Chapter Text
There are posters for a singing competition on the wall. Every inch of brick has been plastered by colorful propaganda, even in the poorest part of the town. It makes for a strange sight to behold, gray buildings suddenly covered by little squares of orange and blue, catchy slogans replacing old tags. The paper is vibrant with colors: whoever has put up those posters has done so recently, perhaps even just the day before.
Dabi wonders if they knew that their carefully polished communication would be ruined by beggars searching for fuel for their fire. Probably not.
The sun has just set. The chill of the night has arrived. He is among others around a fire, though out of necessity more than fellowship. They take turns feeding the flames while others sleep, speaking in whispers. Of what, Dabi doesn’t care. Hunger is carving a hole in his stomach, the cold is making his scars painful and stiff, and conversation is the last of his preoccupations. That is, until someone gives the idea.
“The inscription opens really late. Do you think they’re handing out food to those who wait? Like, chips? “
“Yeah, and tea and canapés while you’re at it.”
Dabi snorts. He isn’t the only one, it’s a stupid idea. Soon enough, the subject is dropped for another one. Still, it stays in his mind, and when he picks up a stack of posters, he finds himself looking at the smiley face of the Voice hero: Present Mic.
There was a time when he used to listen to the radio show of Present Mic, back when he was still in a house that never felt like a home. His mother liked his show, often listening to it while cooking, humming along her favorite songs. Sometimes, the hero talked about quirk discrimination, or hosted events in favor of the quirkless population.
Someone like that, who would become a tad bit too defensive when debating about whether to let disabled people become heroes, someone like that, naïve and optimistic in equal measure, might be capable of handing out free food at some random music competition.
If not, well. Maybe by signing up, he would gain shelter from the cold of the night for one or two days. Easy as that.
(In his memory, his mother sings with him the songs from the radio, with a voice as pure as her ice. He doesn’t think about it.)
***
The night of the audition, it’s clear that he isn’t the only one who was willing to bet on Present Mic’s friendly personality. Among those waiting near the entrance, there is a group of people who stand out like a sore thumb, with greasy hairs and dirty faces from long days on the street. A man in a black jumpsuit, perhaps a hero, is talking to what appears to be the leader.
Dabi makes the executive decision that this is not his problem. Because of the infection risk that are his scars, he keeps himself as clean as a homeless man can be. It makes blending in with the regular crowd easier. With a face mask and a sweater too long for him, he barely stands out.
At least that is what he thinks, until someone starts talking to him.
“Hey now, are you going to compete in those clothes?”
She is a giant of a woman, even more so next to him, whose growth has been stunted by life in the street and a quirk literally burning though calories. She also seems capable of snapping him in half like a twig. The ways she towers above everyone probably scare people. But not him.
“What.” He snaps, pulling down his face mask, and that is normally enough for him to avoid conversation. To her credit, the woman barely flinches when she sees his scars. Instead, she tuts, eyebrows furrowed.
“You can’t do that. You can’t… go on stage looking like that!”
She gestures at him, at his too short pants, too long sweat, and worn-out sneakers. He arches an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t answer. It’s not like he wants to go on stage, not really. He is just here for the free food, if there is any, and for some shelters.
Nothing more than that.
“Why would it matter? Besides, what do you want me to do, get changed here?”
Maybe he should turn down his snarks, if only to avoid standing out too much in the crowd. It doesn’t seem to deter the woman, though. She huffs, as if he was some unruly child, before taking off her jacket.
“Take that.”
She moves, probably to hand out the clothes to him, but she has barely started her movement that he is stepping back from her, tenses. Her whole body freezes. For a moment none of them moves, her with her arms still half outstretched, him ready to bolt. Then, slowly, she retracted her hand. She seems to shrink on herself, her earlier confidence gone, and at that, Dabi forces himself to take a breath. Then another one, and once he doesn’t feel like burning and running anymore, he buries his hand in his pockets and averts his gaze. If she saw the way he was trembling, she doesn't comment on it.
A second passes. In the corner of his eyes, he sees her picking at the fabric of the jacket. And, well, she really just wanted to help, it’s not her fault that he jumps at every wrong move.
(It’s not her fault that she has the same towering build than his father)
“You do know I will drown in that too, do you.”
She looks up, surprised. He holds her gaze for a second before jerking his chin in the direction of her hands. She blinks. Then, carefully, she unfolds the jacket and holds it next to him.
Needless to say, it’s too long. In fact, it almost reaches his knee.
They both snort. It makes them freeze again, in surprise this time, before a tentative smile appears on her face. He can’t exactly answer her in kind, not with a Glasgow smile permanently carved across his face, but he still lets the corner of his lips twitch up.
“You know, it will still be better than that horror.”
He deigns looking down at his sweat. It really is an ugly thing, probably some sort of corporate clothing, the kind that PR departments give out in the hope that someone might actually wear them outside work. The logo has long since been washed out though, along with half of the color, and only the most vomit-inducing shade of green remains. There are circles of yellow on the shoulders, which somehow manage to make the whole thing worse. Honestly, there is only one redeemable quality to it.
“At least it’s comfy.”
And that’s it. It is, by far, the softest cloth Dabi has ever worn. And he grows up with silk sheets in his bed. When the women turn disbelieved eyes at him, he holds out his sleeve so that she can touch. Her reaction is the exact same one he had when he found the sweat in a dumpster.
“What the fuck.”
Follow almost instantly by:
“Please tell me they exist in other colors.”
In the end, he takes the jacket. The woman’s name is Magne, and she won’t take no for an answer. He doesn’t comment on the rather obvious pseudo, she does the same for him. She gives him half of the bag of chips she took with her. They wait together. The man in the black jumpsuit seems to strike a deal with the group of homeless, and gives them two big bags of what seems to be food. They depart soon after. Dabi could join them: they clearly managed to obtain what he came for.
A man with a megaphone comes out, and instructions are given. The crowd starts to form a waiting line, as the doors to the theater hosting the competition finally open. Dabi stays. He tells himself it’s to take shelter. He repeats it in his head while passing the test filtering aspiring singers from disastrous ones, up until he signs himself up.
Magne is waiting for him. She has already snagged two bags of chips from the mountain of food waiting for the participant. Both of them aren’t even among the ones that will go on stage tonight. Still, she seems as determined as him to loot the free stuff while she can.
They settle themselves near the entrance of the stage, close enough to listen to the other competitors, and for the rest of the night they take turns complaining about the various performances.
(His sister liked to go to the karaoke and comment on the people there, though she was kinder in her comment. He doesn’t think about it.)
***
Present Mic @Present_Mic_Official
It’s starting! Watch the second part of the Blind Auditions of #Next_Generation on stream now: youtu.be/P2is8rTY485
Amaya Sui @MissAmaya
@Present_Mic_Official Yes! The first part was already sooo good, I m sure this one will be too!
GreenyGranny @greensun
@Present_Mic_Official Why do it blind? Is it just to reproduce that old pre quirk era show?
SingUnderTheSun @musicismylife
@Present_Mic_Official @greensun So that people don’t get discriminated over their look
GreenyGranny @greensun
@Present_Mic_Official @musicismylife Yeah but like, how do we know there won’t be anything shocking, like that zombie? Should we really pass him on TV?
SingUnderTheSun @musicismylife
@Present_Mic_Official @greensun If you’re talking about the scarred guy, then know that you’re a terrible human being.
***
“Aaaaaalright, is everybody here?”
To say that Hizashi is excited would be an understatement. He’s been practically vibrating since the morning, so much that Shouta had locked himself up in their shared bedroom to sleep in peace, though not before pointedly putting on earplugs. And taking Mushi the cat as a hostage.
Hizashi can’t help it. He has worked for years to get his own singing show, and now he’s finally made it. He has his own group of aspirant stars, sixteen diamonds in the rough that he intends to polish as much as he can. They’re all already formidable in their own ways, and he can’t wait to see what they will become, how much they will shine. He already has so many ideas for them.
But before that, his ever so perceptive husband has made an observation.
“Ok, so first off, I know that some of you came from quite far away.”
He nods to Wakumi, who immediately lowers her gaze. The girl has an incredible voice, but what she has in raw talent, she lacks in confidence. He was hoping that her getting selected would boost her self-esteem. So far, it seems it wasn’t enough.
“And since the main goal of this show is for all of you to work in the most peaceful setting possible, it’s been decided that housing will be provided to those who demand it, free of charge. That way, none of you have to worry about that.”
Wakumi’s shoulders drop, and she looks up with a relieved smile. He answers her in kind. Still, she isn’t the only one this was intended for. It’s subtle, and Hizashi makes sure to only watch Dabi’s reaction from the corner of his eyes, but the scarred man also relaxes a fraction.
It’s not something that’s obvious: just a little less of a frown on his face. In fact, if Shouta hadn’t warned him, he wouldn’t have been watching out for it. But his husband has been an underground hero for years now, crawling in the underbelly of the city and dealing with what daylight heroes ignore. He knows what to look for, be it a twitchier behavior than normal, or worn-out clothes hidden under more well looking ones. And when he had said that Dabi was probably homeless, the “probably” was more of an afterthought than anything else.
Seeing him react to that announcement worries Hizashi, even if it’s not exactly a confirmation. The scaring alone was already concerning, but with homelessness added to the mix it paints an ugly picture. According to what Dabi wrote when he signed himself up, he is twenty-six, and named Azuma Yoshihiro. According to Shouta, Dabi sounds like the kind of thing one gets called on the street when looking like an escapee from the burn ward. Both Hizashi and Shouta had agreed to keep an eye on him, just in case he needed their help.
For now, even if the housing is only temporary, Hizashi hopes it will help.
“That being said, starting from now, the only thing I want you all to think about is music! You’re going to breathe in music, eat in music, walk in music, and if at the end of this first week you all dream in music then that means I’ve reached my goal! From instruments to coaches, we have everything you might ever need, so get ready to work like never before!”
He throws some finger guns just because he can, and catches at least four of his little diamonds rolling their eyes. Oh well, they will get used to it. At least he gets a smile out of Magne and Wakumi, though the last one is still shy.
“The next round is in two weeks! All information available at the desk right there, don’t hesitate to ask questions, we’re here to help you! Ready? GO!”
None of them starts sprinting away, to his great sadness. They still dispersed though, with some group already forming. It’s nice to see friendships blossoms despite the competition.
Shouta would probably call him a sap, but honestly, he doesn’t get to lecture him when he literally sleeps with a face full of cat.
***
Dabi still doesn’t know if he isn’t hallucinating.
There is having some luck, and then there is this. Dabi knows how luck works. Luck is finding some still edible food in a dumpster, or getting a place in a squat. Luck is in rare moment, and must be considered precious, because what luck brings doesn’t necessarily last, and Dabi has already wasted too many chances back when he was still a stupid kid with a rich accent who didn’t know how the street works.
But most of all, luck is believable. It’s in things that can actually happen, not in an absurd event like signing up for a singing show, only to find himself with free food and free lodging. He doesn’t know what that is, but it can’t be luck, it can’t be that easy. He absolutely refuses to believe that he manages to climb two steps of that famous hierarchy of need just by being at the right place, at the right time. Because if that’s the case, then why him and not another?
He is, at best, an asshole, and at worst a mess of a man, glued back together with the shards of a kid whose name has been long forgotten. He is plagued by pains and nightmares, jumps at shadows, snarls at anyone who gets too close. He is ugly, his body not only wrecked by scars but also marked by malnutrition, making him full of harsh edges and pointy bones. Even his quirk is a disappointment, strong but in a body that can’t handle it. What is it, in all of that, that makes him special? What could possibly explain a chance as huge as that?
He should feel suspicious about all of this, about the nice little bedroom that he now has, with a lock on the door that he can close whenever he feels like and a mattress that doesn’t destroy his back more than it already is. He doesn’t remember anything about free lodging in the pitch of the show, and it’s a bit too convenient. They didn’t even ask for ID, they had just given him a key and a room number, and if that isn’t suspicious, he doesn’t know what is.
Except it wasn’t just for him. Wakane, or whatever her name was, also took a room and she cried in relief when she got the key, balls her eyes out right in the middle of the entrance hall. He doesn’t know her history : maybe she is just a stupid kid who ran away just to sing in a competition. Or maybe she is as desperate as him. Maybe if he had been able to, he would have also wept.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. What matters is that he has a safe place to go back to now.
As convenient as it is, as suspicious as it is, it’s also a drive. Dabi wasn’t going to compete at first, not really. But now he has a roof over his head, and he wants it to last as long as possible. Which means winning as many rounds as possible. And since the audience’s votes count, and he knows that he is a repulsive figure in the public eye, it only leaves him with one choice: being the most hardworking, dramatic bitch of this show.
Lucky him, it’s his specialty.
The two weeks before the first round are a blur. He works like he always does, alone and with a single-minded purpose. Or at least he does, until Magne comes knocking at his door, a notebook under her arm and coffee in hands. She nudges him aside to enter, with a gentle push and a smile on her painted lips.
“Can’t get rid of me that easily goth boy.”
Dabi blinks, before catching her playful wink as she is making a tour of the place. As if the tiny room deserved it. Almost all the space is taken by the single bed, the desk and the tiniest kitchen possible. Toilets are on the landing, as well as showers. So far, he has only bumped into one person, Wakumi, and he’s pretty sure he scared her almost to death.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not exactly my type.”
She barks a laugh, a booming noise that seems to crackle the wall, and he has to force himself not to tense at the too sudden sound. She doesn’t see it though, too busy inspecting the desk.
“What a shame! And what, exactly, is your type? If you don’t mind me asking?”
He has to think for a moment before answering. It’s not that Dabi is ashamed, it’s that this is rarely a safe topic to discuss on the street. But then again, Magne is that particular tramp of people who has to fight for their identity. She won’t say anything.
“Packed below the belt.”
She pauses, before whipping around, clearly taken aback. Dabi can’t help it: he snorts at her expression. The smile tugs sharply at his staples. She sees the way he winces before schooling his features back to indifference, and her own smile falters in sympathy.
Still, she doesn’t comment. She never does.
From that moment onward, Magne made a habit of randomly appearing at his doorstep. They work well together: ideas bouncing between them as easily as if it were ping pong balls. She pushes him to try higher voices, while he urges her to add more flare to her shows. Together, they thrive.
(Natsuo used to drum rhythms for Touya as he sang, little staccato made on every surface he could find just to accompany his brother, to push him forward. He doesn’t think about it.)
At the end of the two weeks, when it’s Dabi’s turn to go on stage, Magne is next to him. Wakumi is exiting the stage with tears in her eyes and a smile a mile wide. There is a tense atmosphere backstage as they all wait for the next song, the silence only broken by congratulations for whoever walks offstage. The public can be heard from where they are, a collection of whispers from one neighbor to another made loud by the sheer number of persons out there. They quiet when Present Mic’s voice booms through the air. He is announcing him. Dabi breathes.
“Good luck, goth boy.”
He nods at her. Magne calls her make-up a warpaint. Right there in the backstage, where people’s dreams collide, he kind of understands why.
Present Mic’s voice comes to a crescendo. Dabi squares his shoulder, and steps in. As the echo of the showman voice disappears, only the silent judgment of the crowd remains.
And so, he closes his eyes and makes the stage his.
***
Hawks official @Hawks_real_life
@Present_Mic_Official Can’t wait for the next round of #Next_Generation to air out. Good luck to all challengers!
Acid queen @AshidoM
@Hawks_real_life OMG you re watching the show??? This is so cool! Which songs did you like best ? And do you sing too?
Hawks official @Hawks_real_life
@AshidoM Hard to choose! I’d say Dabi’s and Wakumi’s are my favorite. And yes, actually! It’s relaxing! I’m not as good as the people from the show though…
Bird simp @Birbgobrrrr
@Hawks_real_life Aaaaah just when I was thinking that I couldn’t love you more. I’m sure that you’ve got a lovely voice!
Miruko @Miruko_kick_ass
@Hawks_real_life Just admit that you’re a terrible singer already.
Trending in Japan:
#Next_Generation
#Present_Mic_Show
#USJIncident
#KaganeIdol7
#OnePiece_8042
***
“I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it!”
There is a crash. Soon after, a phone sailed in the air. Kurogiri has the sudden urge to sigh. The sensation disappears as quickly as it had emerged, replaced by a now familiar tingling in the back of his head. He opens a portal, catching the smartphone right before it crashes on the floor. It drops on the couch instead, bouncing lightly on the leather.
Not that it’s totally saved. Shigaraki appears at the door, disheveled and with eyes screaming murder. He’s been like that since they had to retreat from the USJ. Sensei had placated him at first, saying that it wasn’t a problem, that the younger man could try again as many times as he wanted. However, he hadn’t called again, and it’s been three days. Kurogiri suspects that it’s Sensei’s ways of punishing Shigaraki.
It’s a terrible way of teaching, if one could even call it teaching. But it’s not his duty to say anything about it. Yet as he watches Shigaraki pacing in the room, nails dragging bloody marks over his neck, he can’t help but wonder what sort of purpose this kind of untold punishment serves.
“Kurogiri! Did you see the news?”
The young man has started to pace, hands clenching in spasms. There are red lines covering his neck, new ones in the middle of still healing scabs. To think he had started to be receptive to meditation before that debacle. A shame, really.
“Tomura Shigaraki. I did, though I’m afraid I did not see anything of importance.”
His ward stops his pacing, and Kurogiri braces himself.
“That’s the thing! We attacked UA not even one week ago, and does the news talk about it? No!”
Shigaraki throws a hand out, five fingers touching a chair that crumbles away immediately. It hasn’t even finished decaying that he’s ranting again.
“We break their stupid security, reach right into their domain to unleash our monster, but is it important? No! No because All fucking Might save the day, so nothing to see here! Not even a line about it!”
In one quick move, he throws his arm out and sweeps everything from the table to the floor. A glass shatters on impact, spilling amber colored liquid everywhere. What a waste of a good rum.
“An entire class nearly died! Fucking minors in danger and do they care? No! It’s alright because stupid heroes came to the rescue in time! They never care, never, never! And what if the shitty heroes aren’t there? Does even one of the fuckers on the street think of that?”
Kurogiri watches the alcohol seep into the parquet, wondering whether this would be an easy stain to clean out. He knows he should focus more on his ward, but it’s hard when he rants like that at every little contrariety. It’s not like saying something would calm him down: God only knows how much Kurogiri had tried that.
“Thrashes, all of them! Do you know what they’re talking about instead of us? A singing contest!”
This time, it’s a painting on the wall that got taken down. It was of a sunset on the ocean, painted by the deft hands of an old woman near the coast. Kurogiri had bought it himself. He watches as it gets slammed down on the floor, each time a bit harder, the walnut frame cracking and falling apart.
“A! Singing! Contest! What sort of bullshit is that?”
He doesn’t add more after that, only tosses the painting aside. And then he screams, a gut-wrenching sound that could split the earth and that keeps on stretching, up until Shigaraki finally gasps for breath. He is breathing hard, hands still trembling at his side, but it seems the worst has passed. Dust and glass shards and splinters cover the surrounding floor, remnants of the hurricane that just passed though the room. In the wake of his rant, the silence is deafening.
There is a spiteful part of Kurogiri who wishes to let the silence drag on, to punish his ward for yet another temper tantrum whose casualties were once again objects that he himself cared about. But it’s not the answer. So instead, he warps a first aid kit on the table, and beckons Shigaraki closer. The man makes a face, but his rant has tired him and so he relents, throwing himself on a chair.
“You should not hurt yourself for such a trivial matter. One way or another, they will talk about you. It is but a question of time.”
He only gains a huff in answer. Still, he carefully dabs at the blood on Shigaraki’s neck, wincing when he realizes the older scabs have been torn open again. The skin there is a mess of scar tissues, built from years of destructive habits. Disinfecting and bandaging the area is almost second nature by now, and Kurogiri does so silently.
“If this upsets you so much, I suggest you reflect on what, exactly, has gone wrong in your previous plan. Understanding one’s mistakes is key to progress.”
Again, his ward doesn’t answer. He only surveys the chaos surrounding them, brows furrowed. His eyes land on the painting, and he twitches. The frame is beyond repair. As for the painting itself, there is a gash in the middle, cutting though the ocean. It seems shallow enough that the painting might be salvageable, if brought to the right hands, but Kurogiri doubts he will have the time for it. Shigaraki bows his head, though it’s not enough to hide how his eyes are suddenly downcast. One of his hands goes up, but he stops himself when he feels the bandage that Kurogiri has just finished tying up. His fingers clenched around nothing. Finally, his shoulders drop.
“… Do you need my help to clean all that?”
And there it is: the reason why despite all the temper tantrum, despite all the destruction, Kurogiri never quite managed to get upset. For all his faults, Shigaraki at least tries to make amends afterward. It isn’t much, but it’s still proof that he is willing to make an effort.
He nods at his ward, and they get to work together. The silence isn’t deafening this time: it’s far from an enjoyable one, but it lacks the tensions from before. The dust from the chair is swept. The alcohol doesn’t leave a stain, much to Kurogiri’s relief, and the glass shards are taken care of. For the painting though, not much can be done.
“I shouldn’t have directly attacked All Might.”
Kurogiri raises his head from where he was inspecting the gash in the painting. Shigaraki is picking up and disintegrating some leftover wood shards. He isn’t looking at him, but it’s not like there are that many people to talk to, in this lonely place.
“In fact, I shouldn’t have started with UA at all. Too many securities. I should have gone for something easier. Something more public.”
He looks up at that moment, as if checking that he still has his audience. Kurogiri simply nods at him.
“It would also raise public unrest, if heroes were failing at protecting civilians in broad daylight.”
There is something in this that sounds wrong to Kurogiri. Rationally, it looks like a good idea, yet it doesn’t feel like one. He tries to think about it, tries to discover why it bothers him so much, but the answer escapes him. Shigaraki’s fingers drums on the wooden floor as his eyes flicker around the room, as if tracking his own thoughts.
“That singing competition could be a good target. No?”
And then Kurogiri realizes what it is that unnerved him so much. There would only be civil there: barely any securities, even at a show as successful as this one. Worse: Present Mic himself wouldn’t be able to do much, considering his quirk is prone to collateral damage. Especially in a closed location like a theater. If they were to throw a Nomu in the middle, it would be an utter carnage: body after body of innocent people who just wanted a nice evening. It’s making him want to puke his guts out, want to shake Shigaraki until he realizes what he just proposed, want to dig his heels in and refuse this absolutely terrible idea.
Only when he opens his mouth to contest, he suddenly doesn’t quite understand why he should. The horror that has shaken him has disappeared, leaving behind only that familiar tingling sensation. He is left wrong-footed, as if the floor just disappeared from under his feet, except he is still at the same place, a sad painting in hand. And Shigaraki is waiting for an answer, so he shakes himself out of this strange stupor.
“You’re right.”
He looks down at the ruined painting. Then, slowly, he holds it out to Shigaraki.
“It would be better if it was broadcast as a live show. Though even without images, I’m sure it would be a blow to the public’s trust in heroes.”
Shigaraki extends his hands to grab the painting, pinkie raised. When he looks at him for permission, Kurogiri nods. The fifth finger makes contact, and the painting crumbles away.