seem like All For One died while still maintaining his power. Tomura needed Kurogiri to stop him from laying in bed all day, scratching himself until he bled. The Doctor needed Kurogiri to… just sit, unconscious, for hours at a time.
Kurogiri no longer had time for… vanity. He was busy. Additionally, he did not have the energy to go through the whole vomiting ordeal. He was needed elsewhere.
-
Kurogiri watched Tomura grow and grow and grow and– he stared at his face in the dirty mirror– and Tomura was now approaching the age that Kurogiri appeared to be.
Well.
That was a disturbing revelation.
He poked his cheek– his cheek that was still squishy despite the fact that he knows he is older than he appears.
Under the mist, he is stuck as a teenager. He is stuck with those innocently wide eyes and squishy cheeks and that stupid boyish grin that his face falls into so naturally.
It was getting harder to see this boy in the mirror as himself. It made sense for him to be that boy in the earlier days. He had been young, confused, and scared. Now he is none of those. He is Kurogiri, Sensei’s perfect servant and Tomura’s unwavering guardian. He is not some teenage boy.
Was he ever the boy?
Of course, there were the times where he found an identity, a solace, in his reflection. But he was still Kurogiri during those times. Was he ever that boy in the times before Kurogiri, in the times before Sensei, in those times characterized by a distinct lack of memories and the feeling of youthful freedom?
He does not remember being the boy.
He set his jaw, lowered his brows, straightened his back. He did not look more grown. He fixed the collar of his shirt, smoothed the folds in his vest, straightened his tie. He still did not look any bit older. If anything, it made him appear as though he was a child playing dress up in his father’s clothes.
How could Kurogiri possibly be this boy?
He brought his hands to his face and sighed into them. They were incredibly cold, and the sigh did nothing to warm them.
There was much to do after this. Sensei needed him to commit some atrocity for him, the Doctor needed to commit some atrocity on him. Tomura needed care.
He gave the boy in the mirror one final look. He looked so much like Tomura in that moment– his light blue hair, his shoulders squared in defiance, his resentful gaze, his... age.
He is not that boy.
For the first time in… for the first time ever, Kurogiri, without the looming nausea, let his mist envelope him voluntarily.
-
Kurogiri still takes time to look at the boy’s reflection in the mirror on the quiet nights. Though he does not have many of those with the recently formed Vanguard Action Squad and all the shenanigans that come with that group of barely functioning adults (and two teenagers).
They’ve been laying low recently, preparing for their attack on the training camp. And although the new additions to the League are a handful, the lack of missions does give Kurogiri more free time than he used to have.
So, as he stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom, he allows himself to be sentimental while he takes a moment to just look around the room. The cracks, tracing down the plaster of the wall, the tiles with their permanent dark stains set into the grout, the toilet bowl that he has laid slumped against on so many nights, and of course, the spider that knows all of Kurogiri’s secrets, resting in the spot where two walls and the ceiling meet.
He takes a moment to just look at himself with his mist up. This is Kurogiri. Black and purple mist twirl and twist together to create a mass of darkness not unlike a cloudy night sky. His eyes, two glowing, golden slits portray all the emotion Kurogiri needs. He is made of fog and light, black, purple, and gold. This is right. The unpleasant buzzing in the back of his mind is lying. This is right.
But, he must admit, a small part of him still wants to see the boy. He knows the League’s activities will pick up after they attack the training camp, and this might be his last chance to see the boy in a long time.
So, with practiced ease, he lets his mist dissipate, retreating under his skin.
The boy is the same as ever. Wide blue eyes, off-white curls, washed-out bronze skin, the nasal strip across the bridge of his nose, the stitches above his eye. He still makes some warm feeling bloom in Kurogiri’s chest. It’s some mix of nostalgia and fondness for his younger self. Yet he no longer sees himself in this boy. He still feels attached to him, yes, but in the way one appreciates a beloved staple of their childhood, not as an identity.
He tilts his head, letting the curls that normally frame his face bounce against his nose. He raises his eyebrows. He scrunches his nose. He squints his eyes. He sticks out his tongue. He allows his expression to morph into a small, soft smile at the memory of his own bright grin.
He finds that now, when he smiles under his mist, it is not to remind himself of his own humanity, but instead because he is content. The League, although a bit of a handful, truly is a source of joy for both Tomura and Kurogiri.
He remembers when he smiled for the first time. He remembers laying on the cold tile that night, smiling and whispering the words of a man that he has now tried to kill.
Oh, how he has grown.
And that brings him back to the boy. The boy who has not grown. He cannot help but wonder why the boy does not age. He cannot help but wonder so many things about the boy.
He cannot help but wonder his name, if it is not Kurogiri.
He cannot help but wonder the origin of that scar.
He cannot help but wonder why the boy’s skin lacks that lively sheen that even Tomura has.
He cannot help but wonder why he is so cold to the touch.
He wonders why, out of all people, that boy is him, why that boy is Kurogiri. Why is a boy, a teenager, with such innocent eyes and a grin like the sun Kurogiri?
Why, why, why, under the mist, is there somebody who is more than just Kurogiri? Why is there a child? Why is there a child that does not age, a child with a scar, a child that has not once been warm?
He thinks of that first violent mission Sensei sent him on. He thinks of himself, in this spot, falling apart at the seams as the boy lost his innocence in Kurogiri’s mess of a life, sentenced by that mark of blood on his cheek. He thinks of the ghosts behind his eyelids that have still not left him.
He thinks of the children. Oh, the children. Their terrified eyes as their lives, their lives that were so happy and ignorant of the horrors of the world, were cut so short.
Why, why, why?
Kurogiri has an inkling of an answer.
It is a repulsing, terrifying thought. It stains his clothes with dried blood. It covers his skin with the ghosts of maggots. It fills his nose with the overwhelming, the familiar, smell of formaldehyde.
The boy in the mirror’s eyes are wide and terrified– like Kurogiri’s eyes were the first night he saw the boy’s reflection, like the eyes of those children were the last time they ever saw anything. Bile is crawling up his throat now, threatening to spill past the hand, the freezing hand, he covered his mouth with.
He spends the night in the cold embrace of the tile and toilet bowl, surrounded by the fluorescent light and grime, and under the protective gaze of the spider in the corner. In the same intrinsic way he knows what is right and what is wrong, Kurogiri knows, deep down in his bones, that this is not because his time limit is up.