Work Text:
Tomura is in a state of drifting, drifting.
His body is weightless; his fingers grasp at nothing, nothing. He feels as if he's half-asleep. Voices burble around him like water. Hands grab at his arms, sometimes, try to close around his open throat, drag him down, rip him apart. They always dissipate before he can decay them.
There seems to be no end to it. There is only this.
It's dark. Debris passes by occasionally, far above him, far below him, his only company outside of the disjointed cries of a life long past. Once-loved ones, or tiny versions of himself, reaching out for comfort, and reaching to destroy.
It gives him time to contemplate. There is so much more to resent about the outside world, now that it is gone.
How good it had felt, to have a taste of power before it was all ripped away from him. Smug and warm in his mouth. What a high it had been, to be the king of a vision he was pioneering, to paint a picture of a life that was catered to himself and his comrades. What a lovely horizon it had been as ash rained down around him from the sky.
Anger is a secondary emotion. Beneath the hatred that eats him from the inside out, he weeps. Sometimes, he even cries for real, as though he were a child again, like the illusion of the tiny black-haired boy plaguing this place were made real and had nestled inside his ribcage. The tears that come involuntarily float from his cheeks and disappear into the vastness around him. He hates crying. He hates this feeling. He feels foggy, sleepy, consumed by rage, hate hate hate. He had power, and it is gone, and there is only his own helplessness left in the ruins of it.
His sensei's voice makes him feel sick. It cracks randomly through the haze, like black lightning strikes of a wrathful god. It's the only thing that sticks. The tone is the same he grew up with, but now, it is patronizing instead of comforting. If he could just move, put up a fight...
His efforts send him into fruitless tailspins. They only leave him more frustrated.
He screams, because it doesn't matter if he does or doesn't. He itches to the point of blood, over and over. His skin crawls with the need to scratch. He dry heaves. He pulls his hair out. Nothing helps.
The vague rumble of what's going on around his body-his real body, highjacked-never reaches far enough to give him clarity, and he cannot see out of his mind (is this his own mind? Where is he?) to assess the situation. He hates it more than anything. His sadness feels childish, weak. It feels like a tantrum. If his sensei would just leave, get out, this isn't what he wants--why doesn't that matter anymore-
A much bigger hand reaches through the nothingness and grabs him around the middle. It pulls him upwards. The momentum shocks him out of his turmoil.
It feels like hours, or maybe seconds, before they reach the edge of the world together. It's like being hoisted out from underwater; this place tries to pull him back down, sucks around his body, but they break surface tension.
Tomura's eyes open.
"...Shigara-...Shigaraki?" Spinner is looking down at him. It's disorienting at first, being back in the physical plane, and such a sweet relief. His sensei's chuckle lingers in the back of his mind-the calm that had washed over him is gone as quick as it came.
Is he trying to solidify the hatred Tomura feels for him?
"...'guuchi." Tomura's words come out slurred and clumsy, but Shuuichi sits up rod straight. His arms have a loose grip around Tomura's body, who lets two fingers slide down his scales, lazy, so, so tired.
"Fuck, I'm so glad..." The way Shuuichi murmurs it is like a prayer. He pulls Tomura up his body, closer.
It's nice. He ragdolls against Shuuichi's rock-solid chest and tries not to think about how sensei is watching them both.
"'M here." He doesn't know who he's reminding. Is this the first time Spinner's held him like this? It doesn't feel like it. His arms are familiar, as is the way they tighten and then immediately loosen again into hesitancy.
It's nice. Better than nice. Maybe even needed.
Tomura glances around them. He doesn't know where this is. "Don't remember much." His body is so, so tired, heavy and sore. He puts his whole palm against Shuuichi's scales, and curls his fingers, one pinky up. His comrade stays intact.
Shuuichi-who used to watch Tomura's fingers like a hawk, ever anxious-doesn't even notice. "I don't know where to even start, Shigaraki. What do you remember last? Everything's changed so quickly--"
"Tomura." Shuuichi stops dead in his tracks and looks down to him. He meets his gaze. "Call me Tomura."
"...Tomura." Shuuichi tastes the name. Something about hearing it, solidifying their status as friends-not cohorts, not mastermind (puppet?) and underling-helps to dull the aching of Tomura's brain and body. "What do you remember?"
"Part of the fight. Gigamachia. Best Jeanist." He spits the name of the hero. "Can't get a clear picture of anything after that."
Shuuichi's scales are smooth and cool under his fingertips. Rubbing along the length of his arm is grounding; he self-soothes by doing it over and over again, trying to feel more like himself.
"Okay." Shuuichi lets out a short breath. It's then his eyes shift to what Tomura's hand is doing-he tenses, briefly, before his grip slackens again.
"Where's the rest of the league?" The way Shuuichi seems to freeze tells Tomura he's about to say something he doesn't want to hear. His hand goes still.
"Um...right. You wouldn't know." Shuuichi looks to the side, downcast. "Compress was taken away. It gave us some time to escape. Gigamachia's gone, too. I don't know where Toga or Dabi are."
"And Twice?"
Shuuichi doesn't answer.
Tomura's throat constricts and his hand shoots to his neck, his chipped nails burying into the skin. "Oh," is all he can get out.
So much had happened since they'd lost Magne, and they'd still been mourning her. It was routine to set a plate down for her at the table; even when they were scrounging for food money, it was a quiet way to acknowledge her absence. It kept resentment and determination fresh in their minds to keep their loss at the forfront. Magne's death shouldn't have happened, and would not be forgotten.
And now Twice was dead alongside her. Another League member, downed.
And the rest, scattered.
The tentative grasp Tomura has on control shatters. "They keep taking from us, don't they." His voice is flat, but his chest is hollow. Good things go to die between his ribs. His eyes close, and he sinks into his grief.
When he opens them again, after an indeterminate amount of time, it's because the back of Shuuichi's fingers are brushing against his cheek. They come away wet.
The only people to see Tomura cry in his adult life, until now, have been Kurogiri and sensei. Shuuichi has the sense not to say anything. They sit in silence, and together, mourn for Bubaigawara; for Atsuhiro; for Himiko; for Dabi; For their self-proclaimed big sister, Hikiishi. For Kurogiri. For the future Tomura had been so sure of, now feeling like a far-off wish from another lifetime.
-
One minute, Tomura is awake, laying on the floor and draped against his friend. The next, he's back in purgatory.
He doesn't know why sensei would bother letting him to back to his body if it wasn't just to cause him more pain. Tomura already feels like there's nothing left of him but fury and hurt. What's the point of trying to make certain of it?
It happens randomly. Sometimes, it's while the body's resting, jolting up out of a dead sleep. Sometimes it's mid-step, according to Shuuichi-without fail, he'd drop everything he's doing to try and catch him in time, and Tomura comes to in his arms. Sensei always seems amused. His deep chuckle rings around the back of Tomura's head like a ghost in the walls.
The rest of the league has also been appearing inside All for One. Visions of a death he didn't see; Bubaigawara getting split down the middle on a sword wielded by the number two hero, choking to death on feathers, his own clones eating him alive.
Atsuhiro ripping chunks out of his own body. Hikiishi, rushing to defend the league, and being met with Overhaul's hand. Dabi's skin peeling off his body until there's nothing left of him. Toga being dragged away by heroes, or slaughtering herself with her knives.
The worst ones are when his brain makes him kill them himself-watching their faces contort with agony, betrayal, as they crumble under his fingers. Screaming for him to stop or obscenities cursing his existence. Even surprised expressions, like it was an accident.
Overhaul and Stain make regular appearances when they didn't used to, too. Overhaul assimilating Tomura into his body, destroying their seperate selves, or using his quirk on the entire league until Tomura is all that's left, mocking him all the while. Stain, leading Shuuichi and Dabi away from him, down a path he can't follow.
But it's not all destruction. Some of it is his own memories of the league; childish banter at the table, Shuuichi and him facing off in Smash (Samus and Toon Link, respectively), Bubaigawara apologizing for harm he'd already been forgiven for. Kurogiri wiping down the bar. Toga stealing him plushes (he keeps all of them), or showing off her new coat. Dabi arguing with a clone of himself. Atsuhiro performing some of his magic trick routines, which still came to him as muscle memory. It's like twisting a blade in his stomach, being reminded of what he had, and now, what he's lost.
Every time he wakes up, Shuuichi is there, holding him or standing in corners, expression pleased, relieved, sometimes grim. No matter how completely unfamiliar the place, Shuuichi's always there. Watching over him with his scarf shoved under his head; asleep, his muzzle pointed towards Tomura's body; his chest, obscuring the view of anything else, firm and cool. He then tells him everything he'd missed, and any updates he has on where Toga and Dabi could be.
They spend all of Tomura's concious time together, trading Shuuichi's handheld or dodging around painful topics in conversation. It's difficult, yet still better than quiet, even as sensei looks down on them.
One of these times, as they're silently taking turns playing a game, Tomura speaks up. "You should go."
The words hurt coming out, and from the way Shuuichi jolts, hurt to hear. Tomura doesn't look at him. "Just. Y'know." He steps carefully around his words as though they're landmines, conscious of sensei. There's no telling when he's listening. Maybe he always is. "It'd be safer. For you. Could find Dabi and Toga, regroup. You could hide."
Shuuichi says nothing. Tomura scratches his neck. "This...isn't how....it's going all wrong." His voice doesn't lift beyond a murmur. "You should get away from this."
Shuuichi stays quiet until Tomura's shifting with discomfort. And then he states simply, "No."
Tomura's eyes flick to his face. Shuuichi holds his gaze. "I'm not leaving you with-you know. I won't."
Tomura feels an emotion almost forgotten climb up his throat. It's what he'd wanted to hear from him, but Shuuichi was in danger as long as he was here. He'd be reduced to a tool for All for One's vision, manipulated, same as Tomura. Reduced to canon fodder. Tomura doesn't want him to die; but he doesn't want to be left alone.
Maybe Shuuichi senses that.
"You should," It sounds half hearted even to his own ears. Shuuichi just scoots closer to him.
"Is that an order, Tomura?" There's something challenging in his voice, even as it shakes with emotion. Tomura gives the slightest shake of his head. "Then no. I'll stay by your side."
The emotion is guilt. He feels guilty for being relieved. He leans in until their shoulders are touching, as the forgotten game sings from Shuuichi's lap. Shuuichi jumps, and then leans against him, too.
"...Tomura?"
"Mm?"
"Call me Shuuichi."
-
Sensei eventually leaves his head.
It's a slow roll, at first, his rumbling voice coming in like the tide.
"Excellent work, Tomura. I think it's time we seperate, for now."
And the hand grabs him again, and throws him back into his body.
He appreciates his form like he never has before. He relishes every second of control, anxious of when it would be taken from him again. Regardless, it still takes days before he can fully relax, even though he no longer feels sensei's presence under his skin. No eyes or sing-song tones turning his brain into a prison.
It terrifies him knowing he can do it all again whenever he wants to, but for now, Tomura just tries to take what he's given.
Shuuichi's relief is palpable, even if he doesn't voice it-he sleeps deeper after he informs him than Tomura has seen him do since this began, instead of taking tentative naps that he could jolt out of any second. It's Tomura's turn to watch over him, to make sure his gameboy's charging.
He uses this excuse to avoid sleeping, petrified of waking up in the depths of All for One again.
Watching his body rise and fall as he breathes is calming. He doesn't know when he started associating Shuuichi with a sense of calm, maybe even comfort. Maybe it's because he's the last familiar thing left. It should depress him, seeing the last member of his league suffering alongside him out of no obligation except stubbornness, but all the sight of him does is reassure. Tomura feels foolish for it, running from one person to another for sense of normalcy; first sensei, now Shuuichi. It doesn't stop the feeling, nor his sitting vigilantly by his side as he rests.
When he wakes up, they share a meal and look for signs of Dabi and Toga on their phones. Shuuichi checks on his idle games. Then, it's observe what the heroes are saying, and looking for members of the Paranormal Liberation Front. The first hours of the morning, as the clouds obscure the sunlight of another forlorn day, become routine for them. It makes it all a little easier.
Sensei talks. They listen.
It's hard not to let utter despondency set in. Tomura finds himself reflecting on the conversation he and Shuuchi shared, back when the league was out of money and he was yelling in his face. Where are we going, Shigaraki?
He wonders if Shuuichi is thinking about it, too. He had an answer for him, then, before he was interrupted. He wouldn't have one for him now.
Sensei tells him his body is almost ready. Tomura says nothing, bides his time. Tries to come up with a plan, and comes up empty.
"Shuuichi?" After another night of swapping games, Tomura interrupts to reach for him with two fingers. He links them with his. "Do you still have faith in me?"
Shuuichi pierces him with his unreadable gaze, then nods curtly, the scales on his nose turning a pale purple. Tomura lets out a breath and squeezes his fingers.
"I...I believe in the future you see. I trust you to get us there." Shuuichi looks away. "No matter what it takes."
They sit like that before Shuuichi speaks up again. "You seem lost."
"I am lost." Tomura's fingers curl. "I don't feel like myself. Keep expecting to wake up and. Be back there." His hair falls in front of his eyes. "I'm frightened." It stings to admit, but Shuuichi is his equal. There is no reason to pretend and posture in front of him anymore.
Shuuichi ponders this as he links another finger with his. "Me, too." He clears his throat.
"I don't know if it would make you feel any better, but I have--I have something for you."
"Mm?" Tomura looks up, his interest piqued. Shuuichi stretches to reach under the one bed they'd been trading off to feel around, without disentangling their entwined fingers. Tomura leans to make it easier for him to do so.
After a moment of scuffling, he drags his bag out from under the bed and grabs something from it. "I--the boots from the PLF were tacky." Shuuichi's voice is lowered to a self-conscious mumble. Despite everything about their current situation, Tomura laughs.
"You're one to talk about tacky, Shuuichi." There's humor and warmth in his voice for the first time in months. Shuuichi huffs as he turns to reveal the gift-a pair of red converse sneakers.
"Oh." Tomura's surprise rings clear in his voice while he takes the shoes from Shuuichi, gingerly. "You got me another pair."
"Maybe they'll help you feel more like yourself." Shuuichi's voice is earnest. Tomura runs his thumb along the red canvas. "They were, er, an impulse buy. I didn't think the boots suited you. Toga didn't, either."
"This is kind of you." There's a feeling in Tomura's chest, that spreads out from there, until his whole body is tingling with an alien-feeling something. He hadn't been aware Shuuichi had been paying attention to what he wore. "Thank you for these." He starts to kick off the clunky boots.
"Yeah. No problem." Shuuichi shifts awkwardly; Tomura finds it endearing. He feels like a person once his shoes are on. A little more whole. It makes him smile.
When he looks away from the shoes to Shuuichi, he turns his face away, but Tomura sees that he's smiling, too.