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To this day, Aizawa never understood how Shirakumo survived.
It was obvious what should’ve happened to him — being crushed by a building makes your body go splat. There was no chance of you coming back unless a quirkologist discovered how to reverse a body back to normal. No one could be brought back from the dead. Not. One. Person.
When Mic and Aizawa were called down to the office their second year of high school, Aizawa had thought Mic got them in trouble again. He didn’t bother to ask, as he didn’t want to go through the motions of Mic failing to defend his shenanigans. It was like routine at this point.
What he didn’t expect as to see Nemuri was standing outside the office door, tears running down her cheeks. She hadn’t cried like that in a while. Not since Shirakumo died.
The principal, in a hushed whisper, told them to enter, and there he was: Loud Cloud, looking out the window, hands deep in his pockets. He turned, a smile on his face. His eyes looked bright as ever.
Present day, the four of them had their own hero agency and, by Shirakumo’s begging and pleading, they were also teachers at Yuuei. The Four Elites is what they were called, celebrated for continuously honing their teaching skills and heroics no matter the time or day. While the group had originally started underground, Shirakumo, like always, had gotten them out of their shell and exposed them to the spotlights of heroics.
Well, by them, more like Aizawa. He didn’t have a quirk with much physical prowess like Voice or Somnambulist. When people find out that his quirk can nullify theirs, their nose scrunch in disgust and begin avoiding him. He had been concerned over how professionals, the ones that were in the spotlight, would handle him. But now, he had overcome those hurdles, and he was known.
Aizawa was known. It felt weird. He certainly didn’t like the attention most days, but he’d be lying if he said that it didn’t boost his self esteem. His quirk that he himself deemed worthless was now adored by the masses. His fans loved his dry humor and also praised his teaching skills, as he always encouraged his students to never give up on themselves — especially if someone never gave up on you.
And, once again, this was all thanks to Shirakumo — the boy who shouldn’t be alive.
That’s what the people on forums say about him. All of them were conspirits digging to find out how Shirakumo lived; was it witchcraft? Was his death propoganda? Was Shirakumo Oboro actually dead and someone was pretending to be him?Evidence upon evidence, each one more ridiculous than the last, mounted, and eventually Shirakumo found out that’s why people talked about him so much. Boy Wonder. The Walking Dead.
All those ideas they had, Aizawa thought, yet no one can ever think to just leave him alone.
However, Shirakumo didn’t seemed bothered. No, not one bit. In fact, there was a blank stare as he scrolled through his phone and took in each comment. Sometimes, it made Aizawa happy. Other times, it made him shiver. The public knew. If it were him, he wouldn’t take being accused of identity theft lightly.
But that wasn’t what made him shiver.
Yes, he was glad that Boy Wonder survived. But how? And, dare he question, why? Why and how did Shirakumo live? He never had a chance to ask until their lunch break on the rooftop.
Mic was needed for a mission, and Nemuri was sick from food poisoning, so it was only him and Shirakumo. As usual, Shirakumo was talkative — no longer about a pipe-dream of a hero agency, but stuff Aizawa was interested in: cats, sleeping, and even how to keep improving their skills. He was so interested in him and what he wants to do to the point it just became bothersome. Today, Aizawa would flip the script, finally satiating over twenty years of curiosity.
“Why do you keep talking about my interests?” Aizawa asked bluntly. “Don’t you want to talk about yourself?”
Shirakumo blinked. Then, he laughed. “Shota, of course I want to talk about you! You’re my best friend!”
“Yeah, but…” Aizawa felt something soft against his leg. It was the cat Shirakumo saved, old with age. Almost distracted, he looked back up. “How did you survive, Shirakumo?”
Shirakumo paused. He looked away.
The silence between the two stretched until they heard the bell ring. Never in his life has Aizawa felt more uncomfortable with quietness. Shirakumo didn’t even look back at him, only looking at the cloudless sky.
Aizawa stood up. “Sorry. I don’t think I should’ve asked—“
“Do you ever miss home, Shota?”
“Huh?”
Slowly getting up, Shirakumo walked over to the railing, draping his arms over it; a somber look was on his face as his hair was gently blown by the wind. “Home, y’know? Where the heart is. I just feel so homesick and I can’t wait to go back. Someone’s waiting for me there and I can’t wait to see them.”
Heartfelt. Desperate. Two things Aizawa never thought he would say about Shirakumo. “You…excited to see your girlfriend or something?”
“No. Someone better. Someone who deserves to have me by their side right now.”
Aizawa’s eyes widened.
Devoted. Responsible. Trustworthy. Whoever this person was, Aizawa wanted to meet. He was even jealous. He wanted to know how they and Shirakumo have such a deep, soul-bound connection. The small smile and faraway look in Shirakumo’s eyes said it all: this person, in whatever way, had all his heart.
The USJ Attack hit the Elite Agency’s reputation hard. Once considered idols to be worshipped, they were know questioned for their heroics and if they were even worthy to teach the sprouting buds of students.
All of Aizawa’s insecurity issues flared up, anxieties flourishing in his heart.
It was supposed safe there. It was Yuuei. No one would ever think to attack the top hero school in Japan. Yet the moment he decides to go there, everything goes awry. No matter how many times Mic reassured him, the weight didn’t lessen. It was his class that got attacked. A class he promised to always protect. Now the world was broadcasting his failures.
As much as he wanted to drown in his failings, he couldn’t. He had to find him.
Shirakumo was needed at their agency. According to them, it was only for a document. That was the last time anyone heard from him. There were no reported sightings of him. What was even heavier than the burden Aizawa carried was the absence of Loud Cloud.
He searched every classroom and training ground until he was left on all fours, panting in the middle of the second floor hallway, anxiety having becoming a monster with tentacles that swallowed him whole. What if they took him? What if they were holding him hostage?
There was only one room left. He got back up and ran to the principal’s office.
Out of all places, that’s where Shirakumo was. He was facing the window, coffee in hand, hair whispy as ever. Turning his head, he gave Aizawa a mellow smile. “Hey!”
“What are you doing here?” Aizawa interrogated, the anxiety and anger mixing. “Do you not know what happened at USJ? My students were attacked and there was no one to evacuate the injured! What were you doing, Shirakumo!”
The mellow smile faded; a somber look took over. Instead of turning his back completely, he shifted his stance; his shoulder faced Aizawa, the mug in his other hand, eyes staring out the window. “I feel like I failed someone today.”
“Huh?”
Like remembering he was there, Shirakumo snapped his head back, eyes widened. He then laughed like his life depended on it. “Sorry! Got a little sad there! It’s just…” He paused. “You ever feel like you failed the person you care for the most?”
Oh, he knew all too well. “Yeah. I do. But why weren’t you—“
“That’s how I feel right now,” Shirakumo said, walking over towards him with long, careful strides. “By the time I knew about the attack, I was called by them. They needed help, Shota. They were also at risk of being attacked.”
Aizawa’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “We needed you, Oboro! They were looking for you! I was looking for you. I…I thought I lost you again.”
Aizawa felt a hot tear slide down his cheek. Saying that felt like releasing the years worth of grief he went through. He remembered the endless nights he spent crying over the fact that he was right there. He could’ve turned around and pulled Shirakumo away from the falling pieces. He could’ve shouted at him to watch out. Instead, he was drowning in the fact he couldn’t take down that villain because his quirk wasn’t physical. He died because of his insecurities.
And the thought of losing him again, whether he went missing or suddenly turned up dead, killed him more than anyone could imagine.
A firm hand grasped his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Shirakumo looking at him, eyes unwavering. He stared at Aizawa for a good minute, then gave another smile.
“I’m here, Shota,” he reminded, voice soft. “I know that I must’ve caused you a lot of pain. All I can say is I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for not being by your side today.”
Aizawa nodded, pushing Shirakumo away because of how close he was. “I forgive you. Just don’t do that again.”
He laughed. “You got it! Are your eyes okay, by the way?”
Odd question. “Why?”
“That dude I talked to you about,” he began, “is my mentee. Almost like a nephew to me at this point. He’s a fan of yours.”
“What’s that got to do with my eyes?”
Shirakumo blinked. “Oh! He wants to train with you someday! He likes to fight.”
Aizawa chuckled. “Like Sensoji?”
Shirakumo’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah! Definitely like that guy!”
Despite the weird pause at the mention of his former bully’s name, it was forgotten in a bliss when Mic came running down the hallway at full speed. He also had a mouthful for Shirakumo’s absence; but, since the two were so alike, they instantly made up. The three of them walked back to USJ. There was nothing to worry about because he had all that he needed right here.
As Aizawa looked back at these precious memories, something in his heart mourned, grieved, anguished. There was a hollow void which was once filled with bright light, and it only grew the more he looked into Shirakumo’s eyes.
His best friend was in a cell, body hunched over. From the few hours they’ve been in Tartarus, there was not a word from either of them. Not even the sound of a pin drop would break the concentration Aizawa had on him.
“We couldn’t believe it either,” Gran Torino said over the intercoms. “It was weird when we noticed that he was the only teacher not present during that time. And when we started keeping tabs on him, the more the pieces started falling into place. We were ready to take him in for questioning until one of the officers found it strange that he didn’t respond to their commands.”
Aizawa stayed quiet. The quiet was the only thing soothing the throbbing void.
“What are you talking about, old man!” Mic shouted. “Why is Shirakumo in here! He ain’t a villain! He’s my bro!”
“Shirakumo died in that accident years ago, right?” Gran Torino reminded. “We couldn’t even recover his body. It had disappeared. Then when he just appeared back at Yuuei like nothing happened, we all didn’t know what to do. Someone that was dead should’ve stayed dead, right?” Torino breathed in and sighed. “Now we know why he’s alive.”
Tears trailed down Nemuri’s face. Any sparkle in her eyes was gone, her blue eyes wielding no emotion as she stared at the corpse clouded in purple.
Mic paused. His eyes widened with horror. “C…c’mon, man. You’re… joking, right?” He laughed. He pointed. “Are you saying that my best friend’s—”
“Kurogiri. And his mentee is—“
“Shut up.” Aizawa‘s fists trembled. “That’s not true. A Nomu is a creature meant to follow orders of their creator! Shirakumo has memories of us! Shirakumo is there! He would never willingly serve Shigaraki!”
One of the officers sighed. “Then what’s the reason he wasn’t at USJ, Aizawa? Who are we to determine that? And whose to say that he wasn’t ordered to just fake it?”
“Shut up!” Mic shouted. “You’re lying! You’re all liars!”
It was a lie. All of it.
Those eyes were never looking at him with care. They were scrutinizing what Yuuei taught, where the training grounds were, and maybe even protecting the traitor in their midst. Another traitor, at least. But at least that one was doing it alive.
“Why?” Aizawa heard the crack in his voice. “Why him?”
Mic turned his head. “Sho—“
“Are you saying that my best friend was turned into a toy?” Slowly standing up, Aizawa glared at one of the cameras. “Are you saying that it was a joke? He was never there? Not even once?”
Silence. Agonizing silence.
Like lightning, Aizawa activated his quirk and looked at Shirakumo, taking off the goggles. “Oboro! Don’t just sit there! Say something!”
Nothing.
“You were the type to save a kitten from rain while I would leave it behind,” Aizawa said. “I was a coward. I had no self-esteem. But your constant encouragement was what kept me going. Don’t tell me it was all fake. I know it wasn’t! Why would a Nomu play me like a fiddle? You’re there, Oboro! Just say something, please.”
He waited. And waited. And waited.
In all the time that Aizawa and Mic spent there, Shirakumo didn’t speak. No amount of shouting, tears, or sadness stirred his mind.
“Twenty years, man,” Mic mumbled. “For over twenty years, we were fools.”
Nemuri echoed the conclusion. “Oboro was never there.”
“We’ve been theorizing that the reason he hung around you so much, Aizawa, was because whoever’s controlling him wanted to keep tabs on you,” Gran Torino informed. “It’s probably why he’s asked about your eyes, too. Maybe they want your quirk. That’s really all we’ve gathered.”
“I get it,” Aizawa said. He really didn’t. “Yeah. I understand.”
A beat. “Thank you for your work today, fellas. We’ll call you next time you’re needed.”
They were led out of Tartarus. Hard rain greeted them outside, thunder accompanying it.
Nemuri chuckled bitterly. “As if this day wasn’t difficult enough.”
“What a nice joke,” Mic said in response to rain, the bitterness in his voice obvious. “More reminders of that day.” He turned to look at Aizawa. “You alright, Shota?”
Aizawa felt tears streaming down his face. He’s never been so glad to have long hair. “I got dry eye.”