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It's been a rainy day.
The currently in-schedule group had just gotten the luxury of time to stay on the ground, peacefully. It's been more of a switch between 'getting to breathe the fresh air within the proximity of merely a few inches among the clouds at the minimal level of speed two hundred kilometers per hour' and the literal definition of eating shit so far.
Their clothes are soaked, all ragged and muddy. If it wasn't for the map setting of the place where they are fighting this giant piece of a to his master so-delightfully dedicated monster, Shuichi is almost completely sure— no cheats sheet attached— that Compress would have already run the highway just to get his hands; minding the prosthetic, on some freshly scrubbed change of clothes.
That was one of the character traits that Compress possessed so admirable and polar facing Shigaraki's.
They've been fighting for days already, yet the League's designed and arranged positions-switching schedule— which has really been more of a short-cut dialogue due to the factor of being thrown around by a huge sack of rocks— allowed the members to take some useful time to rest and get ready for the other exhaustion filled mouse and a cat game in-between switching with the other group.
But, there's been an exception. More exactly two, because Dabi has seemed very keen on tending to his new so-called 'recruit' rather than throwing fireballs at the gigantic monster. To be honest, he believes Toga's note to be rather correct. Dabi seemed very displeased by the fact that his deadly flames did a very absolute, complete nothing against their opponent. Yeah, he was sulking for sure.
But, his teammates are also not blind. You would have to have lost all of your senses not to notice the destruction that Dabi's quirk is spelling upon him. The way the flames eat away at his body.
Dabi has never attended to any of their very work-not-related meetings or joined their friendly banter. It's almost like whenever that happens, Dabi's just never there. Mostly not psychically, but sure as hell never mentally. Sometimes, not that Shuichi would ever admit that out loud, he wishes he was closer. Not just to him— he is almost quite sure the guy despises him, with Shuichi reasonably returning the sentiment half-heartedly— but all of them.
Because no matter which facade he has decided to put on in the matter of at least a slight iota of chance at surviving in the unrelenting environment bred out of the supposed 'heroism', Dabi didn't seem like the type of a guy that had just been birthed and thrown into the society with no background and narrative to tell, to see. Everyone in the League has had their reasons to wring out the current state of living. They haven't been just shapeless, micro-somethings soaring through the atmosphere, waiting to grasp onto a vacant, soulless frame and take onto its form, promptly settling without a resolve for just chasing destruction.
So yes, surprisingly, they've also had human needs. Human emotions. Nobody's ever turned an eye to that, though.
If you've ever seen the very definition of an antisocial, rejected, and societally unacceptable loner, you surely might've just seen Shuichi.
So, he pretty much knows how it feels to be lonely.
To never have friends to call, to never have anyone to sit in class with. Man, God forbid anyone just notice him. He knows how easy it is to just shut off and pretend nothing's bothering him. To just ignore his surroundings, wander into his mind, and think about all the levels he still hasn't unlocked in his new pre-ordered game.
To seem– to be distant. Keep everyone at an arm's length, not really trying to find a way to talk to people.
He knows how it hurts.
That's why he half doesn't believe Dabi's bullshit. Surely, the League can get fairly obnoxious sometimes— there's only as much of social rejects' presence you can handle— minding a good chunk of the people's companionship can get mildly, so to say, overwhelming. Especially if you're not a social person yourself. But whatever's in Dabi's head stays in his head.
Yet still, he wishes they could all be close, to spend time together outside of some occasional federal crimes. They were an alliance, and even if the kick-off had been just a troop of pawns sloshed together by Shigaraki and All For One with one and singular goal in mind only— to destroy All Might— they've become, sorta, inseparable. Something akin to a familial group; a family.
He's never, ever in his life found what he did within the League. He would never think that having an overly energetic, seventeen years old high-school dropout girl breathing down on his neck constantly, spouting about the newest picture of her crush that has dropped on all the news websites about the Ryukyu's Agency's newbie interns and how her recent costume addition is just so cute, would ever make the faintest smile pull on Shuichi's snout.
Never once would he be foreseeing that a dancing thirty-year-old singing in an obnoxiously high-pitched tone, kept in the safety of his mask, would make him snort in laughter.
Nor that even the older— though just slightly— man, who at first glance might only seem to wallow in his own self-image and theatric persona, would silently make sure all of them have all they need with the tiniest hint of fatherly affection.
Or, that the man, who Shuichi has previously just deemed was very creepy, unreasonable, and childish, would be talking to him at night in their so-loved, cool, and camp game language about the newest strategy he's had just planned for challenging the quest named Gigantomachia.
And Shuichi would just be there, half-asleep and beaten up and exhausted, leaning onto one of the many trees they've just taken a shelter under, listening to him with a wist of hope in his eyes.
And, just how much it would hurt to lose their Big Sis Mag.
It's been a critical hit for the entire team.
If you put aside the strategical matter of things, resolving in a damaging loss of an aced front-liner like Magne, she wasn't called the 'Big Sis' for nothing. She was a very compassionate, caring, strong, and fair-minded person. Though, on the outside a tough and scary being, she's had such tenderness to her soul that Shuichi almost couldn't believe it. She was always there, for any of them. Ready to watch Compress' card performance show or talk with Toga about their crushes.
But she was also present when Twice was splitting. Tending to Toga just when her period came and she was writhing in pain because they couldn't afford even goddamn painkillers.
It was those times when Shuichi has wished for society to see. To know how it was like. To always have to be in check, not being able to afford for your gaze or any of your five— including the sixth— senses to falter. To find a way to be careful around breathing. To be at the bottom of the food chain. Be the project that has been scrapped and long forgotten. To have been discarded, because you didn't fit all the exact criteria. But ever since they weren't thrown into this world with the luxury, society hasn't really been keen on giving a shit.
Unless you are 'normal'. Or up to the point where your mutation is still deemed acceptable and aesthetically pleasing.
Like, maybe, some huge red wings. Eyemarks in the shape of a fine eyeliner work. Cute bunny ears. Or, a cotton-like button bunny tail.
Nobody wants to see past those features.
Face formed into a snout? Sharp, thick claws and ugly, green scales littering the entire body? Nobody is interested in that. That's not cute. Nor hot.
People have already set their standards. The hero society did. And that they are exclusive, abandoning and looking down upon those who don't fit them, doesn't matter.
Because, in the end, there will always be a hero to save the day, ain't that right?
Fighting Gigantomachia wasn't easy, really. For any of them. But the most exasperated wounded up Shigaraki. The guy didn't seem to have an ounce of luck in his for years isolated-in life.
"Fuck! You good, man?" Shuichi had just gotten done disinfecting the last of his deeper scratches. It had stung a little bit, sure, but nothing he wouldn't be able to manage. He wasn't really intrigued in tending to all of the minor injuries, that wasn't really in the application of when he has joined the spacious circle of villainy. There was no time to waste any time, especially not now.
But, he also couldn't risk any infections that could spread very fast and seep throughout his entire system. They absolutely couldn't afford to lose anyone as of now, not when Shigaraki's already at the very brink of an exhaustion-induced blackout.
"Huh? .. yeah," Shigaraki slurs.
God, that sounded extremely convincing. The guy's one cathartic mile away from splitting his head open on the rock he's leaning against. And, so to speak, he isn't in a very decent shape right now. Like, even less than usual.
There's sweat beading at every inch of the boss' body, at the seams of his cuts and scratches meshing into a watery, red-tinted secretion. His eyes are completely out of focus, the veins zigzagging along his eyeballs bloody red, distinctively matching the color of his orbs.
To be truthful, Shuichi's been keeping an eyeful on the leader for a good portion of time already. He's been noticing how each day, each round he and the others repeatedly exchange among themselves to help him defeat Machia, his movements get sloppier. His skin gets more irritated from being constantly exposed to the humidity and not having a decent clean-up in a while. The syllables on his tongue meshing together, sometimes producing absolutely incoherent sentences. The odor of sweat, blood, and dirt getting riper.
Yet, he's still standing. Confident as ever, withstanding even the harshest of conditions. A gleam of hope in his eyes. Always a step closer to the future, the one he's promised to show them.
"Feel like.. we're gettin' closer," Shigaraki prompts himself up straight on his wobbly legs, swaying a little before stretching his arms above his head, neck craning upwards, releasing a sigh that has just very suspiciously sounded like a repressed yawn.
It was just at that moment, though, when a bit of Shigaraki's bare abdomen got revealed with the stretch of his body, that Shuichi has noticed the real nasty cut sitting, glistening in the reflection from a sturdily growing, very amateurishly hand-crafted fire pit, barely a little slightly above Shigaraki's right hip bone.
Not really keeping his mouth to himself, Shuichi's had the need to point out the gash. "Hey, you're bleeding," he proclaimed sheepishly with a hint of worry. Shigaraki has thrown a non-committal stare his way, stilling in his own movements. "Where?" there was a frown and question forming on the boss' features. God, why was this becoming so awkward?
Shuichi lightly bit on his tongue, as though to stop the motion of his incoming swirling, unwelcoming thoughts. He's slowly raised his scaled, gashed arm, pointing in the direction of Shigaraki's stomach, "There," he'd blurted out, eyes dashing to literally any other direction than the figure standing ahead of him.
Does Shigaraki think he's weird? Fuck, maybe he will think he's a creep, staring down his leader's body the second the most minuscule hunk of skin gets revealed. Will he make fun of him, get angry?
No, that's definitely not it. They're friends— colleagues, teammates, or something like that— they've played and talked about games together, sometimes just about themselves, other stuff. And they've had fun, right? Shuichi's enjoyed it, so must've Shigaraki, there's no way he doesn't like him, right? God, but that was before— what if it's now, this fragment of moment where he converts to hating him? What if he——
"Huh.. ?" a pregnant pause, "That.. ?" Shigaraki's voice like a distant bell ringing in the distance. "'S nothing."
And, that's it. That's literally all Shigaraki says before hitting his back back against the rock, gradually letting his body surrender under the spell of weariness and, slide down till he's sitting on the dirty ground, the tail of his coat crumpled and smushed behind and beneath him.
It's like Shuichi's expression melts, in a very, very absurd and comical way. Of course, he's just looked too far and too deep into things, as, not at all surprisingly, always. Why the hell would the boss even think about things like that? At what point would he have to start doubting his teammate's intentions if all he's done was just warning him about an injury? This was ridiculous, he was ridiculous.
Spinner? To spin his fate towards a brighter, justice-filled future? Yeah, all he's wanted to do now was to spin his neck till it broke and he wouldn't have had to spend just another millisecond wallowing in his own embarrassment and stupidity.
Take a deep breath, idiot.
"I just mean, y'know— it ain't looking any good. Ya sure you don't wanna get it checked? It could get real nasty, and, uh, yeah... Like, infections and stuff, yeah. It can hurt a lot." If Shigaraki still hasn't been convinced of Shuichi's clumsiness, he could rest well-assured now.
The night cold breeze has been shuffling with the leaves, still hopelessly hanging onto the tree's body. Sometimes, a particularly weightier hit would force its way throughout the darkened sphere, wash their faces in a not-so-nice wave of frigid chills.
"Get checked where? We're literally in the middle of the mountains," Shigaraki raised an eyebrow at him, a bit of sarcasm cutting its way through his words. Yeah, this was going to be a long night. And so much not a long rest, with whatever time they had left before Machia would wake up and sprint to his manic journey again.
He has to ask Compress once he gets back from collecting some more wood for their little fireplace. He's almost sure he was so eager to volunteer and insist on going alone just to get a breather and some time for himself. And maybe, in some very subtle and inconspicuous way, to make sure the two youngsters in the group wouldn't have had to strain themselves more than they have already. After all, he could just easily compress everything into weeny marbles and not care about the weight, nor amount of it.
And, probably, 'cause he loved to make a show out of everything. Whether it was just decompressing a few marbles and throwing its contents into a laughable excuse of a fireside.
As a villain, and as a person with not-so-flattery mutation, Shuichi has faced a fair amount of injuries. Whether from fighting for his life and freedom with the heroes or facing the cruel ostracization of his classmates.
Because apparently, having rough scales instead of smooth skin had manifested a stick-note on his forehead encouraging them to 'touch, rip, stab'.
It suddenly gave his classmates the permission to try and slide their scissors through his skin, wipe sandpapers back and forth to see if his scales would start coming off. Laughing it off and offering him the lame excuse of just 'speeding up his shedding process'.
"How could you even feel that, Iguchi?"
"God, ew— !"
"Look, guys! That's disgusting!"
Sprinting to his home right as the bells rang, locking up in his bedroom and hiding his tears. Carefully washing out the gashes, covering them up. This was the usual. And nobody's cared to notice, point out, say something. Willingly choosing to stay quiet and keep on pretending that nothing's happened. So, what would Shuichi speaking up do? When no one around him bothered to even pretend to care. Not his classmates, not his teachers.
So, he surely did gain some experience skills by the time he's settled in for the next part of his life. And he was eager to help his friend out whichever way he could. The one who's never once had any stupid remarks about his appearance, who believed in his strength, who Shuichi respected and he respected him in return.
The one who's promised him to show the future.
And he's ready to be there to see it, along, by his side.
"Well, I mean, I could.." Shuichi restarted his thinking gears to function and kick in properly, "Check it out. I could— I should, I think? Like, so you don't potentially wake up with sepsis,"
and now, what was more stupid? Forcing his way through to see his boss' injury, actually believing the guy would get an ounce of sleep or implying he might die in a few hours? He ponders about whether restarting the gears was really that good of an idea.
Not that he's had that much of a time to actually come to a resolution, because Shigaraki's just at that moment decided to uncover his abdomen yet again, now with an intention to actually observe the injury. Shuichi, unfortunately, couldn't break his own stare away.
"'S fine, not that deep, don't worry," Shigaraki's apparent attempt at reassuring him has done really no wonders because Shuichi is unmistakably sure that even if Shigaraki's just gotten speared right through the stomach, he would claim that he's alright and just go on with his melancholic, daily life. "You should rather crash it right here and get some shut-eye, that gorilla's gonna come back to haunt me soon," Shigaraki prompted him, still panting slightly.
"I'd love to do that, but, I don't wanna wake up next to a goner," Shuichi's just decided to play the hard mode and get Shigaraki to surrender. What he said he also quite literally meant, infections shouldn't be just taken as a minority. It can in fact kill people, and he wouldn't like to wake up and see his boss already passing by the great gates of heaven or wherever the hell it'd take him.
Shigaraki's shirt was already back down, covering up Shuichi's aim, just modestly breaking his resolve, but he wouldn't back down now. He's already had the bomb, now was the time to defuse it.
"Look, I can just take a look at it, check if it's really not that bad. And if it ain't, we can just crash it right here, a few seconds wasted for the greater good. Better than fighting the beast while being in pain, yeah? I have some of the first-aid stuff in my bag right here, it won't take long if any treatment's needed. Either way, you're gonna walk out of this like a new, stronger you. Deal?" he's presented him with fair trade, he couldn't refuse. No matter how much goddamn pain Shigaraki's capable of sustaining, nobody's comfortable with it, especially if put under the circumstances of a constant exertion of one's body. And not having an additional strain to his resolve, he has a higher rate of clearing up the level. He's sure he must be aware of that, Shigaraki's not dumb. He's strategical, has a way of conquering almost each and every obstacle obscuring his final vision.
Shigaraki shuffles in his place, biting down viciously on his dry lower lip, threatening for the skin there to rip and start bleeding out, "God, this is a pain," he mumbles, but after a few seconds of thorough contemplating, he adds with narrowed eyes and a slight pout sneaking onto his features, "cut."
Shuichi's immediately got to work. He nodded very, very excitedly— hoping he didn't seem way too eager— and walked over to the bag he's brought with himself; a very generous gift from the doctor for each of the members.
Too bad he wasn't that thrilled about sharing some bigger amount of cash with them.
Well, the ones at the bottom gotta nourish from the scraps.
He sorted through the necessary goods, suddenly realizing just how bad it was. There was only really just barely to-the-half-filled bottle of water, waiting for either to be consumed or used as a cleaning supplement for the worse of the wounds. Then, only two remaining gauze pads and three plasters. Yeah, that was it.
What the fuck.
Maybe he should've just turned a blind eye to the previous of his injuries.
Hell, the majority of them had been just stupid scratches, not even remotely deserving of reclaiming the term of 'an injury'. But he's also wanted to be sure that, just in case, he wouldn't catch an infection and his assistance wouldn't grow flimsy.
He's internally cringing at his own, for better or worse, lack of judgment. This just results to manifest as faint creasing of his eyes, no more or less.
Well, he's gotta work with what he has as of now. He grabs the stuff and advances to the spot Shigaraki's leisurely occupying.
He observes how his rail-thin body rests against the rock, knows it can't be even in the slightest comfortable.
"So, what's good, doc? 'M I dying yet?" Shigaraki takes on the wisenheimer-like act, not failing to pull a quiet sigh from Shuichi. He ponders whether even the creepy doctor gets worked up by him sometimes.
But he also doesn't really wanna know under which circumstances Shigaraki got to encounter the freak in the first place. Just the image alone hadn't failed to give him the chills.
"Man, I ain't even got the time to get a closer look yet," he muses, "can I, um?" he lets his hand dangle dangerously close to the range of the wound where it's still covered by the fabric of Shigaraki's shirt in question, or at least where he recollects he saw it that fraction of minutes before.
Shigaraki's eyes blink towards him, all of a sudden consuming the entirety of his peripheral vision.
It's always been like this, lately.
Whenever he lets his stare wander towards the leader's face, he just can't break himself away from it. He observes and takes in the sharp structure of his nose and eyes.
The way the upper side of his face is eaten away at by the dryness, his features suddenly embedding a sarcastic-like look of oldness, any detected creasing of his forehead suddenly oh-so recognizable.
The tiny curl of his translucent lashes, the residence of his thin brows you could ever notice sitting there at all only if you stood close enough.
The face— and body— littered in scars, the most prominent ones adorning his right eye and the left corner of his lips. Where did they come from?
Contrary to the lip scar, a tiny mole decorating the right side of his chin.
The worn, scarred, and broken look not at all resembling a young man in his twenties, but rather a person who's had the weight of the world's and past's resentment on their shoulders. Someone so young striking towards something so ancient.
It's evoked something in Shuichi; the embedded, dark circles under Shigaraki's eyes, the blood vessels expanding past it each day.
How thoroughly exhausted he's looked.
That's why he's been striving harder than anything to help embody the vision of the boss' desired future and society. He's always wished to help anyone that's decided to take such a harsh burden upon their shoulders in the name of revenge and justice, reveling in making the hero society pay its debts harshly, never once faltering away— to help his friend.
Shigaraki's gaze suddenly takes a skip in the opposite direction, nodding and muttering a tight-lipped yeah, finding an interest in the nearby trees lightly dancing along with the wind.
"'kay," Shuichi mutters back and gets to uncovering the gash. It still feels kind of weird, to be in this close of proximity to the boss.
Sure, they've played some games together, talked about some newcomers as well as the good ol' classics, and all that jazz, but this was not really as much of a light-hearted conversation as much as taking care of the boss' wound.
Shuichi would've been lying if he said he didn't feel an alien heat creeping up his face and hands, suddenly being delightfully grateful for the heteromorphic gecko-like features that saved him from the bothersome possessing of sweat glands.
He took the fabric very carefully in-between his claws, slowly revealing the injury.
A horizontal line of an uneven cut was set right above the hip bone, ending right where the happy trail had started growing in— God, he was absolutely not getting worked up over that!
He's pretty sure he's getting flustered 'cause he himself very much lacks pubic hair, right? Yeah, that's definitely it. He's just not that used to it, s'all.
He's just.. observing.
His eyes swiftly check if Shigaraki, by any ungodly forces, shifted his gaze back by the time Shuichi's lifted his shirt up and was now getting ready to send his teammate to bite the dust for explicitly staring at his pubic hair.
But, by some unexplainable amount of sheer luck, he is still— with his eyes half-lidded already — taking delight in the sight of nature. Shuichi's not really sure since when did the boss become so invested in any of the earthly creations, but he's grateful for it now. He doesn't know how he would cope with having the overwhelming, fluttery-feeling-inducing stare kept fixed onto him while simultaneously trying to fix the very owner of it up.
The gash wasn't anyhow huge, but definitely not minuscule either. He really wishes he's had some stitches on him to sew the wound altogether, but he highly doubts it'd even stay in place for more than 3 hours, given how much movement Shigaraki is in every day.
He brings out the gauze pad he's gently caressing in his fingers, soaks it in the little water he's had left, and hopes his non-professional treatment will be enough for the time remaining. It was still better than leaving the wound to just sit there and disregard it completely; as was without a doubt written in Shigaraki's mental 'to ignore' list.
To make sure Shigaraki's not uncomfortable, or startled—, even despite that sometimes, he starts to forsake the very existence of those reactions with just how unbothered the leader seems to be capable of getting looking at the fact he's been now getting thrown around either in the air or through the ground for weeks persistently without a complaint— he announces a little here we go before coming to lay the first pat at where the skin's torn, looking at how the dried blood stays still in its place meanwhile the fresh, thicker beads seeping directly from its source soak up into the pad instantly.
He stops before the second, checking in whether the boss has already passed out or was just not keen on handing in any response— Shuichi's already seated on his knees, there's only as much time you can handle crouching on your feet before the knees start giving out and the position gets very uncomfortable— only to find out that, for his worst of fears, the boss is looking at him.
Maybe, for some cursed reasons, a better-fitting term would be 'halfway on his stride to the land of unconscious relishing in the sight of his friend kindly tending to his laceration' as some poetic, romance fanatic might've named it.
That is, for the sight, he's taking in right now.
The recognizable tilt in Shigaraki's head, the slightest part of his lips as his muscles start giving in and relaxing dutifully, and the unidentifiable look in his bleary-eyed gaze as he's staring Shuichi right in the eyes.
It's not the usual mocking, menacing staredown he gives his enemies or basically anyone who's not one of the trustworthy members of the League, who he deems dangerous and unworthy of his time— no, this is way different. It's polar, to be exact.
There is fondness and an indescribable hint of softness clutching onto the creases of his skin. The tiniest smile laying there.
And frankly, Shuichi's sure he's not capable of moving anymore.
His system's shut down. Unresponsive.
The only thing he can make out is the distant cracking of the fire consuming little wood sticks to nourish its strength and fuel it. The light it's casting enveloping Shigaraki's face in an anarchic cluster of shadows, yet, somehow, still managing to paint out the most gracious of his features.
To, not-so-and-yet-so-kindly, remind him of who he desires.
Stirring up the feelings he's forced down his throat and swallowed, to be never seen nor felt again.
Yet, here he is, remembering just how much he's come to admire Shigaraki.
Here, fighting against Machia alongside him.
Back in Ujiko's lab when Shuichi finally felt as though someone's had really understood his feelings, relived them, and promised to destroy them. Destroy their origin. To destroy it all.
Back when Shigaraki and the rest of League fought the Creature Rejection Clan; that very embodiment of society's disregard and intolerance. As though they were fighting for him. Helping Shuichi to get rid of those phantoms of the past and present.
He's sure his eyes must be blown wide, but Shigaraki doesn't seem to dwell on that. Moments later, there is a light, graze-like feeling on his hand, not quite discernable where it's coming from.
Until the stupid controls of his click in his brain and he realizes along with directing his gaze down that it's two of Shigaraki's fingers gently brushing against Shuichi's very own hand, the one that's now stopped in its tracks of tending to the wound.
His fingers are tender, slim, frail-looking. Long and unkept nails with choppy lengths due to the not-so-gentle daily scraping against his own skin in a distressed manner. The pads and palms calloused and ragged, the dried sweat and dirt leaving a sticky feeling.
Yet, this might've been the most tender touch he's been given since a long, long time ago. He doesn't have any time to process what's happening before the words coming from his boss' mouth strike even harder.
"Thanks, 'pinner," he slurs, and with that— with the smile and soft expression still adorning his face— succumbs to the restless need of sleep. The curtains of his bangs almost sheepishly hiding some portion of his vision, as though to protect him from something.
His fingers hadn't moved away from Shuichi's hand.
He has no idea how did he even finish the task at hand with all the bubbly and giddy feelings
swirling around in his head— causing his tongue to peak out involuntarily out of happiness and
excitement— but somehow, he did. He's at least plastered Shigaraki's wound after cleaning it up
properly hoping it stays, to a degree, remotely safe and clean to not cause him any troubles later.
After that— with Shigaraki unwillingly falling stuck in-between a sitting and laying position which
had looked almost painful to be and even more to sleep in— he's placed his bag right
against the rock and gently situated Shigaraki to lay his head on it. He's already all covered in
dirt anyways, just as the rest of them, so there's not really any need to worry about how clean his
clothes stay. Still, for the injury, he makes sure Shigaraki doesn't turn around in his sleep on the
bad side and accidentally doesn't push on the now freshly covered wound.
Ready as ever with the ragged, red blanket he tends to keep around in his bag during his shifts—
it doesn't do much, given that they all have to sleep on the grimy ground which is already in itself
extremely uncomfortable but is still nice as a source of warmth during the cold, winter days
which are like a really antsy pain in the ass, especially for a cold-blooded individual like Shuichi—
he cocoons Shigaraki in it, pulling it all up to his chin, hoping it does keep him warm, too.
The universe's already decided for him, he is in fact not getting any sleep tonight. But he doesn't
pay it that much mind, he can sleep it off once they switch again.
He settles for seating himself against the rock as well, right next to Shigaraki's right side;
mindful of some of the hands including Father occupying the space, and surrenders to the
exasperating train of thoughts.
But he, without the ability to stop himself, at last reaches out his hand, slowly carding his claws
through Shigaraki's hair, listening to the sound of his slightly strained breathing, now with a wist of
hope in his heart.
And if, after a delightful, night saunter through the mountain woods, pockets full of marbles
filled with quite a decent amount of firewood Atsuhiro fortuitously disrupts the rather
intimately-domestic exchange of the two youngsters?
The secret will stay with him and himself only.