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“…What are you doing here?”
Walking in to see Tomura Shigaraki, lounging comfortably on his couch, was not something Aizawa had expected on a Thursday evening after work.
That’s what Friday evenings were for.
“Welcome home, Eraser,” Shigaraki muttered, not answering his question or even looking at him as he continued to play on his Nintendo Switch.
Shouta sighed, stringing his capture weapon up on the hook by the door and wrestling out of his boots. “I have work tomorrow. I can’t give you the attention you want.” And it was true—as Aizawa got older (and repeatedly injured) his stamina had started to decline. They met on Fridays because it took Shouta until Saturday afternoon to be up for anything.
“I didn’t come here for sex,” Tomura replied, still not looking up from his game.
“Are you going to tell me what you are here for, then?” he raised an eyebrow, stuffing his hands into his pockets and letting his ribcage sink into his hips. “Because I’ve already asked and you didn’t answer.”
Shigaraki shot him a withering glare, finally putting down the Nintendo. “I came to talk.”
“About?”
“…Stuff,” he grumbled. Aizawa wasn’t blind to the embarrassment creeping onto the villain’s features. So he was going to try vulnerability today, interesting.
Shouta sighed again. “Spit it out or leave, I have papers to grade.”
Tomura let out a childishly exaggerated groan, lacing and unlacing his fingers with Father’s hand. “I want to do that soft stuff.”
He waited for Shigaraki to elaborate. After several seconds of tense silence, Aizawa walked to the kitchen. “Hey- wait! Where are you going?”
“To make coffee. Do you want any?”
The villain practically jumped from the couch and trailed after him, hands (Father shoved into his hoodie pocket) hanging in the air in front of him. “Are you just gonna ignore what I said?”
“Coffee, yes or no?” he asked, tone warning Tomura it was his last chance to respond.
“No—now answer me!” Shigaraki huffed, crossing his arms.
“Are you expecting me to know what ‘soft stuff’ means?” Aizawa glanced over his shoulder, turning on his coffee maker. “I don’t.”
Shigaraki’s gaze fell away from Shouta, lips pursing in a displeased pout. “Like… watching movies together and.. touch.” It came out like it had to fight its way past his teeth, the final word practically being spat at Shouta. And to be honest, that probably wasn’t far off from the truth. Tomura had always, as observed by Aizawa, struggled to be emotionally verbal or even ask for ‘tender’ things. Shouta could only imagine what in his past made him like that.
“So non-sexual intimacy?” Aizawa leaned back against the counter, the only sound for a stretch of quiet being the steady drip! drip! drip! of coffee into a mug. “Sure,” he shrugged.
The argument Shigaraki had on the tip of his tongue died at the easy acceptance. “Oh.”
He turned back to the coffee maker. “Go pick a movie, I don’t care if it’s in my room or the living room. I’ll join you when the coffee is done.”
“Okay,” came the hushed reply.
Aizawa heard the padded footsteps of socked feet make their way down the hallway to his room and the quiet click of his door closing. He let out another sigh, fingers curling over the edge of the counter just a little tighter. He’s been scratching again. It looked bad.
***
Shouta closed the door with his heel, a mug in each hand and a pocket stuffed with antiseptic wipes and scar cream. He set both cups on the nightstand, settling on the bed with his back against the headboard. “Come here,” he said, patting the space between his spread legs.
Tomura crawled over, flopping into the spot with his head resting against Aizawa’s chest. He rolled onto his back, hands resting on his stomach. Shouta snagged the remote from where Shigaraki had left it, unpausing the movie.
…Now for the hard part.
“You’ve been scratching again, haven’t you?” he murmured, slipping the antiseptic wipes from his pocket. “This might hurt,” Aizawa warned, before very gently beginning to wipe the area beneath his jaw with the wipe.
Shigaraki let out a displeased hiss, his pinkies twitching dangerously close to disintegrating his own shirt off. “A better warning would’ve been nice,” he rasped out, looking up through his bangs at the hero. Aizawa simply shrugged as he continued to carefully clean at the scratches. “This wouldn’t have to happen if you didn’t do this to yourself.”
“You don’t understand,” Tomura protested, his voice taking on the edge attributed to his UA-attack rants. He let out another hiss when Shouta pressed down with a little force, but, Aizawa didn’t feel bad. He didn’t need Shigaraki slipping into that mindset when he was at what was supposed to be a safe space away from the League. “The itching never stops,” he continued. “I can’t help it.”
He finished with the antiseptic wipes, taking a bead of the scar cream onto his finger and gently massaging it into the ruined skin. “You were doing good last week,” Aizawa replied calmly, the polar opposite of Tomura.
“Shut up,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and turning back to the movie. Despite that, he raised his chin to make it easier for Shouta to rub the cream in.
The movie Shigaraki had put on was some generic horror movie about a break-in, and the whole time he muttered agitatedly when something didn’t go the way he’d have done it. Aizawa sat silent, one hand running through Tomura’s as if he were on autopilot and the other resting over the villain’s sternum.
Time went somewhere, the pleasant gold of sunset pouring through the window casting Shigaraki’s face in a warm glow. Enough to draw Shouta’s attention from the (rather boring, in his opinion) movie to watch the colors plaster themselves on his hair, making his messy tangle seem more like a manic halo. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.
Aizawa had always thought so, even with all his scars and dry skin. Something about the crimson fire his irises donned in the midst of a fight.
He trailed his hand from Tomura’s hair to his cheek, thumb ghosting over the scar on his lip. Shigaraki tipped his chin back, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Shouta murmured, one corner of his lip quirking up in a half-smile. “I was just thinking that you’re gorgeous.”
The reaction he received—pale cheeks flushed red and an embarrassed glare—was completely worth it. “Shut up!” he scowled, promptly looking away from Aizawa. Shouta took hold of his jaw, tilting his head towards Aizawa and craning down to kiss Tomura.
And oh, this time the response was even better. The flush crept from his cheeks down his neck, darkening so much it almost matched his eyes. He felt Shigaraki’s huff against his lips, coaxing a faint grin from the hero. “Just watch the movie!” Tomura said, crossing his arms and tucking his chin like a petulant child.
Shouta chuckled, low and gravelly, resting his head atop Shigaraki’s. “This movie isn’t interesting.”
“We’re not turning it off!” he exclaimed, pushing Shouta’s head off him. “You said I could pick!”
“I know.”
Neither could fight the twin smiles on their faces.
——
“What is this?”
Tomura crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at his favorite Pro-Hero, Eraserhead, wearing a glittering party hat and sitting in front of a birthday cake at the counter. “Your birthday isn’t until November.”
“I know when my birthday is,” Shouta replied. “Today is your birthday.”
“I don’t celebrate my birthday. You know that,” he narrowed his eyes at him, tone blunt. His hands instinctively reached to scratch as despair-stained memories of his mother’s smiling face painted in the glow of his cake’s candles flashed through his mind.
“We don’t have to do the whole bit if you don’t want to, I’ll just go leave the cake on the 1-A dorm counter.” Aizawa then slid a small, wrapped object across the counter to him. “But I did get you a gift.”
It wasn’t very big. It almost looked like a flattened rectangular prism. A book, maybe? Then again, why would Shouta get him a book? He continued to stare at it, puzzled, until Aizawa tapped his finger against the gift to grab his attention. “You know you can open it, right? You don’t just keep it wrapped for the rest of your life.”
“I know that,” Tomura scowled, snatching it from the counter and tearing it from its wrapping paper confines. His heart felt as though it’d frozen in his chest. “Is this GTA V? How did you know I…?” he trailed off, looking in awe at the jewel case he held.
“Spinner told me.”
“Sounds exhausting,” he mumbled.
“It was truly horrible,” Shouta sighed, tossing his paper party hat in the bin.
Tomura set the game back down, leaning on his elbows as he rolled up onto the balls of his feet. “I’ll eat the cake,” he said quietly.
Aizawa smirked, turning to grab a knife from the block. “Big or small?” he asked, coming back with a plate in hand as well.
“Small,” Tomura murmured. He’d pulled Father from his pocket and locked fingers with him.
“Really?” he raised an eyebrow. “With your sweet tooth?”
“Don’t push it,” Shigaraki growled.
Shouta hummed briefly in acknowledgment, pushing a thin slice of cake towards Tomura. “Let me know how you like it.”
The villain took a hesitant forkful, looking anywhere but Aizawa’s face as he did. “It’s good,” he mumbled, quickly stuffing another bite in his mouth to avoid further talk.
“Is it?” he mused. “That’s good. I made it myself.”
Tomura felt, truly felt, the drag of his eyes from the cake to meet Shouta’s gaze. “You made this?” he rasped, mouth still full of half-gnawed cake.
Aizawa nodded, forgoing a slice himself and putting the rest in the fridge. “I used my mom’s recipe.”
And Shigaraki felt like he was going to choke. He swallowed whatever was in his mouth, noisily, ragged nails clawing at the skin below his jaw.
“I have two more gifts for you in the bedroom.” He turned to see Tomura, teary-eyed and scratching, and let out a soft sigh. “Come on,” he murmured, nodding his head towards his room’s door.
Tomura just trailed behind Aizawa, feeling like a small child again. One of the gifts on the bed was very small and irregularly shaped; the other looking like a bigger version of the first gift Aizawa had given him. “Open those first,” Shouta said from behind, leaning against the wall by the door with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatpants.
He felt hesitant. Nevertheless, he picked up the small gift first and carefully pulled the wrapping away. “Uh… what is this?” His brows furrowed in confusion.
In his hands were two small triangles of black fabric. Aizawa pushed himself from his spot against the wall, taking them from Shigaraki. “They’re gloves,” he clarified, slipping them gently onto Tomura.
They only covered his pinkies, preventing his Quirk from disintegrating them. And then it clicked. “They prevent from you decaying anything you touch, so, you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
“Eraser—“ Aizawa cut him off. “Shouta. We aren’t on the battlefield.”
“And don’t say anything to me until you open your last gift. I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. It’s a little hard for me to part with it, but I think you’ll get more out of it than I do.”
Tomura nodded, swallowing all the words he wanted to say, and stared down at the final gift. It depressed the black comforter slightly, like it was heavy. He gave it a testing lift, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. It was relieving to touch something with all five fingers. Like the sensation of it was pulling 20 years’ worth of stress from his shoulders.
“…It’s a blank book?” He raised an eyebrow, looking between the (now unwrapped) book and Shouta.
“It’s my mother’s recipe book,” Aizawa corrected, clearing his throat.
He dropped it like it had caught fire. “What?”
“I don’t need to repeat myself, you heard me.”
“I don’t understand why you would— I— what? Are you insane?” he hissed, glaring over his shoulder. “Become stupid like all the other heroes?”
Shouta sighed, simply pulling Tomura into a hug. Tight enough to be tangible, but loose enough that he could easily get out of it if he wanted to. “I don’t need it. I don’t cook. And I figure you would, come to in time, enjoy having some kind of parental interaction. At least as close as I can give to you.”
Shigaraki had nothing to say in response to that. Sure, he could think of a million insults to throw or a million snarky retorts, but they died in his throat as soon as they arose. Instead, he let himself sink into the embrace, safely gloved hands curling around Aizawa’s biceps.
Tomura didn’t say anything as he cried, just relaxed the tension in his shoulders and allowed silent tears to soak into Shouta’s shirt. The hero also stayed quiet, rubbing soothing circles between Shigaraki’s shoulder blades.
“There was supposed to be another gift but it didn’t arrive on time,” Aizawa murmured, pressing a kiss to Shigaraki’s temple. “You’re such an old man,” Tomura grumbled. Clearly, the quick peck wasn’t enough, because he leaned back to press his lips against Shouta’s. Shigaraki’s lips were just as chapped and ruined as the rest of him, making for an interesting (though familiar) scrape and catch of skin with Aizawa’s lips, which were not much better than Tomura’s.
“Happy Birthday, Mura.”
——
“You’re hogging all the hot water,”
Shigaraki rasped, crossing his arms. His hair, partially wet, was flattened down and made him look like a half-drowned cat. “I’m trying to rinse off,” Shouta sighed. “You wanted me to wash you, didn’t you?”
Tomura’s lips pulled into a sneer, glaring from between his bangs. “I’m cold.”
“And impatient,” Aizawa huffed, trading places with Shigaraki.
Shouta’s shower was not large by any standard, but it was big enough to fit them both somewhat comfortably. The hero pumped out a handful of shampoo, settling his hands into Tomura’s hair and beginning to massage it in. His fingers slid easily through the mop on his head, gently working the shampoo in.
“Feels nice,” Tomura murmured, earning a scoff from Aizawa. “It’s just shampoo. You act like the only time you shower is when we meet on Fridays.”
And Shigaraki flushed red. Such a deep red, in fact, that Shouta could see it on the tips of his ears. The meaning attached to that flush was revolting.
“Mura, that’s disgusting.”
“Just—! Shut up and bathe me, so we can get this over with.”
Aizawa clucked his tongue displeasedly. “My, my. Such a rush you’re in, kitten.”
Tomura blushed a furious red this time, heat crawling down his neck and settling over his shoulders. The color made the pale freckles spotting his scapula pop just a little more. “Shut up!” he hissed, living up to the pet name. Shouta pulled the shower head from its place, letting the warm water rinse the shampoo from his hair. “Put this back on the hook,” he said quietly, passing the nozzle to Shigaraki. He received a muttered, “so bossy,” in response.
The hero pumped a large gloop (Tomura’s hair might be messy, but it was thick) of conditioner, rubbing his hands together to spread it over his fingers. “Bossy?” he mused. Aizawa gently worked his hands through the shag of Shigaraki’s hair, methodically massaging it in from root to tip. “We aren’t even in the bedroom yet.”
Despite all of Tomura’s huff and puff, he leaned his hands into Shouta’s touch. “Yeah, so shut up. Be Eraser, not Shouta.”
“Feeling like a fanboy, then?” Aizawa teased. “You’re in my home, babydoll. And you don’t want me to act as myself?”
Shouta ran his hands, still coated in a thin sheen of product, over Shigaraki’s wet skin until they rested on his hips. “You just wanna see your favorite Pro, hmm?” He slid them further, with clear intention. “You have no inter—“
“Red.”
Tomura’s hands stopped him, curling around his wrists with pinkies cautiously raised.
“Okay,” he replied, immediately backing up. “Talk or no?” Aizawa made sure to keep his voice soft and sentences juvenile in case Tomura was slipped into the occasional childishness.
“I— just—,” his words came out jerky and strained. “I don’t want to mix that stuff. Bedroom stuff and this, it’s just…” Shigaraki let out an exasperated noise, sounding scratchy over the rasp of his voice. “It’s not the same headspace. It’s… do you get what I’m saying?” He finally gushed, clearly frustrated with his inability to properly express himself.
“Okay,” Shouta nodded. “Do you want me to finish washing your hair or do you want to finish it?”
“You can finish it.”
Aizawa gently returned his hands to Tomura’s hair, doing one last run-through before grabbing the shower head to rinse it all out again. He kept his touch light, allowing Shigaraki to pull away or lean in as he pleased (and much to Shouta’s pleasure, he pressed back into his hands).
“You’re all done, Mura,” he murmured, hooking his chin on Shigaraki’s shoulder when he reached around him to turn the water off. Tomura tilted his head to lean on Shouta’s. “Can we have a change of plans tonight?” the villain whispered.
“Of course,” Aizawa replied, pressing a tender kiss to Shigaraki’s cheek and letting his hands settle on Tomura’s hips. “What did you have in mind?”
He leaned back against Shouta’s chest. “Just lay together.”
By the way Shigaraki’s voice had softened, becoming a little more timid and boyish sounding, Aizawa could tell. As a child who was forced to be a man, Tomura is now a man learning to be a child, and right now happened to be one of those times when he slipped into that headspace. It wasn’t like he was a genuine kid (not like little space), he was just allowing his walls to slip away for a little while.
To lose himself in Shouta’s murmured praises and the sweet nothings pressed against his ear. To sink into Aizawa’s black comforters and sleep with his body tucked against Shouta’s ribs.
“Okay. Do you wanna get out now?”
He received a brief nod.
“Okay.”
Shouta stepped out first, taking two towels from the closet—one laid on the floor to catch the water his hair was sure to be dripping, and the other to dry off Tomura before himself. “Come on, Mura,” he said quietly.
The lanky man almost tripped on his way out of the shower, stumbling with rubber ankles. “You okay?” Shouta asked, wrapping a stabilizing arm around Shigaraki’s shoulders.
He received a brief nod again.
Aizawa took care as he toweled Tomura’s hair dry, moving from tip to scalp. Every now and then, when Shouta would accidentally push his head forward, Shigaraki would let out a quiet ‘oompf!’ sound.
It took time due to the attention he was giving all his movements, but eventually, each of Tomura’s limbs was dry and his hair was just damp instead of sopping wet. Aizawa tended to himself, wrapping his hair into a towel instead of making the effort to dry it, and slipped back into the sweatpants he was wearing earlier.
Shigaraki trailed behind him into the bedroom, uncharacteristically quiet as he settled onto the bed next to the hero.
He laid himself atop Shouta, his breath brushing over Aizawa’s larynx. “You know,” the ravenette began. “I don’t understand what you like so much about showering with me that you don’t do it any other time.”
“Mm,” Tomura hummed, one finger tracing scars on Aizawa’s bicep. “I like how your hands feel in my hair. You’re always so gentle. Makes me feel cared for.” All of his words were a raspy mumble, sounded more absentminded than Shouta during lecture.
And of course. Because Tomura had never had ‘gentle’. Never got a chance to experience sexual and romantic love the right way, the caring way. All under the predatory hands of AFO. But not anymore. No, now Shigaraki had power in the LoV and he had solace in Shouta’s home. He had Aizawa’s rough hands to show him all the tender possibilities of love.
——
“So cool…”
Shigaraki laid on his side next to a sleeping Eraserhead, fingers (with a pinky tucked in), ghosting over his scarred skin. His black hair was fanned around his pillow like the Grim Reaper’s cloak, catching the sunrise light like gold-accented leather. Carmine eyes stared wide at closed ones, an unsettling smile—the only kind of smile Tomura knows how to make—pulling at chapped lips. “So, so cool,” he whispered again.
Everything about Eraser (Shouta?) was beautiful to Shigaraki. His hair that shone like raven feathers. His eyes, unfortunately closed right now, that were charcoal black but glared crimson when his Quirk was activated. Oh, his Quirk. That had to be one of Shigaraki’s favorite parts of Shouta. It was so powerful, so intense. It ripped success right out of Tomura’s deadly hands, but rendered them so beautifully useless at the same time.
He shoved defeat into Shigaraki’s face, but gave him the ability to touch. To touch, and feel, and cherish. To be, if only for a moment, something other than what he’s been his whole life. To not be Shigaraki. To be simply civilian.
To be Tenko.
His gaze dropped from Shouta’s face, trailing over high cheekbones and five o’clock shadow to watch his own fingers. Fingers that danced over Aizawa’s flesh, tracing scars and his faint muscle definition. “So pretty…” he rasped. His throat always hurt a little extra in the mornings, as if a mere few hours of disuse made his voice box sore.
Eraser’s chest, like his arms, was pockmarked with old wounds. They varied in size and shape, even in color—some pale and crystalline, some reddish-purple still. Shigaraki liked Aizawa’s scars, irrespective of the guilt he carried as he trailed over them. He knew that half of these were probably caused by him and the League. Despite that, he also loved them. They reminded him of the kindness that Shouta carried behind his rough demeanor. The way he still cared for Tomura and regarded him with an unapologetic tenderness, even with physical reminders of his evils.
But there was something to be said about the simple rise and fall of Aizawa’s chest. Yes, yes. Such a constant reminder that this man, this beautiful man was still alive and here in the face of all that’s threatened him. Each inhale was followed by a stutter of his ribs, almost a snore but not quite, and each exhale was followed by a short silence. It was rhythmic. Soothing, almost. Then again, that wasn’t the only thing—there was something to be said about everything.
The faint flicker of his eyes behind their lips. The occasional twitch of his mouth as if he were going to utter something in his sleep. The amber of the sun filtering through blinds, casting interrupted lines across his face and shoulder. The thin trail of ebony hair creeping down from his navel to sneak under his waistband. The sharp cut of his jaw. The straight angle of his nose. The curve of his lips. The, the, the.
Tomura could go on forever.
He let his pointer finger run over the stumble patching over Eraser’s jaw. Tomura focused on the feeling, wanting to revel in it. In the brush of brittle hair against his fingertip, the sensation of it itching up to his knuckle when he curled his finger. “You should shave this,” he chuckled, knowing full and well the sleeping man wasn’t going to hear a single word he said. “Your students will make fun of you. Especially that blonde one, what was his name? Ahh, yes. Bakugo.”
Shigaraki felt his lip twist in amusement at a subtle jerk Aizawa’s expression gave. If he were awake, he would’ve told Tomura to keep his student’s name out of his mouth. But here, in the peace of his sleep, he didn’t say a thing. He bopped his finger on Eraser’s nose, snickering at the lack of response.
Tomura pressed his palm, pinky tucked in, against Shouta’s ribs. He felt the shift of the bones beneath Aizawa’s skin, each breath deep and even. “You look so pretty when you’re asleep,” he whispered, the words rough and scratchy with thick morning rasp. The beautiful drag of each inhale was a match thrown in the fire beneath Shigaraki’s heart—it was another thing to love about Eraser.
The way he made Tomura feel things he didn’t realize were possible. Letting a warmth invade his torso and claw at the cold walls he’s surrounded his stupid emotions with. “How long are you going to sleep for?” he sighed, poking gently at Eraser’s cheek. He didn’t actually want him to wake up. “I need breakfast, you stupid hero. I can’t make it myself.”
But once again, he just found himself staring at a sleeping Eraserhead. He let his head flop back against the pillow, hands pressed together as if in prayer tucked under his cheek. He took it all in— black hair dripping gold in the dawn. Scarred skin dancing with pillars of light. Each even exhale. All of him.
There was nothing about Shouta that Tomura could not sing praises for days about. Even when he crumpled all of Tomura’s plans because Tomura couldn’t keep his mouth shut around him. Even when he chided Tomura for decaying things at Shouta’s home or throwing a fit. Even when he continued to hold Tomura while he broke down, pushing the hero off of him to no avail. Even when Shouta laughed at him, or made him open up, or told him to eat the dinner Aizawa made even though he didn’t like what was on his plate.
It left Tomura aching through the week without him until he could finally fall into that warmth for the night.
When he came back to the present out of his thoughts, he flinched back from grey eyes boring into his own. “Good morning,” Shouta drawled, voice lower than usual since he’d just woken.
“How long have you been awake?” he mumbled.
“Long enough to catch you staring,” Aizawa yawned, rolling onto his back but keeping his head turned towards Shigaraki. “What, thinking about how to best murder me in my sleep?”
Tomura frowned, delivering a well-served flick to Eraser’s nose. “Shut up.”
——
“Don’t look at me!”
Aizawa’s hands paused a few inches from Tomura, wanting to touch him but not wanting to worsen the episode. Against his better judgement, he sat back on his heels in front of Shigaraki and closed his eyes.
“Mura, talk to me,” he almost pleaded. “What’s going on?”
He heard the broken sobs writhing out of the man’s trachea, and once again the urge to touch and soothe pulsed behind his sternum. “I’m hideous.”
His lips twisted into a frown. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to know that’s not true—despite their opposite sides, Tomura was one of the, if not the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. And that’s saying something. He’s a Pro Hero, for crying out loud! Some of the costumes of people he’s worked with are… not his cup of tea. (Cough cough, Midnight.)
Instead of launching into denying him, he took a different approach. He still didn’t understand Tomura fully. At least, not as fully as he wanted to. “What made you think that?”
“I saw it. In the mirror.” With his eyes still closed, Aizawa felt the gentle fabric of the gloves he’d bought Shigaraki trail over his cheekbone. He could imagine the position he was in now— knees still tucked to his chest, back pressed into the corner, one arm looped tightly around his legs as the other reached out to Shouta’s face. “All my scars, all my ugly. It’s hideous. Hideous, hideous.”
Shigaraki was rambling. Never a good thing when he’s upset; he tended to spiral. “Why do you think it’s ugly?” Aizawa asked, staying still as stone and allowing Tomura to touch him. It was better if it was of his own accord, because Shouta didn’t know what trauma was racing on repeat in the other’s head right now.
“I see,” he hissed. “I see how everyone looks at me!”
With a frown, Shouta opened his eyes. He gave Tomura a once over, his frown deepening at the bloody scratch marks down his neck. Then again, it was expected. Besides that, he wasn’t injured at all. Good. His self-destructive tendencies were still on a path of improvement. “I don’t think you’re ugly,” he offered.
“You’re lying!”
“Why would I lie to you, Mura?” He raised an eyebrow. “Have I ever lied to you before?”
Shigaraki glared, tears streaming down his cheek, outstretched arm now joining the other curled around his legs. “You’re lying,” he repeated, voice raising to a manic, angry screech.
“Go lay on the bed.”
He didn’t move.
“Tomura. Bed. Now.” Still muttering something about Aizawa lying under his breath, he stomped over and plopped himself in the center of Shouta’s bed.
By the shake of Tomura’s shoulders and the poorly concealed shifting of his eyes, Aizawa knew he wasn’t really angry. He was just scared, and trying to hide it to only way he knew.
Shouta sat on the foot of the bed in front of him. Seeing the tears fall down his cheeks stripped Tomura of his villain disguise and put a spotlight on the broken child that he was. “Point at a scar and tell me why it’s ugly,” he said, jutting his chin towards Shigaraki’s shirtless torso.
A pale finger trailed down ribs that pressed against skin when Tomura took a deep breath, settling over a long scar starting just under his thoracic cage and stretching below his waistband. “It’s a mistake,” he mumbled. “All gross ‘n ugly.”
“That doesn’t tell me what makes it ugly.”
“My body is burning with the shame of not belonging!” he wailed.
And that’s when it hit Shouta.
Shigaraki was not disgusted with his scars in themself. No, he was simply blaming his scars for this feeling of disconnect he felt with his flesh and bones. Flesh and bones so far disfigured by AFO that Tomura couldn’t even recognize himself.
“You belong,” Shouta murmured, gently pushing him back against the pillows. His lips settled against that very same scar, lingering; lingering like a man sucking venom from a snake bite. “Here,” he continued, placing hot kisses atop every scar his mouth stumbled across on Tomura’s torso. “In my bed, in my home.” His whispers, breath brushing over Tomura’s skin. “In the LoV, in society.”
Aizawa keeps going despite Shigaraki’s cries above him not worsening or lessening.
“You’re a beautiful human being, Mura.”
Shouta kissed every scar he could find, following each kiss with more soft words. It’d be a damn shame to let Shigaraki keep this irrational fear of being hideous. Of being undeserving of a place in society. He’d kiss him until he could feel every word through his veins. He’d kiss him until the touch of his lips lingered long after he’d pulled away.
He’d kiss him until Tomura didn’t have to cry like this anymore, whether that took days, weeks, months, or years.
“Don’t look at me,” he feebly whispered, the hand resting on his shoulder betraying his words by holding on rather than pushing away.
And of course, Aizawa didn’t listen, because, “You’re all I want to look at.” His voice was gruff. Low and constant, like the hum of bass behind melodies. If it could, Tomura knows he’d feel it pulse behind his eardrums.
He’d made his way to Shigaraki’s shoulder, leaving a burning trail down his arm. Each knuckle received a kiss. Each fingertip. Ebony hair turned weightless and grey irises gleamed ruby as he pressed Tomura’s whole hand to his face, earning a whimper from the villain. Shouta turned his face to kiss his palm, grip curled loosely around his wrist to hold his arm still as he trailed back up.
“So beautiful,” Aizawa murmured, giving special attention to the ruined skin of Shigaraki’s neck. The flesh felt off beneath his lips, as if it were catching slightly. “So perfect,” he purred, kissing along Tomura’s jaw. “So, so good.” For a brief moment, their eyes met and stilled. Shouta’s were tired, framed by dark circles, but warm and sincere.
The scar on Tomura’s lip, dark against his ivory skin, was probably the one he hated most. Shouta always saw him picking and tugging at it, and sometimes he’d catch him muttering about it being a pain because he couldn’t hide it.
It was Shouta’s favorite.
He knew the peaks and valleys of that scar like his own name. He knew how it felt against his skin like his own capture weapon. He knew how he got it like his own backstory.
With a tenderness only shown in the privacy of his bedroom, he pressed his lips down onto Tomura’s.
“‘S like drowning,” Shigaraki mumbled, voice thick in the aftermath of his tears, brows creased with an apology he couldn’t speak aloud.
Shouta brushed his hair back. “What is?” he whispered.
“Being loved by you.”
——
“Hi.”
“…Hello?”
“Did I fight good?”
Tomura’s voice was clearly expectant, even with the shitty connection.
Aizawa let out a huff through his nose. He wasn’t bothered by it. He knew Shigaraki. Knew what he needed. And he wouldn’t be lying to him. “Yes.”
“So did you.” His smile was audible. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“No. You?”
“No, I suppose not.”
A short stretch of silence, and then Shouta spoke again, words softer than before.
“…Make sure you get those injuries taken care of.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“Midoriya struck you. And I know I got you with my knife.”
A dreamy sigh crackled over the microphone. “You looked so badass during our fight.”
“That’s irrelevant?”
“We were talking about injuries caused by the battle, it’s perfectly relevant.”
Another brief moment of silence.
“Your mind works in interesting ways, Tomura Shigaraki.”
“I’ll see you next time,” he chuckled.
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Aizawa didn’t want to see him on the battlefield again. He knew he would, but he didn’t want to. Not when it put both his kids and his love on the line.
“I love you!” The words sounded more like a teetering giggle than a genuine expression of emotion. But that’s how Tomura always was.
“…Love you too.” And Shouta’s words sounded like they were reluctant to come out. But that’s how he always was.
“You’re so cool, Eraser.”
Click.
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It’s like drowning. Being so wholly loved by Shouta Aizawa is like having your lungs filled with water. It’s suffocating, but the ocean floor around you is so beautiful that the feeling becomes pleasant. I’d choose to sink to the bottom of my tub and drown if it felt as warm as Shouta’s feelings. Feelings so carefully clouded by the cold of a lake. It’s like drowning. Drowning, breaching through his apathetic and chilly demeanor, finding the beauty at the bottom.
—Shigaraki Tomura. Shimura Tenko.
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It’s like drowning. Falling in love with Tomura Shigaraki, a man of such abstract beauty, is like drowning. I am so surrounded by him. By the cold of his broken insanity. The chill of his tragedy. But I am carefully quieted and warmed by his blinding smile, manic or not, and his heart, so unused to loving. It’s so pleasantly unpleasant. His grin is always just a bit eerie. Like it’s not quite right. But I love seeing it.
—Aizawa Shouta.