Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The water was cold, he made sure of it. He stuck one flushed pink toe into it, immediately flinching back from its bite. He’s outside despite it having snowed the night before, and it had been far too much effort to fill the tub for him to give up now.
So at just eight years old, with knobby knees and skinny hands, a young Hinata Shoyo bites his lip to distract from the pain, as he swings one leg over the edge of a metal flower tub. The water inside burns like a grill, turning his pale shin bright red in seconds, as blood rushes to warm the limb. He lets out a strangled gasp, nearly slipping in shock, having to grip the side of the tub until his knuckles turn white just to stay standing.
He forces himself to keep breathing, chunks of ice gently bumping into his leg. The little taps quickly fade, the leg going numb. As frightening as the numbness would be to someone else, he finds it emboldening. It helps him calm back down, round face puffing up in determination as he preps to step all the way in.
Just as he goes to do so, second leg swung up akimbo in the air, he hears the back screen slide open with viscous force.
“Hinata Shoyo! What on Earth do you think you’re doing!”
He spins to find his mother charging at him in a rush, hair mussed and eyes wide with fear. Before he can even think of an excuse she’s got hands under his armpits, hoisting him in the air with strength no woman her size should possess. Call it mother’s adrenaline. In seconds she’s dragging him inside, slamming the screen behind them.
“What’s got into you? Swimming in a blizzard! Are you trying to catch your death?”
She drags him to the kitchen to get a towel, flipping on the stove and sitting him in front of it. As sternly as she scolds, he quietly wishes she would just yell. Then he could yell back and not feel so embarrassed. But his mom is as cool as water, never letting an issue shake her footing.
The fear in her eyes does nothing to show weakness, only proving her justified in her anger as she crouches down to check on him.
“You really have to answer me Shoyo, do you understand?”
He nods, bashful at having been caught.
“Okay. What were you doing out there young man?”
Shoyo opens his mouth to answer, but humiliated tears choke him off, and he splutters for a moment, his mom waiting patiently for him to collect his thoughts.
“I thought maybe…. Maybe I’d have- I’d be special.”
He curls inward at the admission, feeling the ache of pain in his leg that had seemed so easy to ignore before. His mother sighs, and even though he can’t see from behind his knees, he can hear her shift closer, grip tightening on his shoulders.
“Shoyo,” she murmurs gently, giving him a slight shake. “You don’t need to keep looking for powers. I understand that mutations are flashy and fun, especially to a child, but they come with a heavy burden. It evens out the same as anyone else. You’re special just being my son.”
He looks up at that, seeing his mothers eyes warm above the shadows beneath them. She looked older since Dad. There were wrinkles forming between her eyebrows. But the love, the awe for her child, burned bright with youth.
“You are so special to me Hinata Shoyo, don’t make me look silly for that.”

Chapter Text

Hinata Shoyo seemed to be born looking up. He was the first in his nursery to walk, and running wasn’t far off. Despite his struggles in academics, his teachers praised his emotional intelligence and quick wit. The grass shook under his feet. Sunlight danced in his featherdown hair. For all intents and purposes Shoyo was special. The world lay smooth in front of his young stride.
The first sign things would not be so simple should have been his height. He stayed frozen in place through middle school, even most of high school. Life reached out to tell him he wasn’t done looking up. Because for all of Shoyo’s charm, strength, and joy, at his very core a weed took hold and tilted his jaw back into the sun. Through the glaring sheets of gold a single feeling rang true. Bursting in the white dots of strained vision, Hinata Shoyo was hungry. And in a world where the extraordinary exists, special children fade into mundanity.
Still, he had worked hard in everything he ever tried, and it was finally going to pay off. Just a few more years, and he’d be going to Tokyo to become a news photographer.

The straps on his apron are too thin. It was nice at first, when he didn’t have to worry about chafing on his neck, but after working the same stupid job since he was sixteen, the familiar digging feeling at his nape is far past getting old. They strain against his neck every time he leans forward to sweep the back room floor, and pinch awkwardly into his sides when he breathes too deeply, which is frequent between his constant humming and muttering in the quiet store.
As much as Shoyo appreciates Ukai taking him on as a store clerk, the Sakanoshita market isn’t exactly a hotspot for fresh out of school young adults, and between the rides to and from university and his late afternoon shifts, Shoyo has been feeling isolated all term. The only thing that keeps him motivated at work is the little radio Ukai keeps on the front desk.
During the day it usually plays sports commentary or music, but during shifts he has to himself, Shoyo likes to play stations that talk about supers. There aren’t any big heroes running around Miyagi, but even in a more rural prefecture there’s an occasional act of grandeur. Besides, even when there aren't, there's plenty of drama in Tokyo and in countries with higher crime rates.
After a few more minutes shuffling around, probably kicking up more dust than he managed to clean, he deems his closing tasks complete, sighing in relief as the knotted canvas-y cord against his waist is tugged loose. He hesitates just a moment on the off button of the radio, trying to stretch out his time listening to it. The sun had dipped down a little over an hour earlier than closing time, and a soft film puffed around his face as he slipped through the door, sliding a jacket over his shoulders.
He always takes a moment standing at the welcome mat to squint up into the stars. Most are shrouded by light pollution, but if he tilts his head just right there’s a faint outline of a constellation he can see from home this time of year. He wonders what it is, but part of the joy is trying to come up with his own shapes, so he doesn’t bother looking it up. It is all part of that peaceful moment on the mat, before he dives back into a steady march.

Moonlight flashes off the spokes of his bike, pavement thrumming as it flashes underneath. His muscles ache, but he doesn’t get tired with the cool air lapping against his bare calves. It always goes faster than it should; the ride home. No busy streets or foot traffic, just A to B.
When he gets home there’s a plate from dinner left in the microwave for him, and a note reminding him to not leave any books out after late night study sessions. Natsu had obviously been up later than their parents, Because in the corner is a scribbled smiley face in different ink. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the mouth line is tilted in what is clearly a mocking smirk at Shoyo being scolded still. He feels the tips of his ears go pink, and crumples the note as he takes his dinner up to his room.
Everything blurs so fast in the dark. It feels like one moment he’s pulling plastic wrap damp with condensation from the top of the dish, and the next it thunks quietly on his bedside table in tandem with eyelids fluttering shut in front of his eyes. Maybe the speed with which he falls asleep will pay off for a nice slow morning.

“SHOYO!”
He jolts awake just as a, seemingly second, round of stuttering knocks batters his door. Spluttering in the dim light, but recovering fast like the morning person he is, Shoyo blinks against the light of his alarm clock. Six Fifty-Two. Exactly eight minutes before he has to get up.
“Natsu you weasel!” He shouts back. The knocks are suddenly replaced with bare feet slapping on hardwood and rapidly retreating cackles.
On his way out of bed, Shoyo manages to catch the edge of his foot in the duvet, stumbling to the ground, then tripping again as he hastily tugs some sweat pants over his boxers, all while trying to grab some clean clothes from his drawer. Some seconds of dramatic flailing and aborted sentences later, and he bursts from his door wearing nothing but pajamas, with a wad of denim in one hand and playful vengeance in his eyes.
Natsu had hit her first growth spurt, knobby tween legs carrying her most of the way down the stairs, but Shoyo has several years of growth on her, never mind the constant casual working out to combat his sporadic mind. It only took three short leaps to reach her, throwing the, admittedly small, girl over his shoulder to peels of laughter. As he hopped down the last few steps he twirled, just to jostle her a little more.
“Surrender you miscreant! How dare you disturb the great Hinata Shoyo?”
It took no small effort to talk over their respective giggling, but if the raised pitch of Natsu’s laughter and the thrashing kicks of her legs in his grasp were anything to go by, she had heard just fine.
“The great idiot Hinata Shoyo,” she managed to choke out between hiccuping laughter.
“Oh ho ho, so you want to play it that way?”
With a few wobbly steps, Natsu not making this an easy action, he enters the living room, swinging his sister off his shoulder and onto the plush of their couch. The little problem starter, red from both being upside down and laughing too long, actually caught air for a moment on the bounce.
Shoyo doesn’t let her revel in it though, with one hand grasping behind him as he backs towards the door frame, he throws a final scolding finger her way declaring, “I’m taking the first shower for that.”
As he bolts towards the bathroom door, fresh clothes still securely in his grasp mind you, he hears the indignant gasp and subsequent scrambling of his little sister behind him. But her struggles are for naught, door snapping swiftly shut behind him, hardwood replaced by cold tile under his skin. There’s a rasping slide, then soft thump on the door as Natsu’s momentum tries to carry her through the wood, but she knows better than to try prying open a door that Shoyo is holding shut.
He snickers to himself at the put upon huff from the other side, and lays out a towel for his shower. Somewhere above him in his room an alarm goes off, drowned out by hissing water.

It’s over breakfast that he notices something is off. Their mom is a quiet woman, only ever raising her voice when they’re being especially loud. Even then the action is driven out of a concern for the neighbors, not any kind of natural fire or sternness. Most people would say that mother Hinata is as indulgent and patient as they come. Still, it’s not normal for any parent to be unflinching in the face of their childrens’ antics, and that morning she had hardly looked up from her meal, only muttering something about not playing with food when Natsu flicked sauce at Shoyo off of her spoon.
Both siblings freeze in their chaos, glancing once to each other then focusing attention on the woman at the head of the table. It isn’t melancholy that grips their mother, but rather deep focus, her elevens deepened by furrowed brows, amber eyes drilling into her cup of coffee. Maybe something had happened at work, or she had a bad night's rest. It was almost his twentieth birthday, so maybe it was anxiety about the nearing Shoyo-less future. Could empty nest syndrome happen in a house with someone as chirpy as Natsu to distract from it? Let alone kick in before he even saved up enough to think about moving.
A small kick knocks against Shoyo’s shin, shaking him from his psychoanalysis. He throws a scowl to his sister, but there’s no heat behind it. Natsu just rolls her eyes, thrusting her hands towards mom as if to say, ‘well? Go on!’ He raises his eyebrows in bafflement, pointing a questioning finger at his own chest, earning himself another sharp kick. Seeing she won’t give in, and relenting that he tends to be more direct with his intentions anyway, he begrudgingly admits to himself that Natsu was right to pass the ensuing conversation to him.
“So how are things going at the clinic Mom?” His voice squeaks on the word ‘clinic,’ but she blinks up at him, seemingly only just realizing the attention is on her, head swiveling between her two children.
With one more slow blink light entered her eyes and she flushed in embarrassment stuttering out, “Oh! Oh work!”
When the steely gazes of her kids don’t turn away, she continues.
“We had a litter of kittens surrendered. The poor owner was beside himself- had no idea his cats weren’t both male. That’s why you should have them fixed regardless kids, remember that.”
Now, despite being considered quite oblivious by most people, Shoyo knows his mom, and he knows that the kittens aren’t what’s bothering her. She obviously picked the kittens' story to distract Natsu, who has already started badgering her for more information on them, and had hoped to catch Shoyo up in the chatter. It’s not slick enough to trick him into not worrying, but he understands that whatever it is must be inappropriate for his sister and drops it.
The morning always flies in a whirlwind after breakfast. Before he knows it, he and Natsu are zipping up their bags in the entryway, twin bursts of orange bobbing and weaving around each other in the tight space. He usually only shows his most fun-loving side to her, but when Natsu’s bird-like elbow jabs him one too many times, he can’t resist shoving her out of the door ahead of him. As he goes to follow, a soft cough catches over his shoulder.
Misses Hinata is one of the few people Shoyo can look down on. He’s never thought of her as small, but stood at the end of the hall, looking too somber to be fully okay, she seems at once to him the most fragile woman in the world. When he meets her gaze her face contorts subtly into a pout.
“When you get home from your classes, will you have to go back out to work?”
“No.”
“Then I have something to show you. Your aunt Mei sent it.”
It feels like a bucket of cold ice is dropped over him. She says ‘aunt Mei,’ because she is an only child, and feels weird calling her sister in-law her sister. So really what she means is that his dad left him something, or rather aunt Mei had something of his she thought they should have. No wonder mom was so out of it.
“Of course mom, I won’t make any plans.”
She sends him a soft smile at that, and he turns to leave quickly. He can’t handle the pity she always throws at him when Dad comes up. The door shuts softly, morning light still dewy outside. Natsu is already propped next to his bike, looking at him with a bored expression over the top of her new phone. He never had a phone at her age, but to be fair he wasn’t in as many extracurriculars as her.
“Took you long enough! I’m going to tell my teacher it’s your fault if I’m late.”

He bikes down the mountain, sun catching windows on the houses below and Natsu’s uniform skirt flapping into his side on the turns. Every now and then his bag is squished against his chest from where it rests on his bouncing knees. The sun soaks into him, the dew sprays under the bike's wheels. It’s a perfect start to his day.
And yet, as he rolls up to Natsu’s school, as her small form jogs away, as he turns back to get himself to class, he thinks about what may be waiting for him at home.

That nervous thought is so pervasive in fact that Shoyo has jitters all morning. In his photography class, he almost rips the curtains down in the developing room trying to hang a photo on the line. His fingers shake so badly in Business and Econ that the lead of his mechanical pencil chips off in small bits whenever he tries to take notes. At one point he even jerks his wrist by accident, sending a sheet of paper flapping noisily across the floor, and the professor sends him such a stern look he doesn’t even bother chasing after it.
By the time people are shuffling out of his last class of the day, he feels like a shaken can of pop. People shuffle by in blurs of t-shirt fabric, nap sacks, and exchanged numbers for study dates. The zipper of his bag is cold where he tugs it up and over the overflowing blister pop that is his school supplies. Look, maybe he could stand to be more organized, but he knows everything is in there at least. A sharper, crisper footstep cuts through the faint squeaking of sneakers.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Shoyo sees well-pressed slacks, curled and bunched at the end where they run too long on his professor’s legs. He quickly darts his gaze up to make eye contact, the other’s wise gray eyes crinkled in amusement, yet bunched in concern.
“You’re energetic today.”
It’s not an accusation, but a question, left hanging gently between them. Takeda is probably the best teacher Shoyo has ever had, though he’s young and more inexperienced than the other professors. He knows that the question isn’t meant to pry or cross the comfortable student-teacher boundary they have, but rather to check in on if Shoyo had absorbed any of the material that day. He hadn’t, and they both knew it. If only he had done better in high school and could avoid basic classes like English.
“Yeah I’m having trouble focusing today. I’m sorry professor”
“That’s quite alright Hinata, it is not my money going to waste when you miss out on important information.”
Shoyo ducks his head at that, chuckling, but knowing the jab is meant to land despite Takeda’s gentle tone. A small intake of air to his left is his only warning before the professor continues.
“I just came over here to see if my suspicions were correct, and to suggest something to you.”
There’s an odd glint in his eyes when Shoyo finally raises his own again, as if Takeda thinks he’s approaching a wild animal instead of a student.
“One of my top students is starting a sort of study group tutoring business for some side cash. Her rates are very reasonable, as the cost is split between multiple students per session. She’s having trouble finding more than one customer for Literature, and I fear what will happen to the current one if he’s unable to continue getting help from her…”
As his professor spoke, Shoyo could feel his shoulders bunching up, nearly swallowing his neck. Tutoring was one thing, and it was cool that this star student girl wanted to keep it cheap and efficient, but sitting in front of a bunch of his peers and showing off how dumb he can be? Besides, his schedule got pretty tight sometimes, so if he wanted to do something like this he’d have to stop taking as many shifts at the store.
“I think it could really help you Hinata.”
Takeda slid a piece of paper with a phone number, an email, and a name scribbled on the front.
“One of the most difficult things we must do as human beings is ask for help. I don’t want to see your hard work go to waste. Please, Hinata, consider reaching out to her.”
They stood still for a moment, Shoyo shuffling from foot to foot, weighing his options. Through the small windows by the door, he could see some students shuffling nearer for the start of afternoon classes. The time to decide was running thin.
“I’ll think about it professor,” he mumbled, sliding the paper into his back pocket and slinging his bag over his shoulder with the opposite hand. At this Takeda’s face visibly relaxed, though it hadn’t been obvious how tense he was before, and he let out a soft reassured laugh. The fatherly squeeze he left on Shoyo’s upper arm burned as he walked to the bike rack. It burned as he started out of town again. Burned as he got closer and closer to the ghostly grasp of his real father.

Natsu has three clubs that she attends. Speech and Debate, where she runs circles around the other children with her rambling yet cutting responses, Track and field, where she attempts to expedite her release of energy each day, and the student honor society, because she’s an overachiever. She carpools with random girls from school, not needing to be picked up by her brother afterwards. This is good considering his usual afternoon shifts at work. Still, there are a few nights every other week where Ukai will have someone else on shift, or Shoyo will call in sick, and there will be a couple hours with only Natsu out of the house.
It would be inaccurate to call these windows of time quiet. Shoyo does just fine filling their small mountain home. He lets his feet land heavily, even upstairs, so that dull thuds trace the ceilings of the living space. He plays video games in his room, sound effects and buzzing bleeding through his headphones. Sometimes he even runs around or juggles. But when Shoyo gets home he knows, before even unlocking the front door, that it would be a quiet afternoon with his mom.
She isn’t waiting when he gets back, which is comforting. He can hear her running something under the kitchen sink, maybe washing her hands, taking a moment to ruffle a towel before the hissing water cuts off. There’s an unconscious decision not to break it. Feet fall softly as he heads further into the house, not calling out for her. It’s silent and heavy, but it’s gentle in it. His fingertips are dry with it.
When he reaches the kitchen he takes a moment to watch her put the towel away. She stands light on her feet, perched on her toes. It might be the only sign of a livelier younger self left. Everything else about her is orderly. Her hair hangs just above her shoulders in a straight edge bob, her clothing is well fitted but not tight. Anyone who met her kids would be shocked she was a Hinata.
Shoyo clears his throat softly, knowing it would startle her if she turned around and saw him on her own. The looseness of her shoulders shakes out, the presence of another person bringing with it an energy only company can strike the human body with.
“Oh,” she says, turning to face him, “Perfect timing, I just finished up.”
His mother gestures subtly at that, indicating she had cleaned up something in the kitchen, but he doesn’t follow the movement. Shoyo just looks into her eyes, and holds tightly to the reminder they’re the same shade as his own. He doesn’t take much after her in personality, or even most of his appearance really, but this they share.

They sit in the living room, plush cushions, neutral space. The tension is relieved somewhat, but the nerves flowing from each of them undo some of that work. On the coffee table is a small cardboard box. Maybe it used to be a shoebox, but now it’s too covered in layers of moving tape and stickers to know what brand. On the top, in sloppy sharpie is “HINATA.”
“Mei said it belonged to him when he was around your age, I think you should have it.”
Shoyo snaps his eyes from the box to his mother, only to see her hands pinched in front of her, elbows on her knees. She is challenging him to argue.
“Mom, I was six when he died, I barely remember him.”
A flash of something softer, but she doesn’t budge, simply staring him down as Shoyo begins to rock back and forth in discomfort.
“I get it, you think it’ll comfort me, but really it’s just a reminder of how little I knew him.”
When this doesn’t seem to change her mind he finally realizes how tired she looks. Not stubborn or angry, but weary. Truthfully, part of him wants to take the box. To grasp every scrap of his dad he can get, see his own face reflected in old pictures. But he knows deep down that his father is nothing more than a foggy dream and a hair color to him. He knows his mom, however little they seem to share, and he knows it’s not normal to never remarry after losing a spouse so young. Him and Natsu have always been her priority, but their father was her world.
Shoyo leans to the edge of his seat, trying to duck down to better meet her eye, searching for any cracks in her defense. He clears his throat then asks, “Mom… do you want to look through it instead?”
The thin line of her lips wobbles, and her eyes shine, but she gives him the warmest most gentle smile she can, letting her hands drop to the table.
“Shoyo I have so much of him still, I cannot take any more.”
He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath, but it shudders out of him as he falls the rest of the way forward. They cling to each other tightly, shaking with the force it takes not to cry, and he watches the box from the corner of his eye. It’s a soft brown color from wear and tear, looking like vapor on the rich chocolate of their table. The dark wisps of his mother’s hair under his chin cut the image like claws, only compounding the unreality of it.

It takes a long time to work up the courage to open the box. Natsu had barreled in hours before, and Shoyo heard her thundering around the living space below his room. He keeps the blinds slightly closed, so that the passage of time and changing light can’t add pressure to his already hesitant heart.
The box seems so small, so insignificant on his legs, more than half of each thigh visible on either side of it in his lap. The smiley faces on his pajama shorts seem to be taunting him.
“Come on, it's not going to bite me!” He angrily whispers to himself, roughly mussing one hand through his unruly hair. It catches slightly in the loose curls, and he tugs it free. Both hands finally fall back into sight, framing the box shakily. He jumps when they touch down, soft worn fibers all too real.
Despite the theatrics and procrastination, Shoyo opens it rather suddenly. It comes off with not much more than a short rasping sound, lid falling backwards to bump his knees. For a moment it feels like nothing, just a collection of random objects, but it doesn’t take long for him to focus on specific objects. He darts his gaze back and forth, hungrily taking in any information he can as his hands gently sift through the pile to see what’s further in.
There’s a few certificates of awards for science fairs and athletics, an acceptance letter from a university in Tokyo, a collection of wrappers for a discontinued brand of gum, and photos. So many photos he can’t wrap his head around it. There’s his dad in graduation garb, showing off his diploma with a grin so wide it blots the sun. Another of him shoving his hand in the camera, the edges of laughing eyes and poorly shaved hair peeking out between his fingers. There are club photos, and weddings, old girlfriends and long dead dogs, there’s even one of him at his lab. This one really catches Shoyo off-guard.
He’s always known his dad was smart. An engineer, a chemist, a biologist, an inventor. The man was a legend in his field, though most wouldn’t know his name. Still, it’s one thing to hear your mom drunkenly gush about how he “could’ve reinvented the world,” and an entirely different thing to see him as a professional. To see the ill fitting dress shirt, the proudly displayed intern name tag, the nervous giggles frozen forever in a shiny window of time. Looking down at that image, his father’s face no larger than the tip of his thumb curled over the corner, it strikes Shoyo just how alike they look.
He obviously knows that he and Natsu didn’t get their fiery hair or their sharp-tipped noses from their mom, but it’s more than that. The face in his palm is so undeniably similar to his own, an imprint where it only echoes on his sister. The curve of their jaws, the dimples on their cheeks, even the cowlick just behind their bangs; it’s all hauntingly aligned.
For what most definitely isn’t the first time, and surely won’t be the last, Shoyo feels an ache to know this man. Would they make the same expressions today if they had more time together? Would Shoyo comb his hair better if he had known another Japanese person with thick wavy hair? Would he feel blissfully at ease now, instead of carved hollow like a Jack-o-lantern without a candle?
It wells up in him, pinching the bottom of his throat, stinging his eyes. He lets it happen, knowing the waves of grief won’t last long, they never do. He offers up no resistance to the fleeting tears, doesn’t even hitch his breath when it gets sharper and sharper. The water rises up and over his head, and as it always does, leaves as quickly as it came. Leaves him cold with the shock of missing someone he doesn’t know, shivering in a non-existent breeze.
It’s quiet all around. At some point while he was looking at the photos, Natsu must have gone to bed. He can’t hear her footsteps anymore, and the hall light no longer shines under the crack of his door. For a moment he just sits, gathering together his composure once more. The blankets of his bed are warm, the stars are shining outside, it’s okay.

He looks back down, expecting to see more photos at the bottom of the box, but there aren’t any. Instead, laying at the bottom left corner, almost tucked between the folded edges of the cardboard, is a key. It has a green pendant attached, and looks to be quite old based on the shiny scratches and dull metal. It’s warm when he grabs it, from being pressed under so many things. Confusion weighing his cry-weary mind, Shoyo lifts it up to his lamp light, turning it over in his grasp.
It seems unlikely that it would be for an old apartment or dorm, considering those keys would be returned when his dad moved out of them. But then, what door would a young man possibly have a key for if not where he lives? He looks closer at the pendant then, looking for a place of work, or maybe a local club his dad might’ve kept a locker for.
There’s chipped white text on it, next to a sloppy cartoon loading truck. It’s hard to read, barely there at all, but when Shoyo finally puts the words together it’s as if lighting had shot along his spine. The name of a company is on the smooth plastic surface. He had only pieced the faded letters together, because Shoyo knows the name. Right near the edge of town, just by the bottom of the mountain, is a storage unit company. For as long as he can remember it, it had sat abandoned, no one wanting to buy the land it sits on for some other business because of the crap curb appeal. And if his father had never returned the key, had he had access to one of the units before it closed?

At this train of thought, most people would wonder why their mom didn’t have the key and think to empty out the unit herself, or why their aunt would shove the key in with a bunch of college memorabilia. The latter especially considering Mr. Hinata had been in an entirely different city when the rest of the things in the box had been his. But Hinata Shoyo is not the critical kind, or even the common sense kind.
So when he finds himself staring at a rusted chain link fence in nothing but shorts and hoodie half an hour later, with nothing but his bike, the key and a burning curiosity, he feels very reasonable and justified. Even in the dark, it isn’t hard to find a gate and use shivering cold fingers to unlock it. Really the whole thing was going too well. As a kid Shoyo’s mom always caught him sneaking out, and most abandoned businesses aren’t really abandoned, just colder and more dangerous. It was just a matter of time until a god of luck caught up with him to balance the universe back out.
The green garage doors of the units looked near black in the dark, and the numbers were even harder to read than the ones printed to the back of the key. The wirring and crunching of Shoyo’s bike on the uneven pavement stretched out in the silent aisles between the doors. He felt giddy with excitement, and maybe a little queasy with fear. This was something of his dad’s that hadn’t been gone through. No one had packed it up, or passed it between relatives. There were no tear stains, or hand prints, or grief marks on this place. It was frozen in a time before the storage company went broke, only cobwebs and dust marring it.
After nearly fifteen minutes of antsy pacing between units, Shoyo finally found one with a matching number posted next to its door. The white stucco of the little structure was chipped, scuffs and dead bugs increasing in concentration closer to the ground. It’s door rusted around the lock at some point in its many years standing alone, glints of metal showing where the green paint had peeled off. All in all, Shoyo finds himself thinking it far too unassuming for something so monumental.
He almost feels his father there for a moment, standing on the other side of the door. It reminds him of playing hide and seek with his mom and Natsu. His chest puffs up with each breath, eyes blown wide against the biting air, sweat gathering where he holds the key.

Hinata Shoyo was born looking up. The first person who held him was his dad. If he could remember it he would know just how loved he had been in that moment. His father had cried, floored by the child in front of him. And when the baby had laughed, calming faster than any newborn the nurses had ever seen, his father had picked him up higher so they could be eye to eye.
Almost twenty years later, Shoyo looks down at the key in his hand, crouches to the lock of a rusted garage door, and laughs as metal slides and clicks open.

The unit is dark. That’s the first thing Shoyo notices when he manages to fan away the dust falling out to catch in his mouth and in his eyes. He blinks away plumes of gray to be met with swirls of purple shadow. He throws a hand out to the side, bare skin slapping on the concrete walls in search of a light switch. When he finds nothing but smoothness and spiderwebs, he resolves to use his phone light, clumsily slipping it out of his hoodie pocket.
His sweaty fingers slip along the screen, but he gets it on, blue beam striking out into the small room before him. At first he isn’t really sure what he’s looking at. He had expected boxes, maybe some old furniture, not… whatever this is.
Two long tables run through the middle of the room, one with a complicated arrangement of what look like beakers, and the other with the most extensive computer setup Shoyo had ever seen. And his friend Kenma had showed off a professional gaming set up to him when he visited Tokyo after graduation. On the walls were tall shelves, lined with an assortment of what Shoyo hoped were household chemicals. As he swept the stark line of his light across the bottles though, he could see tanks full of what once must have been insects and reptiles in one corner. Even if that wasn’t creepy on its own, the shiny materials of the cases reflected ghostly forms in the cold flash.
“What the fuck.”
Shoyo’s voice got swallowed by the thick walls of the unit, his feet carrying him in an unconscious circle around the space. It was obviously some kind of lab, but why would his dad need something so hidden when he had worked in a lab everyday? For the first time in his life Shoyo finds himself wondering if anyone knew his dad, let alone himself. His eyes dart around the room, the cold air feels like shrapnel in his lungs, and yet his face starts to feel hotter and hotter as he spins around faster and faster. None of it makes sense, and the more he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing the less it does.
Why would his dad keep newspaper clippings on the civil unrest over mutants? Why would he have medical equipment when he wasn’t a doctor? Why were there living bugs in some of the tanks, even though they would have been unable to eat for years? Do bugs even live that long in the first place?
It plows into him with sudden force, an ice pick in his chest. The wrongness of the whole situation dawns on him then, the numerous inexplicable qualities of the unit and how Shoyo had found himself in possession of the key. He realizes with a start that he is scared, and cold, and somewhere he should not be in the middle of the night.
Like a bat from hell, Shoyo spins on his heel, scrambling to shut the unit door behind him despite the ugly screech it makes when yanked that hard. He doesn’t care how the bumpy pavement cuts into his shin when he stumbles trying to stand up from his crouched position at the foot of the shut door, he doesn’t care if it’s safe how fast he hops on and pedals back, he barely cares to keep oxygen to his brain.
Maybe if he did, if he had, he would have felt the tickle of hairs at the hem of his hoodie. Perhaps he would have shaken out the fabric, and nothing would change. He would get home, sneak up to his room as normal, and no one would ever have to think about or see that weird place ever again. But in the adrenaline rush he was feeling, Shoyo didn’t really care to notice small details like tickles at his hip. His fear left him numb to the prick of small fangs slipping into his skin like a hot knife into butter, and the fast pumping of his fear only pushed the venom through his system faster.
A little spider, drained of whatever scientific curse made it so strong, felt its grip draining of power as the chemicals pumped through the bite on Hinata Shoyo’s hip. Though most bugs could’ve held on despite the jostling of the bike, it fell shock still, tumbling from under the hoodie it sheltered under.
The world turned glitz and bleed. It felt its eyes spinning round and round, still in their sockets. For a moment the feeling of falling was beautiful, a sense of height and freedom most spiders never feel in a lifetime. This one had lived many lifetimes in a dark and dusty world. Before that had been glass, shocks of pain. No one could call it a tragedy when it slipped beneath the back tire of Shoyo’s bike, scattering into a thousand little pieces.

Chapter Text

Tokyo has some type of half-night in the heart of the city. The flashing lights of traffic signs, clubs, and huge towers spin in a pseudo dance with sunlight. They take turns bathing metal in glistening lines, one dimmer than the other, but never dull. The power of it keeps a permanent dusk, even in winter, so in spring and summer it seems especially nocturnal. Up above stars are choked out, replaced by ever shifting constellations of window lights flickering behind curtains.

He gets a good view of it at his new job. It’s a slow job, just looping around a high floor in some random building. He does typical security guard things, checking locks on windows and doors, staying up to ungodly hours, watching camera monitors, being bored out of his mind, sneaking a cigarette out of the far west window in a camera blind spot. You know, the usual.

He isn’t entirely sure who his boss is, only that she’s busy all the time and only ever sends assistants to talk to him. She’s supposed to be a genius, pioneering the study of mutations. It’s rumored that one of her techniques for controlling abrasive powers was implemented in the schools they have in America for mutant children. He doesn’t really understand why someone that important would have him wandering around aimlessly when there had been no signs of danger for the last three weeks at the company. Frankly, he isn’t even sure he’s guarding anything at all.

Sometimes it makes him feel guilty. He got the job on a recommendation from an old college buddy, and everyone he had been trained by made it sound like this was the most dangerous job he’d ever do. It was ridiculous, he had worked in malls more dangerous than this place. Still, the pay was good, the view was good, and the cigarette pressed to his lips left a satisfying ache in his lungs as he waited for the daylight to replace the nightlight.

It’s always the easy jobs. They lull people into a sense of calm serenity, making it all the more easy for bad things to happen. He lays with one cheek to the cold glass of the window, straining up to blow smoke through the crack at the top, when the pale floor lights are flooded over by blood red. It jolts him from his stupor, pushing off of the glass and spinning about like a headless chicken. For a few seconds he wonders if he set off some sort of fire alarm with the smoke before his training catches up. He runs over everything the assistants told him, regretting how flippant he was as a droning wail echoes from deeper inside the building. It’s like a growl reverberating from the belly of a beast.

Okay red lights, that means something went wrong with the testing they do here. He rocks from foot to foot, flicking his cigarette butt out of the window, and hovering a nervous hand over the baton at his hip. It’s not a break in, so there’s probably no threat.

A loud bang, like a door being slammed shut or perhaps open, comes from somewhere to his left. It makes him jump, but knowing it’s probably a scared employee looking for help with whatever emergency is happening in the lab, he cautiously approaches where he thinks the sound came from. The tiled floors look wet under the lights, shining as if blood along the column of an alabaster throat. His black shoes click on them no matter how lightly he treads, and something moves around the corner from him. It scrapes across the floor in shambling thunks and bangs.

A crisp white line lies ahead of him, the break in the wall opening into another corridor. Whoever he is walking towards is just on the other side. His baton shakes and slips in his nervous palms, teeth chatter in his mouth. Something else enters the quiet as he nears the edge. It rasps and scitters, dry in the air. He realizes with a start that what he’s hearing is breathing. Heavy, thick breathing, from lungs far bigger than any human could possess.

The sense of danger creeps up his neck, holding to the underside of his jaw as if to kiss him. He wasn’t paid for this. At the last second, he begins to edge backwards, eyes steady on where whatever hums and growls lays to his front. The huffing cuts short, the air suddenly thick with alertness. He can almost feel the presence of it, warm and buzzing just around the corner. His breath freezes in his chest, a tear slipping past his eye.

A drop of red curves around the wall, looking like a rivulet of blood dripping horizontally. Claws, three now, gently scrape the drywall. Air whips through his empty lungs like glass, his chest straining his shirt in gasping shocks.

He can hear someone screaming when he finally sees it. Someone is screaming, something is burning, there’s iron in the air. Iron in his mouth, iron in his nose, in his chest. For some reason he’s looking at the ceiling.

Oh.

He lets himself die, there’s nothing to do. Teeth and claws had severed the ties of most of his muscles, and there wasn't enough time to get to a hospital even if he did get away. He already bled too much. It’s splattered on the walls, droplets hanging above him in sick mockery, occasionally falling to his face in heavy splotches. The last thought he ever has, looking into swirling reds all around, is that he wishes those speckles above him were stars. It had been too long since he’d looked at the stars.

Shoyo is a morning person. During summer breaks, he gets up just after dawn to run a few laps. It helps keep him focused, keep him sane. Even if he didn’t watch his morning routine, Natsu finds it hilarious to disturb his peace, usually testing how early she can force him awake during the school year. So it is usually either her or his alarm waking him up, and it is usually a very seamless moment. He hears a sound, he sits up shock straight, he goes about his day.

Natsu frantically knocking on his locked door, as his alarm screams from wear it shook itself to the floor, are not usual. The first thing he feels is warm, then everything tilts sideways. A groan escapes his lips, as he grips his temples. He’s never even gotten a hangover like this before.

Clearly his sister had heard him, as the knocking had ceased, but he can hear her nervously shuffling outside his room as he drunkenly leans over to retrieve and turn off the alarm. He has to untangle his arm from the duvet to do so, having managed to nest all of his limbs into it in the night.

“Sho… are you okay?” Natsu’s voice is muffled by the door, but he can tell that she’s genuinely worried. She had tried to sound indifferent, even annoyed, but it was obvious her brother acting out of character freaked her out.

He tries to gather his usual brightness, calling out, “yeah I just stayed up too late! I didn’t realize it would make me sleep in.”

It is not really a lie, and once he’s said it he decides it’s true. Obviously sneaking out last night had taken more out of him than he’d realized. Finding your dead dad’s creepy miniature lab would scare anybody, that’s all.

Natsu huffs from the hall, throwing out a hollow threat about not doing that again, then pattering off downstairs. He lets himself flop back onto the bed for a few seconds, sighing deeply and gathering his wits. Everything is normal. His dad has a super creepy lab, but that is perfectly normal nerd behavior. Shoyo would know… probably.

He gets up to start his morning rounds, slipping into some pajama pants to wear before his shower. They get stuck almost all the way on, and he absentmindedly tugs a few more times, before realizing they hadn’t budged. With a confused hum, he looks down. There are his hands on the waistband, fabric stopped awkwardly midway up his thighs. His gaze travels further down, wonderings of if his legs were always that toned in the back of his groggy mind, until he locks eyes on his ankles.

About an inch of soft skin, beginning to tan and freckle in the warmer season, pokes out beneath fluffy fabric, which strains around his shins. Shoyo feels his heart rate pick up, fizzy pop starting in his toes and sliding upwards until a warm halo of realization nettles into his hair. His whole body vibrates with energy, and he begins to hop around his room, leaving one hand on the pajama pants to avoid exposing himself. Raucous laughter follows him, trailing down the hallway after him as he half-shuffles half-bounds downstairs.

“MOM! NATSU!” He yells, peeking into the living room, then back out once confirming its emptiness. Natsu leans out from the bathroom, hairbrush stuck in her mane of flaming curls and toothbrush in one hand, looking very annoyed to have her rituals interrupted. She cocks one hip, giving the best glare a thirteen year old can give with baby fat softened cheeks, and jabs her toothbrush accusingly at him.

“Mom had to run to work early today! One of the kittens had a seizure.” She punctuates the next part with a very foamy swing of the toothbrush. “You would know that if you got up on time!”

When he continues to bounce excitedly in place rather than rising to the bait like normal, she pauses and really looks at him for the first time. An affronted, startled, envious shine enters her eyes as she sweeps her gaze over him suspiciously, hair puffing up wildly over her shoulders. Taking that as her acknowledgment of his miraculous growth despite doctors saying he was done growing a little over a year ago, he nods frantically, grin blurring with the motion.

“I know! It’s a miracle right?”

Instead of responding with her own celebration, she throws her arms up around her head, shaking the brush loose and sending it clattering to the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the gym again! I thought it was strictly cardio with your new work schedule!”

They both stand there, hyped up and confused what the other is talking about, before Shoyo settles down enough to properly talk.

“What are you talking about? Going to the gym doesn’t make you taller.”

Her eyes crumple in frustration, head shaking a couple times as she takes in the too-short-pants and flounders for a response.

“Wha-? no- I’m not talking about that!”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted to get abs before you!”

He realizes at this point that her envy hadn’t been over height, but rather her natural Hinata competitiveness. It makes his athletic feathers ruffle, the spark of a challenge in his chest.

“You thought you could get abs before me?” He squeaks indignantly, shoulders dropping from their energetic position, head cocking to the side. Natsu just rolls her eyes, picking the brush up from where it dropped and sloppily running it through her hair.

“Duh! But that’s not the point, you’re telling me how you’ve been secretly working out over breakfast mister.”

At that, she turns on her heel, slamming the bathroom door behind her again. Shoyo looks at the clock on the wall, seeing that it’s technically her turn with the shower, so he has to wait. In the meantime he busies himself by cooking breakfast and packing his things for the day.

It’s at this point he notices how weird he feels. Like his brain started losing out to animal instincts. While cooking the noodles he accidentally splashes boiling water over the edge of the pot while looking at a text from Kenma, and his other arm jerks out of the way involuntarily despite him not having seen the water flying towards him. It makes him stare in suspicion at his left hand for a few minutes, noodles being nearly burnt in the pan, before he simply decides he got lucky and shrugs it off.

But the strange out-of-control feeling doesn’t stop. His skin itches in random hot flashes, strange urges to glance out of the window over the sink grabbing hold of him whenever a bird flies past. The pads of his feet seem heavier somehow, like they keep trying to stick to the floor. By the time he’s set out a bowl for him and Natsu each, there are splatters all over the kitchen from his twitchyness, and the distraction of being hyper alert has somehow led to both over and undercooked food.

When he’s packing up his bag it really starts to bother him. The papers for English keep sticking to his hands, and he rips several pages out of his notebook trying to check what few notes he got the other day. Sweat beads on his brow as he crouches frozen in concern over his backpack on the floor. Amber eyes burn into the shreds of paper stuck to his fingertips. Maybe he had spilled some glue. The papers wiggle mockingly when he angrily flicks one wrist. Shoyo didn’t even bring glue to school.

He shoots up abruptly, hopping from foot to foot and screaming while shaking out his hands in a panic. When they don’t budge, he decides to try rubbing the paper off on his legs, which only leads to him ripping a hole in the right knee of his nicest jeans. Now there’s denim fibers and paper on one hand.

“What is happening?” He shouts, tripping as he stumbles backwards, and landing hard on his ass.

Natsu, finally done getting ready, swings around the corner, clearly having run to check on him. Her breath puffs nervously, and her eyes dart around him and the room for any sign of danger. When she doesn’t see any obvious emergency she rounds on him.

“Why are you yelling?”

Shoyo goes to gesture with his hands, but while he was distracted by Natsu’s sudden entrance, the scraps had fallen harmlessly off of them. The offending pieces lay in a neat little pile between his legs, fingers clean of any sticky residues.

When Natsu realizes he’s not going to answer she begins to walk to the kitchen, throwing out over her shoulder, “I don’t know what’s up with you, but sort it out in the shower.”

He does not sort it out in the shower. By the time he’s finished washing, there’s shampoo on the ceiling, a chip in the tiles, and he’s wrapped in the curtain like a toga. Shoyo whips his head back and forth between his hands, stumbling out of the shower, and curtain, and sliding across the bathroom on his wet feet. A very normal, very scared guy looks back at him in the mirror.

He doesn’t appear any different, so why does he feel different? Maybe he’s still asleep somehow. Hands jolt out to grasp at the sink, turning the cold faucet so hard it pops off for a moment, and he swears under his breath while desperately trying to reattach it. Instead of processing or worrying about how he did that once it finally pops back into place, he just dunks his face into the ice cold water, hoping to force himself awake. Chilly snakes flow down his face as he looks back up at his reflection. Bathroom mirror, not bedroom. This is really happening.

A high whine escapes his throat as he presses his forehead to the countertop. Just breathe in, out, everything is fine. When all else fails, and your living nightmare is a waking nightmare, it’s time for Shoyo’s go-to plan B; ignore the issue until it goes away.

Natsu is waiting for him at the table, stirring her noodles in one hand, phone in the other. He tries to walk in as casually as possible, shuffling gently across the room, and stiffly sinking into his chair as quietly as he can manage. She glances up at him, clearly unimpressed, then puts her phone down on the table to start eating.

The small room is filled by her movements, clinking of dishes and slurping of broth echoing awkwardly without their usual conversation. After a few minutes of this, she notices he isn’t eating and freezes. Her forearms slap onto the table, rattling the bowls, and making Shoyo jump to stabilize his food before his breakfast goes flying.

His sister, daring despite her non threatening stature, leans up onto her hands to glare at him over the table, mouth screwed into a crooked line. It makes him feel fidgety, calm mask breaking as his eyes dart sporadically around the room. Really, she should be the nervous one, trying to scold her older brother.

That thought fills him with newfound confidence, throwing back a glare of his own. They stay stuck in stalemate long enough he feels the telltale excess energy bubble up in his chest.

“What?” He snaps, throwing his hands up.

“What is wrong with you?”
The reply is cool, squinted eyes scrutinizing Shoyo for any signs of weakness. He puffs up, suddenly very defensive of his obviously fake fine-ness.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you!” He jabs back without thinking, then bites his lip in embarrassment at the weak attack.

Natsu just hits the table again and tilts her chin in warning. He attempts to stay strong, but she’s already got him figured out after his weird behavior all morning.

“I don’t know” Shoyo sighs, slumping back into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. When his sister keeps staring him down, he fully deflates.

“I just feel weird, okay? I’ve been sweaty, and distracted, and- I don’t know- jumpy! I’ve been jumpy today!”

Natsu looks mildly concerned now, uncertainty painting her brow.

“Are you going through puberty again?”

Shoyo feels his face go bright red, quickly choking out a stern, “What? No!” But Natsu had clearly decided that must be it, simply laughing into her bowl, going back to her usual chatty self.

It’s all terribly off-kilter. The day is going hauntingly well despite the catastrophic morning. In fact, he feels better than normal if he ignores the twitches and random sticky objects that appear all around him.

He bikes Natsu to school, and into town for class, in half the time it usually takes to go to one of those places. Natsu actually had to hold his waist for the first time since her first year of junior high. His senses seem sharper than normal, everything his professors say sinking in like a rock into the marsh. A few times he swears he can tell when someone is going to ask him something before they do. But it doesn’t come for free.

If his day is half the trouble it normally would be, then his tenseness makes up for it tenfold. For every pencil miraculously caught before hitting the floor, are five random bursts of adrenaline over the tiniest things. He spends about five minutes repeatedly flinching so hard he nearly falls from his seat before realizing a bee was circling the hanging light directly above his table. That antsy mood renders his faster thinking near useless.

By the end of his last class of the day, he’s sweat through the back of his t-shirt, pausing to dig through his bag for deodorant before heading to his afternoon shift. Thank goodness it wasn’t a night he was on closing, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take being awake.

A tickle at the back of his neck is his only warning before someone softly clears their throat behind him. He freezes, hand shoved into his armpit to reapply, and spins around slowly. Takeda waits patiently, hands clasped at his front, eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I’m glad to see you’re practicing good hygiene Hinata. Many boys your age think the end of puberty means the end of cleanliness.”

Shoyo lets out an awkward chuckle, dropping his hand only to find he has no idea what to do with it. When he settles he realizes, to his horror, he subconsciously mimicked Takeda’s posture, the deodorant placed uncomfortably over his crotch. The professor either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t mind his predicament, plowing forward without a care.

“I hate to bug you with this so soon, I was really hoping you’d be able to think on it longer, but do you remember that tutoring situation I told you about?”

Shoyo nods, but his attention is dragging. Specifically dragging left, over the man’s shoulder. Thick framed glasses, and the beginnings of crows feet stay in his peripheral, but Shoyo finds himself zeroing in on the students gathered at the door to Takeda’s classroom.

Just outside the doorway, a girl is talking to some of the boys from Hinata’s English class. She’s clearly a bit older, maybe even an intern or student teacher rather than a student. The boys seem excited to be talking to her, smiling ear to ear and leaning in attentively. On its own that’s fine, but the girl is clearly bothered. She keeps her gaze down to avoid eye contact, hand firmly gripping a folder to her chest. The tallest of the guys around her, a real edgy looking guy with scary piercings, has his arm casually slung across the doorway as he leans on it. He’s blocking her path so she can’t walk away.

“Could you do that for me Hinata?”

Shoyo snaps back to the conversation at hand, realizing too late that Takeda had finished speaking. The professor stares at him with the most hopeful, earnest eyes Shoyo has seen on anyone, and he doesn’t want to admit he hadn’t listened or waste time on repeating. So, despite his better judgment, Shoyo just nods his head aggressively, slinging his backpack over his shoulder while responding, “Of course professor! You can always count on me!”

He quickly glances back to the girl, now visibly angry, hands clenched at her sides, as Takeda claps his hands together in excitement.

“Wonderful! Oh, wonderful! You just have to show up to the library at eight tonight. Can you do that?”

Unfortunately, even though he really wished he could take back his agreement now that he knows he has tutoring tonight, Shoyo would feel too guilty going back on his word. So he just vomits out some half-hearted affirmative while dashing to follow where the girl was being pursued down the hall by the boys.

She holds herself with dignity, that’s for sure. Her long black hair barely shifts as she clips down the hall, footsteps not fast enough to evade the long legs of her pesterers. Shoyo has to jog to reach them, probably barely as tall as the girl even with his sudden growth spurt. As he gets closer he begins to catch snippets of the conversation.

“Hey! What’s the rush? I’m not gonna ask you again, I just want proof your boyfriend's real, that’s all!”

The tall guy's voice is smug and sweet, hair a thick honey color to match. His friends laugh, clearly entertained enough by his mean tease despite the implication he gave up on flirting. The girl pulls her shoulders back, head high, and picks up the pace.

As the leader goes to talk again, Shoyo finally gets close, squeezing his small body between the two and letting out a bellowing, “HEY!”

The whole group freezes, the girl breaking her stoic act to blink in befuddlement at Shoyo’s outburst. For a moment he thinks it’s over, chest puffing up with each pant of breath, before the guys burst into laughter, leaning on each other to avoid falling over. Honey-guy throws one lanky arm over Shoyo’s shoulders giggling into his ear. It sends uncomfortable goosebumps down the side of his neck, so he ducks out of the guy's grip and stumbles back to stand in line with the girl.

“Oh man! I get it little guy, no need to look so offended. I was just having a laugh!”

Shoyo can feel his shoulders shaking in nervousness, he hadn’t realized how much bigger than him these guys were from down the hall, and there’s only one of him to their three.

“You aren’t funny,” the girl cuts in. Her voice is a sharp monotone, eyebrows in a stern frown. This cuts off any amusement the guys got from being challenged, and Honey-guy leans back to his full height, glaring at Shoyo through his lower lashes. For a second he thinks he might pee himself right there in the middle of the corridor.

“Yeah well, the jokes weren’t for you baby.”

At that the guy clucks his tongue, turning back the way he came. His startled friends scrambling to follow after him. Call him crazy, but Shoyo can swear he sees an embarrassed flush on Honey-guy’s ears. He’s so distracted by that detail he doesn’t see the last of the jerks kick his foot out to hook Shoyo’s ankle. There isn’t a conscious thought at all. One second he’s analyzing Honey-guy, the next he’s spinning around, a prick in his skull telling him to do so.

When the asshole realizes Shoyo’s foot isn’t there to kick anymore it’s too late. There’s already a small broad shoulder slamming into his chest, forearm at his throat. That’s when the brain connects back to the body. When there are wide brown eyes looking into Shoyo’s, when there are long fingers scraping desperately on his arm. It doesn’t even budge him. A full grown guy, bigger than him and visibly athletic, and he can’t even nudge Shoyo’s arm.

He lets go of the guy with a shocked gasp, stepping back from the wall. The guy wastes no time, running off after his buddies. Shoyo feels stranded, watching him run off, turning back to look at his unassuming arm. The arm which had displayed far too much strength just now.

“Thanks for that. I can handle myself next time, but I appreciate your courage.”

He shakes from his stupor to find the girl still standing next to him. She has a small smile, really more of a flat line where a frown once was, and her posture is more relaxed than when he first saw her.

“I’m Kiyoko. Bye.”

With no more preamble, she starts walking again, leaving Shoyo confused and dazed, staring after her with his forearm gripped in the opposite hand. He recognizes his social ineptitude just before she rounds the corner, calling out at the last second.

“I’M HINATA! HINATA SHOYO!”

He thinks he was loud enough that she should have heard, but if she did she doesn’t react. Just keeps walking out of sight, while the few passerby around him gawk in varying degrees of annoyance and humor. Wow, that’s a new level of public humiliation for the charts.

The hustle and bustle of university had been a welcome distraction from the chaos of his mind. Sure the fake second puberty issues bugged him all day, but at least he didn’t have time to properly process them. In contrast, other than the occasional rush of school kids, it’s mostly just Shoyo in the quiet Sakanoshita Mart. He’s left with far too much room to mull over the events of the day.

As much as he would like to brush it all off, there’s no denying that something is deeply wrong with him. What really puzzled him about it though, was the seemingly miraculous nature of the developments. He hadn’t tried any drugs, or started working out more, or felt sick lately, so why was he experiencing drastic shifts in his physical abilities?

Shoyo decided to count the money in the register to kill some time, flipping on the radio to his favorite station. Hopefully that would drown out the hurricane in his mind.

He lets the static buzz as the radio comes to life, settling back into the stool behind the counter. Just as he’s reaching for the register, foot absentmindedly tapping on the cold floor, a connection snaps to life.

“-nd in a monumental decision, following decades of pressure from mutant-led organizations and activists, The National Diet has approved a bill permitting mutants registered with their local authorities to work in occupations involving children!”

The broadcast is live, and there must be an in-studio audience, because it suddenly bursts with activity. Shoyo freezes to listen to the chatter. Some cheer, but there’s a low rumble of concerned muttering beneath it, and the emcee scrambles to make light of the announcement with some joke about “kids not knowing the difference.”

Normally he would be excited. Shoyo loves everything to do with mutants. They’re a symbol of hope to him, a sign that humanity will reach greater heights. Heroes provide a new line of defense against greater and greater modern evils, and many powers are very convenient for the general public depending on the jobs the owners undergo. So really, he should be jumping for joy. He should be calling his mom to tell her the good news, sending congratulations to the woman down the mountain who’d given birth to a mutant baby a few months back, but he isn’t.

He’s frozen in deep concentration, staring at the radio without really seeing it. The words coming out of it blend into mush, an eerie backdrop to his mind. The only sound he could hear was the memory of the emcee saying “mutant.” It echoes around inside him, pooling in the base of his skull, weighing on his ears. It couldn’t be possible.

Shoyo would know if he had a mutation. Even if the doctors hadn’t caught it, even if it didn’t have a visible manifestation, he would know. Shoyo had tested every possible outcome as a kid. He had wanted desperately to be special, even going so far as to jump off of his grandpa’s pool shed one year trying to fly. So it simply wasn’t possible that whatever was happening to him was a mutation. Mutants are born that way, and even when they develop their powers in adolescence there are signs from birth. Hinata Shoyo is too painfully mundane to be given a gift like that.

But the reasoning does no good. As hopeless and stupid as that train of thought is, he can already feel it. He’s already perched on the edge of his seat, hands shaking in anticipation. A tiny angry knot at the center of his heart unfurls, yawning open hungry jaws to the world, and he is powerless to deny it.

He decides to take his break early, glancing around suspiciously before flipping the sign to close. No one would know, there was no one around to stop by the store. There wouldn’t be until the kids at the high school got out for the day. So no one is there to judge him as he slinks back from the door, shuffling sideways like a blockbuster spy, before bolting across the room to slip into the back.

It isn’t a big back room. There’s shelves of unstocked goods on one wall, a stack of boxes in the back. In the left corner is a filing cabinet for store records, and in the right is a janitor’s corner. The rest of the room is open, a few beanbag chairs and a cat calendar on the wall are the only signs it doubles as a break room.

He thinks back on everything that had been weird throughout the day, trying to find a through line or pattern. There’d been the growth spurt, the stickiness, breaking the faucet, predicting birds flying by. On top of that had been the heightened senses and strength in the altercation with those assholes earlier. Most of it just sounded like bad-ass fighter powers. Accept the sticky thing, that sounded uncomfortable put into words. He could just think about that one later.

Okay, so how does one go about testing bad-ass fighter-guy warrior powers? He couldn’t just go in the street and jump somebody, that would be rude. Would the powers work if he fought the air?

He throws out a few experimental air punches, punctuating them with some war cries for good measure. But other than some dust flurrying in the air, and a fly buzzing further away from him, they seem like normal punches. So he can’t trick his body into thinking he’s fighting someone. Fair enough powers, fair enough. He’s going to have to be smarter than that.

Shoyo proceeds to spend the next twenty minutes- not the regular length of a break- attempting to startle himself into fighting air. He tries closing his eyes and picturing a big ugly monster, but that just scares him when he gets too into the roleplay. Next he tries using a pillow Ukai thought he didn’t know was hidden under the desk as a punching bag. This has slightly better results, as he hits it hard enough to pop some stuffing out, but the fear of angering Ukai cuts off whatever energy was building, and it didn’t have the instinctual feeling of what he’d done before.

Not sure what more he could do to bring out the super cool fighter inside him, Shoyo decides to look over the list of powers again and weigh his options.

First: super cool fighter-guy bad-ass warrior reflex thingy! Failed already, not going to happen yet. Second: super strength? He’d managed to hit the pillow pretty hard without the warrior stuff, so maybe the strength wasn’t part of his awesomeness powers. Third: sticky things which shall not be thought about. What are you even doing Shoyo, stop thinking about it!

It isn’t hard for him to narrow down what he wants to test next. He goes to where he’d dumped his school bag when he clocked in, digging around for the bento he packed for lunch. It takes a bit, a pencil case and two notebooks needing to come out of the overpacked bag before he can even see what else is in there, but once he gets a hand on it he yanks the little box out with a victorious laugh.

He takes the chopsticks from the side, glad he had remembered to bring the fancy metal ones from last Christmas. A male vet tech from moms clinic had misunderstood her single status as being available and gone all out on his gift giving. Apparently he had bragged especially about the durability of the chopsticks, and it was the only thing he gave her the Hinatas made regular use of. They seemed normal enough, and for a beat Shoyo felt bad about the test of strength he was about to put them through.

Gripping each thin edge of one stick in his hands, he took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, before turning his wrists as hard as he could manage. A soft snap came from just in front of his closed eyes, excess energy leaving his hands swinging down before he could fully catch them, wrists buzzing with energy.

Not wanting to let it be his imagination, he sits frozen for a second, probably looking very silly kneeling on the floor with his eyes screwed up. Then slowly, hopefully, he lets one eye crack open, vision slightly blurry from squeezing them too hard. When it comes back into focus a little glitter catches his eye. It shines from the warped blunt edge of metal poking from the top of one fist. He had snapped the instrument like a twig. Not even a twig, like a toothpick.

Quick with determination he snatches up the second stick, positioning it so that one half of the other doubles it up. Again, the now reinforced metal gave way easily under his pressure. He feels a funny fluttering sensation in his chest, mouth hanging wide open as he shoots his gaze wildly back and forth between the pieces in his hands.

They clatter to the floor like miniature wind chimes, as he leaps to his feet, stunned laughter bursting from his chest.

“Holy crap!” He shouts, hopping up and down in place and staring at his hands. “I mean- woah! Holy crap!”

The calloused skin of his palms seems a miracle. Those hands were something special. Somehow, by some miracle, Hinata Shoyo was going to be more than a photography major living at home still. His eyes are misty, chest full of something warm and broad.

The feeling expands, hardening into giddy passion. He looks up from his hands abruptly, spinning around the room for ideas. The filing cabinet catches him, stumbling to a stop before skidding across the floor towards it. When he reaches it he pauses for a moment, hands resting on the air around it as he tries to think of how to get a good grip on it. After deciding to just go for it, he spreads his palms over the sides, sharp metal corners poking into the flesh against them. His feet crunch under him, adjusting to be directly beneath him for support.

It’s too easy. Shoyo is able to lift the entire cabinet, full of years of paperwork and budget reports. That makes him laugh again, excitement bubbling over like he’s been a capped carbonated drink his whole life, just shaking and shaking in preparation for this moment. He shakes the piece of furniture a few times in the air, because he can, before gently putting it back in its place.

It’s at this moment he hears the radio again, still playing in the other room. At some point the emcee had switched to interviewing random call-ins on their opinions on the new law. It quickly snuffs out the happy fire in Shoyo’s chest.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for equal rights, my son has mutant friends and I host them all the time… it’s just, should all mutants be given this permittance. Some powers are just beyond controlling in my opinion.”

The voice is distinctly old and sweet. That’s the kind of voice that tells their grandkids bedtime stories, passes down wisdom, coos at Shoyo for being a “handsome young man.” It’s a stark reminder of reality, of how the world reacts to miracles. Sure, Shoyo might be overjoyed. He might feel magical, might even want to share his gift with others, but no one else would see it that way.

What would his mother say if she knew he could pick up heavy metal furniture and throw it at someone at any time? How would she feel if people started treating him differently? He could still remember how the nervous pinch in her gaze when he talked about powers had softened the older he got without any signs of anomaly. Would Natsu be jealous? Could she blame him, hate him for it?

Still, under the cold, the fear and the shame, a spark crackled and danced. Shoyo had wanted this his whole life. As much as he’d grown from the danger-seeking kid he was, he never really let go. He tuned into any stories and shows on supers he could, he tried to make sense of the academic articles on how mutations work, despite them all being far beyond his reading level. It’s what drove him to pursue photography in the first place.

He wanted to see it all, to capture it in time. Shoyo didn’t want to miss a moment of the beauty around him. Secretly, deep down, he had wanted to be a news photographer, so he could have an excuse to move to Tokyo and follow the action up close. He hadn’t let himself admit it. It would have scared his friends and family.

But this wasn’t something he could get rid of, was it? This wasn’t a guilty pleasure, or a pipe dream to be shoved down. Shoyo had somehow turned into a mutant overnight. These powers were his, the only question was what to do with them.

He will just have to hide them. To practice and nurture them away from the prying eyes of anyone else.

Deep in pondering, Shoyo didn’t notice that his overactivity had shaken the shelves. On the very highest one, a heavy box began to teeter, on the very edge of its perch. It would only take one more nudge to shake it loose.

He still didn’t understand how all the powers connected, or where they could have possibly come from. Obviously the only thing he’d done out of his usual schedule was break into his dad’s secret lab, but he hadn’t touched anything. Sure, it was creepy and suspicious as all get out, but smart people tended to be eccentric and Shoyo was prone to nerves in new situations. Maybe just the thought of the place made his stomach squirm, but that’s because he’s not smart and can’t appreciate weird spooky nerd things. Or so he desperately tells himself.

The level of his cowardice frustrates him. It’s his own fault for thinking it was a good idea to snoop in a dead guy’s stuff. He had acted like an idiot because of some illogical need to get to know a dad that didn’t raise him, and now he was afraid of bugs and blaming his spontaneous mutation on a man that was about six feet too far away to have caused it. Shoyo groans, kicking the shelf in front of him to try to vent his embarrassment.

A small scuffing sound is his only warning. The animalistic feeling takes hold, electricity snapping into his brain. It burns in an oddly good way, tickling towards the top of his skull. He ducks down, flinching uncontrollably, his left hand flying straight up. What he plans to do with that he isn’t sure, because he’s not really sure what’s falling towards him.

There’s a tugging sensation at his wrist, like the suction of a blood draw, and he tenses for impact. Despite his muscles humming with anticipation, it never comes. The little room is quiet, no thud of anything on the floor next to him. All there is, is Shoyo’s breath, and the passive buzzing all electric lights make. He slowly untenses his shoulders, hesitantly bringing his hand down as he tilts his head up to see what happened.

There, barely an inch from his face, is a large box. He gasps, jumping back to get a better look. The box sways side to side in the air like a ship on water, a thick white filament wrapped around the upper side of it in lace-like patterns. His gaze slowly creeps up higher, following where the filament tapers at its upper end, thinning out into some kind of rope. Whatever it is, it’s strong if the bulging base of the box is anything to go by.

The rope trails all the way up to the ceiling, where it attaches to the concrete seemingly by stickiness alone. That turns on a light bulb above Shoyo’s head; stickiness. He can feel his eyebrows hike up as he slowly approaches the dangling box. The hand he reaches out shakes, fingertips barely grazing the fibers and sending shivers up his arm.

It’s stringy and soft. Despite sticking fast to both the box and the ceiling, it just twangs like a guitar string when he flicks it. The way it parts when he tries to rub it is like cotton, or maybe… cobwebs.

He stiffens, looking down at his left wrist. There isn’t an obvious opening, but he follows the residual wisps of what must be the same material. It collects at one spot, connecting with his skin. When he squints, leaning in closer over his arm, he can make out a tiny silvery line, a slit just under his hand. If he didn’t know better he’d think it was a paper cut from a few days back.

Memories of the storage unit start coming back to him. Strange chemicals, medical equipment, a lab arranged in elaborate spaces that didn’t make sense to him at the time. Then he remembers the tanks, the bugs that should’ve been dead. He thinks how perfect some of the dishes and spindly arms and tiny syringes would have been for little animals. Not just little, tiny. Something like a bug. He remembers brushing a cobweb off of the wall looking for a light switch.

The only bugs that could’ve been in that room were ones that his father had clearly been experimenting on, and there had been plenty of empty tanks. One of them could easily have made that web. Did Shoyo get bitten by a mutant spider?

He’s given no time to process any of it. A vibration in his pocket takes his attention, sound breaking the air when he slips his phone out. An alarm is going off. He had set it to make sure he remembered when to clock out. Ukai would show up any minute to take over the store, and Shoyo couldn’t wait around to bug him because he had agreed to tutoring. Hinata Shoyo had just processed the fact he had a mutation, found out about a new aspect of his powers after almost being flattened, realized his powers came from a messed up science-magic-mutant spider, and he had to go to tutoring. For his worst subject. In front of another student he’s never met. Very funny universe.

Chapter Text

Yachi Hitoka. That’s the name on the paper Takeda had given him. It’s hard to read in the dim lighting of the university courtyard, as the sun had started to set during his bike ride, but he makes it out. In part because of the neat clipped writing, in part because he takes his sweet time. He types the phone number above it into his contacts, then the email into his saved list. All the while, he stands, awkwardly juggling his bag, phone, and the bike leaning into his side. Shoyo is stalling.

Just a little ways ahead of him lies the library. It’s not too big, not compared to other universities’ facilities, but it is enough. Inside is a large main room lined with books, with a computer section near the back. On the opposite side from those are two separate study rooms that can be booked for tutoring or group projects. Shoyo is supposed to meet the others in room B.

He tentatively approaches the bike rack, grumpily eyeing the big yellow-lit windows around the door. There’s all sorts of smart types inside, carrying around big books, tinkering on desks, quietly explaining things to each other with serious faces. It makes him feel tiny. So, he tries pretending that none of them could possibly be his tutor lady and takes a few deep breaths.

Takeda had said something about only one guy needing tutoring for literature other than him, so it’ll be fine. People love Shoyo. What are the odds that out of only two people in the whole university, one of them could be someone he butts heads with? Very low that’s what.

So with a new burst of confidence, hopeful that his investigations at work got the new powers under control enough for him to relax, he pushes through the door. A few of the students around turn to glance at him, but none give off strong “looking for the guy I’m tutoring” energy, just going back to their work when he passes.

Other than checking out a few textbooks at the start of the year, Shoyo hasn’t really been to the library, so it takes an embarrassing amount of time to make his way to study room B. The door is fairly unassuming. It’s plain and brown, some kind of cheap stain hiding the natural grain of the wood. The doorknob is slightly discolored where most people grab it, leaving the area around it darker with age. It looks almost fragile. He really shouldn’t be so apprehensive.

The funny electric feeling tickles behind his ear, and he turns around just as someone clears their throat behind him. It’s a guy. A very tall, very cranky looking guy. He’s got straight black hair, bangs shuffled around awkwardly on his forehead to allow visibility, and he looks extremely displeased to see Shoyo.

“Uh… hey?” Shoyo tries, raising one eyebrow and gripping his bag strap for comfort.

“You’re in my way.”

That throws Shoyo for a loop. A muscle twitches under his eye in irritation. He has every right to be here, he has tutoring. It hadn’t even been that long since he’d found the door for goodness sake! Yet the dude sits comfortably and fully confident in his rudeness. It wasn’t really what he said that began to rile Shoyo up, but the bluntness, the sense of self importance dripping from the guy.

“Actually these rooms have to be booked!” Shoyo grins, using an intentionally fake cheery voice, before stepping forward and dropping the act. “So sorry, but I’ll be using this room.”

Grumpy guy squints down at him, tilting his head to the side as if no one had ever talked back to him before, stepping forward to match Shoyo’s movement. Which, he really wishes the guy hadn’t done that. Crowding him had been a cool way for Shoyo to make up for their height difference, but now the guy could just lean forward and tuck Shoyo under his chin if he wanted. It’s humiliating, and Shoyo feels the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand on edge.

The guy opens his mouth, crooked in a sneer, but whatever insult he’s about to throw gets cut off by the door clicking open over Shoyo’s shoulder. Grumpy freezes, eyes focused on whoever opened the door, so Shoyo takes a break from glaring at the idiot to follow his gaze.

Peeking around the half open door is a small blonde girl. She flits her gaze nervously between the two men, hand fiddling with the doorframe. Despite her clearly meek nature, she’s dressed nicely, hair styled in a smart, responsible way. This must be the tutor.

“Kageyama!” She suddenly blurts out, seemingly deciding that, since she obviously knows the grumpy guy, he’s the safer bet socially.

The guy offers her a halfhearted lift of his hand- was that meant to be a wave? -and she lets out a slightly manic laugh. When the two boys stay staring at her blankly, she coughs to cut off the giggles. Then glancing at Shoyo, having just remembered his presence, she startles again.

She throws out a hand in Shoyo’s direction saying, “I see you met Hinata! Professor Takeda says he’s a busy guy! Isn’t it so lucky he’s able to join our sessions?”

Yachi punctuates this outburst with a relieved smile, proud of herself for handling such an awkward interaction, but the boys are no longer looking at her. As she spoke, each of them felt their shoulders slowly tense up, turning to each other with matching horrified expressions.

Shoyo couldn’t believe it. The guy was looking at him with wide, disgusted eyes, as if he was gross somehow. Meanwhile it’s him that had tried to pick a fight! Mr. Grumpy- Kageyama apparently -broke the stare down, whipping back to face Yachi.

“But this guys a dumbass!”

The complete earnesty with which he said it only made Shoyo more sure he must be an egocentric jerk.

“Says the guy getting tutored!” He squawks back, turning to face him.

“That’s not the insult you think it is dumbass, you’re here too.”

He smirks down at Shoyo, an ugly wrinkle forming next to his nose. It mars the previously smooth appearance of the guy’s skin. Shoyo hates it, he hates him, and he hates that a stranger is getting under his skin so quickly. So he does the most logical thing; he jabs his finger into the nose crinkle.

Kageyama’s eyes blow wide, hands coming up to angrily grip at Shoyo’s wrists, but he won’t make it easy for him. They get caught like that, grappling like cats in the middle of the library, neither fully able to get the upper hand without all out brawling. Kageyama is obviously stronger than Shoyo super strength, who makes a conscious effort not to accidentally epic powers his way to an assault charge, but the instinctual thingy helps him dodge any movement the guy throws at him. This leads to Shoyo bobbing and weaving, as Kageyama angrily growls, desperately swinging after the ginger for revenge.

“HEY!”

The boys freeze, limbs wildly posed towards each other, and look back to the doorway. Yachi looks like she’s about to burst into tears, or maybe hit them, hands fisted at her sides and face bright red.

“Please! Just- ugh! Just get inside!” She huffs, spinning around to stomp into the study room.

Shoyo glances back at Kageyama, only to find calculating blue eyes already boring into him. They size each other up for a moment, but Shoyo thinks he sees a glimmer of something in Kageyama’s eyes. It’s a silent deal, a promise. They don’t have to like each other, but they’re both hopeless enough at school that they’ll keep the peace. If not for Yachi, then for their grades.

Kageyama brushes past Shoyo, quite rudely, leaving him to trail into the room last.

Ushijima Wakatoshi likes consistency. He gets up early every morning, he goes for a run, he eats a small but nutritious breakfast, then he goes to work. Work itself is also quite repetitive, as most of his clients have stayed the same the last year. It had been very hard for him when he first moved to Tokyo, before this routine was established.

The hustle and bustle of the city had overwhelmed him at first. Even coming from a fairly large town and school, nothing could have prepared him. Sometimes it felt like he had to speed up his brain just to read all the traffic signs around the road. It had been his first time so far from home as well. Sure, there were dorms at Shiratorizawa, but this was an entirely different prefecture with living spaces he had to pay for himself. To say that he handled adulthood better at twenty one than fresh out of high school could only be considered a deeply inappropriate understatement.

Still, when his schedule is knocked off course by something unexpected, it can throw him for a loop. So he sits by the front window of the townhouse he shares with his roommate, angrily stewing over his mug of tea, and wondering if humans can make rain go away faster. It isn’t the fact it’s raining itself that bothers him. Despite his stubborn nature, Ushijima understands that with June about to begin they are entering the rainy season. But that is the issue right there. They are entering the rainy season. There is no good reason for the weather to be so dour and aggressive so soon. If it had been more usual, he would have thought to get up earlier to dodge the traffic, and just drive himself to the gym.

But by the time his alarm went off, at a perfectly punctual time thank you very much, there were already warnings to be careful on the flooding roads. So he is left with nothing better to do than grumpily bet on which raindrop will fall down his window fastest. Every now and then the blurry whip of a car going past cuts the image.

With a deep, weary sigh he lets his brain fully process and accept that he doesn’t have work that day, he can’t go on a run, he can’t drive to the gym, and he is on house arrest courtesy of Mother Nature. The mug of tea feels far too hot all of the sudden, his t-shirt too cold. His gaze lazily shifts from side to side, mimicking the patterns of falling leaves. Something niggles in the edges of it, the bottom right corner.

Ushijima leans back from the glass, trying to get his eyes to focus through the sheets of water hitting the window. Bobbing colors flex and blend, slowly coming together to form a tiny picture on the sidewalk outside the building. A man, or maybe a teenager based on the bright casual clothing, shuffles aimlessly down the street, nary an umbrella in sight. This startles Ushijima for two reasons. One: the clothing is stained dark and hanging heavily on the thin frame of the man in what must be an uncomfortable way. Two: unlike him, the man may not have any history with medical care, so it’s possible he hasn’t been warned of hypothermia before.

Placing his tea on the kitchen counter, he turns into the entry hall to correct this dangerous mistake. He firmly opens the door, loud rushing sounds of rain and the smell of storm greeting him. The man is just about to pass the door when he calls out.

“Staying out during rain like this could get you sick.”

The man pauses, shoulders hunching up like he has been caught doing something he shouldn’t. That concerns Ushijima deeply, as it implies the man already knew the danger of being out in such weather. The more he looks at the man the more he worries, and it is only worsened when he finally turns back to face him.

Deep ruts of bruised plum circle wide eyes, face slim and pale with exhaustion. Wisps of deep red hair lay flat against the porcelain skin, clinging and icy. He looks like a ghost, shivering in a deathly wind, with blood eternally blooming from his forehead. If Ushijima is a good enough judge of health, which he very much is, this man is already sick.

The man’s thin, crooked, strangely wide mouth spreads into a toothy grin, the exuberant expression not fully reaching his eyes, as he chuckles his response.

“Are you my mother, stranger?”

“No, I am not a woman, and you look about my age.”

The man looks taken aback at Ushijima’s curt response, eyebrows raising a comical amount, and smile splitting impossibly wider. He begins to laugh, peels of near-manic amusement falling short under the thundering rain. Despite the beauty of the sound, Ushijima feels his brow furrow, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth even further down than they normally rest.

“You need to come inside.”

The man stops laughing at that, scrunching his face in shock. His shoulders tense up, scrawny limbs folding in a defensive stance.

“We just met. How do you know I’m not a serial killer?”

This makes Ushijima pause. It is far more impulsive than he usually would prefer to be. How would he explain this strange man to Iwaizumi should he return before he leaves? But when he looks down at the man before him, scared and sick despite his humorous behavior, the decision is easy.

“I do not know. But I know you are sick. Come inside for some tea, I will remove you when the storm stops.”

At that he turns on his heel, making his way into the house in search of some blankets and another mug. He doesn’t bother shutting the door, or glancing back to check the man had followed. It is obvious the man has nowhere better to go, so there is no question of what he will do.

If Shoyo were to weigh his problems on a scale, the giant spider-y secret elephant in the room would be pretty high. Even after a few days of adjustment to his powers they sometimes jump out of control, and even if they didn’t, the secret has been hard to keep. The second day he had them, his mom almost walked in on him hanging from the ceiling by webbing, leading to a very awkward conversation sprawled on the floor. But, despite the heavy pressure of lying to the people he loves, it doesn’t come close to his number one issue. The big, angry, blue eyed issue to be exact.

Shoyo would rate his first tutoring session a good six out of ten. Yachi was a great leader despite her timid nature, and she was quickly becoming his first real friend at college. He had even felt less confused in Takeda’s class the next day. All of that was probably a nine out of ten. Kageyama Tobio’s shitty attitude single handedly knocked it down three points. It was like he was trying to chase Shoyo off, when it was a favor that Shoyo agreed to the tutoring sessions in the first place. Ignore his blatant need to be tutored, that's not the point.

Whenever Yachi wasn’t looking at them Kageyama managed to find a new way to rile Shoyo up. He took up too much space under the table, leading to several very unsubtle kicking fights, he scoffed when Shoyo picked up the pencil he dropped for him, he rolled his eyes whenever Shoyo asked Yachi a question, and the questions he himself asked were asinine. It was like being in a room with a squeaky door constantly slamming open and shut for an entire hour. By the end of it Shoyo had seriously considered taking a flying leap at the guy.

To top it all off, the annoyance was starting to spread into his everyday life. He found himself angrily grinding his teeth over breakfast at the thought of another session with his majesty, hearing a suspiciously familiar condescending voice whenever he did something embarrassing. If Yachi was Shoyo’s first new friend, then Kageyama was his arch nemesis. And apparently that fact was becoming more noticeable by the day.

“Are you alright honey?”

Shoyo freezes over his Saturday dinner, throwing an alarmed look at his mother’s concerned gaze. He had just been wondering how easy it would be to slip mayonnaise into one of Kageyama’s stupid milk cartons as revenge for when he’d tugged Shoyo’s hair when he interrupted him, and the malice must have shown on his face.

“Uh- yeah!” He blurts out, nervously chuckling. It only makes his mom’s eyebrows crease further, Natsu holding back a laugh at his embarrassment in his peripheral vision.

His mom pushes her food around her plate, taking a moment to think while he sweats in his seat. He takes the opportunity to try and come up with an excuse. Maybe he could say he’s got a crush on some girl? But then Natsu would grill him for details. She’s in that phase tweens get where they want to know everybody’s business, and he could slip up by saying something insulting. Then he’d have to tell them about Kageyama, because obviously the description wouldn’t sound like a nice girl.

His mother cuts off that train of thought by clearing her throat, waiting for him to give her his full attention before continuing.

“Your sister and I noticed you’ve been acting a little different the last few days.”

Damn it, Natsu is already onto him. He can’t say anything about a person then, it’ll have to be something about schoolwork, or maybe just normal work.

“Yeah Sho,” Natsu cuts in, “You’ve been spacing out, and acting really sketchy whenever we talk to you, it’s super freaky weird.”

“Natsu.” Their mom pinches her lips, clearly not on the same blunt page as Natsu was.
“What your sister means to say is that we’re worried. You’re usually so steady, no matter what life hits you with. So if you need some space, if this is a young adult thing, we can back off.”

That only confirms Shoyo’s fears. They know he’s hiding something, and they’re going to assume most easily that he’s seeing someone because of his social nature. What do they even mean by giving him space though? Do they think he’s sneaking someone over? Or maybe they aren’t assuming wrong at all. Maybe the guilt is written all over his face, and they know he’s having issues with someone.

“I’m not trying to be sneaky! I swear!” He blurts out, prompting twin shocked expressions from his family. “Really, I’m not! I can handle my own problems, I’ve just never been in a situation like this!”

At this, Mom starts to look slightly lost, gaze becoming more focused on Shoyo’s mannerisms, searching for clues. Natsu on the other hand gains a borderline smug look, raising her brows towards their mom in a “see?” Sort of gesture.

The dim lighting over the table does nothing to help clear things up, soft patterns of the wood blurring into a labyrinth whenever Shoyo darts his eyes down to it. Clenching his teeth shut after his outburst, he is hit with the sudden realization that none of them are on the same page.

“So you are having second puberty.” Natsu declares, now sat back casually in her chair.

“Excuse me?” Shoyo blurts, at the same time their mom throws Natsu a stern look and hushes the girl.

He feels his eyes swivel in their sockets, bewildered face flipping rapidly between the other two.

“Wait- So let me get this straight,” he folds his hands together, leaning them out into the room as all eyes are drawn back to him from their prior standoff. “You guys aren’t worried about my social life?”

Natsu’s smug look drops as their mom quirks her jaw in confusion. Whatever idle eating was happening comes to a full stop, the entire Hinata family doing rapid calculation of what to say now. It’s their mother that breaks the silence, mouth twitching a few times as if to speak, hand lifting in a forgotten gesture before coming to rest on top of her napkin.

“No, we are not.”

It is simple, and yet laced with all of the muddled thoughts they had each been carrying. It feels soaked with purpose, and the amused lilt she manages to slip in carries the weight fully over. That little sentence punches a hole in the bit of tension that had built, leaving them all chuckling softly, throwing each other embarrassed expressions.

Completely silently, three sets of honeycomb eyes quirk beneath eyebrows, having little conversations in a split second about how silly they were being. Mrs. Hinata picks up her discarded utensils, letting the hand on her napkin absentmindedly smooth it before joining the other, as she settles back into a usual dinner routine. Natsu, laughing more than the others, throws out a few double checks that “second puberty” really isn’t normal, and Shoyo feels himself warm with affection for the women in his family. Maybe they weren’t always on the same page, and maybe they were nosey, but he couldn’t imagine the word family meaning anything but this.

They let the relaxed feeling carry them for a little while. Fresh cooked food settles in their bellies. Condensation on their glasses leaves their fingertips cold and jolted, hands passively whipping them off on napkins and pants. It’s a shocking breadth of normalcy and domesticity in what has previously been the most hectic few days of Shoyo’s life.

“So,” his mom stumbles out while half-smiling half-swallowing her food, one hand coming up to politely shield her mouth. “All the weird behavior lately has been because you’ve felt awkward with your new friends?”

Shoyo feels heat creep up his neck, but he nods. Awkward is a very nice way to put how he feels around Kageyama, and friend is a term he doubts will ever apply, but he supposes it could be put that way.

“You know, when Natsu said you were biking much faster in the mornings, I figured it was part of the secretive behavior, but I suppose you were just eager to see someone! So who are these mysterious friends- or friend? I suppose it’s rude to assume.”

As she says this, Shoyo feels a nervous realization dawn on him. They weren’t wondering about the spacing out and grumpiness at all. This whole time they were asking about the spider abilities. It’s a conflicting realization. On one hand, he’s swept with relief that he’d managed to lie successfully despite talking about the wrong thing, on the other he feels totally stupid. Of course they were wondering about the freaky power hiding he’s been doing, Natsu had literally watched him leaning over a chunk of his own freshly ripped notes. How on Earth is he going to make his friendship with Yachi sound stressful, and his enemy-ship with Kageyama sound like friendship?

He lets an anxious laugh slip out, looking up while leaning over his uneaten bite of food, and decides to stall a few minutes more by shoving the bite into his mouth. Mom, and now Natsu too, watch patiently as he chews. They haven’t seemed to have picked up that he’s not relaxed like them anymore. Good, hopefully it’ll be easier that way.

The lump of food scrapes his throat as he swallows, then follows it with a big gulp of water. Anything to stall just a few seconds longer. Anything to help his underused brain cells pop out a good sentence.

“Well I’ve been going to tutoring.” He says conversationally. It makes his mom nod to show she’s listening, an approving glint in her eye. Natsu however looks very turned off by this topic, averting her eyes to her phone hidden in her lap.

“That’s wonderful sweetheart, I always worried you’d be a bit too prideful to get help when you needed it.”

“Uh, yeah.” He continues, a little bit ruffled by his mom’s accidental barb. “Anyway, it’s just me and one other guy, and the tutor. Obviously. So I’ve just been a bit distracted with that.”

He hopes it isn’t too obvious that his eye had twitched on the word “guy.” It makes his cheeks flush with humiliation that he can’t even be nice vaguely referring to Kageyama. Maybe he should try to be a bit more friendly, and see if that removes the stick up the guy's ass.
“Oh so your new friend is this guy you have tutoring with then?”

She looks so earnestly happy for him. A small smile graces her serene face, and her eyes dance from him to her hands in an unconcerned nature as she continues to eat. As much as a venomous denial had crept up his throat like bile at the question, he bites his tongue and swallows his pride. It isn’t worth it to worry her. Especially not when he’s hiding an actual reason to worry already.

“Uhm,” he starts to respond, words feeling sort of sticky in his throat. It makes him absentmindedly wonder if he could blame the spider stuff for his bumbling speech.
“Yeah, he is. We uh… we have a lot in common.”

Technically it isn’t a lie. They do have a lot in common. Both of them are horrible at writing, both of them nearly flunked a grade in high school, both of them are competitive, both of them get along with Yachi. And most importantly of all, they both hate each other's guts.

Still, it satisfies his mom, who turns attention to quizzing Natsu about her teachers. He lets out a little relieved sigh, and fades into his head. Quietly he wonders what they would think of his powers if he told the truth.

That night he finds sleep elusive. The popcorn patterns of his bedroom ceiling paint seem to move in the disorienting dark, he can hear bugs buzzing in the woods outside his house. He had let a mundane feeling take over the last few days, and now life catches up all at once.

Tutoring filled the gaps between school and work almost entirely, but on a weekend like this there is nothing to do but think. He finds his brain slipping in a certain direction no matter how much he tries to distract himself. What the hell was his dad doing that could give him spider powers? It was extremely rare that someone developed powers later in life like this, never from such artificial means, and yet somehow something in his dad’s lab made it possible.

He rolls over in bed, cold quilted fabric of his comforter bunched around his shoulders. A few feathery strands of orange hair fall into his vision, looking dark brown in the dim room. One arm stretches out of the bubble of warmth. The hairs along it prickle on edge in the cold air as he fumbles along the bottom edge of his mattress. Shoyo’s fingers brush over taught fabric and cutting wood slats until he reaches the lip of the piece he was searching for.

Plasticky smooth material catches and bends under his grip as he pulls the photograph he had tucked away there out from under the bed. It’s the one of his dad showing off his first name-tag at the lab he’d go on to work fairly high up in. The photo looks so much like Shoyo. He looks at the man in the photo, and he can’t see where the secrets are. Warm dark brown eyes, crinkled into an earnest smile, nervous quirk at the edge of the left side of his mouth. There’s a bunch to his shoulders, but he holds his chin high with hope. He looks charming, sweet, and every bit the young professional Shoyo has always been told he was.

What could he have been trying to prove? He had a loving family in Shoyo’s grandparents and Aunt Mei. In a few short years after the photo was taken he would have a whirlwind romance with Shoyo’s mom, and his home life would become as full and successful as his professional one. Most men would be satisfied with that.

But then Shoyo wonders if he could be satisfied with that. It reminds him of high school. For all the fire he feels now, nothing could compare to just a couple years before. Once, all the way back in first year, he had mown so many lawns trying to save up for a new camera that the highlights in his hair had been stained slightly green.

In a photo book on his desk are pictures just like the one of his dad he holds now. Snapshots of a life that wasn’t done baking. Photography became an escape from everything around him. It gave him little smiles from mom to look at when she was too stressed, it drove him to learn new things and save money for fancy lenses, it made him recognizable for a skill not just a trait. Eventually it gave him a goal for a future career. Yet, when he really makes himself think about who he is, Shoyo realizes it was never about the photos at all.

At the end of the day Shoyo Hinata treats any goal like that. He grabs life with vigor, he loves fully, he’s always searching for something new to devour. Could he ever settle? In a future where he has everything, a job with a prestigious news station and a family back home, would he stop running? He finds he doesn’t know. It leaves a funny feeling in his chest.

As he tucks the photo away, watching moonlight softly shift over its front as he moves it, he comes to a very scary conclusion. Tomorrow he has to go back to the lab. He’ll try to find the bite, he’ll read all the weird papers, he’ll feed his curiosity. The blankets aren’t cold to the touch anymore, growing stuffy at some point while he laid.

Kageyama Tobio spends his Saturday night alone. He goes about his usual chores, the trash bag ripping right next to the dumpster because the universe hates him. He nearly loses it right there, gripping the plastic shreds in his hand hard and swearing quietly while pacing a small circle.

As a reward for not leaving the mess there, and to prevent drastic behavior, he lets himself watch tv over dinner. It’s a microwave dinner, but it suffices. Still the edges are hot to a crispy hiss, the inside slightly cold and damp. The blaring cartoon he mindlessly flicks on helps overload his senses enough to ignore the taste. At least he pretends it does. Really it just makes his skull feel as cotton logged as his mouth.

Next he settles in and reads the paper, back stiff in a little wooden chair. The only noise while he scans the lines of text are his aircon whining to life in the hall and his skin shuffling in his clothes when he adjusts. The backlash on the new law for mutant employment wasn’t too bad this time. Obviously some parents were pretty concerned, but mostly only in the big cities where supers cause trouble.

He grinds his teeth at that thought, slapping the paper unceremoniously to the countertop. It dances a few times in the flow of air while Kageyama glares at it. With a quick puff of breath, not even a real proper scoff, he pushes back to stand. The sun is almost down, but that’s never stopped him before. Most people don’t approach him during the day, let alone at night, so he isn’t exactly worried someone would jump him. Besides, they wouldn’t know what hit them.

So with the quietest steps he can manage, he patters down the halls of his little apartment building, and makes his way out into the quickly dwindling evening light. He slips a small earbud into his right lobe, some random soundtrack off of his hasty google search blaring to life from it. There are a few people milling around, but he has the neighborhood mostly to himself.

Before long his feet leave the hot heady pressure of the sidewalk to dance along the grainy pavement of the road. The sunset simmers on the asphalt ahead, and the air bites his cheeks as he runs faster and faster. Kageyama probably shouldn’t go so fast considering the length of his usual loop, but the looming pressure at his back feels heavier than normal, so his lungs will just have to manage. He lets his person become little more than an engine, and resolutely does not think about mutations.

A few times it feels like his phone buzzes in his pocket, but it could also just be the fabric catching so he ignores it. He never knows how to respond when people text anyway. The only person it ever matters to keep in touch with is Miwa, and she knows better than to text. When it’s important she calls, or just makes the short road trip and shows up on his doorstep. It’s a good system.

Not too long into it he gets a familiar ache in his chest, a burn in his throat. It’s good, really good, and he figures physical activity is a better vice than most people’s. After living on his own for a little over a year, the loop feels second nature. Kageyama doesn’t even have to think about the placement of his feet, just let the world blur past and his breathing turn sharp.

It takes five minutes to get to the park. The squat neighborhood homes and tiny rental complexes open up to a patch of green grass with a playground and some trees. It’s late enough there aren’t any kids, so he turns towards the play structure as his pace starts to slow. The rest of his path will be a long one all the way around the neighborhood, so he gives himself this break.

The metal of the structure is cold, brightly colored paint chipping away in some places. He sits down on a swing, chain squeaking halfheartedly above him, and lets the last few notes of a song peter off in his ear. The fabric of his shirt shifts under his deep breaths, and the air wavers in his misty vision.

As he stands to finish his run, he lets the last burst of frustration out by kicking the ground so hard a chunk of grass rips up. He hadn’t intended to do that, the park was shabby enough on its own. It leaves him a little flustered and put out, the tips of his ears pink.

While Kageyama runs, and Hinata sleeps, an emergency late-night coverage floods all Tokyo tv stations. The next morning it’ll hit the rest of Japan’s news channels. Families huddle around their tvs, parents thank goodness their kids are asleep, young and old alike grip the arms of their couches in concern. The screens wash their faces in mixes of blues and reds, sheets of pale white light the only breaker.

They watch in horror as police pull bodies from the bay. The reporters are saying it’s theorized to have been an animal attack, but the sheer number of dead seems impossible for any local species. If they’re lucky, the morgue will be able to stitch the grizzled faces back into something recognizable, and the ghosts will give some clue as to what may have happened to them.

Tendo can’t tear his eyes from the story. He feels numb, hands tightly clasped around the mug that was slowly becoming his the longer he stays in the little townhouse. Since that day in the rain he’d been visiting Wakatoshi a lot, but he hasn’t worked up the courage to admit he doesn’t have anywhere else to stay. He just waits until he’s either walked to the door or a futon each night.

The TV clicks off, shocking him awake from his trance. He peers owlishly to the side where Ushiwaka himself sits, strangely prim posture for a guy in pajamas. Thick eyebrows are scrunched low over his olive eyes, mouth slightly askew. Most would think it’s an underreaction to what they’d just seen, but Tendo has come to learn this is the highest form of discomfort Wakatoshi expresses.

“I found that unpleasant.” The man mumbles sternly. His voice is firm, but he always speaks softly at night, ever the gentle giant.

Tendo stretches out his gangly limbs with an over exaggerated groan, trying to shake Wakatoshi from such upsetting topics.

“It’s almost your curfew anywho. Huh, Mr. General sir?”

He punctuates the tease at Wakatoshi’s strict schedule with a grin, cocking his head almost entirely upside down.

“I am glad to have met you Tendo.” Ushijima says after a slightly confused pause. “You say things that are previously unsaid.” There’s a blink and you miss it flash of affection in the stern man’s eyes as he says it.

Tendo laughs, finally truly relaxed after the frightening news cast, a bubbly funny feeling in his ribs.

“Oh boy do I have a bedtime story to regale you with Wakatoshi! I can’t fall short of your praise now can I?”

Maybe there are monsters in their city, maybe Ushijima doesn’t know the truth of Tendo’s situation, but there is peace in this house. He intends to wring it dry of as much happiness as he can before he has to run.

Chapter Text

The storage company is different in the daylight. Every imperfection, every sign of age, every speck of rust stands out clear and visible. Whereas at night the place had seemed to hold baited breath, it is clear to Shoyo now that this is a place without life. It hangs empty, not even a hollowness to bring some sense of character.

He has to get in quicker than before. While the area is a bit out of town, and therefore not frequented by people who could witness him trespassing, the occasional car does trundle by on its way up the mountain. It’s an awkward affair, leaning his bike on the fence to fiddle with the gate, only to have to hurriedly pull the bike through. He struggles a bit, nervously throwing his head about to make sure no one is coming.

Once inside Shoyo mounts his bike again. The facility is fairly large, and he wants to get out of the open as soon as possible. Even in a hurry he takes in his surroundings though. The pavement is bleached, as are the buildings. Each little garage door has been sun stripped, from what he presumes would be the same green as the keychain to a seafoam mint. Chunks of gravel chip from the cracked concrete, sometimes mixed with ground up glass. There’s a haze of direct sunlight over all of it.

Shoyo reaches the unit fairly quickly, crouching down to unlock the door. His hands shake a little, the irrational fear that the spider is waiting to jump on him and bite him again taking hold. The door comes up with little resistance and much ruckus. Shoyo wouldn’t be shocked if you could hear the squealing all the way from his house.

A wave of dust pours from the unit, specks of filigree and fluff starkly visible in the bright light. It forces him to wave a hand in front of his face, a cough racking his body. He thinks to himself that the place had looked much nicer when he could barely see it.

Leaving the door open as a light source, Shoyo makes his way into the tiny laboratory, scanning it for any obvious clues. If he was lucky this would go by scooby doo rules and something obvious would unravel the truth of his dad’s freaky bug hobby, but he isn’t that lucky. He sweeps the crowded shelves, stacks upon stacks of paperwork littered around the room, and takes a big breath to prepare for his journey into freak nerd land.

He starts with the little enclosures. Most are empty, but there are a few with critters scuttling around inside. One jar of very wide beetle looking things actually hiss at him when he leans over it. This causes him to quickly jump further down the line, letting out a short undignified scream. In the back corner he finds the confirmation he was hoping for.

A small glass tank rests on the far most shelf. Its glimmering front is disrupted by a series of cracks, one gaping hole in the center of them all. There are a few tiny shards of glass splayed out on the shelf in front of it, where something very small and very strong must have busted out from inside. In the interior is a small branch with a cobweb intricately weaved over it. He carefully reaches inside to check and- yes. It’s definitely the same as his webbing. The string wobbles like a harp cord instead of snapping when he tugs it. So he was definitely correct about the origin of his powers. Checkmate universe.

As he stares wonderingly into the source of his situation, he lets a hand drift up to brush his side. There’s a raised bump on the hip there, skin hard with tension where he touches it. It had taken an embarrassingly long time for him to find the spot that morning, leading to some awkward eye contact with Mom after showering for far longer than necessary.

He pushes up, turning to look at the rest of the lab. The tables are unassuming, the equipment foreboding. Making his way to the nearest chair, he drags a large stack of papers into his lap. Many of the pages are wrinkled or stained, leaflike and strange. There’s only one way to find out what his dad was doing here, and Shoyo has all day to kill time.

“Fuck.”

Kageyama pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stall the oncoming headache. He puts his breakfast aside, losing his appetite in an instant, and leaning forward to better see the TV.

It’s the local station, usually just covering mundane things like school events and annual festivals. He had put it on for background noise, not even really checking what channel his tiny box tv was on. Of course this would happen now of all times. People in the area had just started to stop talking about the mutant employment law.

There had been an attack in Tokyo. The police claim it’s an animal attack, autopsies showing bite patterns in line with water monitors, but everyone knows there’s something abnormal about the situation. Five were found dead, completely mauled. DNA tests all failed, leaving the victims completely unidentified. It was a tragedy of supernatural origin, anyone could see it. While there will likely be an explanation soon, people would turn to each other for answers, and it wouldn’t take long for fingers to be pointed.

He sighs, putting his phone face up on the coffee table to wait for the inevitable. Before long the sleek black device comes to life, a faint blue glow highlighting the pale wood around it as it buzzes. Kageyama waits a few seconds to pretend he wasn’t expecting the call, then snatches it up in a gruff manner.

The metal is cold on his hand, a few seconds of static air passing after the answering click.

“… Tobio?”

His sister's voice is distant, as if her hands were busy with something. Maybe she had just started preparing her breakfast. Or brunch, he thinks, glancing at the clock.

“Yeah it’s me.” He mumbles, fidgeting with his fingertips on his free hand.

“Have you watched the news this morning?” She continues at his confirmation. Her voice is deceptively calm. If anyone else tried to trick him with that it would work, but he knows her well enough to realize the concern hidden beneath.

“I’ll be fine Miwa.” He cuts her off before she can get started.

“Well I was just going to offer you stay here a few days.”

“Really- I’m fine.”

He understands why she does this. Somewhere deep down he appreciates it, but that doesn’t make it wanted. She can’t really understand, and he hasn’t been stupid about it in a long time.

She goes quiet at his blunt refusal of help, fuzzy phone sounds filling his apartment. He can hear her intake a breath as if to speak, but after a moment there’s a resigned exhale.

“Miwa?” He ventures after a moment longer.

“Do you have anyone to talk to Tobio? Any friends?”

Now it’s his turn to go quiet. Sucking in a guilty breath. He tries to think of a response, one that wouldn’t worry her, but he can’t lie. Yachi was pleasant enough, but he only saw her for tutoring, and there isn’t anyone else he gets along with at school. The only other person he really talks to is that irritating chirpy guy. He decides to try comforting her without answering directly.

“No one knows so… I’m safe in class.”

She lets out a dry, humorless chuckle, and it twists something in his chest sharply. A mix of guilt for stressing his sister, and anger that she acts so righteous when they almost never talk.

“Okay Tobio, just call if you need something.” Her voice is hollow, defeated and frustrated. “I know Mom and Dad aren’t great conversationalists, but maybe we could both go home for dinner next week and catch up?”

He grunts an affirmative even though he knows they won’t. It’s not insincere though, if plans were to truly be made he would show up, he just doesn’t ever know where to start. It’s like he’s stuck at a bus stop outside of the transit route.

There’s a soft click, then nothing. His home feels eerily quiet for such a small space in the resulting silence. So he waits until he can hear someone in the neighboring unit moving around, before taking his unfinished breakfast to the fridge. The weight on his eyes feels more bothersome than normal.

The guy is shady. Don’t get him wrong, Iwaizumi is pretty easy going despite his temper, but he’s rubbing him totally wrong. It had been frightening enough to come home from a visit with his family to find Ushijima brought in a stray, but then the guy kept showing up. And worst of all Ushijima is completely oblivious to how weird it is.

They act like school boys, talking about anything that crosses their minds, goofing around as much as his stoic roommate is capable of doing so, having sleepovers for goodness sake. It all happened so quickly.

The first night Iwaizumi let it slide. There was a storm, the guy didn’t live on this side of the city, he seemed harmless enough. Besides, he was so skinny that Iwaisumi had no doubt he could snap the overgrown beanpole like a twig if he tried anything funny. But then an afternoon of sheltering turned into getting brunch with them during their work break, and coming back home with them at the end of the day. It turned into movie nights, dinners, phone calls on the mornings he wasn’t with them.

He’s happy for Ushijima, he really is, the guy could use a few more friends. It’s just weird to hang around so much with a stranger. If he were to call Tendo that to his roommate’s face he’d be swiftly corrected, but it’s true. Tendo is a master of dodging questions he doesn’t want to answer, especially from Iwaizumi.

So when he wakes up for the third morning in a row to find the ridiculous lanky weirdo prancing around their kitchen with a mug in one hand and a towel around his waist, Iwaizumi is understandably a little fed up. He clenches his jaw, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. Tendo hasn’t noticed him, too busy swaying his hips and humming some peppy jingle under his breath. Tilting his head to the side to see what he’s up to, Iwaizumi realizes he’s making Ushijima breakfast. Plain rice with steamed veggies; a staple of the big guy’s diet. Because of course even making himself disrespectfully comfortable in their home he has to do something friendly to get away with it. It’s five a.m. as well. This is borderline serial killer behavior.

He rolls his eyes, stepping forward to grab some food before heading back to his room. It’s the last day of the weekend, and he won’t let this ruin it for him. Tendo squawks out some perky, probably secretly mocking, greeting as he does so. He just grunts in response, hurrying back to the safety of his bed. It’s unlikely Tendo said anything that garnered a response anyway. All of their nonsensical interactions bleed together at this point.

The clicking of his bedroom door behind him is like taking off a belt after a long day, and he leans against it for a moment to soak in that feeling. It’s a short respite. Even as he settles into soft bedding with warm food cradled in his lap, the tense twitchy burn of worry starts to creep up his back. Iwaizumi tries to ignore it, he really does, but then he can hear two contrasting voices trailing to the front door, presumably to go on more adventures downtown.

If Tendo is actually up to something then one of their little outings could easily turn into a bad situation for Ushijima, but if he isn’t then Iwaizumi is plotting against his friend’s first new social interaction since they met all because he doesn’t get along with the new guy. Maybe Tendo is fine, but he shouldn’t come over so much. Or maybe he’s coming over so much to rob them eventually, and he’s just sadistic enough to stick around and get to know them first. Thinking about it makes his head hurt, so he lets out a frustrated groan, thunking the back of his skull against the headboard. He needs an outside perspective.

Oikawa picks up on the second ring of course. Eager, but scared to come off so. Immediately upon him speaking Iwaizumi has to click the volume down three times.

“What a pleasant surprise Iwa! Usually I have to call you.”

The sugary sweet barb makes him feel a bit bad. He has been busy lately, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that.

“Don’t start shithead, I need your opinion on something.”

There’s a shuffling on the other end that suggests Oikawa was just getting home from somewhere, shedding an outer layer at the door.

“Well I don’t know,” he starts with amusement in his tone. “Are you sure you want the opinion of a ‘shithead?’”

There’s a soft melodic giggle on the other end of the line, Oikawa clearly having fun messing with him.

“I’m serious. I think you’ll know better than me on this one.”

At that there’s a pause. Oikawa sobers slightly, caring underneath all the bluster.

“Never thought I’d hear you say those words Iwa. Go on then, spit it out.”

Iwaizumi gathers his thoughts, wanting to phrase it as carefully as possible. He catches himself worrying his lip between his teeth, hurriedly releasing it before speaking.

“Ushijima made a friend recently.”

The line goes completely dead. He can imagine the sour face Oikawa would make at the mention of his roommate. He had tried to introduce the two a few years ago, and it had gone poorly to put it gently.

“You’re right Iwa, this is serious. Does the friend have some sort of brain damage?”

He finds himself huffing in amusement despite how irritating it can be when Oikawa won’t let up on Ushijima.

“Maybe, but not the way you think.”

There’s a hum on the other end to tell him to go on.

“I’m just a little worried… well they’ve gotten really close you know? I just think it’s happening a bit fast.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not following.” Oikawa cuts in. “The miracle that is Ushijima Wakatoshi making a fast friend happened, and you- someone who cares about the guy for some reason- are worried?”

“That’s not what I mean!”

He sighs, putting his food aside momentarily to run a hand over his face in exasperation.

“Ushijima really seems to like this guy, but we know next to nothing about him!”

When Oikawa doesn’t interrupt again he takes the chance to vent some of his growing annoyance at the situation.

“I mean, I tried to ask where the guy lives, where he works, how he even ended up walking by our place, and he totally brushed me off!”

Oikawa makes an understanding sound, scuffing sounds of him constantly moving cutting through the speaker.

“So you’re worried that Ushijima doesn’t know this guy enough to put trust in him?”

“Yes!”

Saying it out loud unfurls a knot in his chest he hadn’t realized was there, muscles in his neck sore from clenching up.

“Why? Didn’t they meet recently? It takes time to get to know someone.”

“Yeah, but you don’t get it Oikawa! This guy is always over! He’s practically got his own indent on the couch cushion! I’m pretty sure I caught Ushijima moving some of our dishes the other day! He never moves the dishes unless he’s reassigning them to someone! I mean- God! I got up early today to be alone, and he was cooking for Ushijima in a towel! A towel man!”

He lets out a harsh breath, his voice having risen more than he’d meant to.

“Sorry, this is stupid, I shouldn’t y-“

Shrill cackling cuts him off, forcing him to pull the phone away from his ear at the sheer volume.

“What?” He asks desperately, not sure what he said that was so funny.

Oikawa just keeps laughing. Choked consonants slip in between the peels of jubilation, the only sign he’s trying to respond. Iwaizumi waits for him to knock himself out. It doesn’t take too long. After a bit of hiccuping, and some embarrassing snorts, Oikawa calms down enough to respond.

“Iwa! They’re dating!”

The laughter continues after that, though much more subdued than his prior fit.

“That’s not possible…” he mumbles, “it’s only been a few days…”

In his experience relationships aren’t supposed to move that fast. Though, it would explain why Tendo would be nervous sharing things about himself. Maybe he wasn’t being sneaky with both him and Ushijima, but rather was just nervous about making a bad impression on the roommate.

“Oh Iwa, I’m sure they’re moving far too fast, but think about it… would Ushijima have the romantic experience to know any better? Would the guy?”

He really thinks about that, trying to find a fault in Oikawa’s logic. In all the years Iwaizumi had known Ushijima, he can’t think of a single time he went on a date. It’s not like people weren’t interested, he’s tall and handsome and athletic. But when it comes to flirting he’s completely inept, and it’s rare someone catches his eye anyway.

Still, even if Ushijima doesn’t know you shouldn’t rush relationships, that doesn’t completely absolve Tendo. He could be trying to love bomb him, or whatever it is Oikawa calls it. Tendo could be super experienced as far as Iwaizumi knows. He sits with that thought for a second. It doesn’t take long to dismiss it. Tendo definitely isn’t super experienced.

“Okay so the guy isn’t a creep! Stop laughing and tell me how to slow them down!”

Oikawa hums humorously, sighing in a condescending way. Without any words he seems to say, ‘oh you brute, this was so obvious.’

“Just talk to them. I’m sure it’s fine, though I am curious who could find Ushijima appealing. He must be delusional.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Iwaizumi grumbles, “but, thanks for the advice… I guess.”

“Of course! I’m a wonderful friend after all! You remember my Venmo right?”

“Very funny.”

He says it sternly, but he can’t help a small smirk. Egocentric and stupid as it was, the joke was okay. It makes him feel a little lighter to laugh at Oikawa’s terrible personality. His mood is quickly dampened at the thought of how to approach his roommate though.

Shoyo is becoming rapidly concerned that a) his dad was working up to human testing, and b) the spider bite was not meant to transfer abilities. It was apparent that simulating mutations on non-mutants was the eventual goal of the experiment, If the articles on the X-Men, and Shoyo’s own situation weren’t evidence enough, then the numerous files labeled “Project Hero” were downright damning. But the plans suggest working up slowly from small test subjects, like bugs, to actual people. Nowhere does it say that the bugs would be used on people. Hell, the papers actually imply the bugs would be disposed of or preserved before humans were ever introduced.

It makes sense at its purest form. Everyone always says that Dad was ambitious, and civil unrest over mutants would’ve been at an all-time high when he was a teen. What man of slightly dubious science wouldn’t want to brave that new frontier? The confusing part is the actual tests themselves. Firstly, all of it is way above wherever Shoyo is mentally. Half the papers look like something out of Lord Of The Rings to him, and he had spent a good five minutes trying to figure out which end of one of the intricate graphs went up. Secondly, it seems like his dad never finished whatever work was being done here. The initial outline for the proposed schedule- Shoyo was very proud when he found that one- has steps labeled all the way down to “G” in the alphabet. Yet the most recent papers only seem to go up to a “Phase C.” So something had interrupted.

It was all some sort of junky DNA altering idea that would trigger dormant genes to mutate. Shoyo knows what dormant genes are because of the required biology class in highschool. Education for the win. The part that Shoyo can’t quite wrap his head around is the timeline. Dad would’ve had to have started the project after moving to Miyagi and marrying Mom. The papers check out for this, with some labeled as having been made just a few years before he was born. Following that same logic, the work should be unfinished because of Dad dying, but the papers stop two years before then. It seems completely unprompted too, tons of abandoned materials, work scheduled for after the cutoff already, some of the specimens never being used before being left to die. All of this would suggest an abruptness, as if his dad was in some great hurry to halt progress.

It feels anticlimactic. He's left with an odd rush. It's as if he’d held his breath for a drop on a rollercoaster, only to stay suspended in midair. There are a few more papers left to go through, but he doesn’t see much hope for any new information. Instead he redirects his attention to the materials in the room. Hopefully they wouldn’t offer up such disappointing revelations.

It isn’t fruitful at first. There doesn’t seem to be much more than the tanks, chemicals he really shouldn’t mess with, and medical equipment that he also shouldn’t mess with. Maybe he’d noticed cuts and bruises healing faster, but that doesn’t mean he wants to play with expired acid and rusty needles. Shoyo is a bit impulsive, not suicidal.

He scans the shelves from a respectful distance, popping the lids off of any boxes while flinching away to shield his face. Nothing crazy is in any of them, mostly just more random beakers and such. It’s all so boring he begins to feel a bit drowsy even. There’s about a million scenarios where he didn’t even see it.

As he shuffles back towards the tables, his toe happens to catch the edge of something, pulling it out from beneath one shelf with a dull scrape. He freezes, backpedaling to see what it is. A long, skinny, black box lays diagonally on the grimy concrete floor. At first he thinks it is some kind of instrument case due to the splotchy shine of its surface, but he can’t think of any instruments that size and shape. Besides, most people don’t have heavy passcode locks on their violas.

He kneels to get a better look, floor cold through his pants. The box feels slick with how smooth its material is, sliding easily under his palms. Shoyo lets his right hand curve over the front of it, skin at the top of his wrist crinkled from the bend. The lock snaps off easily. It's only once he’s holding the mangled chunk of metal that Shoyo considers what damage he could’ve done to the contents, but it's too late to worry about that now. After a moment of turning the lock around in front of his face in wonder of his own strength, he looks back down to the box.

The hole he’d ripped is cartoonish, with grooves where his fingers had dug in. He gets a grip on it, shoving his hands in the gap facing away from each other. With a firm shove apart the top folds up and off. The inside is clean of any dust, a thick seal running the outer edge obviously having protected whatever is inside. He leans forward to examine the contents of the box, which at first seem to be covered with a thick navy blue sheet of fabric. With a start he realizes that the fabric itself is what the box had been hiding.

Thick ridges of hems run up and down the material, a strange reflective quality bouncing off of each thread. He reaches out a shaky hand to lift the piece, hoping unfolding it will make sense of it. It feels tarpy to touch, stiff enough to hold shape but pliant enough to stretch and fold in his grasp. For such a tough fabric it is shockingly adaptable.

It unfolds like flowing water, long edges billowing over when he tips it vertically. Shoyo lets out a soft gasp, eyes darting wildly around the garment. The suit is beautiful. Even plain navy, the craftsmanship is apparent. Whoever made this wasn’t thinking of civilian use. It’s too sleek, too durable, too perfectly tailored. This was intended for a hero.

Shoyo pulls it gently into his lap, checking the box for anything else. Inside rests a matching mask with wide shields for the eyes. They sort of remind him of alien cartoons. But he is too distracted by the other object to really examine it. With a gasp, he shoots a hand out to snatch it up, not quite believing his eyes. It's a letter. Hands shaking in his rush, Shoyo rips open the envelope, not even noticing the seal had already been opened, and tugs the note out eagerly. The message is brief, but it flips his understanding of his father’s secret experiment on its head.

Dear Hinata,

I thought you could use this reminder of our goal tucked out there in the mountains. Hopefully the weather is as nice there as it is here in Tokyo this time of year. I await this week’s data with baited breath.

Sincerely, K. Hasegawa

He stares in shock for a moment, just rereading the note. At some point he even tries flipping it over as if there’d be some sort of explanation on the back. It is mockingly blank. He looks at his lap, the suit lying there. The suit had been a gift from this Hasegawa person. They said it was a reminder of their goal. Dad wasn’t working alone.

A buzzing in his pocket shakes him from the shock. He scrambles to answer it, still feeling like he's been punched in the gut, unconsciously gripping the fabric.

“Hello?” he croaks out, wincing at his inability to control the emotion in his tone.

“Hey honey.”

It immediately jumps out to him how odd it is for Mom to be calling him unprompted like this. Usually they would talk in the mornings. Her voice is conversational, but driven with purpose, so Shoyo knows she wants to ask about something specific. He feels a little anxiety coil in his gut.

“I was wondering if you were still coming home before tutoring?”

He feels a sharp jab of panic, realizing he had completely forgotten about tutoring that evening. She continues to trail on, completely oblivious to the frantic packing up Shoyo is now doing.

“Because it’s almost four now Sho, so I don’t think theres enough time.”

“Uh-huh!” He squeaks out, jumping to pull the unit door shut as he stumbles into the outside.

“Uh-huh’ you’re coming home, or ‘Uh-huh’ there isn’t time?”

“Uhm… that one!”

He doesn’t give a proper response, too busy jogging to the gate with his bike bucking in his grasp.

“Wha-”

“Okay gotta go now mom! Love you bye!”

He clumsily pockets his phone, jumping on his bike and careening out onto the road. Why does he always have to go to tutoring with freshly uncovered dead dad secrets?

He whips into town, causing a few close calls with telephone poles, and one very annoyed man shouting at him after their near collision. But there isn’t time to slow down. If Shoyo wants to get any dinner without being late to tutoring, then he’ll have to stop at a shop downtown on the way in the next three minutes. The buildings blur, pavement a river of liquid gray beneath the wheels of the bike. His eyes actually tear up, and if he isn't hallucinating he might’ve surpassed a delivery truck in speed. It won’t be long until he reaches the store, and hopefully Ukai will take pity on his lack of cash.

It’s just a block away from the shop that he feels it. A spike of static in his head so insistent it has him coming to a hard stop from olympic-level biking speeds. He hops off the bike, seeing that he’s in a row of apartments. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around, just a few brown buildings and Shoyo. What could’ve possibly set off his powers so starkly?

A voice cuts the air, barely a murmur from where he stands, coming from the gap between buildings a little ways back. He retraces his steps, abandoning his bike on the sidewalk to help quiet his approach. As he gets closer two more voices come into range, irritated with the tension of an altercation. The hairs on the back of his arms start to stand straight. Pressing close to the brick of the nearest building, he edges to the corner of the alley, trying to gather what’s happening.

“You think it's funny, huh?” A nasty snarl of a voice spits out over the quiet hiccups of someone crying. “You think its funny to make me look stupid you dumb fuck?”

Shoyo feels his heart rate pick up at the sheer animosity in the voice. This isn’t a normal argument. Whatever is happening in there will end in someone bloodied and battered.

“No!” The one who was crying chokes out. “You know I don’t! I didn’t- I didn’t mean it!”

There's a sudden scuffle, fabric muffled impacts and watery cries. Shoyo throws a hand over his mouth to stop himself from gasping, sick horror clogging his throat. He has to do something, call the police or step in or anything. But he had heard at least one more assailant’s voice earlier, and he’s never even fought one guy. As the blows start to slow down, bile filled coughs racking the victim's body, hacking through the air like gruesome laughter, Shoyo feels himself make a decision. He thinks of wide frightened eyes looking down at him, hands clawing at his arm. He thinks of metal giving way under his hands, thinks of thick cords of webbing holding him off of the ground. Even without any combat experience, he’ll fare better than the poor soul alone in there.

As the aggressors spit out more threats, Shoyo twists around his hoodie on his torso. He can’t walk away, but he can’t risk word of his powers getting back home, or to school. Jabbing his thumbs into the fabric of his hood, he pokes two holes into it, pulling the drawstrings tight around the back of his head in a bastardization of a mask.

“Beg all you want, it won’t save you.” The lead attacker mutters, flicking a knife out of his back pocket. His prey, eyes swollen already and blood leaking from a split lip, suddenly clears his mind of fog at the glimmer of the weapon. With animalistic desperation he thrashes in the hold of the third man, sobbing in terror. His attempts are meaningless, the knife coming closer with every leisurely step of its wielder.

“Please! I’ll do anything!” He cries, going limp with defeat in the arms of his captor when he cannot wrest himself free. It only makes them laugh.

“Anything huh? Hold Still.”

With deadly intent, the knife swings towards his face, and he screws his eyes shut to brace for impact. How horrible that is. The last thing he’ll ever see is the sadistic sneer of his killer. But the cold cut of steel never comes.

There’s a sound like ropes whipping in the wind, alarmed shouting from the assailants. He holds himself shock still, scared to have hope or to see what is happening. After barely a second, the thick arms bracing him in place go slack, dropping him to his knees where he trembles in anticipation. For a few terrifying moments he keeps his eyes shut, and everything goes quiet. Then there's the crunch of shoes in front of him, someone clearing their throat just above him.

“Are you okay?”

The voice clearly belongs to a young man, open and gentle. He blinks his eyes open, tears falling free. A man crouches in front of him, bright green hood over his face. The only visible features are his eyes through mangled holes in the thick fabric. They’re intense, pupils wide with focus from a fight. He can’t bring himself to respond, just staring in shock and awe.

“I called for help, so you’ll get medical treatment soon, and those guys will get arrested.” The man gestures flippantly over his shoulder, where the men who attacked him sit wrapped in a strange rope. It almost looks like lace.

His eyes widen at the sight, noticing the knife thrown harmlessly to the ground a few feet away. Snapping his gaze back to the man, he jolts forward on his knees.

“I owe you my life!”

It tumbles out of him, his hands flying forward to grip the broad shoulders in front of him. It's embarrassing to bumble like this in front of a man no older than his son, but the relief of being able to breathe is all encompassing.

“Who are you?” he blurts as the man gently pulls his hands away, leaning back to stand.

“Don’t worry about it sir.” he says calmly, slowly backing away.

He is fairly short now that he’s standing, even unassuming looking. And yet this man had wielded enough strength to pacify two armed men in a moment's notice. With a start he realizes the man must have a mutation. That would explain why he wouldn’t want the act of heroism tied back to him.

He watches the man awkwardly shuffle, then hurriedly bound off, from his place crumpled on the alley floor. Still wondering after his rescuer, he sweeps a dazed gaze over the walls, the tied up criminals, his own shaking hands. That really just happened. As sirens begin to sound nearby, he comes to a quaking stance, stumbling to the mouth of the alley.

There’s no sign of the man anywhere. Just the sun shining down on the quaint little neighborhood, and a thin line of spider webbing caught to the edge of the brick next to him. It whips like a flag in the wind, and when he pinches it between his fingers it feels tough as metal cord. He looks back at the material making the restraints, then down to where he softly rolls the spider web between his fingers.

Huh.

Chapter Text

Without a doubt in the world, Shoyo is running late. It’ll worry Yachi, and annoy Kageyama, and embarrass Takeda if he makes a habit of it. But he can’t bring himself to be sorry. Not when his stomach is flying ten miles up, the wheels of his bike catching more air than normal on the bumps in the road. The oxygen in his lungs might as well be laced with something. With the way he grins, swallowing the sky from how fast he’s going, the passerby must think it is.

There isn’t another time Shoyo can remember feeling so good about his own actions. It isn’t like he doesn’t do anything when he sees someone in trouble normally. Quite the opposite actually, his elementary school nearly expelled him when he wouldn’t stop getting in between fights. Scaredy cat tendencies go out the window when other people are there too. So it isn’t a sense of moral validation that makes his soul ignite, but rather the magnitude of what he’d done.

Without powers he couldn’t have done more than get himself hurt too to stall, but he had not only called for help, he had completely pacified the threat. Those two minutes might’ve been the difference between life and death, and with smug satisfaction he revels in the anonymity he managed to maintain. There would be no threatening revenge calls to his family, no town scandal over mutants, his loved ones would see him the same. Shoyo will keep the white lie to himself, and lose nothing of his life.

Nothing could bring him down. Not tutoring, not missing dinner, not even Kageyama.

The idiot is late. He acted so damn overeager about joining them, bragged about helping Kageyama with the payments, and he’s late after going to barely any sessions. It makes the dull ache in his temples that had been growing progressively harder to ignore all day throb angrily. He knows that Yachi knows he’s upset. She’s scared- always gets scared when he’s upset. Guilt pangs somewhere underneath his grumpy fog, but there’s no point apologizing if he can’t do it properly. Any comfort he extends will just make her more nervous.

“So… anyway- uhm,” Yachi restlessly segues, turning bright red at her clumsy speech. “Oh my gosh! Which one of us is good with words now, huh? Maybe you should tutor me!”

He offers his best grimace at the small jest, watching her dig through her bag for the essay outline guide. Takeda had his own structure, and unlearning systems was proving difficult for Tobio. Yachi’s bag is plain canvas, but she had put floral designs on the strap herself. She said it made her feel more human in academic settings. Kageyama glances at his own bag at that thought. The fabric is black, the only embellishment being an embroidered logo that all sports bags come with. He wonders if getting a keychain would make it more fun. With his luck it would snap off.

“Okay! Got it!” Yachi holds up the worksheet triumphantly, puffing a stray hair out of her face and slapping it on the table. He leans forward over the softened cardstock, paying close attention to Yachi’s highlighting. Visuals like that make more sense.

“So I was thinking about what you said about not knowing how to plan body paragraphs this way, and I realized you focus way more on your thesis, but Takeda wants you to analyze both sides of the source’s arguments.”

He doesn’t really understand what the difference would be, his eyebrows drawing closer and closer as Yachi talks. The headache doesn’t do him any favors. Fortunately, or not depending on how you look at it, Hinata decides to finally show his face before Yachi can ask if he’d gotten any of that.

As always the man is a whirlwind. His eyes are wide, a sheen of sweat on his brow and his chest heaving as if he’d run all the way to the library. The green of his hoodie makes his hair look more vibrant than it does normally, his bag swinging in a wild arch, pins jangling with the movement. Between the door to the little room opening and banging into the wall he manages to complete more facial expressions than most people make in a day. Before the annoyance settles in, it actually shocks Kageyama out of his headache for a moment.

He isn’t really sure how Hinata expects them to react, practically rolling over the table to get to his seat, spewing a stream of incomprehensible apologies and excuses about “bike traffic.” Kageyama is just about to ignore the disruption and turn back to Yachi when he feels something heavy slam into his side. He flinches back, hackles rising rapidly, to find the cowlick at the back of Hinata’s head bobbing around while he grabs at something he’d dropped on the other side of his chair. Looking down, he realizes the idiot had kept his over packed bag on during this, causing it to thrust out and hit Kageyama. Fuck he could kill for an Advil right about now.

Grabbing the back of the bag roughly, he yanks Hinata into an upright position, before spinning the bag into the guy’s lap and away from him.

“Watch it!” He spits, remembering not to keep yelling to avoid upsetting Yachi at the last second. Hinata does his damndest to break Tobio’s patience, sticking out his tongue towards him and blowing a short raspberry. It doesn’t spray saliva anywhere, and that’s the only reason the squirt lives another day.

Much like is becoming the norm, they focus on Yachi, occasionally asking questions, having her look over any drafted work. It’s almost peaceful. He will feel the muscles in his forehead relax, but then a deceptively sharp elbow will jab his side, or Hinata will pick fights at the slightest interaction, and he remembers why he isn’t friendlier. Suddenly getting his brain scooped out pumpkin carving style sounds like a spa treatment. The worst part is Hinata seems to think it’s Kageyama’s fault, randomly making friendly chatter then lashing out when he responds. He’s as confusing as his hair’s gravity defying shape.

Still, something is different today. Normally the guy is off the walls in a social way, constantly vying for attention without even noticing, but he keeps spacing off this time. He still asks Yachi questions, still cracks jokes, still picks fights with Tobio, but when they talk to each other without him he just goes quiet instead of butting in. The honey brown of his eyes is just as burning as before, but he won’t say what’s on his mind. Despite finding the guy endlessly irritating, Kageyama finds it unnerving. The only solid thing about the guy was his consistency, he can’t stop now.

It weighs on him all session, like a cloud collecting on the horizon at sea. He even stops thinking about his other problems for a while. Hinata Shoyo, while quieter than normal, manages to be so loud and impossible to ignore that Kageyama stops worrying about the Tokyo attack. So all encompassing that actually important things just leave his brain. It’s frightening as all get out. He decides then and there that whatever bullshit shortie is being weird about has to stop so he can go back to being a normal person.

He waits antsily for the session to end. It should make him feel bad, if not for Yachi than at least for his education, but he’s way too wound up by the Hinata problem to care. Foot bouncing under the table, practically holding his breath, Tobio tries to time his packing up so that he can pull Yachi aside when Hinata inevitably runs to the bathroom. Unfortunately he only brings the necessities, and ends up awkwardly hovering over the shorter two cleaning up like a creeper. When Yachi’s color coded stationary, and Hinata’s hodge-podge collection of school supplies are finally both away, Kageyama actually sighs with relief, slapping a hand over his mouth in an attempt to mask the reaction.

He follows them through the library, tuning in and out of the conversation. Apparently they both play the same farming game. Why anyone would buy a game about something as boring as farming he has no clue, but the other two seem very excited. They whisper hurriedly, barely keeping quiet enough, with lots of frantic hand waving. Geez they sure move a lot. It’s a bit disconcerting. But Tobio stays patient the entire time, following out into the dimming light of the courtyard.

The sun won’t go down for a few more hours, but it still rests low, reflecting gold on the blades of grass around them. Normally, if he wasn’t so anxious to talk about something, he would relax a little in the wide open space. He quite likes the courtyard. Now though his attention zeroes in on how Hinata slightly turns away, Yachi comes to a stop where they stand. They’ll separate soon. He feels his chest puff up as he goes over in his head how to say what he needs properly.

“We’ll play together when the new DLC drops.” Hinata is saying, a relaxed set to his shoulders as he backs away. “Sound good?”

“Yeah!” Yachi squeaks back.

She waves a little as the guy turns away. He brings his hand up, but instead of waving back he glances to Kageyama, giving a funny little two-fingered salute while spinning on his heel. It was very strange, especially since he’d made a face Kageyama is sure was meant to send some kind of message. Was ginger still picking fights? Nevermind that, he has a mission to complete.

Shooting out a hand like a whip, he latches onto Yachi’s elbow and tugs a few steps back towards the library to obscure them from Hinata’s gaze should the guy turn back.

“Woah! Are you okay?” Yachi asks, but she doesn’t seem upset with him, following without complaint. Instead of answering her he turns suddenly to face her, making more eye contact than they had in a month of knowing each other.

“Fix the little shit.” He urges, knowing that Yachi is better at handling Hinata, and people in general.

“What?”

“Hinata! He’s worse than normal. Fix it.”

Something dawns in her eyes, chin lifting up over the high collar of her shirt along with her knowing eyebrows. One little hand comes up to squeeze his shoulder in a slightly condescending manner, though he’s sure the girl is trying to be reassuring.

“Did him being a little down today freak you out Kageyama?”

She says it so, so gently, like he might run off. To be fair, with her furrowing her brow like that, as if she can see right through him, he just might. An awkward squeeze pinches her mouth, and she lets out a small affectionate laugh.

“You know, before we met I thought I struggled to make friends.” She actually smiles now, hands coming to rest in her pockets. He feels a bit ruffled at this reaction, and he wishes she would just get on with it, but he listens when she continues.

“Hinata is a really nice guy, Kageyama. I know you guys didn’t get off to the best start, but you can be really sweet underneath your big and scary routine. He’s probably never had to work socially with how silly he is. Just talk to him properly, he’ll figure you out eventually.”

It leaves a funny feeling in his stomach, making him step subtly back. He’s embarrassed, every fiber of his being screaming at him to run away. But if he leaves without Yachi agreeing to help, then this more annoying version of Hinata might become permanent.

“Will you talk to him though?” He asks, glaring past her head at part of the library wall. His voice sounds slightly gruff, even to himself, but for once it doesn’t seem to scare Yachi.

Instead of becoming intimidated like she usually would when he’s upset, she raises a disappointed eyebrow, crossing her arms.

“He usually walks his bike to the gate, ya know?” She throws out, snarky, but not unkindly so. “Why don’t you catch up and talk to him yourself?”

The adrenaline of his brief stint as a vigilante wore off quickly after arriving at the library. It had left him foggy in the head, unable to keep up his usual energetic cheer. So of course Kageyama had been in rare form. The guy made it impossible to think with the hole he glared into Hinata’s face. He can’t wait to get home and let sleep unburden him of the memory. Constant scrutiny can only go on so long.

Shoyo sighs, leaning slightly against his bike as his fingers flex on the handles. The texture of the grips feels good on his chapped palms, the gradually dimming light helping unfurl the pressure on his eyes. He can’t bring himself to look up, to see the giant freaking mountain he still has to bike all the way up. Rest would not evade him tonight. Just as he’s going into autopilot, the chatter of passing people and cars in the distance fading to null, a voice shatters his calm.

“HEY!”

He turns around, bewildered and still slightly groggy. Kageyama is storming towards him, somewhere between a very threatening speed walk and awkwardly clipped jog. The way his hair bounces slightly, smooth and thin over his brow, makes him look like an overgrown kid, not quite sure how to carry himself or cut his hair. It would be silly, if he wasn’t fixing Shoyo with the most blood thirsty stare he’s ever imagined.

Deciding it has been far too long of a day for this, he turns right back around without responding. Shoyo breaks into a strong jog, holding tight to his bike handles with his bag bouncing against his back at each step. There are a few angry shouts and squawks behind him, including something along the lines of, “I’m gonna kill you, you little fucker.” So Shoyo definitely made the right decision. He bends forward, trying to speed up despite the bike jostling in his grasp. While normally he could probably outrun Kageyama, this proves quite the hindrance, and before long he can hear the angry slapping of Kageyama’s sneakers getting closer behind him.

If he could just get past the gate and onto the street! There he’d be able to actually hop onto his bike. Because Shoyo is respectful of school safety, even being chased. He is a good guy for goodness’ sake! Just as the gate comes into view, the strap of his school bag pulls tight across his chest, forcing him to come to a stumbling stop. Cold dread pools in his stomach. Without even turning around, Shoyo can feel the frustration radiating off of Kageyama’s presence like a heat lamp. After a few moments of him refusing to turn around, and Kageyama swallowing a few choice words, the guy finally speaks.

“I need to ask you something.”

Kageyama sounds shockingly calm, maybe even a little ashamed underneath the hard rasp of his voice. So Shoyo takes a deep breath, hunching his shoulders and turning around slowly. As he does so, Kageyama lets go of his hold on Shoyo’s bag that he hadn’t even noticed the guy had kept. They stand a few feet apart, nervous tension in the air like neither of them knows what to do. For the first time in the short span of knowing him, Shoyo really looks at the other man.
Kageyama is rude. He’s ill tempered and prideful. Every chance he gets he gives Shoyo the nastiest looks he can. But now, even after threatening and chasing him down, theres something other than anger in his eyes. He looks scared. Like Shoyo is a wild animal that could bite him if he makes the wrong move. And suddenly it makes a lot more sense why the guy is such an ass.

“How do I make you stop being a mopey shit.” Kageyama huffs out, shoulders set with determination and gaze fixed on Shoyo.

“Why would I tell you when you just insulted me!” He throws back, fed up with Kageyama constantly acting like Shoyo is somehow a worse person for no reason.

This reaction seems to overwhelm the taller man, his face going red and contorting into several very painful looking expressions. After a few moments of this he exhales, letting his shoulders drop in a frustrated huff that sends his bangs flapping around his face. It makes Shoyo feel good, to have the upper hand in their bickering for once. He watches smugly as Kageyama finally breathes in, apparently having decided his response. Shoyo grins behind his poker face, bracing for the sweet revenge of Kageyama admitting to being rude.

“Because you piss me off!”

This throws Shoyo for a loop, making him blink in confusion. Kageyama just barrels on, hands coming up to forcefully grip his own bag’s strap.

“You piss me off! And you assume the worst of me! And you’re annoying!”

“Hey!” Shoyo tries to cut in, shoving Kageyama’s shoulders softly in warning, but it does nothing to stop the flow of words.

“You’re loud, and chirpy, and irritating, and hyperactive, and stupid!”

At this Shoyo grabs hold of the front of Kageyama’s shirt, shaking him a little bit in place angrily as he growls out, “Why don’t you make your point and move on you big asshole! It’s not like you’re a saint!”

Kageyama doesn’t flinch back, focused craze still in his eyes. In fact, he pushes back against Shoyo’s grasp, shoving him away. It leaves them back in that awkward couple feet distance, this time leaning angrily in with crackling energy.

Kageyama mutters something, breaking eye contact for the first time since barging over to be a dick. He looks embarrassed, face scrunched up as he tucks it down towards one shoulder.

“I can’t hear you when you mumble like that.” Shoyo sighs out. His voice doesn’t even sound angry, just tired. This really wasn’t the day for Kageyama to decide to duke it out.

“We’re done here if you just came to be mean,” he mutters, starting to turn back around. He makes it barely two steps when Kageyama calls out.

“But you’re usually fun!”

Shoyo freezes, looking back over his shoulder to check if he was hallucinating. Kageyama is curled in on himself, nose doing that ugly wrinkle thing. He looks completely grossed out by what he’d just said. So Shoyo wasn’t crazy. He stays carefully still, curious where the other could possibly be going with this.

“Tutoring isn’t the place to goof around, so it’s totally aggravating.” Kageyama goes on in a slightly softer voice, “But normally you’re at least a little… fun- I guess.”

Shoyo has no idea how to respond. On one hand, Kageyama wasn’t even mature enough to use his kind words and part of him wanted to rip the big idiot a new one for it. On the other hand, he had kind of thought the guy hated everything about him, but this made it sound like he was just… overwhelmed? And was the glaring all day just him picking up on Shoyo’s emotional crash?

He thinks about the question Kageyama had asked at first. About how he’d asked how to make Shoyo stop acting like, “a mopey shit.” In a weird, frustrating, rude way, the guy was trying to fix Shoyo’s bad mood. Because he found it an irritant. What the fuck?

“Geez Kageyama, you’re really bad at this.” He blurts out, eyes still wide with confusion.

This makes the other go bright red, shoulders jerking up around his ears. He can’t help it, something about it, in his delirious mind, after such an exhausting day, just clicks. Shoyo bursts out laughing, folding almost entirely in half with mirth. It makes his tired muscles shake under his skin, a pleasant hum in his chest. This guy is just an ass! He really shouldn’t let it stress him out so much.

“Hey! Don’t laugh!” Kageyama blusters, sounding completely and utterly lost. “I did what you asked you little shit! Tell me you’ll be normal!”

“I will! Gosh!” Shoyo chokes out between chuckles, causing Kageyama to relax a little bit.

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience his royal highness with my feelings again. Especially not after you were so nice about it!” He teases, trying to lighten the mood without doing anything that could give Kageyama the win.

The other man, though no longer wound up with anger, looks strangely somber, closed off in a more real way than normal. It makes Shoyo’s laughter trail off, a pang of something in his chest. Just as he opens his mouth to ask why the hell Kageyama is acting all butt hurt now, the guy starts to walk away, presumably to go home. A cranky mutter of, “Whatever,” is all he leaves behind him.

Something is wrong. That fact becomes apparent the moment Shoyo gets home. Natsu isn’t downstairs hanging out, the house is eerily quiet. Mom hadn’t even left the hall light on for him. He walks into cold brown panels, dust stained blue by the dull evening light. A pool of fear begins to gather at his navel, cold and stark.

Shrugging off his bag, Shoyo looks around the doorframe of the living room to search for his mom. She’s there, gingerly sitting on the cream fabric of their couch. It seems like any moment she might take flight, her legs not even pressed down into the soft cushions. His gaze slides along the crook of her arm to find it draped around another person in a comforting gesture. When he takes in the other figure he sucks in a gust of breath, alerting the others to his presence. Something is very wrong.

Eyes swollen red, hair mussed, and hands shiny with caught tears, the woman from down the mountain sits on their couch in complete disarray. Shoyo had only spoken to her once, but his family had sent her a letter of support when her son had been born a mutant. She’s young and alone, and that baby needs so much from her. The only reason she could be crying to his mother like this is because something happened to the baby.

He looks away from the wide watery eyes, scanning his mother’s face for an answer. To his relief, she doesn’t have cold grief in her face that would suggest the baby was hurt, but the drawn tension that lines her jaw is still frightening. As the woman crumples, turning back into his mother’s shoulder to weep, Shoyo takes a shaky mindless step into the room.

“What happened?” He whispers, scared to speak too loud for fear the woman may blow away.

The woman flinches slightly at his question, shoulders jerking strangely. A sad gasping sound comes from where her face is buried in Mom’s cardigan as she tries to gather herself enough to respond. Before she can though, Mrs. Hinata rubs soothing circles into her back, shushing her softly. She looks up to Shoyo with cold bitter vengeance in her eyes. It makes the usual golden brown look as dark and dim as charcoal.

“Someone vandalized her home. Painted a threat on the wall. It was some absurd raving about the Tokyo attack.”

Her voice is stoic, professional, and somehow that feels worse than if she had broken down as well. Shoyo feels his legs quake as if about to buckle. He lurches forward, trying to hide his nerves by sitting opposite them on the couch.

“The baby?” He murmurs, voice sounding small and distant to his own ears. It gets swallowed up by the gradually growing drone all around.

“He’s fine,” his mom reassures, “We contacted the police and sent him to his babysitter’s house until we know it’s safe.”

A little bit of the pressure in Shoyo’s chest lets up, but the looseness only allows sickly sweet nausea to slip in. He thinks about the man he had saved earlier, and a wave of guilt settles in. It had been the right thing, he would do it again, but he can’t ignore the violent aspect. He had used his abilities to harm that man’s attackers with no repercussions, and yet a baby that had done nothing had been threatened on the same day. Shoyo reaches out, squeezing his mom’s shoulder for just a moment as he gets up to leave.

He doesn’t know if he said anything in farewell, his mind was already somewhere else. The night passes in indifferent calm. It makes a mockery of his swirling emotions, of the tragedy downstairs. As he lays, eyelids slowly growing heavier, he never hears a car drive away. The woman must be staying on their couch for the night. And isn’t that another beautiful sort of pain?

Kozume Kenma is easily bored. Considering his inactive nature, many people assume this makes him lazy. That the more bored he is, the less he does. This assumption is inaccurate. Kenma is lazy all on his own when he doesn’t care about things. It is doing the things he does care about that staves off the boredom. He holds down several prestigious jobs at just twenty years old, cycling between responsibilities to keep his mind busy. Sure maybe his house gets messy, maybe he forgets to sleep sometimes, but Kenma is extremely successful just the way he is. Why should he change just because of the judgment of people who don’t really know him?

It’s late on Sunday. Very, very late. He just got off stream, hanging up his headphones and glancing to the clock on his wall. At some point while he wasn’t paying attention, the room had gotten so dark that he can’t read where the hands are pointing. The realization comes with a painful stabbing sensation behind his strained eyes. Oh well, he’ll just have to nap tomorrow.

He shuffles down his hallway in his socks. The white tile and high ceiling make it feel supernatural at night, the cold bleeding through fabric and into his feet. It keeps the exhaustion at bay between snacks and caffeinated drinks.

Kenma makes his way to the living room, responding to a text from Kuroo as he walks. There are immediately three short pings, so he doesn’t get to set his phone down yet. He yawns as he clicks on the notifications, the stretch leaving sparks in the muscles of his jaw. The light of the screen is blurry in the dark, and he slides over the back of his couch to sit down as his vision adjusts. It’s just Kuroo reprimanding him for his sleep schedule, though it isn’t too harsh as they both know it won’t work. He sends back a quick thanks for caring, then switches his phone to do not disturb before Kuroo can start to lecture. It would be a fun test to see if the other man would go back to bed or show up at his door.

He tosses the phone to the coffee table, flicking on the TV. For the last couple years he’s been using it to browse online. Things feel more interesting on the big screen, and go easier on his eyes. The wide screen leaves a blue haze over the entire room. Surfaces previously obscured by the dark reveal themselves with faint neon outlines, cold glow painting the skin of everything around.

There doesn’t seem to be much going on. No new scandals, no viral videos. His mom posted a picture with some sort of new award, but that isn’t really noteworthy for her. He sighs, wishing he had left the email from his financial advisor unanswered. At least then he could do something productive. Not really focusing on the blur of scrolling images anymore, he wonders with mounting horror if he should just go to bed. A little red dot from his favorite “news” channel saves him from this plight.

Clicking it open, Kenma holds little hope that it will entertain him for long. His eyelids rest low as he begins to scan the article text, tuning out the voiceover on the video. The hand holding the remote shoots out, urgently pausing the video. He sits frozen, halfway laid down and halfway up leaning forward. Over and over in complete disbelief he scans the text again. Surely it’s fake news.

Kenma sits up, fluffy cushions adjusting beneath his body, picking his phone up again. Ignoring the missed calls from Kuroo he pulls up his search engine, looking to see what more reputable sources are saying. Sure enough, there it is. A grainy video of an interview, uploaded to the website of a local newspaper from where Shoyo lives. The man in the video, small in Kenma’s hand, looks aged by fear, and young with awe. His mouth hangs slightly agape, even between talking, as he describes his miraculous rescue just this afternoon. There’s a vigilante mutant in Miyagi.

He copies the link quickly, opening his conversation with Shoyo in messages. The other man would be thrilled. When he had visited last fall they had gone to the photographic art museum, and Shoyo had spent a good two hours in a display on supers caught in action. The man had kept one hand on the camera around his neck anytime they left Kenma’s place. Sometimes even at Kenma’s when the curtains were open. Shoyo would be jumping off the walls. If he can get a shot of this guy it could be a springboard for his career. Getting to share the news with him makes Kenma feel proud of himself for being a good friend.

(to: Sho *o*)
-check this out… keep n eye out for “spider-man” :)

Yachi sends the email, closing her laptop with a yawn. It had been way too long of a night. Deciding to double major in graphic design and business was proving harder than expected, but it would all be worth it to make her mom proud. It would be worth it to have the life she wants. Besides, this is for her own good. She needs the extra money from tutoring to live, and getting out and talking to someone without a ruler ten feet up their ass has been nice. No shade to Tsuki and Tadashi. They would be her favorite project partners forever. It’s just refreshing to talk to some weirdos from time to time. Let her hair down, you know?

She hopes the report on Hinata and Kageyama’s progress takes some stress off of Takeda’s back. The poor man had practically begged her to help the boys. He had even teared up a bit at Kageyama’s first “C” on an assignment. It makes her feel like she’s doing something other than passing time until the future. And if their conversation had gone well earlier, then hopefully they would become friends and she could stop playing middle man all the time! She smiles to herself at that thought, but doesn’t let her hopes get too high.

Just as she puts her laptop to the side, scooting back to pull her covers over her pajama-clad legs, there’s a chirpy ringing from her nightstand. A bit of annoyance bubbles up. Who in their right mind would call this late? She doesn’t dwell on it long though, snatching up her phone to answer. Even if she finds this irritating, the polite thing to do is kindly explain she’s going to bed. The last thing Yachi wants to be is rude. She couldn’t have guessed who was calling to save her life.

Not one second after her answering, the nervous rambling begins. It cuts off the gentle goodbye she had been just about to deliver, plowing through the phone in a deep stutter.

“I know it’s late, I’m really sorry for bugging you! It’s just that- Well I had this idea, and I know you’re better at drawing than me, and I don’t have my sketch pad on me right now, because I left it at my office, and I had this sudden idea for a design! I’m talking way too much right now!”

She blinks, letting Asahi catch his breath. They met last year, when she took a design class at the college while still in highschool. Despite being an upperclassman, he wasn’t too much older compared to some of her classmates, and had been the only one as nervous as her. They had become unlikely friends pretty quick. In some ways he feels like a mentor; someone a little closer to entering the career field she’s aiming for.

“Uhm… hello?” He ventures quietly, the guilt obvious in his voice.

Yachi glances at the clock. It’s late, later than she prefers, but not late enough to turn down a creative back-and-forth after weeks of college burnout depriving her of sketch time. She takes a deep breath, bracing for the headache she will no doubt have in the morning. Damn being so sensitive about sleep schedules.

“I’m here!” She squeaks out before Asahi can start apologizing or hanging up. “What’s the idea?”

She kicks out of bed, shuffling through her desk for some art supplies.

“Well my class is doing a unit on subtly practical clothes. Like… uniforms that look super sleek and fashionable, but still get the job done.”

Yachi hums to tell him to go on, trying to muffle the sounds of her fighting with the drawer of the ancient wooden death trap in front of her. It finally bursts open, and she can’t contain a small victory cry. As Asahi continues to talk though, she hushes the sound out of respect.

“So- You know I can be indecisive- but I was having trouble picking the kind of uniform. Like is it too easy to go corporate? But then do I have the textile knowledge for blue collar?”

“Yeah! Sometimes in my logo design class I wonder if my idea is too boring, but then what if that’s the point of practical designs?”

There’s a nervous chuckle on the other end, an undertone of relief in the sound.

“I knew you would understand.”

There’s a short comfortable silence as Yachi settles into her chair to draw, changing the call to speaker so she can set down the phone.

“Okay you big goof!” She declares, earning an exasperated groan from the often-teased man. “Tell me your idea.”

She lets herself get lost in the motions. The grit of her pencil on the paper, the smell of cut wood when she sharpens it. All the while Asahi slowly dictates the design. It’s not a full garment, though he wants to apply it to some sort of jacket eventually, but rather the outline of a hypothetical embroidering. The faint lines of graphite look like dust under her stark desk lamp, strange nighttime shadows creating a twilight zone effect. This, mixed with Asahi’s timid voice, soothes her. Yachi finds that she is most confident when helping others, and most calm when making art.

“All right,” She says scooching back to check her work, “I think I’ve got an initial rough of it… I hope it looks how you wanted.”

“Oh I’m sure it does.” Asahi reassures her.

She smiles at that, glad to have someone older who struggles with self image to look up to. It’s nice to know how well people like her can do in the world.

“I’ll send you a picture and we’ll see.”

She swipes out of the call to pull up her camera, the light green light in the corner reflecting onto her face. It takes a second to center the sketch, then another to focus the blurry lens. But before long the phone camera gives a soft click, and she sends it to their text conversation. As her dodgy internet struggles to send the file, she makes idle conversation.

“So why spiders? I can’t think of any profession that’s applicable to.”

Asahi breathes in so hard it picks up on his phone mic, clearly excited she had asked.

“Well I was reading this article, about an act of vigilante justice right here in Miyagi!”

This makes Yachi pause, eyebrows raising slightly as she listens to the man talk.

“And people online started calling the guy ‘Spiderman!’ It got me thinking- wow! Spiders are really interesting visually, and I could totally use them for hunting gear! Cause they’re trappers in a sense!”

It’s a clever idea, and she feels proud of her friend for finding inspiration, but she finds her mind wandering. She looks back down to her sketch, Asahi’s praise for her now delivered drawing fading to the background. The design is a simplified silhouette, as sleek and modern as all of Asahi’s designs. Still, knowing that it had been inspired by an act of such significance makes her feel funny. As if she had just played a hand in something bigger than she knew. For once not worrying about being disrespectful, Yachi interrupts whatever Asahi had been saying.

“Spiderman you said?”

Chapter Text

Natsu doesn’t wake him up in the morning. His alarm goes off at the proper time. Sunlight through the blinds forces his eyes shut the moment Shoyo opens them. He slaps a hand onto his alarm clock, heaving a sigh where his face is squished against the pillow. The hot air fans out into the fabric. Now conscious, he can’t distract himself from the yellow glow faintly showing through his eyelids. It’s strangely peaceful despite how nice sleep had been. Like a bubble of sun. He’ll have to remember to be nice to Natsu that day. She must have realized he needed a good morning.

He takes his time going through the paces. Grabbing some clothes and a towel, making his way to the bathroom, checking for any acne or blemishes while the water heats up. The shower purifies his burdened body. Shoyo takes extra care to massage out the stressed muscles of his neck and shoulders. Hot steam flows out, rolling through the tiny room so that he has to wipe the mirror clean when he gets out. His eyes lay hooded and heavy in his reflection, as he combs his hair for the first time that year. It won’t look any different than normal, his waves will fluff up the way they always do, but the soft scrape along his water-softened scalp sheds some of the weight that had built up the past week.

He pauses in his motions, really looking at himself in the mirror. The curve of his jaw is sharp and smooth. He’s never been able to grow a beard, probably never will. At his temples his hairline is visible. That’s a rare sight. It squares out, lower and thicker than most guys’ but still masculine in shape. The hair sprouting from it looks dark and ruddy from the water, snaking back along his head in swirling lines that vary from a dark reddish brown to nearly blonde highlights. He has a slight tan from biking later in the mornings. In high school he left before dawn and stayed so pale he thought he couldn’t tan. For the first time in a long time Shoyo realizes how young he still is. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

On the counter in front of him his phone waits to be picked up. There’s a message from Kenma, and he can’t seem to work up the courage to open it. He doesn’t know why, but it feels significant. His subconscious clings to the current, not quite ready to face whatever change the message will surely bring. For just this morning, just this little while longer, he will be Hinata Shoyo, and nothing more. Whatever awaits him can handle an hour longer.

Breakfast is odd to say the least. The woman, Akiko apparently, joins them. Having an extra chair leaves their table slightly cramped. Now the Hinata house isn’t necessarily small, not for a single mother with two kids, but it definitely doesn’t have the space for guests. The last person awake, he ends up with his chair halfway straddling the leg of the table, his knees awkwardly bumping into both Mom and Natsu at his sides. It feels more cramped than cosey, more stuffy than warm.

Still, the little group tries to make the best of it. Early into the meal, before the dishes were even loaded with food, the officers looking into their call had contacted Akiko. Apparently the suspects were a group of teens with no history of violent behavior. It was shaping up to be an empty threat, the young mother likely to be safe to go home within the hour. Even with this good news, the events of the previous night had clearly taken quite the toll on the young woman. And she really is young.

It would be wrong to say that she is too young to have a kid, quite the contrary is true, but watching her hands meekly take a bowl from Mrs. Hinata, her dewy skin drooping with fear and exhaustion beneath her eyes, Shoyo finds it impossible to ignore her youth. In a few short years he’d be moved out, and they could probably meet as coworkers, or at a club, or online. If he weren’t still living at home and unfamiliar with his newfound adulthood, they’d be in the same social groups. Maybe he’d even be settled down enough to have his own kids. He strongly doubts that last thought, but he’d always have Natsu to worry about. If someone said something hateful about her, threatened her, even if it was all bark, he isn’t sure what he’d do. It makes him wonder how his mom had managed on her own for so long. She wasn’t far from Akiko’s age when Natsu was little.

Speaking of, they talk about Natsu mostly. Being the youngest, her life seems the most idealistic to the others, and it helps take their minds off of everything. Shoyo finds himself softly smiling listening to his sister rave about tween drama. Apparently she had wiped the floor with an old friend turned rival in the most recent debate at club. They were arguing over the ethics of branded vending machines at schools, which seems sort of nebulous and inconsequential to him but apparently got quite heated. At one point Natsu makes a comment so bold it sends water spraying out of Shoyo’s nose. It shakes some of the sad dullness from Akiko’s eyes, a strained laugh ghosting across the table.

If he doesn’t think too hard, this is just a normal meal between friends. They’ve just had a neighbor over to spice up his mom’s social life, and entertain the poor woman while her baby is with a sitter. Him and Natsu act like things are normal when they get up early from the table to get to school. They exchange quick jokes and farewells while walking their dishes to the sink, voices bouncing off of walls to get through the different rooms. Natsu splashes him with some of the sink water, dashing to the entry hall before he can retaliate properly. He ruffles her hair as pay back as he slings his school bag over his shoulder, prompting her to squawk something about how difficult it is to keep her hair tied back. As if on cue, a chunk comes loose from her ponytail near the back, and he can’t help but laugh at the cranky pout she throws his way.

The sun is warm on his face as they make their way to his bike, fresh with a slight breeze that keeps it from feeling too oppressive. Him and Nastu fall into a comfortable silence. Their feet crunch on the gravel driveway, eventually giving way to the hum of the bike’s wheels on pavement. When one of their neighbor’s dogs begins to yap through the fence, Shoyo makes a big show of barking and howling, just to mess with his sister a little. She rises to the bait, letting out an embarrassed squeal while slapping the back of his head. He lets the relaxed humor fill him to the brim, greedily saving it away to get through the long day ahead of him. Class, then work, then a late afternoon tutoring session, and he had planned to stop by the lab to investigate a little more after that. The good morning was needed.

In the mornings the university campus looks ethereal. Silver light dances off of dewy grass and the windows of the buildings. Leaning against the rough brick of one such building, Shoyo finally pulls his phone out to see what Kenma wanted. Just past the calloused tips of his fingers around the phone case, blurry people shuffle past on their way to and from classes. The zombie-esc mist over everything in the area couldn’t be less appropriate for how Shoyo feels reading the message.

His breathing picks up as he scans it again, then again, not quite ready to believe what he’s seeing. It had to be some kind of joke. The universe is playing tricks on him. But no matter how many times he rereads it, the words melting into a pixelated soup from the frantic flicking of his eyes, it still says the same thing. A cheeky suggestion to look out for “Spiderman,” just above the preview thumbnail of a video link. If the name itself wasn’t damning enough, Shoyo knows the man in the thumbnail. He’s even in the same rumpled clothes from their meeting. In a daze Shoyo clicks the link.

The video is good, but low quality compared to what bigger news stations can afford. It gives a funny effect to the footage, everyone in focus in sharp, perfect view, but the edges blurry and lagged. The voice of the woman behind the camera sounds out over the hiss of static sound.

“And you said the man had covered his face with a hood, is that correct sir?”

He takes a few glances to his sides before answering, as if his brain hasn’t fully caught up to what’s happening.

“Yes,” the man says hurriedly, sounding calm but distracted. “He used a mutation I think. I didn’t see the fight, but he used spider webbing of some sort to tie up my attackers. I’d assume he doesn’t want the public to know who he is because of that.”

“What do you mean by ‘spider webbing’ sir?”

Shoyo lets the video play, no longer listening. How could he with the river of blood rushing around in his ears? His head lulls back in shock, eyes roaming the courtyard once more. It looks the exact same as it had before, people wandering around every now and then in the peaceful space. They’re acting like the ground didn’t just shake, like the stars didn’t just dance. But Shoyo can’t pretend to ignore it like the rest of the world. A dumb grin hangs on his face, heart tap dancing in his chest.

He types a quick response to Kenma, feeling giddy and slightly mischievous that he doesn’t know it’s him.

(to: kenma!!! o.o)

THANKS!!!
i will :DDDDDDDD

There’s a quick response before he can slip his phone back into his pocket. It sends a pang of concern through him, because a response that quick usually means Kenma got ahead at work and is doom scrolling. His mood doesn’t falter however, far too excited to come back down. Besides, the simple thumbs up Kenma responds with is so dry, and awkward, and him, that Shoyo can’t help but laugh.

He makes his way to photography with a pep in his step, and his mind racing. The visit to the lab would be a lot more fun while trying on the suit he’d found. Hell, maybe he could even decorate it!

He hadn’t meant to get so attached. Tendo isn’t dumb, he knows that things are going to catch up to him. He doesn’t get to stay, he doesn’t get to have this life. But jogging through the park early Monday morning with Ushijima before the big fella has to go to work, he finds himself unable to imagine being anywhere else. It was so natural, so simple the way they fit together. When was the last time he had a friend like this? There isn’t a memory to recall.

Lately they’ve been playing twenty one questions. Tendo gets a kick out of picking the most niche immaterial things he can, and somehow Wakatoshi, the wonder he is, always manages to figure it out with concise, logical grilling. Currently Tendo is waiting for the third question in their game. No way the other will figure out ‘atmosphere.’

Ushijima takes his time between questions, letting out a low hum every now and then between powerful strides. Tendo doubts the quiet man actually hums when he’s thinking, figuring it is just a way for him to tell Tendo the game is still going on during the long pauses. He doesn’t mind it though. Even without those signals he wouldn’t. Despite what people may say about his tendency to ramble and interrupt, Tendo can be patient when he actually enjoys a person’s company.

He people watches, snickering under his breath when he sees a kid trip trying to catch a frisbee. Every now and then, regardless of how hard he tries not to, he catches himself scrutinizing Ushijima. His eyes sweep curiously over the hard line of his brow, the wide curve of his shoulders moving back and forth, the clipped steps he takes. They’re almost the same height, but Tendo is lankier, legs disproportionately long. It balances out, so that even though Ushijima takes stronger more practiced steps, Tendo’s casual gait keeps pace. It’s as if they were designed to move together.

Tendo squawks in frustration, shaking his head around wildly to discard that dangerous thought. It makes his world swirl, eyes rolling around in his skull. To release some of the tension, he puffs up his cheeks when he stops the thrashing, blowing out the breath dramatically.

When he makes the mistake of looking back towards his companion, the other man has his eyes trained on him already, the skin beneath them pinched slightly with confusion. It would be endearing if it didn’t make Tendo suddenly aware of how very strange his reaction would seem to anyone but him. So he puts on a reassuring smile, waving his hand dismissively around.

“I’m alright Wakatoshi! Just scaring off any bees.”

The other man seems placated by this, turning back to the front as he gives a small nod.

“Would shaking around not aggravate them?”

“Good point. Perhaps I should try putting fake spiders in my hair? Or maybe birds…”

They settle back into silence for a bit, nearing the far side of the park. There are several large water features here, with people lounging around the pretty area. Couples lay on blankets, birds flock around anyone holding paper bags, teens mill about in small groups. It really is beautiful. Sometimes Tendo can’t believe it’s all real. There are blue skies, little animals, the distant thrumming of cars. If he reaches off the path to his right, he can run his fingers against the bark of a thin young tree.

He does, just to prove to himself he can. It only lasts for a moment, but the contact leaves him thrumming with happiness. It was rough and dry, less grooves than an older tree would have. His fingertips tingle, raw from the scrape.

“Solid, liquid, or gas.” Ushijima’s deep voice grabs his attention once more, bringing him back to the game at hand.

“Ooh! Good question Wakatoshi!” He praises, reaching out to briefly tap the other’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “It’s gas!”

Watching the way Ushijima’s eyes shine with deep thought, bright in the daylight, Tendo wonders how he could’ve thought the other inexpressive at first. How he could have thought he could stay distant. The pull that keeps him from running is unassuming, curious and warm. For a moment he lets himself wonder what harm staying could do. Nothing had gone wrong yet. Maybe nothing would.

This morning is easier than the last few have been for Kageyama. He even worked up the energy to make a proper meal. The warm food leaves his stomach feeling comfortably full, his brain energized for class. So help him, he was going to understand Takeda’s lecture if it killed him. The words on the board always flit in the edges of his mind, never quite sinking in. If someone had told him he’d end up at university back in highschool, he would’ve tried harder.

He walks to school, living just close enough to not need proper transportation. This does however mean that Kageyama is usually early to give himself a buffer of extra walking time. It’s the prepared thing to do, but it also leaves him shuffling around awkwardly in the nearly empty campus, only a few other morning class zombies even there yet. There isn’t time for him to go to the archive, nor anyone he’d like to talk to. Mornings represent little more than a countdown between necessary activities.

Hugging close to the thin concrete paths around the courtyard, he watches the edges of his shoes drag along the rough ground. With no bustling activity to muffle it, the soft scrapes bounce all the way to the rain hoods of the building he passes. Deep in his head it registers that the building is the dorms, but he pays it no mind.

There wasn’t a great need for dorms, what with the ample abundance of frat houses, and the majority of students being local. They grew up here, what would be the point of living in a shitty closet with a stranger when most of them had the ability to either live at home or with high school buddies? Tobio is one of the lucky few with enough extra cash to get an apartment all on his own. Who says his parents didn’t help with anything? In his experience other students react strangely to that information.

When Yachi had asked about dropping something off with his RA, she had nearly popped an eye out at his refusal. She’s the only person from the dorms that he’s talked to. Though that doesn’t say much considering how little he talks to others. Still, it doesn’t make sense how shocked she was. Doesn’t she know how unpopular dorm life is here?

A commotion above him draws his bored attention up to one of the dorm windows. It hangs wide open, the edge of a frilly looking lace curtain flapping gently in the wind that swirls through the courtyard like a howling wolf. He doesn’t have time to wonder how one would clean such fabric, not with the more demanding presence in the air. Whipping with chaotic vengeance, corners curling and flapping, papers fly from the open dorm. A panicked cry follows behind them.

His tired mind isn’t sure how to react, whatever burst of life breakfast gave him clogged and muggy. For a moment he just stares, pages and notes and little flash cards circling above him like vultures. Soft morning light jumps between the bright pages. It’s almost beautiful. As they get closer, the first few scattering around the ground several feet behind him, he reaches out a hesitant hand to catch one.

“No! No, no, no!” A familiar voice calls out to the side. He looks up alarmed just as Yachi bursts from the double front door of the dorms. She’s frazzled, her usually neat hair pulled into an awkward asymmetrical half updo, still in a pair of pink pajama pants. It spurs him awake, her distress infectious as he realizes the papers are hers. He stiffly gathers the pages piled around his feet, Yachi quietly cursing as she gathers up the ones that had slid further along the ground.

Once she gets them into her hands, she turns back towards where she’d come from with a tired expression. Upon noticing Kageyama, she jolts to attention. All the little self conscious things that had been abandoned in her haste come to life. Suddenly the antsy clumsy girl is gone, her spine straightening as an almost professional young student takes her place. It sends a pang through Kageyama’s chest. His one acquaintance that he might consider a friend still doesn’t trust him.

“Kageyama!” She blinks owlishly as she steps forward to grab the papers he’d gathered from him. “Thank you.”

He shrugs noncommittally, already wanting to leave for class. Thankfully Yachi seems even more uncomfortable than him, walking past him towards the short steps leading to the doors. She turns back to wave farewell, but he isn’t really paying attention. Mentally he’s in the back corner of Takeda’s classroom already.

“Oh, wait!” Yachi calls out just as he starts to step away.

He feels something irritable and mean coil around his throat, but squashes it down. It’s not Yachi’s fault she stepped on one of his emotional mines. So he forces his shoulders not to tense up, turning back politely to where the girl hangs halfway in the doorway.

“How’d it go with Hinata? Is he okay?”

That surprises Kageyama, the nervousness he’d felt talking to the little ginger freak bubbling up without warning. He can only hope his ears aren’t turning red as he tries to find a good response.

“Uh… he’s back to normal.” He grunts out.

Yachi doesn’t seem to mind the terse tone, sighing in relief.

“Well that’s good.” She says on an exhale, turning back inside, the door swinging shut behind her.

Technically he hadn’t lied. Him and Hinata had come to some sort of truce, though he isn’t sure what. That should be enough to disway the itchy feeling that Hinata had brought him last time, but it doesn’t. Something awkwardly tickles in his throat at the memory of their last conversation. His throat bobs because of this, desperately trying to swallow down the feeling.

The thing is, Hinata had acted more like himself, but he hadn’t gone back to normal. Normal is ceaselessly antagonizing, self centered, and immature. A concrete wall would be easier to break. But the way Hinata had teased him, leaning back onto his bike with a tired sort of amusement, the dying sun only adding to his gentle yet infectious happiness, that was… not a concrete wall. He can’t decide if it’s better or worse. On one hand it’s nice to know the guy isn’t crazy, but on the other, now what? Is he supposed to reveal a secret more nuanced personality too?

It’s overwhelming, in a completely different way to how Hinata overwhelmed him before. He feels cornered, unsure how to go forward. They’ll see each other again, they have to. He’ll see him tonight even. The idea of Hinata teasing him like that again, in front of another person, makes his skin crawl. So he chokes down the itchiness, the uncertainty, and stomps angrily the rest of the way to class. Stupid Hinata, making him feel bad for being nice.

Takeda’s class goes better than normal at first. He sits in the back corner, pinching the top of his thigh to stay awake when the lecture gets too boring. Kageyama wouldn’t dare participate, not with a really loud mouth breather next to him, but when Takeda catches his eye he smiles. So maybe paying attention is worth something, even if the information he’s supposed to be learning slides off of his brain like sand. It’s not his fault teachers drone on like that. He’s great with visuals, physical work, not the blathering reading stuff.

It seems for the first ten minutes that he might get through the period without assaulting his eraser. But it’s then, right as his traitorous eyes grow heavy and his chin drifts to his palm, that something ripples through the room. At first he thinks the annoying buzz is a fly. Then, upon realizing some girls in the other corner are whispering to each other, he tunes it out. Better drift into the soupy heat around his skull than bother with people that can’t control themselves. None of it stops the ever encroaching threat, the migraine waiting to happen. Takeda shushes the girls, only for another couple classmates to kick up a few seats down. It makes his lips stretch awkwardly outwards, teeth grinding angrily against each other. He finally breaks when the quick flash of a phone screen bobs two rows to his front.

Glaring at the loss of concentration, Kageyama focuses his ears on the current culprits. Their voices are raspy with quiet, thin as air, but his natural alertness picks it up.

“-‘re saying a mutant did it!”

“No way!”

“Yeah!”

“That’s ridiculous!”

The edges of his intestines, frostbite cold on the inside of his skin, turn heavy as stone. It tugs down low in his belly, a hard pressure replacing the drowsy fuzz that had been laid upon his head. What could it be this time, damn it?

The boy between Kageyama and the blurters leans forward, butting into their conversation with perky posture.

“No it’s true! Look up Spiderman.”

The nervous rock inside him flips at that. He can’t help it, with a quick glance to make sure Takeda isn’t watching, he leans back enough in his seat to pull out his phone beneath the table. The metal, unprotected by any case, is a little hot from being pressed against his leg for the last few hours, his trembling hand leaving ghostly sweat marks on its back. Sure enough, when he types in “spiderman,” a whole freaked out local facebook group comes up. Just fucking peachy.

Part of him, a very quiet part, knows that an act of selfless heroics should be celebrated, but the much louder, much heavier part of him wishes he could drop dead right there. He’d rather everybody keep talking about the Tokyo attack. He’d rather Miwa see the state of his latest haircut attempt. He’d rather strip on stage. He’d rather anything but a stupid, reckless, dangerous super galavant around town.

Any attempt at being studious is forgotten in favor of leaning his forehead to the cool top of the desk. Frustrated huffs of air puff from his nostrils as he holds in a groan, the hand on his phone white knuckled and numb. Kageyama doesn’t believe in a higher power, or luck, or somebody out there in the universe looking out for him, but in that moment he prays. Prays that whatever dipshit is getting his five minutes of fame doesn’t happen to have any spandex lying around.

Shoyo can own his faults, he’s mature like that. So If any of his teachers called on him today, he’d tell them straight he couldn’t give two shits about class right now. His brain is too lopsided and stuffed with questions. Like, would the suit fit him? Should he take up boxing? How can he know when people need help? Is spiderman a cool enough name? Who is K. Hasegawa? Is this what his dad wanted? Would the suit take fabric paint?

A stabbing jolt hits the upper crease of his right shoulder, his body jerking left automatically. He glances to see what set the powers off, fairly used to little outbursts like that at this point. So it's with calm, nearly hooded eyes, that he looks over the firm hand hanging awkwardly where his shoulder just was. Jumping his eyes up along the leathered skin and long healed burns, he meets his photography professor’s perplexed gaze.

“What do you think you’re doing Hinata?” the wizened man rattles.

Shoyo looks around himself, at the stares of his classmates, warped by the twilight haze of the dark room, not really understanding what the big deal is. It makes his fingers antsily tap the edges of his camera, feet rocking gently underneath him.

“Uhhh…” He starts, face twitching through several expressions. “I’m taking my film to be developed?”

He tries to smile, though it's most likely a grimace, shoulders hunching up around his ears. The professor stares right back, clearly unimpressed if the wild crook of one brow on his forehead is anything to go by. He heaves a long, suffering sigh, unceremoniously pressing a respirator mask into Shoyo’s chest. Then he shuffles down the row to scrutinize the next student’s work, as the class goes back to chattering softly with their station mates.

Oh yeah. Chemicals.

Fiery embarrassment glows off of Shoyo’s cheeks, surely visible despite the unearthly lighting of the dark room. Unfortunately it isn’t time for super stuff.

He fights his way through his classes, flip flopping between lala land and shame at his own silly mistakes. At one point he gets shaken from his thoughts so violently by a professor clearing their throat, that he dents the metal leg of his table by squeezing it in shock. Hopefully no one will notice that, or at least not put two and two together about the finger shaped indents if they do.

When he’s finally excused from Takeda’s class at the end of the day, he actually looks forward to going to work. At least there no one cares if he spaces out. They just blink slowly over their dead eyed stares as he bags something from the hot tray for them. Sometimes a vending machine out front will get jammy, and he’ll have to unlock the glass panel to get someone their purchase, or some rowdy school boys will be too loud. But, tedious as it gets, that stuff is easy to handle with a quick joke and a smile. School boys don’t ask if you’re “sure you’re serious about being there.” They definitely don’t leave passive aggressive comments in red ink either. They have the decency to leave it on the back of the building where no one looks, even if it is in paint.

So dashing across the courtyard, romanticizing customer service in his mind, he doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings. He just leans forward, letting his sense take the wheel, weaving through concerned peers on either side. It’s getting too easy to do that. To just forget how insane having powers really is.

Just as he skids to a stop, foot raising for a sharp turn towards the bike rack, his arm juts out to catch something flying towards his face. He stumbles back a bit, trying to blink the afterimage of his hand out of his vision. It brings him back to the present. His feet feel cold from where droplets had soaked off of the grass and into his tennis shoes, his hair feels more tousled than usual against his scalp, and he caught something. Its a paper.

He turns it over, glancing up to see where it must have been caught on the brick building above him before the breeze tore it loose. It feels bumpy in his hands, thicker than any paper he uses. Looking down to see if someone had lost their homework, his eyes split open so wide it stings. A matching oversized grin carves across his jaw, light flecks dancing in his heart.

He laughs in wonder, tucking the drawing into his bag. No more worrying about decorating the suit. What a damn good day.

Chapter Text

A phantom leans over her, cold hands around her collar. It’s far from her first day working here, but she’s never seen it like this before. The others walk like soldiers, their feet almost heel to toe in their hurry. It makes their shiny black dress shoes look like trails of giant ants against the white tile.

She tries not to make eye contact with any of the lab techs, holding her clipboard close to her chest like a shield. A fleck of brown on the grout of the floor, disturbing the pearly hallway, makes an acidic wave bubble behind her throat. Lightheaded, she looks away, taking deep breaths. The janitors just missed a spot, it’s fine.

The boss almost never directly speaks to anyone. Let alone in her office, let alone an unimportant secretary. There’s only one possible reason her presence is being requested, and it makes the hairs along her arms stand up. She desperately racks her brain to think of how she could’ve contributed to the breach as she makes her way to the stairwell. The elevator seems too fast right now.

As much as she tries to stall, as much as she runs through her memories, she can’t think of a single misplaced file or incorrectly scheduled employee. Everything should have been running the same as always that night. The doors would have been locked, a heavy rotation of security around the building. It shouldn’t have been able to get out. But it did. So looking up at the dark line of the metal door in front of her, she lets the frantic energy in her body become resignation. With a weary sigh, she pulls one clammy palm off of the clipboard, and knocks.

There’s no answer, but she doesn’t have to look to know a red dot had just blinked to life on a camera hidden in the peephole. There’s a faint clicking, like little footsteps inside the door, then a quiet hum as it smoothly slides to the left.

The first thing she sees is darkness. Any and all discernible features sniffed out in the time it takes her eyes to adjust from stark fluorescents to the little desk lamp in the office. When the ache in her skull subsides, room fading into focus, it seems fairly unassuming. It takes her aback, how small the room really is. After so much reverence, so much rumor, all it is is a desk and some filing cabinets. She feels a bit like she’s just stepped off of a spaceship and into a cabin.

The surprise had dispersed any leftover nerves, but they quickly return when she looks to the side. Hidden by the lip of wall around the door is another side to the room, widening out slightly. It’s cast in gray by the sky through three wall length windows, almost entirely unfurnished except for a machine covered chair in the middle of the space. Cutting through the city skyline outside, like a ghostly slash of obsidian, is a woman. Is the woman. Probably the most important woman in this building, if not the nation.

Holy shit, she finds herself thinking. A deep flush of shame follows that thought. It feels sacreligious to swear in the presence of a genius, even internally. Like that type of vocabulary might slip out, and dirty the air with its ineloquence.

The woman turns, thin frame lythe and small. Her heels remove whatever weakness her height portrays, the smooth way she moves a telltale sign of deadly muscle control. She looks bored as she slinks across the room, shutting the door with a click on a tiny remote. With a start, she realizes that this woman is drunk despite her grace, an empty whiskey glass dangling precariously between pale thumb and forefinger. It’s like an Angel of death is strolling up to her.

“I heard you’re good.”

The voice is dry, blunt as rocks, and it makes her blink in stunned silence. Boss turns, mild annoyance flashing in those previously stoic eyes. A quick viscous snap flicks out, nearly nipping her nose.

“Good at your job! Jesus you’d think I’d held a gun to you.” The boss snips, turning around to put her glass down on the desk.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, the sound barely louder than leaves scattering in the street.

“Don’t be, there’s no time for that. I assume you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here?”

It feels like a loaded question, sharp pupils digging into her own. She can’t think of how to respond, but can’t look away. Whatever she says, any lie will surely be nipped in the bud.

“Well,” she starts, slightly louder than before. “Yes. It’s not exa-“

“This isn’t about our little run away if that’s what you’re thinking.”

A smug smirk paints the woman’s face, a reassured heat behind it. It says, don’t get comfortable yet. Regardless of the conversational tone she uses.

“Sorry for cutting you off, I got bored. I hear you’re good at your job. Keeping track of things, hiding things, following instructions. That right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your nanny.”

One slender leg kicks over the other, starchy dress pants creaking with the movement, as the woman leans back on her hands. Hawkish eyes sweep up and down, sizing her up.

“Oh- oh okay.”

“You’re getting reassigned.”

“What?”

“I’m giving you a new job. God, keep up will you?”

She watches as her superior reaches around the desk and pulls out an unopened bottle of some sort of scotch. The honeyed liquid sloshes languidly, clinging afterimage stains around the neck of its container.

“So,” its owner says while popping the lid off in a sudden jerk. “Clearly you know how to schedule guards, if your file is to be believed- oh please sit down.”

The boss cuts herself off, patting an empty spot on the desk. So, with little choice, she finds herself walking closer, perching hesitantly on the cold desktop. This close she smells a faint whiff of alcohol, mixing sourly with expensive perfume.

“Anyway! Scheduling guards! I want you to be the brains of the retrieval efforts.”

“Excuse me?”

She flinches back, nearly standing up in shock. If she were less overwhelmed she would think to be more careful with her tone, but everything is going far too fast. This couldn’t possibly be what she thinks it is.

“You’re going to boss around all my meathead private officer guys, and retrieve the escaped project.”

With that matter of fact statement, boss slides a glass of scotch towards her, then stands to dig through one of the filing cabinets.

“Wait- how- I don’t understand!” She bumbles, putting her clipboard down next to her, waving her now free hand out to try to catch the boss’s attention as the woman walks past towards a different cabinet.

“It’s quite simple. Should I be concerned for your health?”

“No ma’am, it’s ju-“

There’s a terrible crash, her hair fluttering where something had flown past her head. Her tongue catches in her throat, heavy and swollen from being bitten when she startled. Looking back, she sees the wet patch of wall. Little pieces of glitter sparkle in a burst around the stain, embedded slivers of the now shattered glass.

She feels her knees lock and unlock in a fluttering pattern. Turning back to gauge how angry the boss is, she’s surprised to be met with a calm smile and lazy eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, low and threatening, “I told you not to call me that, but I didn’t give you any other options.”

She begins to circle the desk, almost slithering along the floor. A manicured finger reaches out to hook under her collar, hot alcohol laced breath fanning over her face.

“From now on, just call me ‘K.’”

Kageyama is not nervous around the idiot. That would be stupid. It just makes him uncomfortable how quickly the guy switched from trying to fight him to laughing all good natured at him. That’s not being nervous, that’s having a healthy distrust for unpredictable people. So him noticing Hinata walking to the bike rack, and proceeding to hurriedly jog into the library to avoid being seen, is not nervous behavior. It’s precautionary behavior. Thank you very much.

When he gets to the room, Yachi has some sort of table set up on the whiteboard. She turns from writing the names of the characters in the novel they’re supposed to have read, and gives him a friendly little wave. He makes sure to nod at her as he slings his bag to the floor and flops into his seat. Within milliseconds of his back leaning into the thin cushion, the door slams back open.

It immediately puts him on edge. Hinata always opens the door super aggressively, like something is chasing him. But, the door technically never hits the wall. So basically the twerp has found a loophole where he can claim it isn’t rude.

Yachi and Hinata fly into some sort of small chat with far too large of gestures while Kageyama sits glaring at the door. He doesn’t bother trying to catch up, comfortable being excluded from the conversation. He instead busies himself with getting out a notebook and laptop from his bag.

When he sits back up fully, popping the laptop open to pull up a blank document for notes, he finds the room is suddenly very quiet, and very ominous. He risks a glance over to the others, and immediately regrets this choice of action. Two pairs of expectant eyes stare back at him. One is confused, flustered, awkward, but the other shines with giddy amusement. It’s a little bit taunting, but not in a way that suggests frustration. Rather, it seems that Hinata is getting a kick out of Kageyama fumbling a social interaction he didn’t even ask for. He feels something embarrassed and competitive kick up his neck, hot where it overtakes his skin.

“What.” He grumbles, eyebrows scrunching down in what is supposed to be an intimidating manner, but only seems to encourage whatever bullshit the little shit is starting. A prickly knot begins to form in his stomach.

Yachi glances nervously between the two of them, clearly gearing up to separate a fight. This is the part where Hinata usually starts yelling about how rude he is. Kageyama absentmindedly wonders how wild the other's hair will get when he puffs up in anger, but it never comes. Instead, Hinata flashes a goading grin at him.

“Yachi was telling me about your rescue of her papers this morning, and I had to know- was that really you? Or do you have a nicer, more gentlemanly twin Kageyama?”

The light in the other man’s eyes isn’t cruel, the tone he says the jab lessening it from an outright insult to something more friendly. That only makes it more irritating though, fanning the building flames roaring in Kageyama’s head.

“It was me,” he finds himself throwing back, in a slightly huffy way. “You just wouldn’t think it because I have no reason to be nice to you.”

He can see Yachi blanch in the corner of his eye, hand flapping in Hinata’s direction as if to shut him up. But it does nothing. A near crazed look enters his eyes, just as volatile as is always directed at Kageyama, but with the intent to keep talking to him instead of trying to fight him away from the lessons entirely.

“HEY!” He squawks, pointing dramatically at Tobio across the table. “I’m a delight to be around! People love being nice to me!”

“Oh yeah, people love a little yappy dog that needs attention all the time, total delight.”

He isn’t sure what pushes him to keep bickering. Unlike usual, he isn’t really mad, but there isn’t another name for it. So it’s easy to play along. To meet Hinata’s faux insults beat for beat.

“I. am not. yappy.” The now far too worked up boy rebuts, leaning over the chair between them. He looks a bit like he might lunge for Kageyama, but it isn’t scary.

There’s a soft cough, clearly fake, awkwardly slicing through whatever weird trance Kageyama was in. He looks away from the challenge in Hinata’s gaze, to see Yachi squinting at him. She twists an Expo marker in her hand, a poorly hidden question behind her furrowed brows.

“So. Uh. Are you guys ready to get started?”

Kageyama grunts an affirmative, turning back to his laptop to finish what he was doing. Hinata, suddenly much less manic, but no less bubbly, sits at attention. He grins at Yachi, like a perfect little student, but not before throwing an almost inaudible, “cranky ass,” under his breath at Kageyama. So, without even looking, he reaches out to grab a single tuft of hair behind the idiot’s ear, and tugs. Hard.

“OW!” The guy shouts, rubbing his neck while pouting at Tobio.

He finds himself feeling very pleased with himself, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Tapping one finger in a shushing motion over his mouth, he raises his eyebrows, tilting his head to gesture foreword at Yachi. Hinata concedes, grumbling as he smacks open a notebook on the table. Kageyama; one, dumbass; nill.

The day seemed to bull over him. From his high all morning, to the shockingly busy shift at work, to throwing playful jabs towards Kageyama whenever Yachi looked away too long during tutoring, it really was a live wire’s wet dream. Shoyo’s eyes sag in their sockets, his shoulders sore in that warm way muscles feel after a good workout. He’s here for two things, and two things only.

The dust has started to swirl around the lab less and less each time he visits. His shuffling feet and constant movement flushing out the gray blanket from the space. It looks less abandoned now, and more just dirty. Like a Victorian house in the middle of being renovated.

He goes to the back shelf and kneels. The concrete is cold, the light outside dwindling to a faint haze that leaves a nocturnal chill on the uninsulated building. With a rough scuffing sound, the case slides back out from its hiding place. Just the sight of its beetle black top is enough to send excited bubbles through his body. They catch like rocks at the back of his throat. He’s actually so excited he could puke.

The creak of the hinges fills the room as he pulls it open by the mangled front. Inside it’s just as he left it. Neatly folded fabric, loose at the sides where he couldn’t get it back how it was, and a hastily thrown paper on top. The clipped scrawl of the letter mocks him, turning the sharp joy of seeing the suit to cutting. Shoyo forces his focus onto it and away from luxurious navy threads.

He had tried looking in a few different places, but the sender remains a mystery. He feels a prickling frustration as he takes in the beautifully curved signature. “K. Hasegawa.” It’s almost like they specifically left their full name out to avoid being tracked down. There’s no one with that surname in his dads old yearbooks. A quick google search had just confirmed there are too many people in Japan with that surname to narrow it down. Really, it’s perfectly elusive. But they made one mistake.

Snatching up the paper he moves to a stack he remembers seeing something in. There, sticking out of the pile, is an unsealed envelope corner. It’s Manila, stiff and professional. Inside are similar graphs with similar charts and calculations to the others, but there’s something different. The paper is thick cardstock, colored sections of the ink shiny and raised, tattooed to the pages. His dads papers are all on cheap printer paper, in thin scratchy ink. A good number of them are hand written, jotted down on various scraps of graph paper in an urgent smear. This envelope was put together by someone else.

At surface level that doesn’t jump out to him, as it easily could’ve been taken to a printer, or even just done from his dads work, but with the letter in his grasp something clicks. His fingers, pink tipped from the drafty evening air, raise slowly to be level with the envelope, the letter crackling with tremors whenever he shivers. In the same looping print, thin and precise, the envelope is labeled into date and stage of experiment. Scooby Doo rules for the win apparently.

Feeling all too proud of himself, exhilarated breath chasing away the cold, Shoyo whips the envelope out to examine it closer. On the backside, the one without the flap and Brad to hold it closed, are a few colored shapes. He had overlooked them at first, figuring the scribbled sharpe over certain spots meant whatever was written there had been wrong or unimportant. But now that he gives them more than a bored cursory glance, he realizes the black streaks cover up a return address, a weathered stamp to its side. A Tokyo specific stamp. He looks back to the letter, scanning K’s offhand comment about weather in Tokyo, his heart pounding in his jaw from how hard he grins.

All of the Hasegawas in Japan is a lot of people, but all of the Hasegawas in Tokyo, who work in labs, and have since his dad was in university; that’s a lot more attainable. So he scrapes up the stamp, wondering if it’s factory year could help narrow things, and slips it into his wallet for safekeeping as he turns to the more fun task at hand. The suit waits patiently back on the floor.

First he tries it on. It’s a bit small. Not noticeably to outsiders, and definitely not detrimentally considering how stretchy it is, but it’s distinctly looser around his lower back than shoulders. Guess Dad wasn’t much of an athlete, assuming the suit was made for him. And it really couldn’t have been for anybody else considering it’s the perfect height.

He lets himself let loose a bit while testing it. Bouncing around the small space, tugging up to the ceiling with some webbing, then crawling around on all fours across the metal sheet roofing. He swings his legs down in a wide arc, laughing as they come free of their attachment, and lets the tips of one hand still pressed up above him strain to hold him up as his whole body sways. It gives his stomach a funny swooping sensation, the elastic-y fabric pulling taught around his sides with a delicious grate over his hip. Either from quality of the material, or hyper awareness of his hopped up brain, he seems to feel every groove and weave of the fabric itself. And boy is it good.

The glove parts have enough wiggle room to move, but are tight enough to not bunch up around his joints. The fabric is thin and skintight, but firm enough to create an almost chest plate look over his sternum, and to protect his privacy downstairs. Thank goodness, he was getting a bit nervous the spandex would require some unflattering shorts overtop. That would’ve been lame.

Digging through the case again, he produces the cowl. It engulfs his wild hair with shocking ease, the eye lenses perfectly clear from the inside. Shoyo really isn’t sure how they manage not to cut off his peripheral. And when he squints, trying to find the edge of the shield lip, a soft wiring gives him the sudden realization that the lenses are designed to move with his facial expressions. He spends an embarrassing amount of time wiggling his eyebrows into his phone camera to watch how the thing moves.

He strips back out of it, skin turning to goose flesh when hit by the, now nighttime, air. Once fully decent, he lays it out on the floor like a crime scene chalk outline. It looks small and lifeless down below him, but he’s already felt the weight of it, and so he can’t bring himself to see a simple garment. Shoyo rifles through his school bag for a moment, bringing out the supplies he’d brought. The drawing from the courtyard; silhouette cut into a stencil painstakingly with a library x-acto knife, some tape, and a can of fluorescent orange spray paint. What? Is it an ugly color, maybe. But after years of ginger teasing, he’s developed a sick sort of spiteful loyalty to bold oranges. It’s only fitting that some part of him should be orange, since his hair will be covered when he goes out as “Spiderman.”

That hits his chest. Knocking his air out, his mind back to the present. Shoyo freezes for a moment, hands in the middle of taping the stencil to the center of the suit’s chest. The yellowed edges of sketch paper, fibers separated by time and sweaty fingers pressed to its corners. Then, peeking through like jack o'lantern teeth, slightly reflective in the dim light, the deep expanse of dark blue fabric. Above each, in the outer rings of sight, his hands. His human hands.

The scar on the back of his right hand from when Izumi accidentally stabbed a pencil into it. The stubbed nubs of his fingernails, tiny flecks of dirt caught beneath them. His skin, slightly bronzed and freckled on the back, but the ghostly white and pink outline of his palms on the downturn curve of his finger gaps and inner wrists. They hover over a literal symbol. A symbol surely inspired by the one off act of good he did. Imagine what it could become when he really tries.

It feels like drugs. Like running down dunes on the beach. He feels like there’s an end goal to the race he’s been running his whole life, and it finally came into sight when he crested the most recent hill. With a proud close lipped smile, a huff through his nostrils, he leans back on his heels while the spray paint cracks back and forth in his hand.

The lid pops off comically loud. He leans down for a better angle. Under the tip of his forefinger, the plastic grip presses up.

The suit tickles his chest, clinging from the cold and wind under his jacket. He peddles to the edge of town, tucking his bike against the side of a building for safekeeping. Just in case someone decides to try taking it, he clicks his lock around one of the pipes poking out of the smooth wall. As he walks up the side of said wall, looking around to make sure no one is watching him slip the mask on, the street lights shimmer in the darkness around him.

He stands on the roof of the squat building, invisible at a glance above the line of lights below. There aren’t very tall buildings here, but trees crop up between them, and the occasional two or three story structure makes it fairly easy to alternate between superhuman leaps and grappling with webbing.

The rhythm is hard to get into, and he ends up tripping, or dangling awkwardly in the middle of two roofs more times than matter to mention. Still, it only takes about five minutes for muscle memory to start scrawling for the future. When he gets a solid thirty seconds in without slamming against any brick, he lets out an incredulous hoot, voice trailing behind him as he whips through the night.

His nose begins to sting, even through the mask, hot condensation around his mouth the warmest point beneath the fabric. It only spurs him on, feet pounding brashly against the thin metal of a lamp post. He launches off at the very edge, just as it curves down over the bulb and his ankle begins to bend lower. As a lonely little car trundles by, he swings from a tree, leaving the line long enough to drop nearly all the way to the road. He tucks his feet up, curling into a ball to avoid nicking the metal top of the vehicle, and gives it a friendly pat that echoes through the quiet street.

Redirecting his path, Shoyo gathers what little energy is left in him to remember his purpose. It does little to dissuade the rush. If he goes on a few more detours that’s no one’s business. Laying on an awning like a hammock for a few seconds is a strictly necessary activity.

Coming up the Main Street he finally catches sight of his target; a lone cop car. The lights are off, door ajar, and engine running. Several feet away the officer smokes a cigarette, the thin gray snakes twirling together with the car’s exhaust. It makes the already hard to see surroundings swirl like paint in water.

Shoyo perches on the shop just behind the officer, breathing as slowly as he can to stay quiet. He shifts, going to crawl over the lip of the roof, but at the last second spins back around. Pressing himself down, he shakes his head in a silent swear. He really hates breaking rules like this. Not because he respects authority, it just makes him nervous. And a little guilty. As if to agree with that sentiment, his stomach lets out a quiet gurgle.

There isn’t time to stall any longer though. As he looks back down, he catches sight of the orange spark at the end of the cigarette creeping ever closer to the man’s lips. He’ll get back into the car soon. So, taking a deep breath, Shoyo slips to the front of the building hands first.

He keeps his eyes glued to the officer, crawling slowly, coiled like a predator. Before long he touches down on the sidewalk, slinking low to the open door of the car. The officer sniffs, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth. Shoyo freezes, heartbeat loud where it slams against his temples. But instead of turning around, the man just flicks away some excess ash before continuing his smoke break. Muscles falling a few centimeters in relief, Shoyo continues his mission.

He fumbles sideways, gaze snapping between officer and car. The suit turns from nighttime darkness to lagoon blue as he reaches his arm into the dusty light of the car’s interior. Just as he had hoped, there’s a big fancy walkie-talkie style radio leaning against the dashboard. Fingers darting forward upon seeing his target, Shoyo snatched it up, then immediately melted back into shadow. And just in the nick of time too, the sound of the car door slamming shut chases his heels as they scramble over the top of the building once more.

He presses his back to the roof, radio raising over and over in his hand where it rests on his chest, pushed by the violent panting he does in his shock. He really just did that. Holy cow. Slipping the edge of the mask up and over his nose, he gulps the cold air down. It cuts his lungs, but he relishes the burn.

As his adrenaline wears down, the rest of him starts to burn too, though that is less pleasurable after such a busy day. It’s time to go home. And so, tugged on by the promising call of soft blankets and leftover dinner, he makes his way up the mountain.

The next morning feels like a shift. Like the gears of his life turned to the next peg on the wheel. He blinks through his blurry vision, and the ceiling of his bedroom becomes the road running under the wheels of his bike. Two more blinks and he’s about halfway through his day, wandering the halls of the main building at school. Because surely, this can’t be real.

It seems like every bored, broke, half-stoned twenty year old and their mother is talking about “Spiderman.” He hears people whispering in their classes about whether he’s really a mutant or not, whether mutants should be supers or not. One kid, loud shrill voice carrying all the way up a stairwell to where Shoyo haunts the second floor, claims they knew a kid in preschool with spider web powers. It makes him feel a bit like a spie, or a celebrity.

Little do the various gossipers and debaters know, underneath Shoyo’s long sleeve tee the suit rubs silken against his joints. He isn’t fully aware if it’s that or the building adrenaline that keeps his body slightly warmer than normal. Though, he has a feeling that excess warmth is going to become a familiar comfort soon, rather than an annoyance to adjust to. For now, he covertly tugs where the gloves have been pulled back and folded around his wrists, pinching the fabric over itself in a sinewy glide. It doesn’t actually do this, but he pretends it gets more air underneath and onto his flushed skin.

The weirdest part by far though, is when people talk to him about it. Most of the time, Shoyo isn’t the best liar. He’s prone to nerves, and blurting, and generally wears his heart on his forehead with big hand gestures to really emphasize its point. Apparently secrets are different than blatant lies.

In business and economics he sits by Koji. They aren’t close anymore, drifted in early high school, but knowing someone since middle school creates a special sort of bond. In a small area like theirs, everyone seems to have a history with everyone, so good histories are important to cling to. Koji grew up nicely. He’s still got clipped hair, but it’s long enough at the front to curl into proper bangs, and his brash nature has matured into a cool assertiveness. They partner together a lot in this class.

They’re wrapping up the lecture section of class, the professor handing out some worksheets to check they did the assigned reading. Shoyo sends a quick prayer that Yachi’s literature tutoring bled over into other areas. As the professor passes their table, drifting towards the door to her office for a little while, Koji taps his forefinger on Shoyo’s paper. Noticing the spot is blank, so the other isn’t pointing anything out, he looks over to see what Koji wants. There’s a boyish twinkle in his chocolate eyes.

“I know the guy” he whispers, hushed but fervent.

Shoyo turns to him more fully, confusion budding in his throat. Unconsciously he tilts his head, mouth screwing up in a way that makes his nose feel squishy. They stare at each other for a moment, making funny faces back and forth. Finally, Koji drops the expectant animation of his posture, eyebrows dropping as he huffs in a mix of amusement and frustration.

“The guy who saw Spiderman.” He clarifies impatiently.

It clamps over Shoyo with vengeance, his eyelid twitching slightly before he can school his expression properly. Hopefully the flat line of his mouth is actually flat and not a wince. Koji doesn’t point it out, so apparently it’s good enough.

“I work at the same print shop as him, though I’m just a part timer.” His friend continues, oblivious to the sweat forming on the back of Shoyo’s neck. “And he feels super bad about all the press. But I’m like, ‘why? People love a hero.’ I guess he’s getting all parental cause the guy was young or something.”

As Koji talks, a strange calm falls over Shoyo. He doesn’t have to panic. This is just like when Natsu was little, and asked about innuendos, or when people would ask why only his mom ever came to pick him up. Just smile and nod, crack a quick joke.

So he nods at Koji’s last comment, sending him a sly smirk as he responds.

“Yeah, cause the guy that beat up a bunch of thugs needs to be fathered.”

Koji snickers, elbowing him slightly as he mutters, “That’s what I’m saying!”

Shoyo isn’t really sure what’s so exciting. It’s not like any of these people know about the suit, or his plans to help out others. They’re flipping out over a singular issue, a stupid kid in a hoodie. A small part of him is proud though. Hope is powerful. Just a week ago everyone was tense from the Tokyo attack.

There had been a clear division. Most people nowadays don’t outright hate mutants anymore, but the blatant discomfort still rears its head when a scandal happens. Besides, most isn’t all. The mutant students, at least the out ones, or the ones with visible differences had flinched back, retreating within themselves. You wouldn’t see any of them walking the halls alone. On the other hand, the more hateful students, usually cowed by school diversity programs or just flat out ignored, became emboldened. There had even been a couple fights. Now, though there’s still an underlying caution, things seem a bit more open.

It’s less of a return to normal, and more of a sharpening. The mutant students are friendlier, eager to jump into any discussions of the act of vigilante justice. Meanwhile the less inclined to agree with them get totally talked over by peers gushing about how ‘epic’ Spiderman must be. If anything, Shoyo’s impulsive action hasn't stopped talk of mutations, but rather changed the focus. In some ways more people are talking about it. He feels a tentative flutter, a blossoming in his chest.

Maybe doing what he wants with these powers will help more people than he had thought. He doesn’t let that thought get too big though, lest his ego become a danger for other mutants.

He packs his bag after Takeda’s class, careful not to let anyone see the radio tucked into the innermost pocket. Today is his only closing shift of the week at work, what with tutoring on other nights, and he has a few free minutes in between. Even more minutes if he travels as Spider-Man, considering there’s no roof traffic. So as he skips through the courtyard, he looks for a good corner to slip into and away from any security cameras.

He finds it in the form of a small concrete wall around the school’s dumpsters. Listening closely to make sure no janitors are approaching, Shoyo sheds his outer layers and stuffs them into his bag. He only keeps a small pack with his radio, phone and wallet, and the keys to the shop. It won’t be hard to swing back for the rest before work.

After spending all day in two shirts and a jacket’s worth of fabric, he feels over-sensitive to the cool outdoor afternoon air. It makes his arms tense, pulling close to his body to preserve his center of heat. He ends up walking in a jaunty waddle, rubbing his thighs to wake the skin back up. Luckily his face feels just fine, hot breath already surrounding it under the mask.

Deciding he doesn’t need to debut in the middle of a bustling college campus, he steps onto the lowest ledge on the building behind the dumpsters, kicking off as hard as he can with a hand extended to stick to the brick above. It’s laughably easy, gruff bumps of the wall going blurry from how fast he crawls by. His fingertips are buzzing when he scales the roof, itching for more. A fish in open sea, a bird on the wind.

If he gets across town as fast as last night, then he’s got about twenty minutes to patrol around, see if he can help anybody. So he reaches over his shoulder, clicking the radio on, and shoots out a web to the nearest evergreen to his front. He spins, falling backwards off the roof to the chatter of static.

There isn’t much going on, but it’s easy to look around from above. Maybe there aren’t any murderers on the run from the radio, but he can see everything happening on the street below, so no worries. And no one seems to notice him leaping over their heads, focused on whatever errands or outings they’re out on.

He doesn’t vie for attention, just picking things up where he can. Someone’s left their car door unlocked by accident in a parking lot? With a flick of his wrist there’s a thin layer of webbing holding it shut, which should break down by the time they return. He helps a cat out of a tree, suffering a few scratches, but giggling at how cliche it is. The most exciting thing however is the shoplifter he catches.

He spies them slipping a shirt out of the shop in their purse, glancing around in that furtive way that means guilt. As they round an alley, he quietly grapples down to ground level, touching down obscured by shadows in their path.

On equal footing he realizes, with a pang of annoyance, that they’re taller than him. Fairly young, they dig through the purse, double checking their stash, not yet seeing him. When they do they freeze, hand still halfway in the bag and eyes comically wide. Shoyo might not be known yet, but everyone knows what a suit means.

So, noticing the way they subtly shift their eyes around, weight going back to their heels in preparation to run, he throws up a friendly hand.

“Hey!” He calls out, trying to will his smile through the mask.

They don’t fully relax, shoulders slightly forward in a cage around their heart, but they stop looking around. The dark, wild eyes boring into him should be threatening. He finds himself unable to take the clear aggression seriously though, when his shoulder is as big as this person's thigh. Whatever lashing out they could do isn’t a threat.

“You need a shirt, huh?” He asks conversationally when they don’t respond to his greeting.

“What of it.”

“Oh nothing. I get it. But ya know…” Shoyo paces to the side, leaning casually against the shop they had just come out of. “Mr. Hara has grandkids at home to feed, and he really can’t afford people stealing, what with all the chain store competitors.”

This causes whatever little relaxation had seeped into their body to disappear. The wild glint solidifies, as they start to slowly step back and away from him. Well that just won’t do.

Shoyo takes a few quick steps, jumping up and over their head to land on the wall above them. He perches like a horizontal gargoyle, tutting exaggeratedly.

“GEEZ!” He exclaims in a teasing tone, hoping it’ll calm the scared blown wide look they’re giving him. “You’re not in trouble! Don’t make me chase you!”

It doesn’t quite sink in, panicked stare still fixedly in place. He huffs at that, rolling his head to the side in a melodramatic pout.

“How much is it?” He asks in a petulant grumble.

“Ex- wha- Excuse me?” They blurt back, leaning back both to keep distance and make eye contact from below.

“The shirt.”

They blink up at him, hands wringing the straps of their purse. Why is this so difficult???

“How much,” he starts, drawing out the vowels in a condescending way. “Does. The shirt. Cost?”

Still, no lights are on down there. Just vacant eyes looking at him like he’s some sort of boogeyman. So he flicks a wrist out, snatching the purse with a quick web. They gasp, stumbling back to press their back to the opposite wall while he digs through their possessions. He spins the shirt around to the look at the tags, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Aha!” He finds his target.

Slipping a ten into the purse along with the shirt, he tosses it back, one hand on the brick behind him to hold him more upright as he does so. It hits their chest with a soft ‘thwump.’ They almost drop it, but catch it at the last second when the impact shocks them out of their frozen state.

“Go back in, say you forgot to pay, and use the cash I gave you.” Shoyo dictates this with a firm pointer finger ah la Takeda, backing his way up to the roof of his building. “And don’t try to keep both, cause I’ll be watching.”

They’re staring down into the purse, quiet and unreadable. For a second he worries he took it too far and traumatized some poor kid. But then they glance back up, a strange glow about them, and he damn near falls over. They look starstruck, completely baffled at him, and he comes to the terrifying realization they thought he would hurt them.

It feels like thawing watching them dash around the corner to the front of the shop. Through the side window, he sees the nervous fidgeting and embarrassed flush as they buy the shirt. The cashier doesn’t seem to care much, making some kind of joke that leaves them chuckling into their chest. It’s so perfectly human, that it fizzles in Shoyo’s chest, and wobbles in his lips. He checks that he didn’t go over time, clicking the radio back off as he turns back to go change.

When he arrives at the mart, clambering around the back of the building while tweaking his shirt collar, he’s shocked to see Ukai already outside the employee’s entrance. Usually the man is much stricter about his shifts. Something about feeling guilty his mom had to take on some of his shifts when he got a second job at the local farm. Shoyo doesn’t fully get the logic, as he needs the money, but he does suppose he’d feel bad making his mom work more too.

So it isn’t normal for him to see Ukai anywhere but behind the front counter this time of day. He wonders if he was late, but a quick click of his phone confirms he’s on time, so it isn’t that. Jogging lightly, he makes his way to the older man to see what’s up.

“You good?”

Ukai startles, spinning to the side with a quick hissed swear. For a moment he looks at Shoyo’s shirt in confusion, before looking up. There’s a flash of recognition, whatever he had expected forgotten.

“Ginger!” He exclaims, a funny undercolor to his voice. “I didn’t expect to see you!”

Shoyo starts getting a bit annoyed at that, but he wouldn’t dare let that slip into his speech when talking to his boss.

“Uh, my shift is about to start sir.”

“Oh!”

They look at each other uncomfortably, Ukai rocking back and forth on his heels shiftily. Deciding he doesn’t want any part of whatever chaos the man is dealing with internally, Shoyo awkwardly shuffles past him to the back door.

“Well, uh,” Ukai starts. “See ya round kid!”

Shoyo just nods, not quite sure how to respond. He slips into the back room, grabbing an apron from the shelf as he goes. Once out front he flips the sign to open again- very weird Ukai temporarily closed- and gets some music playing from the radio on the counter. As he goes to restock the hot tray, he sees something in the corner of his eye. When he looks up he nearly cracks the glass case of the counter.

Outside the front window, Ukai is talking to someone, leaning forward with a friendly smirk, familiar affection in his eyes. The object of this affection? Takeda of all people. Professor Takeda. Ya know, the Takeda in charge of grading the essay he’d turned in the other day. The Takeda that’s always worrying about him, and only knows him as a dumb but charming boy.

With dawning horror, Shoyo remembers all of the embarrassing incidents Ukai has borne witness to since he was in high school. Ukai had been around when he failed to dye his hair green like Zoro for Halloween one year. The man had laughed so much, he’d nearly choked on his cigarette, when he saw the mottled gray-green mess of Shoyo’s hair. He’d called him “bush head” instead of “ginger” for weeks! They cannot know they both know him.

So, with a sharp intake of breath, Shoyo ducks down behind the counter, peeking just over the edge to watch his mentors talk. He watches with rapt attention as they converse, weirdly happy for what looks like small chat. Ukai suddenly leans forward much farther, ducking into Takeda’s space as the older man splutters with flustered laughter, shoving a hand into Ukai’s face to push him away. That’s weird… they seem awfully… close. It distracts him so thoroughly he doesn’t even hear the bell ding from the door, too busy squinting at what, horrifically, seems to be flirting.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Shoyo lets out an embarrassing yelp, falling backwards against the back shelf as he looks to the front of the counter. Why couldn’t his sense have picked up on someone entering the store? Embarrassing social interactions should be considered just as much of a threat as encroaching projectiles. Especially when they involve the grumpy glare of one Kageyama Tobio.

“Don’t scare me like that, you jerk!” He huffs back, quietly relieved to see someone he knows instead of a stranger. It’s a little less embarrassing to be silly around someone he knows can’t figure out conjugations either.

Kageyama doesn’t rise to the bait, seemingly unbothered by Shoyo’s usual insults. He just stares down at Shoyo as he gets up, a perplexed wrinkle between his tired blue eyes. Why is he always that tired?

“There’s a bell on the door, it’s your own fault for being so distracted.”

Shoyo fixes him with a quick glare as he dusts off his pants, but they both know it has no bite. At some point along the way most of Shoyo’s anger became more an assertion of his presence than genuine upset.

“I was hiding from someone” he concedes, deciding to be nice.

Kageyama just hums, seemingly not needing more of an explanation. He turns without any more preamble, scanning the shelves without so much as looking back at Shoyo. What a weirdo. Stupid socially inept weirdo. Shoyo lets out a quiet snort of laughter at that thought, quickly moving on to avoid drawing attention.

He finds Ukai and Takeda gone when he looks back to the window, and so he turns back to the hot case. With a set of metal tongs, he pushes the unsold meat buns forward into place at the front of the case. When that’s done, he washes his hands and slips on the plastic gloves, before taking the finished buns off of the miniature stove Ukai uses for restocking throughout the day.

All throughout these tasks he finds his mind, and gaze wandering. Kageyama seems to have a gravitational pull, a hole punched through the fabric of the shop's reality. Seeing him outside of tutoring feels alien, and Shoyo can’t help but be curious what differences this setting may bring.

The other man is oddly quiet, footsteps barely audible over the hum of the lights. He moves in slow neat lines up and down every row, looking at every single item for the exact same amount of time. It seems he’s even dressed differently. Kageyama always wears some kind of athletic gear, but normally he would pair it with the occasional pair of jeans, and some sneakers. Now though, he’s only in athletic gear. A thin t-shirt, some matching shorts, proper tennis shoes, and a light zip up hoodie. He even holds a water bottle loosely in one hand that Shoyo hadn’t noticed at first. Maybe he had just come from the gym.

Despite himself Shoyo finds his throat clearing. It rings out terribly loud in the mostly empty space. Kageyama’s shoulders flinch, head turning back to where Shoyo leans over the counter tasks complete. His eyes are wide with confusion, a slight pout to his lips. It makes Shoyo feel weirdly accomplished to get a reaction from the reserved man, so he continues on without much thought.

“You just come from the gym?”

Kageyama darts his eyes side to side, as if looking for who Shoyo could be talking to. It makes the smug feeling in Shoyo’s chest grow.

“No.”

With that, Kageyama turns back around, shuffling further down the aisle. The happy feeling fizzles out, replaced with irritation. Oh, so that’s how Kageyama wants to play it? Game on.

Shoyo makes his way around the counter, chipper steps carrying him quickly through the shop. He waits until he’s just behind the other man, determination settling firmly in his mind.

“So why are you all sweaty?” He chirps.

Kageyama spins at the suddenly close voice, bumping into the shelf. He fixes a warningly angry stare on Shoyo, jaw clenched. Shoyo just raises his brows, letting the question hang in the air. With a dramatic sigh, Kageyama continues his search of the store, muttering under his breath, “I went on a jog.”

Gotcha, Shoyo thinks, trailing along with a giddy sense of victory.

“Cool! I used to jog all the time, but then I started biking more and I stopped feeling the need to. Cardio is cardio, you know?”

Kageyama only grunts in response, but the lack of physical attack is as much of an invitation to keep talking as Shoyo needs.

“Yeah I’ve kept in shape well enough, but I do miss the gym a bit. I like feeling big!”

When Kageyama shoots him a cagey glance, Shoyo takes the opportunity to punctuate his point. He sucks in as much air as he can, puffing out his chest and cheeks, pulling in his arms in a mockingly macho flex. Blue eyes quickly slide away, mouth screwing sideways on the other’s face. It’s an aggressive expression, but if Shoyo’s hypothesis on how Kageyama’s face works is correct, then he’s making the other nervous. He has to hold in a giggle at that.

“What do you want?” Comes the gruff voice.

Shoyo doubts saying “to watch your facial expressions,” will be a safe answer, so instead he says, “To annoy you,” with a friendly laugh.

Kageyama’s whole face crumples at that, before smoothing out into a slight smirk when he comes up with a response.

“Well congratulations,” he says dryly. “You’re annoying.”

“Hey!” Shoyo guffaws. “You can’t just say stuff like that, you meany. Not everyone is as awesome and charming as me, you have to be nice to them.”

He bumps into Kageyama’s shoulder with his own, shifting him just slightly to the side as they walk through the store. Not one to be outdone, Kageyama checks him back, but that’s just the reaction Shoyo was looking for. With a competitive blaze in his chest, he shoves his whole side into the other, nearly crashing them into the opposing shelf before pulling away.

“YOU IDIOT!” Kageyama shouts, picking himself up from where he leans into the snack section, a few bags of peanuts falling to the ground behind him.

He lunges at Shoyo, who just laughs and ducks away. Scurrying down the aisle, Shoyo twists away from Kageyama’s angrily grabbing hands, the memory of pulled hair giving his steps a bit more urgency.

“What the hell was that for?” Kageyama continues, more exasperated than Shoyo had seen him yet. It makes his face more open, a mix of frustration and lively energy covering where there had been cranky shadows before. It makes Shoyo feel like he’s winning, so as he rounds the next aisle, he just sticks his tongue out in response.

When Kageyama tries to dash sideways after him, he just darts the other way, forcing them into a back and forth over the shelf between them. Their shoes squeak as they try to juke each other out, Kageyama unwilling to risk a drawn out chase when he’s already worn out against someone as fast as Hinata.

The constant turning and running back and forth causes Shoyo to stumble a little bit. He looks down to recenter his feet, hair flopping around his face. The top of his head burns, his sense going off while he can’t see. So he ducks down before looking back up, the shadow of a granola box flying over his head.

With an affronted gasp he gives Kageyama his most accusing face he can. What a dick move to throw that! But the guilt tripping doesn’t seem to work, a second box already in Kageyama’s hand and an evil grin on his face. The one with the nose wrinkle. Uh oh. Shoyo vaults over the next shelf to get some distance between them as a barrage of products flies his direction. The speed and accuracy Kageyama throws the packages at is impressive on its own, but the sheer amount of things he manages to lob is ludicrous. Even with his sense Shoyo finds himself ducking for cover.

This doesn’t seem to assuage Kageyama though, who, if anything, just looks surprised he hasn’t hit Shoyo yet. Shoyo takes advantage of that loss of focus, weaving through the aisles to make his way to Kageyama’s side. He ends up having to bat away several objects coming too quickly to dodge, squeaking with slight fear every time. It doesn’t kill the energy though. So when he gets close enough, he jumps out and grabs Kageyama’s wrists to prevent him from throwing more things.

At first the other twists and tugs to get away, but he seems to realize Shoyo won’t let go, eyes widening slightly at the strength of his grip. It brings them to another stalemate, eyes squinting at each other. One set in suspicion, the other with mirth. In the stillness they catch their breath, only now realizing how much energy they had expelled. After a few moments Kageyama breaks the silence, slightly calmer, but no less passionate than before.

“What, the hell, is wrong with you.” He pants.

Shoyo just shrugs, letting go of the other’s wrists.

“I win this round.”

Kageyama opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut when he realizes that, yeah, Shoyo kinda did. His nostrils flare slightly with the force to hold in his rebuttal, eyes ablaze.

“Fine.” He grits between his teeth. “But I’m not helping you clean this up.”

With that he breezes to the counter with a drink Shoyo hadn’t even seen him grab, slamming it pettily on the countertop. He then thrusts his wallet from his pocket, ripping some money out with much more flare than is strictly necessary. All the while he makes pointed eye contact with Shoyo. But Shoyo just grins back, thoroughly entertained, as Kageyama slaps the cash onto the counter, picks the drink back up, and storms out into the street. What a weirdo.

He might be panicking, he isn’t sure. Inside his chest his lungs flutter, desperately supplying oxygen to his heart as it pumps faster and faster. The sidewalk seems to thicken and melt, his feet dragging along too slowly even as he starts to run away from the mart. His eyes throb angrily in his skull. What the fuck had he been thinking?

That’s just it, Kageyama hadn’t been thinking. How could he with Hinata pushing him around, laughing at his curt responses, poking and prodding for attention like Kageyama was a frog prepared for dissection? His brain had stopped keeping him in check at some point under all that pressure. Somewhere between thinking, when the hell did he get over here, and making his hasty escape, Kageyama had let his guard down. Like an idiot.

The encounter looms over him, taunting echoes of Hinata’s laugh twisting from the friendly reality into a roaring cacophony in his ears. He doesn’t know how long he was running, or really remember which way he took, but he lurches up the fire escape on the side of his apartment building to avoid any people in the lobby. Obviously, Tobio can’t be trusted to make good decisions around other people right now.

Fuck, he thinks through the fog in his mind, please say he didn’t notice. He yanks the window in his kitchen open, old frames rattling the glass inside from the force. The awkward scoot over his counter doesn’t bug him, not even when his ankle catches painfully on one of the drawer handles in the cabinet. It isn’t important, not when he let himself risk everything for a stupid game. What had he been trying to prove? He can’t recall. All he can come up with, speed walking to his bathroom mirror, is that Hinata had challenged him, and he hadn’t been able to say no.

That makes him dizzy with embarrassment all over again, the shame curling deep into his abdomen until he worries he may puke. But he doesn’t waste time beating himself up, not when the toes of his tennis shoes finally squeak against the cheap laminate tiles of his tiny ensuite. Broad shoulders hunched slightly in the closet sized space between shower, sink, and toilet, he fumbles for the little plastic case on the counter’s lip. It feels far heavier than it should in his nervous fingers, gaze laid upon it in avoidance of his own reflection.

As he pauses, afraid to look up and truly know, his breathing starts to slow back down. He hears it again, mind a little less scattered than a few moments ago. It shakes through his body in deep huffs. The tissuey squeeze of his lungs is a testament to the exhaustion of running right after a long jog. Rich, powerful bales of air, are a sign that his stamina is still quite good despite the overworking. He lets his body tremble into some semblance of calm. No point in buying so much trouble when everything could be just fine.

With one last deep breath, he tilts his head up to see the mirror. His skin is sallow from lack of sleep the past week, stress working faint lines prematurely into his young face. It makes a sad contrast, the supple curve of his skin still touched by baby fat, and the almost invisible tracks through his forehead and around his eyes. Kageyama was going to be a deeply frightening old man. But he isn’t thinking about that now, not like he does before Miwa visits. And when he reaches a finger up to pull at the skin beneath his eye, he isn’t testing how elastic the skin is or how dark the bruise, he’s looking at his own eyeball.

Blinking and squinting to get a look at the white of it, he starts to calm down fully. The ball is shiny and lined with tiny red veins, perfectly normal looking. Hinata wouldn’t have seen anything. There had been nothing to see. Kageyama slumps back into the wall behind him, releasing his gentle grip on the skin. In the mirror he looks back at himself, a rare relieved smile bringing some color to his dull cheeks. God does he need a haircut. A bemused laugh passes his lips at that thought. He’s the luckiest bastard in the world and he’s worried about his bangs.

He slips off the contacts from his eyes, watching his hands to avoid seeing his bare eyes in the glass above. The blue lenses, designed after Miwa and his father’s eyes, sink into the shallow sterile pools inside the case. Then he makes his way back to the kitchen. The weary feeling left behind in absence of a panic makes his body feel warm with soupy sleepiness. A nice hot meal is only fitting.

As he cooks, he lets himself turn over what had happened in his mind, how quickly it could’ve gone wrong. There's guilt there. Kageyama knows that it was dumb, that all it would’ve taken for Hinata to see what he was doing was look up at the wrong time. Much louder and brighter than that however, is a nameless feeling of satisfaction. When was the last time he’d let himself feel so competitive? Cause so much mayhem? Show his ass around someone like that? And really, when was the last time someone had looked at him as happily as Hinata had while bragging about his win? Not since grandpa probably.

And yet, there’s something wrong with their interaction. Beyond Kageyama risking exposure. Hinata shouldn't have been able to knock away the things he’d thrown at him. Sure, after a little under a decade of avoiding use as much as possible Kageyama was probably pretty rusty, but that doesn’t explain how many things Hinata had avoided. A couple times even fully dodged.

Then when he had grabbed him, small hands firm and stubborn on Tobio’s wrists, he hadn’t been able to tug free. Now he isn’t blind. Hinata is visibly athletic, dare he say jacked. Though he would never admit that to the squirt’s face, it’s true. So it isn’t that unbelievable to say the other man is just stronger. Except that Kageyama knows for a fact that isn’t true. In previous rough housing he has consistently overpowered Hinata, but he hadn’t been able to even loosen the other’s grasp this time.

He doesn’t know what’s going on with Hinata, and frankly doesn’t want to, but one thing is certain. Hinata Shoyo is dangerous. Not just irritating, or confusing, or disarming, but dangerous. And he has been hiding it on purpose.

Chapter Text

Hopefully this isn’t too rude. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing? Iwaizumi bites down hard on his inner cheek, hands pressed hard into his hips. He surveys the dinner he’d laid out nervously, searching for any mistakes. There!

In a flash he reaches the plate nearest the window, crouching down to be eye level with the table. He holds his breath as he pinches the lip of the ceramic disc between his finger and thumb, fingertips white from the pressure. Looking between it, the glass of water, and the glass of wine next to that, he inches it ever so slightly to the left. Ushijima likes his plate to be a certain distance from his drinks, so having everything placed properly will make him more open to conversation.

Iwaizumi sits back on his heels, proudly looking over the table. He’d gone to the fish market instead of a chain store that morning and it shows. The golden brown flake of skin over perfectly grilled meat glitters in the warm lighting of their townhouse’s tiny dining space. A thick spice coats the air, rich but not oppressive. It leaves a cloying flavor in the throat without blocking one’s sinuses. He got a red wine to go with it. Foodies might take issue with the combination, but Ushijima would appreciate the drink. It tastes heavy while still being healthier than most alcoholic beverages. The entire meal is meant to taste like comfort food while still being healthy. An athletic trainer’s wet dream.

Just as he goes to stand, house slippers wrapping more fully around his toes, a jangling comes from the entry hall. No more time to agonize then. Stealing himself, Iwaizumi quickly triple checks everything is in place before striding to greet the others.

When he gets to the hall they’re already inside. Ushijima hangs his coat on his usual hook, keys already tucked into a drawer beneath. Tendo rattles on about something or other, hands flapping wildly around his head. Their noses are tinged pink from the afternoon chill, eyes bright from being in each other's company. A guilty feeling coils around Iwaizumi’s throat at the sheer affection.

Just rip the bandaid off.

He clears his throat and the others freeze. Two sets of eyes turn to him, one unflinching, the other owlishly blinking. It makes him feel a bit nervous, but he doesn’t let it show. Shoulders square, and feet resolutely not shuffling, he sends them a slight nod to say hello.

“I wanted to talk to you guys. I’ve made dinner, so…”

They don’t ask questions. Ushijima just nods, walking right past him to go sit down. Tendo’s eyes light up at the mention of food, and he rolls onto the balls of his feet. It’s quick, drowned by enthusiasm, but Iwaizumi swears there's a moment of reluctance from the lanky man. A twitch of his fingers, a glance towards Ushijima. Hopefully that doesn’t mean he’s on guard.

“Thank you Iwaizumi!” He coos, leaving a friendly pat on Iwaizumi’s shoulder as he too shuffles past towards the dining room.

They eat in silence at first. After a full day of running about, all of them need time to settle and shovel as much food as possible before talking. Let alone having the conversation Iwaizumi wants to have. He watches the others between bites. Searching for signs of discomfort or aggression, he traces every clatter of chopsticks, every dribble of water down their glasses. When he finds nothing bad, he sits up in his seat to show his intention to start talking. Ushijima pauses momentarily, sending an approving glance to him before swallowing another bit of fish.

“So you guys are really close.” He starts bluntly. It makes him cringe a little inside, especially when Tendo’s tapping foot immediately freezes under the table, but directness has always been the way between him and his roommate. Still he tries to amend it, throwing in a quick, “nothing wrong with it. I actually like seeing the big guy get out more.”

Tendo relaxes at this, but doesn’t go back to fidgeting. It’s a bit intimidating seeing someone so hyperactive sit still and listen to him fully.

“It’s just, you guys hang out a lot.”

When he’s only met with vacant stares, Iwaizumi bites the bullet and plows on.

“And you know, I live here too. You don’t owe me details, what with you guys…” A lump catches in his throat and he chokes it down. “Well you guys are- you know?”

He pauses, hands trying to find a good gesture to convey what he’s saying. Obviously they’re a couple, but he isn’t sure how to bring it up. They hadn’t told him yet, and things are more delicate between same sex couples. How does he say he’s fine with it without pressuring them to talk about it?

“What are we Iwaizumi? Satori and I are not sure what you mean.”

Shit.

“Uh. You’re close- You like- You know what?” Iwaizumi brings his hand down on the table, pushing against it while breathing as deep as he can. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make.”

By this point the others are thoroughly confused. They stare across the colorfully full table, food abandoned in favor of listening to him. Tendo especially is uncharacteristically quiet and attentive.

“The point is, I don’t mind that you guys are so close!” He spills all in one go, trying to find where this had all gone wrong.

“I would hope not.” Ushijima rumbles.

Damn that man's ability to undercut any attempt at saving an awkward moment.

“But!” Iwaizumi continues before he can lose traction again. “You got really close, really fast. I’m glad you’re having so much fun, but as the owner of about fifty percent of this home, I find it a tad alarming to come home to a near stranger on my couch in his boxers.”

He’s started to lose Ushijima, a defensive furrow to the stern man’s face. It looks like he may speak, but Tendo cuts in before his jaw even fully opens. It shocks all attention his way, the redhead nearly forgotten in his silence.

He looks older than normal. A guilty shadow hangs beneath his eyes, calm resignation bleeding from the very set of his spine. It makes the snake of doubt in Iwaizumi’s throat tighten.

“You’re right.” Tendo murmurs. “I’ve totally been crashing the function, haven’t I?” He finishes with a small humorless chuckle, but it’s clearly not a vie for pity as he tries to cover it with a cough when the sound doesn’t lighten the mood.

Ushijima looks downright alarmed by now, or as alarmed as he can, large hand coming up to rest on the table between himself and Tendo. Iwaizumi jumps into action, desperately trying to save this. He hadn’t wanted to upset them.

“I’m not kicking you out or anything!” He rushes out. Why does Tendo look so surprised? “I just want to know you better! And set some ground rules. Like no more nudity in shared spaces. I know your chest hair better than you at this point.”

Ushijima seems happier with this development, sipping his wine briefly while nodding.

“Boundaries are important to healthy cohabitation. I understand now why you would want to have this conversation. Sorry for not having it sooner, Iwaizumi.”

A cozy relief floods his body. Oikawa had made this sound like it’d be an intervention, the ass. He should’ve known Ushijima would take it well. Living with someone for two years really puts things into perspective. The storms of friendship soften into quiet rain upon the roof.

“Nah man,” He huffs happily. “I should’ve brought it up.”

He turns to Tendo, a small but friendly grin on his lips. They’d work it out real fast, and then Iwaizumi could support his roommate romantically without fear. Maybe they could even go on double dates someday. If Tendo turns out to be less aggravating when you get to know him.

But he isn’t greeted with the openness he’d expected. Not even a lessened version of the guilt from before. No, Tendo wobbles on the wooden dining chair, skin almost as pale with sick as that first day in the storm. Long thin fingers shake as Tendo pinches the table cloth frantically, his eyes darting back and forth between the roommates.

“What do you want to know?”

It’s said like he’s been kidnapped. Like Iwaizumi is interrogating him. The suspicion he had tried so hard to suppress for Ushijima’s sake begins to crawl back.

“Do you have a job?”

“I’m between jobs.”

“So no then.”

He can see Ushijima shoot him a look in the corner of his vision, but he doesn’t care. His focus stays firm on Tendo, the other man still scared looking, but traced with some kind of determination. The silver of his eyes says, “I’ll prove myself.”

“What do you do then? Are you in school, or just having trouble finding work.”

“Well it's a sticky business finding work, huh Mr. Work-study?”

Iwaizumi snorts at that. So Ushijima has been talking about him.

“Do you live alone?”

“Do the voices count?”

There’s a playful twinkle behind the heavy lines of Tendo’s face. It eases Iwaizumi’s anger, but does nothing to lessen his scrutiny.

“No”

“Then I’m quite lonely, officer.”

“What do you do when you’re not here, if you aren’t at school and can’t find work?”

Tendo’s jaw clenches slightly at that. He’d been dodging the question well so far, but Iwaizumi isn’t stupid. His two closest friends are a petty peacock that expects you to read his mind and the most stone-faced man alive. False confidence isn’t new to him.

Ushijima is clearly uncomfortable, and it only gets worse when Tendo hesitates to answer. Cold tension hangs over the table in the absence of a dry jab. It's crystalline and sharp, gearing up to shatter. Tendo opens his mouth to speak, but bites his tongue again.

“I won’t judge you if it’s embarrassing dude.” Iwaizumi says in his most gentle tone. He feels bad for making things so uncomfortable, but not enough to back down when Tendo is clearly hiding things from Ushijima. “And it’s fine if your shit isn’t together. I just want to know if you’re doing shady shit.”

Clearly he’s finally crossed a line, as Ushijima turns to him sharply to shut him up. But he doesn’t protest out loud. So it seems that Iwaizumi isn’t the only one who wants answers anymore. A soft clearing of Tendo’s throat brings focus back to him.

“If I tell you more about myself…”

It seems that every word claws from his throat, a painful jut to his shoulders. Still, Tendo trudges on, staring resolutely at his lap to avoid their reactions. Iwaizumi feels his body leaning forward from the suspense.

“Then I’ll have to go.”

It isn’t satisfying to hear. Iwaizumi has no urge to say “told you so.” He just aches. Aches deep in his soul when he sees Ushijima’s hands curl where they rest on the table. They tremble from the force he clenches them. Tendo has been doing shady shit. Ushijima is losing his new companion.

“What do you mean?”

Ushijima’s voice is steady, even cold, but his hands continue to betray him.

“Wakatoshi I-” Tendo’s eyes finally tilt back up, wide and pleading. “I’m not bad, I just-”

He heaves a great sigh. Pushing back from the table, he stands. Curled over in a mix of shame and frustration, Tendo’s weight is almost entirely supported by where his hands frame his still half-full plate. The dramatics twinge irritatingly in Iwaizumi’s brow. He’s pissed that Tendo would drag out the inevitable betrayal.

“Spit it out.” He finally snaps. “If whatever you’ve been up to is so unforgivable, then there’s no point moping about it. Clearly you’ve made your bed.”

Tendo flinches slightly, but a hard fire enters his gaze as he straightens up. From the chair he seems impossibly tall and thin, nearly blocking out the hall light.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” Tendo mutters, all traces of his usual humor snuffed out. He doesn’t even sound sad anymore, just tired. “I’ve been sleeping under the bridge when I’m not here. Only when I don’t get caught though.”

Iwaizumi’s heart stops. His eyes stay peeled wide open as Tendo keeps talking.

“There are people looking for me. Bad people.” He jumps when Ushijima’s hand comes to rest over his, but he doesn’t stop. “Eventually if I don’t leave they’ll trace me back to you. I was never going to stay. I just-”

And then he turns. A thin sheen of emotion ghosts his face as the cold facade bends. He looks at Ushijima like that explains it all. In some ways it does. He looks baffled at himself, awed by Ushijima, scared and vulnerable. But there isn’t a trace of guilt. It hits Iwaizumi then, that Tendo had been completely infatuated with Ushijima. That, if given the chance, he would lie to stay again.

“Satori.” Comes the quiet, confused response. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry.”

Tendo looks Iwaizumi in the eye, pulling his hand away from Ushijima.

“I’m sorry.” He says again, more firmly.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Iwaizumi is as surprised as the others by his voice. “I’m not leaving you on the street.”

Ushijima nods at this. The movement is fairly dramatic for him, his head making a full turn up and down twice. It solidifies the impulsive resolve growing in Iwaizumi’s chest.

“You haven’t finished eating Tendo.” He stares the man down, daring him to refute. “Why don’t you sit back down and explain what the fuck you’re talking about. You got the Yakuza on your ass or something?”

A tiny spark of hope blooms in Tendo’s body, his spine straightening up. It fights beneath apprehension and disbelief. He lets out a short crowing laugh, smile sharp and weary.

“Worse.”

After that first outing, Shoyo finds himself going out as Spiderman more and more. He spends all day in the city, far from his house, so why shouldn’t he fill the gaps in his schedule? With the need for biking around nullified, there’s nothing better to do. He’s even started leaving his bike wherever he’ll be at the end of the day, and just swinging from place to place. The first night he actually got all the way up to his window on the second floor of his house before realizing his bike was still shoved beneath a dumpster downtown.

It’s slow, almost not there, but the people start to come alive. He sees it in the way shop owners relax, less weary from thieving. In the way people stop looking at him with fear, and start looking at him with curiosity. At the beginning, he had been worried about violence, and there is still some threat from the new warrant for arrest on his head, but altogether he’s barely had to do anything at all. Most of his efforts have consisted of locating stolen objects or fixing public facilities. He’s not the best handyman in the world, but hey, if some construction workers look tired, why not hold up a heavy beam or two? And in return for this, most people have silently agreed not to report him to the police. Most.

He’s just sitting on top of the highest roof downtown, scarfing down some lunch before tutoring, when the radio in his bag crackles to life. It makes him jump, choking on a hunk of rice. He thuds his chest, trying to hold back from coughing louder than the transmission, as he scrambles to get the radio closer to his ear.

“-ding towards the stream, Northbound. The suspect is armed. Pedestrians need to be cleared from the area asap. My unit is curr-”

Shoyo stops listening, as cold dread settles in his heart. It’s one of the sunniest Fridays they’d seen in weeks, and the North end of the creek cuts through the most popular park in town. Even if officers arrived in time, they couldn’t clear an entire heavily crowded park fast. There just wouldn’t be enough time.

He abandons his bag and lunch, noting the lack of roof access to the building to reassure himself they’ll go unharmed. With two running steps he’s flying through the air, web sticking to the streetlight to his front. Normally he might wave at the passerby, or even high five a kid. Now he blazes on as quickly as possible. The soft rumble of conversation trails him, people taking notice of his frantic motions. Traffic itself seems to slow for him.

Air cuts right through the suit at high speeds, and by the time he’s tumbling out of trees and onto the grass of the park, his entire body feels covered with lacerations. A few feet to the left, a middle aged man holds his daughter’s hand as she excitedly points towards Shoyo. He jogs over to them, hands palm forwards in a placating gesture. The man eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t tug his daughter back.

“Sir, there are police on their way, but the area needs to be cleared. There’s an armed criminal nearby.”

This seems to stir the man into action, his wrinkled eyes blown wide. He nods, bending to scoop his protesting daughter into his arms.

“Thank you!”

“Tell anyone you come across to do the same!”

With that, Shoyo hurries South. He warns as many people as he can. In his mind he crosses his fingers, breath held. Hopefully he would speed things up enough to prevent any stragglers in the evacuation. The distant sound of sirens makes his stomach cramp. Whether in fear or relief he isn’t sure. It could mean help, but it also means the danger is near.

He turns towards the sound, plunging into the sprinkler-slicked grass of an open field. Over the hill at the end of it is the stream. As he nears it, feet sliding across the soft Earth, a jittery electric feeling starts to build. His sense strains against him, wanting to turn back around. So it’s definitely danger, not help. Biting his cheek to clear the sparks from his mind, Shoyo clambers up the shiny green slope. With a final leap, he crests it, coming to an unstable stop, nearly tumbling forward in his haste.

In front of him the dirt collapses, cascading down into a rocky bed. The thin line of the stream burbles through it, far too shallow for such a wide bank. But it isn’t the near fall that takes forefront in his list of concerns. Not the dusty ground, or the sad gray water. No, he stares in shock at its occupants, and curses himself for only listening to a quick snatch of the radio chatter.

There, just a few feet from him, a unit of police barricade themselves behind their car. Blasts of electricity dance across the metal of it, cutting ashen slashes across the paint. The source? A haggard woman stands ankle deep in the water, her hair whipped to and fro by the powerful surges that cover her body. They make her skin glow, blue veins clearly visible beneath. In her shaking hands she holds a gun.

He’d recognize her anywhere. The only murderer their town had seen in decades, she was convicted after electrocuting her own children in a fit of rage. Just the thought of her powers, wildly cracking through the air in front of him, being turned on a child, makes the lunch in Shoyo’s stomach try to escape through his mouth. He swallows it down, trembling in sick awe. Because, he unfortunately can’t deny the beauty he bears witness to.

White hot bolts appear in twisted tendrils, cracking rocks and making the metal of the cop car groan in protest, before vanishing faster than blinking. They writhe in the stream, and singe the air. It creates a slight purple glow to everything, flashes of blue and gold mixed between. He feels frozen in place.

“STAND DOWN!” One of the officers shouts. A glint of metal catches the light as he tries to fire a warning shot, but he pulls it back down when another onslaught hits the car.

“I’m not going back!” The woman responds, her voice broken and reedy.

She swings her arm in a wide arc. Bolts of electricity follow, seeming to cling to the water as branches break off into the stream like splitting threads. The curve of light flings forward, slamming into the car in a brutal instant. A loud boom echoes behind it, the door panel crumpling inwards like a soda can. Shoyo flinches from the suddenness of it, losing his footing on the muddy dirt.

He slides down the bank, attempts at sticking in place proving futile as clumps of Earth melt beneath his hand. In his temples his blood pounds, heart thudding painfully in his chest. The woman turns at the intrusion, her surprise sending colorful sparks racing out in a wave. Shoyo’s feet burn in the damp mud, the outermost sparks carrying into the moisture beneath them. He hears his own voice yelp, scrambling to stand as his fall slows on the more level ground beneath him.

Looking into his soul, the woman’s eyes are dark and crazed. She looks far older than she must be based on the strength in her stance, sockets sagging beneath stretched skin. A shudder of mad laughter tears from her throat, coming across as little more than a scream with rhythm to Shoyo’s ears. She grins, thrashing sideways to blast the car again, before turning to face him.

Oh wow. He thinks. I might die here.

He doesn’t get time to dwell on his fear. Before he can remember he’s never fought someone who saw him coming, let alone someone with a gun, let alone a mutant, his brain ignites with fiery passion. Following the sense obediently, he takes a dive to the right, feet squelching through the mud. The hairs on the back of his neck sting, a loud crash exploding just where he had been standing. It sends a spray of mud up the back of his legs, the fabric of the suit tightening as it gets wet.

“You some kind of special agent?” the woman rasps, another blast forcing him to drop belly first onto the ground. “WELL I’M NOT GOING DOWN!”

Shoyo doesn’t process any of it. He couldn’t if he tried. Things happen too quickly. His skin is frigid and tight with panic, mud soaking through the suit in some places. It gets worse with every blast he dodges, the bank erupting up into the air from the force with which her powers punch it. Shoyo desperately rolls around, clumps of the ground and crushed river rocks raining down onto him after each blinding bang of purple and white. He hardly sees anything through the torrent, just quick glimpses of the side of the car, the malice in his attacker’s eyes.

Just as he stumbles narrowly away from another attack, he hears the first gunshot. It pounds into his unprotected ears like a hit, his already scrambled mind reeling in shock. Blinking to catch his focus, he looks up to see the woman clutching her upper thigh angrily. Her thin fingers do little to cover the wound, deep red blood burbling up gelatinous between them. A frightened sob rips from her throat, her free hand shakily rising to return fire.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Two poke holes through the already ruined vehicle, one whizzing past into the opposite bank. The sounds act as a calling to Shoyo, like the tolling of a bell. Into his body creeps a strange calmness. The terrified quiver of his thoughts bleed to nothing, an animalistic instinct taking over. Everything goes slow.

The arcs of light, once only caught in a flash, look like wind-swept ribbons to him. His breathing slows as he watches the woman wail and rage against the police. When she starts to turn back towards him, back still hunched over in pain, he doesn’t rush for cover. Shoyo darts towards her, using the rocks as stepping stones to avoid slipping again. As he does so, sound floods his ears again, and time comes back to him.

She tries to shoot him, but he would see it coming easily this close, even without his sense, and turns sideways at the last second. Her eyes widen just slightly at that, hand momentarily going limp around the weapon. He wonders if she realizes he’s going to win then.

A thick rope of webbing blooms from his wrist, tugging the weapon out of her hand. She glances at her hand in shock, bangs pooling around her face when she looks at Shoyo again. His feet splash into the icy spring water, distance between them almost entirely gone. A wave of electricity pumps out in her defense, lacing through his body. He screams, knees almost buckling under the blazing pain in his skin. But he powers through, taking that last leap to land a hit directly against her temple. He tries to hold back, but he can’t tell at all how hard he’s punched her through the pulsing fire coursing up and down his body.

She crumples, knocked unconscious, and the glittering leftovers of the last blast fizzle out. He gasps, muscles spasming, and falls to one knee. The chill of the water soothes some of his hurt, though only slightly. Shoyo can tell he’s in shock, but has no clue how to shake himself out of it. In his mind is nothing but the simple mantra, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

“F-Freeze!” One of the officers shouts.

Shoyo looks up in a daze. The police are just starting to come out from behind the car, looking almost as shaken as he feels. Gun wobbling where it points towards Shoyo, the officer who’d shouted flicks his gaze wildly between Shoyo and the subdued woman. He feels his heart sink, not sure how to get away.

So Shoyo holds his hands up in surrender, wracking his brain to come up with an escape as he stands all the way back up. His eyes catch on a thick root hanging out from the top of the opposite bank, where hill would bleed back out of the park. If he can get into town they’ll never catch him.

“I- I said freeze!” The officer yells, thrusting his gun at Shoyo in warning as he stands.

Shoyo obeys, holding his back taught. Just a little longer. He doesn’t blink, watching intently as two police approach. The one has a gun trained on him, the other walks at an angle towards where the woman lies. A couple others stay by the car, nursing wounds from before Shoyo arrived. They’re a few feet away. Shoyo glances down. The woman is breathing. They’re in the water now. Shoyo flexes his wrist, stealing his nerve. The officer, now right in front of him, starts to tilt his gun down, reaching out to grab Shoyo’s arm. Now!

He surges at the officer, pushing the man into his own partner to stall them both. Then, not looking back for a second, Shoyo sends a web to the root, and tugs himself violently up the side of the bank. Startled voices flare behind him, a warning shot burying into the dirt next to his arm. He wages on, feet digging up and over the hill as he pulls on the web. Rolling over the top of it, he runs blindly into the city.

After about fifteen minutes of sprinting without a goal, he drops behind a building in a quiet neighborhood street. His chest heaves, lungs stuttering as he hiccups. Feeling comes back into his body now that he’s away from the threat, and he immediately falls to his knees from the pain. A sob wrenches from his very being, sounding far away and foreign. Tears spring forth, flooding the lenses of the mask until he can’t see through them.

What the fuck. He thinks, as he rips the mask from his face. The unclogged air is welcome, his breath still shallow and rapid. He grips the mask so hard his arms tremble. Every few seconds another round of pain makes his body ache and cramp. He was hit by fucking lightening. He should be dead. What the fuck.

Shoyo knew what being a vigilante would entail. This incident, traumatic as it is, won’t stop him. But hypotheticals and promises to continue on are one thing in his head. Actual physical violence, the kind that challenges those promises, is another thing. You just can’t prepare for it.

So Shoyo allows himself a moment of weakness, knowing it won’t sway his path. He cries, and he grabs his damaged muscles to stave off the injuries as best he can. He rocks himself for comfort, and slows his breathing bit by bit. It eventually works, his presence returning to him and heart slowing. In its wake he doesn’t feel like a hero, he feels very very small.

It isn’t satisfying to fight. There is no reward to violence. He had saved those officers' lives. They didn’t smile at him, or ask for a hint at his identity teasingly. There were no giggling children, no grateful owners to return things to. His body doesn’t glow with excitement.

But something stirs. Something cold, tired, flows gently through him. It numbs the burning tissue of his body, hollows his chest. It reminds him he needs sleep, and that he loves being alive. Shoyo wouldn’t call it gratefulness, but it’s close. He thinks of how bad it could’ve been if that man and his over-exuberant daughter had been at the stream, and instead of feeling prideful he thinks of his sister. Just like that man, he gets to go home to his little girl, though she’d never tolerate being called that at her age. Shoyo smiles, more bittersweet than his usual grin, but still a true smile all the same.

He wonders if maybe that’s what being good is. Remembering you have life to live, and so does everyone else. Helping people for the sake of that life instead of for an abstract sense of justice. Shoyo is too exhausted to know, and too bored with philosophy to enjoy pondering it longer.

He sighs, wincing as he eases himself back onto his ass to sit properly. Legs sprawled out in front of him, he rests his back against the brick of the apartments behind him. Moving slowly to avoid hurting himself, Shoyo peels the left side of his suit back, freeing one arm. He stares at the other building across from him as he does so, afraid to see the damage. Blood makes him anxious. Hopefully there isn’t any blood.

A hiss pushes between his teeth, the skin raw and sensitive in open air. He huffs in a few quick breathes, muttering some incoherent praise to hype himself up. Anticipation growling angrily in his stomach, Shoyo squints nervously down at his arm and partially exposed torso.

All of his skin is pink. From the cold water drying on it, from the sweaty strain he’d been under in the fight, from the irritation of electricity sparking through him from his legs in the wet. The actual damage itself is far less than he thinks it should be, but it isn’t pretty. White trails of blisters coil across him, weaving patterns that look suspiciously similar to a shock of lightning. Little scabs from where they must dig deeper into him dot along them. They don’t seem to go all the way up, and he hopes that means there aren’t any on his face. The markings get more concentrated lower down. His legs must be downright massacred. As if hearing his thoughts, they throb in agreement.

A chuckle bubbles from his chest, strained and ironic. He really banged himself up. Well, possible heightened durability proven based on his lack of death or third degree burns. Now to see if he was right about those bruises and cuts healing faster last week. Hiding his legs, and lower body, and parts of his arms, was going to get more annoying the longer he took to heal.

His skull tickles on one side, and he almost doesn’t recognize the shock of his sense after it had been so loud and aggressive in the park. Listening to it in the nick of time, he yanks his mask back on just as footsteps approach from the side of the building. Shoyo tries to get his suit all the way back on too, but ends up freezing with his arm awkwardly struggling against its tangled sleeve when the scuff of shoes comes to a sudden stop right next to him. Whoever is there definitely spotted him.

He turns slowly up, braced to explain himself or run. A pair of tattered black slippers greets him, leading into a pair of baggy sweatpants and a soft looking black t-shirt. Eyes finally all the way up, Shoyo feels his blood turn cold. Kageyama stares down at him, completely gobsmacked.

The shock melts off of the man’s face however, hurriedly replaced with complete disgust. Oh boy, that’s a new face. Which is really saying something, since Shoyo had assumed he’d unlocked all of the negative ones before they started getting along a bit more. If you can call what they do getting along.

Shoyo shoots to his feet, taking several steps back in fear. Kageyama just stares at him, jaw clenched and eyes ablaze.

“What are you doing here?” He spits.

The level of venom surprises Shoyo. He isn’t sure what Spiderman possibly could’ve done to offend his tutoring buddy, and Kageyama hadn’t shown any signs of being anti-mutant when Hinata had voiced his opinions before.

“I-” He starts, then quickly stops. Kageyama knows what he sounds like.

When he doesn’t respond fast enough, Kageyama just rolls his eyes, tugging his phone out of his pocket roughly.

“I’m calling the cops.” He says gruffly.

No!

“No!” Hinata shouts. He reaches out with his left hand, knocking Kageyama’s phone away.

Instead of getting huffy, like Kageyama would with Hinata, the other man stays unflinching, staring Shoyo down as if he might attack. Shoyo coughs, trying to mask his voice after such an outburst. Speaking in a much lower fake tone, he tries to salvage it.

“Please don’t. They’re probably busy anyway! There was an attack in the park!”

He can’t tell what Kageyama’s face means, but it shifts slightly at that. Shoyo hopes that means he’s being listened to, blabbering on in his panic.

“Which I helped stop, by the way! So, you should definitely not get me arrested. Sir.”

Kageyama isn’t looking at his face anymore, but his face is still hard and inscrutable. Shoyo, confused, follows his gaze. It lands on his exposed side, injuries still hanging out for anyone to see. And his chest, he realizes with an embarrassed flush, as he quickly tugs the loose fabric around his waist up to save what’s left of his modesty.

“You’re hurt.” Kageyama blurts, ignoring Shoyo’s discomfort to state the obvious.

His face had changed again. It’s a funny look he levels Shoyo with. Not quite sympathetic, but not so angry. More like an exasperated teacher after the student they told not to rock their chair finally fell on the ground.

“Uh, yeah?” Shoyo replies dumbly, in that obviously fake voice.

Kageyama seems to settle on some sort of choice. He sighs, scooping up his phone from where it dropped. When he looks back, Shoyo finally recognizes an emotion. Kageyama looks at him with pity. It sucks the air from his lungs.

“Give up on Spiderman.” Kageyama says flatly. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

This isn’t going to work. Shoyo groans, letting his body slump forward over the sink in the staff bathroom he’s hiding in. The fabric of his jeans is visibly bunched up around his calves, where sloppily wrapped bandages hide beneath. He hadn’t had time to properly take care of them, and it’s not like he could tell anyone without a proper alibi. If he skipped tutoring mom would get worried, but he doesn’t have time before they’re supposed to meet to fully clean up. It’s going to be a disaster.

He turns the sink on, splashing his face. The mud had come off pretty easily, most of it caked on the suit and not his skin. Just an hour and he can get things better taken care of. Shoyo can swing an hour of desperately lying. Even if the way Kageyama had looked at him in the alley made his head spin with questions. It’s fine!

So, pacing through the tiny room a few times to make sure he isn’t limping, Shoyo slings his school bag over his shoulder. He just faced death, this will be a cake walk. The door creaks as he slips out, the same worn old wood as every other door in the library. It’s one of the least updated buildings on campus. Walking along the upper floor, which is little more than a shelf-lined catwalk, he can’t help but think the space is sort of pretty despite being a tad rundown. Slowing down to ease his legs, he stares at the main floor below.

Large hanging lights hover above everything. They’re vintage, rounded and brassy. It makes the lighting much warmer than the usual LED bulbs. Orange undertones bathe the wood furniture and floors. A kaleidoscope of book spines, t-shirts, and bags litters the room. The clutter creates enough liveliness to make up for the hushed tones of the people there. Shoyo can see why people study in places like this, it's oddly calming.

He makes his way downstairs, to room B. Pausing at the door to make sure his sleeves and pant legs are securely in place, he pushes in. Yachi and Kageyama are already inside. It looks like they’d been making small chat, Yachi leaning on the table in her most relaxed posture. Upon hearing the door open, they turn to look at him, befuddled. It’s at that moment he realizes he hadn’t swung the door open like usual. Well, he’s off to a fantastic failure of a start.

“Hey guys!” He chirps happily, casually loping across the room to his usual chair.

“Hey Hinata.” Yachi returns.

He drops his bag unceremoniously on the floor by his chair, spinning it backwards to pop down in it. Yachi digs through her own bag as he does so, Kageyama staring daggers into the side of his head. He tries his best to ignore it. Kageyama has no idea they’d just spoke, and responding as if he did would be weird. Shoyo has to pretend he doesn’t notice the scrutiny, that he’s acting more subdued for some other reason.

Yachi turns back towards them, trying and failing miserably to be subtle about hiding her bag behind her back. The wobble of her mouth, spread wide in a bubbly grin, makes Shoyo chuckle.

“Okay guys, I know this isn’t our normal, but…” Yachi slowly pulls the bag around to sit on the table in front of her. “I was thinking, since you’re both holding onto strong Cs now, we could maybe take one session to celebrate! Free of charge of course.”

With that she flips the top of the bag open in a quick flourish, revealing a pack of melon pan from the bakery downtown.

“Ta-dah! You guys don’t have to eat any if you don’t want to, I just figured I should bring something popular since I don’t know your guys’ favorites or anything. Next time I’ll ju-”

“Yachi.” Shoyo cuts in as warmly as he can. “This is really sweet of you. You don’t have to explain.”

She deflates at that, falling into her chair with a dramatic huff. A soft smile dances across her face, making her rounded features look even more youthful than normal.

“Thanks Hinata, I get a little antsy about surprises.”

“I’m just glad you’re not making me do short responses! Right, Kageyama?”

He dares to look at the other man for the first time since entering, poker face firmly in place. Kageyama stares back, blatantly searching. After a few moments though, the hard set of his blue eyes relaxes, a tiny smirk fluttering briefly in the corner of his mouth. Whatever he was looking for, apparently he found it.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “I lose brain cells listening to you read your drafts.”

The familiarity of his friends is like a salve on Shoyo’s wounds, pain forgotten for a short window of time.

“Careful Kageyama, you don’t have many to lose.”

“AH!” Yachi cuts in, just as Kageyama’s mouth opens in a sneer to respond.

The boys turn sheepishly back to Yachi. She tilts her head, eyes squinted in playful warning. Leaning forward, a box of cards in hand, she slides the melon pan to the center of their little group.

“You guys aren’t allowed to fight right now, I don’t care if that’s how you show affection. I get a nice relaxed evening after everything I do for you weirdos.”

He isn’t sure what he had been so scared of. Ever since the shop incident, Kageyama had kind of been expecting Hinata to explode randomly. That seemed like the next logical step in the guy’s series of brain-twisting behaviors. But despite being out of it at the start of their meeting, he doesn’t seem any different from normal.

They play a few rounds of BS. Yachi wins each time, the boys too focused on catching each other’s bluffs to actually make progress. After that escalates to chucking cards at each other’s faces, Yachi laughing and scolding from the crossfire, they decide to play something less competitive.

“Ooh! I know!” Yachi chirps from her place at the head of the table. “How about two truths and a lie! I’ve been wanting to get to know you guys better.”

Before Kageyama can really think about what that means, Hinata is bouncing in his seat excitedly in agreement. The table is littered with cards and crumbs, chairs pushed out at awkward angles. Yachi starts to gather some of the mess up as Hinata rambles about his high school buddies. It’s warm underneath the chaos. Kageyama can never really relax, especially not with his fingers sticky with sugar and voices ringing in his ears, but he thinks this might be better. Playing games, and bantering, and listening along when he can’t think of what to say.

With one final smear of her arm to scatter the bits of bread, Yachi settles back into her chair. Her hair came a bit loose at some point, and wisps of gold spring across her brow. Hinata is even more casual, having started at his baseline animal decorum. His cheeks are flushed a ruddy color from laughing too hard, hair tousled in wild cowlicks. Underneath him his feet perch on the chair’s seat, leaving him towered over the table like a gargoyle.

“I wanna go first! I’ve already got some!” He blurts, Yachi shushing him with a reminder that there’s only one door between them and the library. It falls flat underneath all of her giggling though.

“Okay!” Hinata starts. “I’m super allergic to pet dander… I tried to take an ice bath in winter as when I was eight… and my first relationship only lasted an hour!”

Between each statement he stares them down, thick auburn brows wiggling with mischief. To be honest, Kageyama has never played this game before, but the title is self explanatory. Two of the statements are true, one is a lie. Presumably they’re supposed to guess the lie.

“The allergy thing has to be true,” Yachi says conspiratorially. “No way Hinata would know the word ‘dander’ otherwise.”

Kageyama finds himself snorting quietly at that. It is an obscure word for the moron.

“Hey!” Hinata cries in offense. He’s laughing too though, so Kageyama doubts it's serious.

“I think the ice bath is the lie.”

He says it plainly, flushing a bit when the others look at him. Yachi rubs her chin, considering far more carefully than Tobio thinks the game is worth. Hinata however just throws a lopsided grin at him. The dangerous glitter of those eyes is deceptively inviting. Kageyama feels a bit like a kid tempted to touch a stove meeting them.

Leaning back on his heels absentmindedly, Hinata raises his brows and asks, “Why that one? The relationship thing is pretty ridiculous too.”

It is pretty ridiculous. For some reason Kageyama just can’t imagine it. Hinata is too friendly, too blunt. It doesn’t seem possible for someone to decide to date him by mistake. They’d have to be intentionally ignoring his personality. But he can’t say all that. So he just pouts, and mutters some jab about an hour being too long with him that leaves Hinata cackling and throwing half-hearted insults right back.

“I’m gonna stick with Kageyama on this one.” Yachi says when they calm back down. “Ice bath is the lie. Final answer.”

A hush falls over the group as they wait for Hinata’s response. So obviously he soaks it up, like the attention whore he clearly is, taking long sweeping looks between Yachi and Kageyama with an anticipatory little grin.

“The ice bath is… not the lie.”

“What!” Yachi cries, slumping forward over the table flamboyantly.

He doesn’t express it quite as boldly as her, but Kageyama can’t help but agree with the sentiment. The sting of guessing wrong grates against him. Should he be worried he feels like he lost an ice breaker game?

“What is it then?” He pushes, impatient for Hinata’s explanation.

“My first relationship only lasted two hours. She asked me out at recess, then dumped me after class!”

It’s stupid, and a dickish way to play the game, but the story is funny enough he gets away with it. Yachi bursts into giggles, pestering Hinata for the details as he coyly turns his cheek. Kageyama finds himself huffing in amusement despite his irritation at being tricked by something so dumb. Then he remembers that the two that aren’t the lie are true.

“Wait.” He cuts in, the others blinking at him curiously. “You actually took an ice bath, in winter, when you were eight?”

Hinata has the decency to look abashed by the incredulous tone he asks it in. The slight rosy tint on his cheeks flushes into a proper blush, the color meshing his skin into the fiery edge of his hairline.

“Uh, yeah… yeah I did.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Don’t swear at me!” Hinata whines, slumping into his seat and burying his face in his hands. “I know it’s dumb, okay? I was eight!”

“You established that.”

“Watch it.”

For a moment Hinata just peeks at him from between his fingers, an embarrassed gleam in his eyes. Kageyama just stares right back. It doesn’t seem that serious, and he really wants to know. Yachi too it seems, as she forgoes stepping between the bickering to peer at Hinata as well.

“If I tell you,” Hinata starts in a slow, warning tone. “You aren’t allowed to laugh.”

“We won’t!” Yachi blurts impatiently, slapping a hand over her mouth in guilt when Hinata startles.

The boy watches her for a moment, then turns to Kageyama. It’s obvious there’s some sort of question, or maybe a threat in the look, but whatever it is doesn’t translate for Tobio. He nods anyway, encouraging Hinata to get on with it. With a great put upon sigh, he does so.

“Okay. So when I was little- like little school kid age- I had this obsession with being special. Or like cool or something.”

A hush falls over the little group, Hinata’s hesitant tone pulling the others in regardless of the mundanity of his subject.

“And when I was really little. Eight year olds were big kids little. I thought the coolest, most special guy ever was my dad. He did all sorts of big futuristic science stuff. The type of jobs he couldn’t explain to my mom, let alone me. But the one part of his job I could kinda grasp was his… fascination with mutations.”

It feels for a moment like the floor falls out. Kageyama is snapped from his trance immediately, heart tripping over itself in his chest. He sends a quick glance to Yachi, but she looks the exact same as before. Listening with wide eyed attentiveness at Hinata’s broad gestures and shy smile. He feels a lurch in his stomach.

“He was a leading figure in studies on mutant abilities. When everybody was still saying they were signs of disease and breakdown of the species and stuff, he was saying ‘look at the facts people! Mankind is evolving!’”

Kageyama has heard it all before. He knows Hinata’s type. The kind of bushy tailed optimists that preach self love and acceptance as if a cup-half-full outlook can erase what being a mutant does to the psyche. It hurts, not because it isn’t a nice thought, but because it just isn’t attainable.

“So I guess when I was a kid I got it in my head that my dad would want me to be a mutant.”

Hinata says that last part sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling in a too wide press.

“I know! I understand now that mutations aren’t just fun powers, but it was easy to think of it that way as a kid! It’s not like I watched the news or anything!”

“It’s okay Hinata,” Yachi chuckles. “It’s actually kind of sweet. You must have been such an innocent little weirdo!”

Hinata groans at that, turning impossibly redder and laughing at himself. There’s an invisible wall between Kageyama and the others, every one of Hinata’s movements looking slow and foggy as if underwater.

“I know! Let me finish!” Hinata laughs. “Basically, I got it into my dumb head, that I could find a mutation in myself by doing a bunch of superhuman stuff- like trying to see in the dark or eat rocks or something. And I guess I just thought I would have ice powers or something, it’s really silly.”

Him and Yachi giggle a bit more, most of the humor wearing off by the time Hinata spits it all out. They move as though things are still warm, comfortable and unguarded. Yachi says something about thinking of her things, turning back to the game. Kageyama gets left behind, lagging mind stuck on Hinata’s story.

“My three things are…”

He thinks it’s a joke. That being a mutant is some interesting quirk.

“I still sleep with my childhood stuffy.”

Would you rather be hanging out with somebody that hates you?

“I’m ambidextrous.”

What would’ve happened at the shop if he had noticed. Would it matter?

“And I had braces in middle school.”

The shop. What the hell happened at the shop?

Noise pops back into his ears all at once, the pounding of his heart a double time staccato. Hinata and Yachi are dithering on about her answers. She’s trying and failing not to break when Hinata pressures her. None of what they say sinks in. It slides over his brain, dragging the soupy memory of what Yachi had listed in the first place away. It pales in importance, as he locks onto Hinata.

The way Hinata talked about his behavior as a kid is obvious in implication. He isn’t a mutant. Most likely he didn’t even have exposure to any mutants growing up. It’s common with younger kids considering how few and far between the anomalies are. But then, Kageyama had used his mutation at the shop. Despite all better judgement and sense of self-preservation, he had. And yet Hinata had gotten the upper hand on him.

It hurts his head to think about. Especially as he carefully sidesteps the details, unwilling to utter the specifics of his powers even in thought. It’s the first time he’s even let himself think of himself as having them in weeks. All the while, Hinata just keeps existing. Joking with Yachi, grin so bright it’s blinding. He could do a toothpaste advert. His eyes, thin crescents from grinning so large, are a gooey molten caramel. It’s torturous to the point of feeling targeted.

All too soon, that face is turning to look at Kageyama, mouth moving in a question he doesn’t process. Hinata’s brows furrow, some of the boisterousness draining from his face. A small hand waggles in front of Kageyama’s eyes. What a condescending gesture. He snaps to alertness, smacking Hinata’s hand away.

“What?”

“Ow Kageyama!” Hinata grumbles in response, petulantly rubbing the back of his smarting hand.

Resolving to leave Hinata-land, Kageyama turns to Yachi for clarification.

“What do you think my lie is Kageyama?” She says gently. For some reason she’s giving him a very particular look. If only he could read what it meant.

He scrambles for purchase, trying to dredge up whatever it was Yachi had said. The projector in his mind draws a blank, white slate taking over his consciousness. Well shit.

“Uhhh… the second one.”

“No way!” Hinata puffs. “It’s gotta be the braces! They’re such a waste of money if you don’t really really need them!”

“You wanted my answer so I gave it, damn it!” Kageyama huffs back. His heart isn’t really in it though, and clearly Hinata doesn’t find that as entertaining as usual, as he drops it.

“Fine! Yachi, who’s right?”

She flits her eyes between them, fidgeting with a highlighter Kageyama doesn’t remember her grabbing. It looks a bit like she’s swallowed a frog with how she nervously scrunches her face up. After a few seconds of tense silence, she finally breaks, spilling words on top of each other.

“Kageyama’s right, I’m right handed!”

Hinata does a dramatic throw of his head backwards, fake yelling in pain. Yachi waves her hands frantically, babbling reassurances that his guess was good, and that she’d just had some issues with her teeth that required intervention. Kageyama drifts back to the shop.

It must have been a fluke. He never uses his powers, so it isn’t that crazy to think Hinata just got lucky. It doesn’t have to be bigger than that. But, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind persists. Couldn’t hurt to check, could it?

He reaches for a pencil lying on the table slowly, never once looking away from the others to make sure they’re still busy talking and ignoring him. A lump catches in his throat, mouth running rapidly dry. This is stupid. Letting Hinata get the better of him is bad enough once. Is he really going to twice? The hungry need for confirmation building within him answers that.

Taking deep breaths to stay calm, he waits a couple more seconds to be sure Hinata and Yachi will keep chatting. They don’t slow down for a moment. Never a better time than now. He reaches for the cord inside his brain, obscured by misuse. For a blinding millisecond it isn’t there, and he’s normal. Then he reaches it, neurons firing to life inside his skull. His ears pop, and the ache behind his eyes, inescapable and ever present, eases.

It warps his vision, the center becoming sharper while his peripheral fades. It’s like looking through the barrel of a gun. At its center is Hinata, oblivious and brilliant. He flexes the heavy lens on his eyes, giving in a faint click as it locks onto target.

The pencil thrashes in his grasp, desperate to obey the pull he imbues it with. His fingertips feel hot around it. So, with one last silent plea for nothing to go wrong, he lets it go.

It zips through the air viscously as his vision relaxes back to normal. Hinata catches it. Without even looking either. His hand casually darts up seemingly of its own volition, neatly plucking the pencil from midair mere centimeters from the side of his head. Kageyama’s lungs seize, and he feels a bit as if his soul has just fallen out of his ass. That’s not fucking normal.

Hinata, the sneaky bastard, just turns to look at the object in his hand, as if he’s just as shocked he’d caught it as Kageyama is. His brows quirk slightly, but other than that he looks the picture of innocence and nonchalance. It makes the frustrated fear that had been tap dancing throughout Tobios body kick into high gear. It gallops and batters against his ribs.

Hinata looks up at him, bemused. With a lazy flick of his wrist the pencil is tossed back. Kageyama can’t bring himself to react, the wooden stick bouncing off of his shoulder and clattering to the floor. Hinata smirks at him teasingly.

“Jeez Kageyama, you should’ve just said you were ready for your turn.”

“I have to go.”

The words are out before he can process them, his chair making a nasty screech on the floor as he shoots to his feet. For a moment he swears hurt flashes in Hinata’s eyes, but it’s gone so fast he figures he imagined it. He definitely doesn’t imagine Yachi’s look though. There’s alarm in it, buried under a false calmness. Oh come on! She thinks he’s trying to get out of her little party early!

“Never mind.” He blurts, sitting back down just as suddenly as he’d risen.

Hinata openly gawks, but Kageyama is too freaked out to look at him for long.

“It’s okay if you don’t like this game Kageyama, we can just chat if you’d like.”

Yachi looks a bit put out, but there’s underlying hope in her voice. Staying is the right choice, even if he’s making a fool of himself. He grunts an affirmative, trying his best to look relaxed and sociable. At the reassurance she perks back up slightly, leaning back to get comfortable in her seat.

“Okay! What’s something we can talk about? Oh! I know!”

Something about the eagerness in her tone mixed with Hinata’s eyes burning into the side of his head makes sweat start to bead on the back of Kageyama’s neck.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Yachi says. “What exactly do you do at the museum?”

“Museum?” Hinata perks up, seemingly distracted from his questioning by the turn in subject.

“Kageyama works at the museum!”

He sort of wants to strangle Yachi. It’s sweet how eager she is to include him, and it isn’t as if she’s lying, but he can already tell this is going to be way more annoying than it needs to be. As if reading his thoughts, Hinata’s face goes frighteningly blank. The way it always does when he’s about to say something overly blunt and provocative.

“I thought you had to be super old and smart to work at museums.”

And if that doesn’t confirm all of his worries. Kageyama braces himself, submitting to the stupidity about to occur.

“No.” He grits between his teeth as calmly as possible. “You have to be ‘old’ and ‘smart’ to be a full time archivist or historian, but it’s really common for history majors like me to intern ‘cause they like cheap labor.”

They don’t respond when he stops, just waiting for him to elaborate. It’s disconcerting, and makes his skin feel tight. He tries to avoid looking at or thinking about Hinata too hard. It seems he isn’t going to make a hasty escape any time soon, the best thing to do is not panic. Still, as he recites his duties in clipped tones, he finds his attention making slow circles back to the offending party.

He talks about how he isn’t allowed to do tour guide work. Hinata caught the pencil. He protests when they poke fun at his apparently out of character interest in academics. The shop wasn’t a fluke. He talks about his trip to Tokyo in mid June. The anchor had been certain.

“Okay.” He cuts himself off when it gets too much. “This isn’t an interview, and it’s almost time to go.”

Hinata and Yachi sit up slightly, having gotten settled while he was talking. Sure enough, it’s about time to go. The library will close soon, and the patter of people moving about the main room is near nonexistent through the door.

Yachi blinks, looking about herself in surprise. Her face is soft and slack, a satisfied sort of sleepiness painting it. Hinata is similarly droopy, but without any of the softness.

He’s prickly around the edges like TV static. The skin beneath his eyes is pinched, his hair a rolling flame. It looks aglow, catching the light. From the chair where he perches he’s taller than Tobio for once. There’s a strange tension in his body, as if he can’t fully sit down and instead hovers in place. He is terrible. Grand and beastly, staring unflinchingly into Tobio’s eyes. If he wanted, he could probably see right through the contacts, the secrets, and even the walls around his self.

As they make their way to the courtyard conversation is thin. Shoyo is secretly thankful for this. The fun he was having had distracted him from his injuries at first, but as the time drained away the stinging on his skin became gradually more persistent. He tries to walk normally, but the stiff stance he is forced to take makes him limp subtly.

Things had gone much better than he’d thought they would, especially with Kageyama. Hopefully that would prevent too much scrutiny and he’ll be able to go home without the others catching on to his pain. He repeats this thought over and over again, desperately avoiding thoughts of the cutting sensation the drag of denim gives his thighs. Just a little longer.

At the front of the building he and Kageyama pause to wave Yachi goodbye. She backs towards the dorms, both hands waggling above her head in happy farewell. Eventually her form is little more than a pale line across the lawn. Shoyo turns to go grab his bike. It wouldn’t be wise to go out as Spiderman again without some medical intervention first. Whatever medical intervention looks like from a guy with no first aid training and only meager household medicine on hand.

Shoyo is so clogged with hurt that he doesn’t even say goodbye to Kageyama, or look at him as he goes. So distracted even, that he doesn’t notice the footsteps in time with his own for several minutes. It’s because he turns his head to wipe his nose on the shoulder of his shirt that he ever sees Kageyama coming with him at all.

“AH!” He shouts, jolting out of the miserable march.

Kageyama’s eyebrows drop grumpily at this, nearly swallowing his eyes. He’s nervous, hands shoved deep in his pockets and shoulders high. Shoyo tries to have mercy on the poor guy.

“Sorry! I didn’t see you.”

Kageyama scrunches his face up, looking anywhere but at Shoyo. There’s a flush of pink slowly creeping up his neck and onto his face that stands out aggressively against the dark cut of his hair. Huh.

“That thing you were talking about.” He says carefully, words hushed by the anxious pout of his lips. “The uh- you know… the ice bath thing.”

It lands funny on his ears. That’s the last thing Shoyo would’ve thought would get brought back up. And so awkwardly to boot. As impatient as he is to get home, he finds himself waiting to see where this goes.

“You said you wanted a mutation as a kid… so-“

Kageyama squeezes his eyes shut, biting off his words in frustration. He rocks back and forth on feet as if he might bolt at any second.

“So that would mean you don’t have one… right?”

With that he finally looks at Shoyo, eyes wide and searching. They catch the waning evening sun. It makes the blue of them, usually dark and dull, stand out plainly. In the center, his pupils twinkle more than Shoyo ever remembers seeing another person’s doing so before. They’re like polished shields or pools of mercury. He finds himself rooted to the spot, a nervous gnawing in his stomach, which threatens to growl audibly in his sudden uncertainty.

For a moment they just look at each other, unsure how to proceed. On one hand, Shoyo isn’t sure what prompted the question. He had been careful not to use his abilities out of the suit anymore, and he has almost two decades of life without powers as an alibi. On the other, Kageyama must have a reason to ask, and if it isn’t because of something suspicious that Shoyo had done, then it must be something else Kageyama actually wants to know. At that thought a shock of panic zips up his spine. Did Kageyama recognize him as Spiderman?

“Why do you care?” He resolves to ask instead of answering. He uses his best confused face, infusing it with all the unsure innocence he can.

“I don’t!” Kageyama snaps defensively. “It just seemed like- at the shop the other day. For a moment it seemed like you might-“ He pauses to sigh. “I got confused.”

“Okayyy.” Shoyo muses, turning his shoulder to indicate he wants to leave. The faster this conversation is stopped, the safer his identity is.

“But obviously you wouldn’t have been trying to find a mutation if you had one.” Kageyama mutters, mostly to himself at this point.

And there’s the golden ticket. Regardless of his status now Shoyo really hadn’t had one at the time.

“Yeah that would’ve been even dumber.” He says, a bit of amusement slipping into his tone as he adjusts his grip on his bike. “Is that all you wanted to ask, or…”

Kageyama opens his mouth, leaning forward slightly. But he swallows the thought at the last second, standing up straighter. The resolute set of his shoulders makes him taller than he’d looked before. Shoyo finds his eyes turning up to keep looking at his face. Man he’s being even weirder than normal.

Flexing his legs to test how bad the ache is, Shoyo kisses his swift exit goodbye.

“Are you okay Kageyama?”

The other man startles slightly, eyes wide and glassy looking down at Shoyo. It gives a brief pause to the usually threatening set of his face. He looks younger for a bit, maybe even shy.

“Huh?”

“You got really weird after we talked about mutations. Did it make you uncomfortable? Is that why you asked if I had one?”

When Kageyama fails to immediately respond he gets suspicious that the other isn’t as open minded as Shoyo had first thought. That would explain the reaction to Spiderman earlier, as much as it curdles unpleasantly in his gut. He lets his voice become more stern as he continues.

“Because if you’re one of those people that doesn’t like mutants because of the whole mistake of nature crap I can’t tolerate that.”

“No!” Kageyama blurts incredulously. “No of course not! I just don’t understand how you can be so flippant about it!”

Relief floods Shoyo’s body, replaced by a quiet contemplation. As he squints at Kageyama, drinking in every antsy mannerism and mulling over all the odd behavior, it clicks into place. He feels like a total moron. How had he not noticed sooner?

“Oh.”

“Oh, what?” Kageyama snaps.

“You’re a mutant.”

Kageyama freezes in place, color draining from his face. There’s a flash of something haunted in his gaze, the vulnerability from before shuttering out in the blink of an eye. He squares his shoulders as if bracing for a blow, looking down his nose at Shoyo coldly. It sends a shiver down his back.

Shoyo falls back several steps without thinking. His heart hammers frantically as he throws his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I won’t tell anyone.” He squeaks. “It’s no one’s business but yours, and I know it can be hard, so I swear it!”

Kageyama hums, considering. Then he steps forward, deadly slow. Shoyo stands frozen to the spot, as Kageyama stalks closer with a murderous look. He steps right into Shoyo’s space, until the air between them starts to feel warm with the weight of their bodies. Striking like a snake, he latches onto one of Shoyo’s shoulders with his hand. The grip is tight, warning but not painful. His fingers are long enough to graze the top of his back while still digging a thumb into his collar.

Voice harder than Shoyo has heard it before, Kageyama hisses near his ear.

“If I find that anyone- anyone- has heard a peep from you about this, I will make you regret being born.”

With that Kageyama pulls back, marginally calmer. He pauses to gauge Shoyo’s reaction, then turns to head home without uttering another word. For a few minutes Shoyo just stands there, swaying in the breeze. He replays the conversation over and over, making sure he hadn’t let too much of his own situation slip, and feeling terribly guilty he’d called Kageyama out on something the man is clearly uncomfortable talking about. Strangely, he can’t find it in him to feel very scared now that the other is gone. Sure, he’d been angry, but more than that he seemed shaken. Like Shoyo had threatened him first. He must be pretty paranoid to hide it so well. If he hadn’t run into Kageyama as Spiderman earlier, Shoyo never would’ve put it together.

Chapter Text

She hovers hesitantly for a moment. As frequent as these summons are becoming, they are impossible to acclimate to. The boss- K, is nothing short of a whirlwind. Fickle moods prone to turning over at the slightest of triggers, and smug poker face making it near impossible to guess the right thing to say. So she hovers, opens the file in her hands and flips through it needlessly, worries her lip between her teeth. 

Enough is enough, even for the paranoid. So, try as she might to prolong the inevitable, her arm does eventually rise, and does eventually knock against the now familiar steel door. The mechanisms inside wirr and click, a little red dot winks inside the peephole, and the door slides politely out of the way. 

They start with a bad mood. K stands at her huge city-overlooking windows, drink in hand. It’s a near perfect echo of their first meeting, sickeningly nostalgic after so little time. Now, though, she understands better how to read the tells. How K has poured herself a glass, gingerly tapping it to her pursed lips, rather than unceremoniously gripping a bottle by its neck. How she has shed her blazer, pressed white dress shirt pulled tight to the feline slope of her back and waist. So bad mood, but only frustration not something deep enough to wallow in. 

Heels clicking a tad more confidently, she bustles into the room, readjusting her grip on the file. K prefers a bold approach. 

“K?” She calls, though they both know her approach had been allowed otherwise the door never would’ve opened.

“Mm?” K muses, tilting her head onto the window to make eye contact. Her mouth pulls into a dreary smile, eyes lacking any real happiness. 

“We have a lead!” 

She tries not to lose control of her excitement. You never know what could be taken as offensive. But K doesn’t seem to mind the giddiness that laces her tone, perking up and away from the window in one smooth glide. She hooks a manicured hand around her elbow, guiding them both to the desk. 

“Start with that next time!” She admonishes, mischief lighting up her dangerous eyes. “Forget the formalities, honey!” 

There’s no point saying it was the first thing brought up. Better to just nod and smile along. K manhandles her into place at the desk, sitting up on it with one side of her designer-clad hips. Immediately the hawkish woman begins to slap her hand onto the wood next to her like an impatient little kid. 

“Out with it! Out with it!” 

She laughs nervously, slightly concerned by K’s spike in energy. Still, she lays the file on the desk between them, opening it with an indulgent flourish. On the surface it’s nothing special. Just some blurry images and city maps. But to her, this is the breakthrough they’ve been searching for. 

“So, as you know, the subject has been laying low.”

K nods dismissively, already flicking through the papers, distracted. 

“It hasn’t made any big moves. No transit out of Tokyo, or even within. No hunting, though it must be getting pretty itchy being cooped up so long.” 

At that K snorts, throwing a smirk and raised eyebrow as if to say, ‘aren’t we all?’

“At first we thought it had entirely avoided being picked up by traffic cameras too, any signs of it obscured by crowds, but then we saw this…” 

She plucks the photo K had been pretending to study, turning it so they both can see. It’s grainy, black and white from being taken at night. She points at the very edge of it. Tucked between some trees at the edge of a nearby park, unmistakable in its hulking form, is a shadow they all know intimately well by this point. Long and humanoid, far bigger than whatever meager local fauna slip into city bounds. K snatches it up, face serious in an instant. 

“You’re sure this is it? Not a fluke? No trick of the light, no faulty lens?” She snaps the questions out one after the other, brow tense and cold. 

“W-we’re sure!” She reassures, trying to regain control of the conversation before it steers too far away. “We’re sure! That park is right nearby, the photo taken the very night it escaped. Normally we wouldn’t be so sure without a bit of evidence behind at the site, but then we saw this!” 

She shuffles through the file again, tugging out another image. This one, though not as poor in quality or lighting, is swarmed with people. Downtown rush just after most people are getting off of work. 

“This is from only a few days ago,” she hurries to explain. “We heard reports of strange noises in the night and increased homeless activity from the local shopkeepers. It was a gamble- a needle in a haystack- but we’ve got it!” 

She points to a spot in the image. It’s so memorized by this point she could probably find it blind, or draw it herself. K squints at her skeptically, before leaning down over the image to inspect it more closely. After a few painfully long seconds of tense silence, she leans back, standing up fully from the desk. 

She brings her glass to her lips, taking a swig, and swirling it around her mouth before swallowing. The hope begins to drain from the room, replaced by a bone-deep chill. 

“K?” 

The woman does not respond. She walks casually around the desk, coming ever closer. Those sharp, perfectly maintained nails reach forward, hooked like talons. They creep across her cheek bone, continuing further to clasp the back of her neck firmly. Her heart races like a frightened rabbit, legs quaking. This close she can see every hair in K’s brows, every makeup clogged pore in her skin. Then K yanks her down under her arm, forcing her to crouch beneath the petite woman’s shoulder. 

“Good job!” She crows, jostling them both as they make their way across the room. “I knew I was right to put you on the job!” 

“Thank you.” She murmurs back out of curtesy. 

They near the windows once more, circling the bulky chair contraption facing them. Apparently satisfied by the movement, K unslings her arm, crouching to tug at some of the straps and metal arms fashioned to the chair. 

“So, I presume with your search area narrowed down to that neighborhood with the shops, you’ve got a plan on how to catch my baby?” 

“Uhm, well-“

“I was all worried over nothing!”

K flashes her a mad grin, ripping a circuit board clean off of her half-formed project. Sweat begins to bead on the back of her neck. There’s a catch to all of this. 

“Well that’s the thing, K,” she forces out between her wobbling lips. “It’s behavior is odd.” 

K freezes at that, sitting back on one knee to stare up at her perplexed. She lifts one brow, mouth screwed sideways. Her posture manages to look huffy and poised at the same time. Taking this as a cue to carry on, she stammers out the rest of her explanation. 

“We have reason to believe it made its way to the same area as that shopping district on the same night it escaped. That would explain the lack of public sightings between here and there, the time of estimated disturbances in the neighborhood, and how it evaded our notice for so long. Because this area is very very far from our labs here. An extraordinary distance to cross in one night on foot, when public transit is so readily available.” 

She pauses, looking for signs that she should stop. There are none. 

“We think it did this on purpose. Went to more trouble than it needed to before resting as a way of deliberately circumventing our search radius. It was just luck that a storm swept away its trail. The problem is, by that logic… it could’ve left the city on foot at any time and been completely untraceable. Yet, the new photo is only a few days old. And considering we’ve found no signs of injury, and prior testing of the subject suggested a fairly advanced control of it’s, ah… enhancements… Well- there’s no good reason for it to be staying in one spot…”

“Unless… ?” K prompts. 

“Unless there’s something it’s there for. Maybe a memory from before it’s time here, or a food source we haven’t considered. Whatever it is, the subject is unlikely to operating alone or unsheltered like we’d assumed. It’ll be at full health, probably more considering our limits on its diet and sleep from before.” 

K takes a moment to ponder this. She pauses in her tinkering, looking up at the ceiling in thought. Then she snaps her gaze back down, drinking the rest of her scotch and slapping the glass to the ground face down. With a graceful heave, she’s standing up. 

“I want all our men to be in that little shopping district from three to midnight this evening.” 

Her tone is harsh, begging no room for question. 

“I’ve got a theory. I think little red has made himself some friends.” 

Shoyo nearly collapsed by the time he got home. The burning ache felt almost as bad as when he was struck, white hot flashes running the length of his legs with every gruesome pedal on his bike. He had to hop down for the last few blocks, dragging his feet and gripping his thighs to force them to move. The way he buckles, lurching into the front door, probably makes him look like a drunkard. 

He takes a moment to gather himself in the entryway, bike haphazardly crammed into the tiny space. It was going to leave clumps of dirt and gravel from the mountain roads on his mom’s favorite doormat, but he can’t bring himself to care. The short trek around the side of the house to chain it up may very well have done him in. So Shoyo props it against the wall, leaning his back up beside it to rest his quaking legs. If he wasn’t scared of never standing again, he would sit down, but he decides not to risk it. 

Heaving a few shaky breaths, Shoyo lets his head clunk against the wall behind him. His arms tremble, prodding and squeezing his quads in an attempt to relieve the pain. It bears marginal improvements. He’d pushed it running around so much without stopping to really clean or inspect the injuries more closely. 

Slowly the flare up of pain dies down, his chest heaving with less out of control force. In its wake he just feels itchy and tight, like someone had saran wrapped his body after rubbing salt all over it. Taking a fortifying suck of air, he reaches for the hem of his shirt, eyes tilted up to avoid looking before he’s ready to. The air feels good on the damaged skin of his waist, goosebumps prickling to life along it. Shoyo fumbles with the clasp of his jeans, knowing he won’t be able to get a good look at the burns above the pantline. Tugging them down on one side to expose the jut of one hip, the curve of one upper thigh, he gathers the courage to look at last. 

The first thing he processes is nausea. Burns are ugly, nasty things, and his are no exception to the rule. Angry red swirls cut across his skin, singed gaps in the wispy hairs that run down his abdomen. Around the edges, and in deep welt-like spots that bloom like spilled water colors, the skin is fully purpled, speckled and raw. It all is criss-crossed by horizontal stretch lines, where the skin shriveled and puckered from the heat of the blast. Worst by far though are the blisters, dotted here and there in clumps of ghoulish white pockmarks. Like the shallow indents of potholes, paved over but already eroding again. 

The next thing he processes is that, pain and ugliness aside, he is definitely healing faster than he should. Just after the blast, when he had curled up in the alley between rental buildings for shelter, his skin had been blistered over like boiling water frozen in place. He could only see streaks of angry red skin bridging the gap between clusters of pustules. Now though, the blisters are small enough to seem almost superficial. If he hadn’t seen them before he would probably just pop them, thinking it would be fine. So if he can just hold on a little while longer, they should clear up on their own in a couple days. Not time to panic yet. 

Letting out a soft chuckle, Shoyo pushes off from the wall. He shuffles to the bathroom, sagging from the drop in adrenaline. Doesn’t even bother with rebuttoning his pants, which hang low on his hips and make him waddle down the hall. He plops down heavily on the edge of their shower-bath combo, the porcelain giving an illusion of moisture with its slick chill on his palms and thighs. With one hand he googles, “electrical burns home remedies,” and with the other he flicks open the medicine cabinet. 

Kageyama doesn’t show up to school the next day. Shoyo knows, because Shoyo can charm anything out of anyone with big enough puppy dog eyes, and it had only taken ten minutes to break Yachi. From there, the classmates she told him about were a lot less resistant. It’s actually sort of concerning how easily they gave out information on the guy. In the span of one frantic morning running about campus, Shoyo had learned that Kageyama really likes listening to music on a set of ancient dilapidated earbuds instead of any other people talking to him, lives alone off campus and thinks nothing is weird with that, glares daggers at anyone who dares to sit in his regular seat, fails every single group project assigned in any course, and is rumored to be a spie collecting data on regular citizens. And that’s just from the people that had anything to say in the first place. Lack of knowledge can be quite telling too. 

“Kageyama?” One particularly confused guy from the first class had asked.

“Yeah, like Kageyama Tobio, Kageyama!” 

“Shit man, I didn’t even know his given name till now. Are you sure he’s in this class?”

So it seemed, much to Shoyo’s chagrin, that his grumpy tutoring buddy planned to do a vanishing act, and just might get away with it based on the uncaring response of his classmates. The guilt of knowing that it is most likely his fault weighs on him. Coupled with the constant pinch of his rapidly healing skin, and Shoyo is downright begging for a distraction. He chugs a cup of flowery herbal tea, a vague memory of his mom using that to get Natsu to sleep as a kid in the back of his mind, and makes a valiant effort to pay attention to his professors. 

Still, all throughout the morning guilt weighs on him. Leave it to Hinata Shoyo to find the one sore spot in a guy like a shark smelling blood. If he doesn’t find a good distraction soon he’ll go insane. So, considering tutoring is unlikely to happen with Yachi unable to get ahold of Kageyama via text and he doesn’t have a shift at the mart to worry about, it looks like Spiderman will make a quicker come-back than he had worried. 

He’s just thinking about how to clean off the suit without anyone seeing him, shoving his books back into his bag, when a throat clears softly next to him. It brings a funny sense of deja vu, as Shoyo turns to see who it is. Takeda stands a desk over, a stack of quiz sheets neatly folded between his hands. There’s a friendly smile ghosting the man’s lips, a little tentative at the corners. For once he hasn’t caught Shoyo making a fool of himself.

“Hinata.” He greets. “You seemed out of it the last few classes.”

It’s more to the point than he normally is with Shoyo. Usually Takeda would want to play wise mentor, let his rambunctious students come to their own conclusions after saying something general about life. Apparently he stopped viewing that as effective with Shoyo, who feels a cold creep of questions rise in his already anxious mind. Did his professor think he was trouble?

“Yeah,” he chuckles, searching the man’s eyes for accusation. “I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Mm… And have you found some balance in that?”

“Well…” 

Shoyo stops to really think about that. No one had asked him something like that yet. Of course they didn’t have any reason to. As far as anyone else was aware Shoyo had plenty of time to cool off between class tutoring and work. Maybe his stagnant social life was alarming for someone as friendly as him, but he texted with Kenma pretty consistently, and had even messaged a few memes back and forth with Yachi. It sounds sad like that, but he’s so busy with Spiderman he doesn’t even notice most days. 

“I don’t know.” He admits.

Takeda tilts his head, searching but not confused. His eyes are kind, soft knit sweater complimenting his soothing personality. 

“Your grades are much better.” He smiles. “Maybe take a break.” 

Well that won’t be happening. 

“Sure!” Shoyo chirps anyway. “Thanks Professor.” 

Then he books it out of the classroom. He has to get home before his mom gets off of work so he can hose down and dry off the suit. 

There’s something making noise. He can’t get the heavy fog around his brain to clear, so it just sounds distant and otherworldly even though it’s coming from the direction of the bedside table. Breathing a deep, weary sigh, Kageyama shoves his face further into the pillow beneath him. If he gets lucky it’ll smother him. The noise, slowly more recognisable as his phone buzzing the further away his unconsciousness is ripped, is more tolerable when he doubles down by piling the blankets over top of his head. 

Eventually the buzzing stops, and his temples relax from the knotted tight ache they’d been stuck in. He softens, letting the stuffy warmth all around him carry him closer and closer to the sweet release of sleep. Then, like a swarm of angry bees, Kageyama’s phone goes off again. It’s the fifth time that morning. 

Giving up on peace, he throws the blankets aside. They fall to the floor in a heap as he pushes up onto his hands to glare at the source of his torture. The little black phone shakes from the incoming call, shifting to the side across the dark brown table after a particularly loud hum. When he flips it over to hang up, he catches sight of the time. Three in the afternoon, and he hasn’t gotten out of bed. A creeping sense of guilt begins to build, though he knows he couldn’t have gone back to school yet. 

Why did he have to meet Hinata of all people? He should have gone to class, had a nice lunch, gone on a walk. Instead he feels like utter shit. There’s crust in his eyes, the kind that pokes the inner corner when he blinks. He can taste stale salt in his mouth. The place behind his face, just inside his skull, feels dull and heavy. The day is more than halfway over and he hasn’t even fucking started it.

Resigning himself to the consequences of his wallowing, Kageyama clicks the green button rather than red, and tucks the cold phone against his shoulder. The line comes alive, silent but loud in the way only electronics are.

“What?” he grouses. 

“Oh, yes! I am doing well! Thanks for asking, oh brother dear.”

Kageyama sighs, sliding up onto his feet. The floor is cold on the bottoms of them, jolting more of his brain online.

“So one of those missed calls was you then?”

“Yuh-huh.” 

Miwa is perkier than him, as always, but she’s still a Kageyama. The way she delivers her sarcasm is brutal. Exaggeratedly dry, so that even their oblivious, emotionally stunted relatives can pick up on the joke. It raises his hackles, but he knows she largely learned how to do it to make him laugh growing up. She’s an amazing sister, though he’ll never tell her. Things are still too complicated between them for that. 

“So,” Miwa continues as he shuffles around in search of clean clothes. “Why did you let it ring? If you were in class it never would’ve gone through.”

Of course she has his schedule memorized. 

“You’re insane, you know that?” He grumbles as he sniff-checks another carelessly crumpled shirt. 

“Mhm!” 

He can hear her kettle go off, the clank of her moving it from stove to counter. It makes his empty stomach growl impatiently. The shirt he tugs on definitely isn’t clean, but it also doesn’t smell so it will have to suffice. 

“I wasn’t in class today.” Kageyama admits. Sometimes it’s better not to resist with Miwa.

“You don’t say.” Miwa hums, audibly busy pouring her drink. “I had a feeling my Tobio-senses weren’t wrong this time. What happened?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead he walks out of his bedroom, blinking from the sunlight filtering through the living room windows. It’s hard to talk to Miwa about these things, and he hates how much she obsesses. Maybe it’s guilt over when they were kids, maybe it’s newfound maternal instincts from getting old. Either way it makes Kageyama defensive. He fared fine on his own so far, why should he get weak and needy now that he’s actually an adult? 

Miwa waits patiently on the other end, but he can practically feel her frustration building. They hadn’t spoken since he brushed her off a few weeks ago over the Tokyo attack. Their parents never responded to her texts about coming home. Even she has started to give up on him again. 

“Tobio.”

The weight of her voice stops him dead in his tracks. He waits in the middle of his apartment like he’s in line for the gallows. Miwa has never sounded so cold towards him.

“I’m not asking again. I get it, I really do. There are things you go through that I will never understand, but there are things I deal with too.” 

The impassive wall he’d been trying to build crumbles in his hands. She doesn’t understand. No one will ever understand. But he’s tired. Tired and scared and clueless what to do. He isn’t sure how to express it other than snapping.

“Miwa Tha-”

“He was my grandfather too.”

Some emotion slips back into her voice at that. Underneath the anger and stoicism she sounds the same she did at sixteen; very young, and very burdened.

“I know you were young- I wish I hadn’t been aware of just how little you were Tobio. It was terrifying!”

The muscles in his lips begin to wobble, but he barely feels it. He clings to every word she says, desperate in the way desert sand begs for water.

“I was young too! And I know- I know why you took it as hard as you did… I know it isn’t easy being… the way you are , but please, Tobio, don’t ice me out. I’m not Mom and Dad. You think it’s hard being alone the way you are? Try keeping your life on track knowing your brother is suffering, and refuses to do anything about it. Try knowing you failed when your family needed you most.”

She pauses, sucking in a deep breath. Clearly her emotions had gotten away from her, her words losing direction. Tobio doesn’t care. He hadn’t realized how much it still hurt her. The guilt she had carried through her own college days, through her life. A hole in his chest opens up. Inside something small and lonely misses its sister. 

“Come over,” he whispers.

“What?” 

“I can’t promise you anything, but I don’t mean to burden you. If it will make you feel better, come over. We can go to a restaurant or something.” 

The line goes deathly silent. Kageyama feels his stomach drop. That wasn’t the right thing to say. She laid herself bare and he asked for more from her like a selfish idiot. He picks at the edge of his fingernail hard enough to draw blood, braced for rejection. After everything he’s too much of a coward to even apologize. Miwa’s shaky breath through the phone cements his misery.

“I can be there in an hour.”

Huh?

“Huh?”

“I’ve got a few dishes, and the train ride takes a bit, but I can be there in about an hour. Maybe hour and a half. Get your ass dressed.” 

Then she hangs up, leaving him standing in shock to the sound of digital beeping. 

Just over an hour later there’s a knock on his door. Damn Miwa’s punctuality. Tobio scrambles to shove the broom he’d been using into the pantry closet, sliding across the clean floors in his house slippers. When he reaches the door he pauses, taking a moment to do one more check of his hair in the mirror. His failed bangs attempt hasn’t grown all the way out, but it now reaches his brows and will hopefully be less noticeable. 

He swings open the door. Miwa stands on the other side in a light jacket with a leather purse tucked under one arm. Her makeup is simple and centered around her eyes, her hair perfectly styled. It’s short and feathered, with meticulously pinned back unnatural curls. The last time she came over it was long. When had it changed? 

“Are you going to greet me, or are we going to pretend to be mimes?” 

One penciled brow raises, and Kageyama feels his ears burn with shame. He probably deserves it. His sister just stares at him blankly. The expression isn’t cold, but rather the unshakable neutrality of someone who both hardly knows you and knows exactly what your baby photos look like. 

“Come in,” he mumbles, shuffling aside hastily. 

Miwa chuckles at that, pushing past to get inside. She wastes no time shucking off her boots and hanging up her purse. Even though Tobio hasn’t kept guest slippers for some time, Miwa acts as though she comes over frequently. As though this is her second home and she just so happens to prefer going in plain socks. Before he can gather his wits and stop wringing his hands by the open door, she disappears into the kitchen where he hears her turn on the sink. So much for being a good host to set her worries at ease. 

He hovers in the entry to the meager kitchen, feeling like an intruder in his own home. At least it doesn’t normally feel like home in the first place. Miwa flicks water off of her newly washed hands, turning the sink back off. She looks more and more like mom these days. The way she struts around in her perfectly cut jeans. Except their mother would never be caught dead in the fun makeup and thin bangles that Miwa dons. She was always more of a business formal type of woman. 

When she spots him Miwa gives him a tight little smile, looking through each cabinet to see what they hold. 

“I know you said a restaurant on the phone, but it’s a bit last second for me to gather myself for small chat with waitresses. Figured you’d be more honest if we cooked something here anyway.” 

“There really isn’t much to cook.” Tobio admits, trying to inch his way between his sister and the fridge lest she find his frozen dinner collection. 

She completely ignores this, bustling past him as if he were still a child instead of a fairly muscular over six foot tall man. He finds himself blinking in shock at her back as she crouches to dig through the bottom shelf, the fridge door flung unceremoniously open. The cool blue light and icy air of the interior make the tiny room feel ghostly. Miwa lets out a muffled victory cry, shoving several bottles of hard cider apart with a clatter to reach the poor neglected stick of butter hidden behind them. 

“Aha!” She cheers, standing back up. “Don’t look at me like that, I brought more ingredients I just forgot the butter.” 

Tobio racks his brain to think of what could be tucked into her purse or under her jacket, wondering what she could possibly have planned to make. As if reading his mind, Miwa reaches past him to grab a cloth shopping bag from the counter next to him. A small collection of produce, spices, and rice sit inside. The broken labels and half full bottles are unmistakable as groceries taken right out of her own supply at home. 

“When did you-“

“When you were panicking about your hair.”

The teasing smirk Miwa flashes at him is the first real smile she’d given so far. It’s subdued, as are all of their faces, but the twinkle in her eye is impossible to miss. 

“Just let me cut it next time.” She says, going serious again. “Now help me chop the veggies.”

Chapter Text

“Tobio?”

The voice is muffled from where Tobio hides, tucked inside the bottom cabinet in the kitchen. He snickers, smug about how long he’s been able to evade losing, but he has the forethought to cup one chubby hand over his mouth so he won’t be heard. Pressing his ear to the thin wood, he listens closely for the sound of footsteps. After a little while of pacing the room, checking the pantry and behind the trash can, the person on the other side leaves the room quiet and empty once more.

Logically, if he wants to win, he should stay put. Clearly this spot works, and Miwa is bound to be tracked down soon with how much bigger she is. So really, he shouldn’t go anywhere. Except his legs ache from being curled up, and his neck cramps from ducking down. He’s the tallest kid in daycare, and he isn’t built for hide and seek.

So, heart racing, he cracks the door to peek out. The obsessively washed shine of his family home’s white laminate kitchen floors is unbroken by any shoes. He can’t see anyone in the hall through the doorway either. It sends a victorious thrill through his heart. There’s enough time to find a comfier spot.

Joints stiff, but recovering fast with youth, Tobio crawls out to crouch by the cabinet he had been inside of. Just as he goes to stand, a throat clears above his head. He gasps, whipping his head back to look. Hovering on a cloud of mist, Kazuyo smiles down on his grandson. His face is trailed with deep grooves, but his posture seems almost entirely unaffected by age- the result of dedicated training.

Tobio can feel his frustration bubble up, embarrassed tears pricking his eyes.

“That’s cheating!” He pouts. “You can’t do that!”

Kazuyo chuckles, floating down and kneeling to be more eye-level. His eyebrows pinch in a mixture of sympathy and amusement at the boy’s indignation.

“Why not? You’re so much younger and smaller than me Tobio, I wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“But! But!”

Tobio struggles to argue, clumsy with words at the best of times. Kazuyo never holds it against him though. His grandfather says that young kids are prone to difficulty speaking, and that there isn’t any shame in it. As such, he is the most talkative with the kind old man.

“But what? Did you assume you would win?”

Tobio frowns at that, not pleased to be called out. It only gets a warm chuckle, a big hand ruffling his hair.

“It’s okay to lose Tobio. It gives you a reason to win next time.”

This calms him down substantially, but the sting still lingers. Unable to help himself, Tobio tries to deny his loss once more, sniffing in a way that would be snooty normally, but just seems petulant on a kid.

“Yeah well, powers are cheating. So it doesn’t matter if I’m young and you’re old and I lost or whatever! Cause mom says I can’t use my powers and it’s unfair, and stuff, so…”

Kazuyo tenses slightly at this, smile straining at the corners. Tobio doesn’t know what it means, but he’s observant for his age, eyes snapping to the motion like a hawk. His grandfather seems to ponder how to respond, taking time to stand back up. Tobio follows, watching how Kazuyo grips the counter for support, puffing a short breath as his knees take the brunt of his body weight. He gets slower every year. Being old must be the worst thing you can be.

“Powers aren’t cheating.” He says finally, voice a soft rasp. “They’re called mutations, and you don’t ask for them. People like us, Tobio, are not just given gifts when we are born this way, but also a burden. Do not let anyone tell you how to carry it.”

“Uhm.”

Tobio isn’t sure what that means, beyond the first half at least. Some of those words he had never heard before. But Kazuyo seems to care a lot, abnormally intense for such a short lecture. So Tobio figures it must be very wise. He files it away for later, when he can parse the true depth of it.

“Okay grandpa.”

“So,” Miwa starts once they’ve settled around Tobio’s tiny dining table. “You skipped class.”

He winces over his plate. It is one thing to commit to opening up to someone. Actually talking about what is bothering you is something else entirely. So Kageyama’s spine locks straight, chills running up and down his arms. Where does he even start? With Kazuyo? Middle school? The Tokyo attack? Hinata?

“Uh… yeah.” He mumbles lamely.

Miwa hums, blowing on her food to cool it off before taking another bite. They’d made curry. The warm scent of spice fills the air, their hands pruned from repeated washing. It was therapeutic, to cook a home meal after so long of not feeling like taking care of himself.

The clatter of chopsticks and sips of water fill the silence. She lets him gather himself, but not mercifully. It is a stubborn patience. The kind that says, ‘I can wait all night,’ rather than, ‘take your time.’

“Is there a reason you skipped? Or was it more of a build up of things?”

Leave it to Miwa to make a distinction so simple that her brother’s agonizing is immediately made foolish.

“There was a reason.” He sighs. “There’s a guy.”

“A guy?”

The strange tone of Miwa’s voice grabs his attention. It should be obvious why people are trouble for Tobio, and he hadn’t even said much yet. He squints at her, trying to parse the meaning of her response. She gazes right back, one eyebrow slightly cocked and mouth pushed out in teasing question. The connection washes over him like cold water.

“No! No. I- We- It is not like that!”

Now the second brow is creeping upwards on his sister’s face, her mouth curving in turn. Her eyes twinkle as she sips her drink to hide the now glaringly obvious smirk. It makes Tobio’s skin boil, an ugly flush no doubt spreading across it. He had completely forgotten Miwa knew he was gay, and failed to consider how that could sound.

“It isn’t!” He insists when she doesn’t respond.

“Mhm?” She goads.

“Yes! He’s an idiot! And he has no tact! And he doesn’t know how to mind his own business!”

Miwa stops looking as smug as before as his voice raises, fading to a subdued simmer beneath the surface. She leans on one hand lazily, food ignored for the time being.

“Okay, so it isn’t like that because he’s an idiot. Why are you holed up at home if you aren’t hiding from big boy feelings?”

Kageyama flashes a warning glare that’s really more of a pout, absentmindedly scooting his food around his plate. He thinks of walking with Hinata the other night. How he had said something so devastating with big clueless innocent eyes, and how whatever fledgeling friendship they were beginning to form was stomped out in that moment. It’s shameful how Kageyama had reacted, falling back on threats and aggression just like before. If Hinata didn’t see him as less for being a mutant, then he surely would for that.

It must show on his face, because all traces of humor drop from Miwa’s. She drops her hand, sitting up with her hackles raised.

“Did he say something to you?”

“We-”

“Because I will take this to the university, Tobio. There are rules against that type of overt hate speech in the code of conduct, it doesn’t matter if the school is progressive or not.”

“That’s not it.” He manages to cut in before she can get going.

The concern is flattering, but a familiar defensiveness looms just beneath his gratitude. The delicious scent of the curry curdles in his nose, stomach losing appetite.

“He didn’t come after me or anything.” Kageyama mutters.

“But he knows… doesn’t he?”

Miwa’s voice is hard and searching. When he glances up to make eye contact, her gaze is the same. Worry pinches her drained skin, jaw working little circles as her teeth grind.

“He- yes.”

They sit with it for some time. Miwa stares at the table, going through the crisis he had been having all night and day. After though, she exhales slowly through her nose. The tension stays, but lessons greatly, carried by the thin stream of breath. Kageyama watches light dancing in her glass of water, traces the droplets of condensation inching down the outside of it. He hasn’t the faintest clue what she is thinking.

“Are you safe with him? Will he tell people?”

“Will it happen again?” she doesn’t ask. She doesn’t have to, they’re both thinking it. So Tobio thinks about it carefully, rolling over the details he’d been trying not to process. Hinata Shoyo was clearly an idiot. The kind of oblivious that could be dangerous, with an unhealthy degree of optimism. But he was also strangely secretive. His inexplicable imperviousness to Tobio’s powers and constant question dodging is evidence enough of that. So if he’d truly meant it when he said he would not tell anyone else…

“I’m safe with him.” Kageyama finally answers.

Miwa deflates in relief, letting out a breathy laugh.

“Woah! I thought I would have to get you out of town for a moment! The face you were making…”

Tobio sighs a humorless chuckle of his own. He forces water down his dry throat, rubs at his eyes. It wiggles his contacts, and he has to blink them back into place. The motion draws Miwa’s notice.

“You can take those off if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

“I’d rather not.” Tobio rasps.

He can tell she isn’t pleased, but Miwa lets it drop. Kageyama was being more honest than he had been in years, that would have to be enough for tonight.

“So who is this guy?” She asks after a moment. “You wouldn’t tell him willingly, and if he’s an idiot I’m not convinced he puzzled it out.”

How to describe Hinata? They weren’t really friends, but then, somehow the little freak now knew more about Tobio than anyone else in his day to day life. He was sort of like a piece of pencil lead, stuck under the skin so deep that new layers just grew over top. It’s more trouble to dig it out than to just leave it.

“His name is Hinata.” Is all Kageyama can think to say.

“That’s a sweet name.” Miwa comments, clearly fishing for some positivity.

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow, a mirror of her earlier expression. It makes her duck her head, hand flapping next to it in a dismissive motion. They snicker, eating in earnest between words once more. Tobio uses the quiet to find his words.

“We met in tutoring.”

“Tutoring? Are you helping him?”

“Ah- no.” A faint blush rises on his cheeks, cranky pout forcing its way to the surface. “We’re both being tutored.”

Miwa sits up a bit, hands spread in lighthearted offence.

“Wha? I thought you were all academic now! With your history major and your fancy internship! Are you regressing?”

That last comment makes him choke, dribbling water over his food. He coughs, stuffing his napkin over his chin while pounding at his chest with the other hand. Just when he gets comfortable she has to take the opportunity to mess with him! She can’t even hide it, eyes creased despite her flat mouth, though she waits patiently for him to recover.

“I’m not regressing!” He hisses. “I do just fine in my history classes! The prereqs are just stupid!”

Miwa doesn’t react, unflinching in face of his outburst. When they were kids she used to rile him up like this so that he would take the blame for their fights. In adulthood it seems to be more of a stubborn habit. Something she knows how to do with him, when talking is so tense otherwize. He won’t admit it, but he finds comfort in it too. Answering her questions has been exhausting, bickering he can do.

“So, Hinata from tutoring?” Miwa prompts once oxygen has returned to her brother’s brain.

“Yeah,” He continues, though a tad more bashful than before. “We don’t really get along. I’m pretty sure he hated me at first, but he seemed to warm up more recently. I don’t know why, I was nice from the start.”

Miwa’s face screws up in disbelief at that final comment, but she moves on anyway.

“So what happened? Did he look up our family and just assume?”

“No. It’s, well…”

This is the ridiculous part. The shame rears its head again.

“It’s my fault.” Tobio mumbles as quietly as he can.

Miwa leans forward, turning her head so one ear points right at him.

“Huh?”

It bursts out of him like a geyser, voice raised to a near shout as he pinches his eyes shut in embarrassment.

“It’s my fault! I thought he was a mutant too and I asked him about it like an idiot! He never would have known! I just had to open my stupid mouth!”

Miwa blinks, wide eyed at his tone, but surges on despite it.

“What did he say? What did you say?”

“He just stopped walking all the sudden and got all- ‘You’re a mutant Kageyama!’”

He isn’t good at impressions, but he tries anyway, voice cracking as he mimics the squeaky sound of Hinata. Miwa nods, waving him on, unsatisfied with his poor explanation. Tobio scrambles to make sense of his mind, his memories.

“I had been trying to ask about his immunity to my powers, but I got so startled I totally forgot. I just got mad and ran off. So then-”

“Wait!” Miwa cuts in. “Immunity to your powers? How is that possible? Did you try to throw him or something?”

His throat catches, voice trapped in his chest. Tobio feels his heart stop, then rattle to life gradually, pounding like the pistons of an engine. How was that possible?

“He-” He looks into his sister’s eyes, utterly lost.

Her eyes are blue, the kind his should’ve been. They’re the same color as his contacts, identical from a distance, but you can’t replicate how light hits natural color. Like layers of it glow, cavernous weaving branches of pigments refracting the sun in a thousand shades. Hers are wide open, just as confused as his.

“I think you need to keep an eye on this guy, Tobio.”

“Yeah,” He chokes. “I think so too.”

Tendo almost never goes outside anymore. Iwaizumi had been too generous letting him stay, the least he can do is follow the man’s rules. If anyone traces him back to the house, he’s out. It’s a fair ask. With the police being ineffective against K, all he can do is run. That’s the life he is rewarded for his stupidity.

Maybe desperation rather than stupidity, but is the difference all that important when the results are the same? Either way, he doesn’t care. He’ll keep scraping whatever freedom he can. No one will ever change him again.

He’s taking a late night stroll. It’s his first time outside in three days, and the crisp air cools his skin like water drying. Who could’ve guessed he would crave the outdoors so much? He spent the last five years inside, one would think he would be used to it by now. He really, really isn’t though.

Tendo burns with the desire to feel and see and touch everything he can. He revels in the dingy smell of the city, laps up the smudged neon lights like fine wine. Hunger, of many forms, purrs in his belly, a demanding emaciated animal waiting to see the light for itself. Tendo holds it in, lets the shivering hum race up and down his limbs. It isn’t just him anymore. If he wants to protect his friends, then he’ll need to pick his meals carefully.

Speaking of meals, someone is following him. Someones to be more accurate. As he strolls further and further away from the main roads, the cameras, the prying eyes, he listens for them. The night is beautiful and young. Artificial stars dazzle, a chorus of activity hovers on the walls and windows of every building. Far above it, clouds swirl in hypnotic swaths of grey. Tendo loves the outdoors. He especially loves how much room there is.

Making sure there aren’t any high up perches for back up to fire down on him from above, he turns himself down a dead end. He’ll look like the perfect prey there. The quiet crackle of earbud radios and the thump of heartbeats creep closer. It’s too easy to reach inside himself. He has more to protect than himself now. Maybe his pursuers wouldn’t try it if they knew.

Over his shoulder, someone clicks the safety of a gun, blood pounding erratically like a cornered rabbit. Tendo pretends not to hear, staring at the bricks climbing high in front of him.

“Turn around slowly.” A gruff voice calls.

Something inside of Tendo rears back, howling and clawing at the familiar sound. It’s dirty shoes. Always tracked mud on his patrols, the dull black curve of his boots visible through the slit they used to slip Tendo dinner through. He always kicked the door to scare him.

Breath turning to puffs of mist, Tendo obliges. He brings his hands up for good measure, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. They’re chapped and chewed, little crescent moons of iron that spark on his tongue and the backs of his teeth. Three men stand at the end of the alley, the long black snouts of tranq guns quivering in their grasps. They’re in street clothes, dark and unremarkable. Men for hire that will take gut twisting jobs for their pay. Maybe they have good reasons to, maybe they’re desperate. Still, the difference between desperation and stupidity isn’t all that important.

Tendo feels no pity as he watches them inch towards him. Not as he wraps around the cord in his mind. Mutants describe it as a muscle or a neuron, the pull coming to them the same way quirking an eyebrow or flexing your tendons does to normal people. Tendo’s is more like a trigger, an impulse that he holds back at all hours of the day. Yanking on it feels more like letting go than grabbing on.

His spine lurches over, body convulsing out of his control. The men’s eyes go wide, heartbeats stuttering. Dirty shoes shakes the initial fear, raising his weapon with cold determination as Tendo’s skin melts off the bone.

“Fire!” He shouts.

It’s pointless through the wild thrashing of Tendo’s senses. The night turns day, blazing bright and flowing in and out of focus. He tastes the city, the smoke, the grit. Numbness trades places with overstimulation, twirling around each other in a tediously crafted dance, as his muscles rip and his face contorts. Every piece of Tendo’s body falls apart into a gory pile upon the asphalt. He hears himself screaming, but can’t feel his throat flexing. The prick of needles and pulse of venom is unnoticeable beneath.

He doesn’t see anymore, doesn’t think in the present. All there is is the iron on his lips, it’s lips, the roaring hunger in his core. Lying on the ground, his sides heave from each breath he takes. They’re deep and rough, carving the air in snuffing wheezes. The alley is small for him, head and tail tucked inward to fit on the slick ground. Why is it slick?

There’s echoing crunches of footsteps bashing his skull, coming from all around ever closer. He can taste himself, feel the sick wet on his reformed skin. Eyes spinning in his skull for explanation of where he is, what is happening, he sees the glimmering shine of scales. They’re like rubies, leaving his head reeling once more, and there’s that smell again. On his tongue, on the wet, on the air and the sky. It comes from the footsteps too, three drumbeats leaving wakes of the smell. It’s earthen and thick, drawing all of his focus, and it’s red, red, red.

He hears screaming again, louder now and layered. The world turns crimson, his mouth is drowned in it. The hunger goes quiet, bit by bit, until it stops hurting altogether. The city smells of grit, it smells of smoke, it smells of blood. He swims in it, and when it ends all too soon, he runs until it comes from every direction. Little ripples of the smell come from ticking hearts inside buildings and cars, under bridges, in the parks. He lets all of it flow through him, eye’s shut and nostrils wide. This, the sating of the self and taking of desires in the cold light of the stars, this is evolution. He is evolution.

Kageyama stares at the sidewalk, the concrete turned orange by the setting sun as he walks his sister to the train home. They haven’t spoken since slipping their shoes back on in his apartment. Instead their ears are filled with the chirp of birdsong, buzz of insects, rumble of occasional cars, and scuff of other people’s footsteps. He likes it. When he jogs he always plays music, so the voice of his town is a pleasant surprise each time.

By the time they reach the entry to the station, the sun has dipped low enough that a magenta haze hangs over everything. It makes Miwa’s mascara look purple, her hair even darker than it already is. She’s designed for the lowlight, the bustle of a big city after dark. Kageyama can’t keep up.

She smiles at him, pausing before crossing the threshold. Her coat is tugged up high around her neck to chase off the rapidly cooling air, and her posture makes the new crinkles next to her eyes stand out starkly. She had said she was considering kids with her career being so successful. Such monumental news was a blip on the long conversation they had had.

Kageyama feels sore, and he thinks she does too. Her eyes are misty, smile tainted by emotions leaking from the wounds they’d inflicted on each other tonight. But the bleed is a necessary one. The removal of shrapnel, and release of pressure.

Her hand comes up to cup his face, brush his bangs. She makes no move to fix anything. Not to smudge the residue of food he is always left with after a meal, not to restyle the hair she had teased just hours before. She just touches for a moment, studies him like she may forget his face. With an unpleasant curl in his stomach, he remembers how shocked he had been by the changes in her appearance earlier. Maybe she would forget his face.

“Thank you,” she whispers, pinching his nose playfully before stepping out of his space. “I know this wasn’t easy for your emotionally constipated ass.”

He doesn’t have the energy to rise to her barbs, and the sincerity of her tone lightens the blow. So Kageyama just pouts, glaring down at her halfheartedly.

“Thank you.” He rebuffs.

He doesn’t explain what for. Miwa’s smile relaxes anyway. She exhales slowly, adjusting her grip on her purse as she turns to go. It makes Tobio’s body jerk, desperate for more guidance. To know what to do, to have a few more minutes of honesty, to say properly how grateful he is.

Her back grows smaller, a grey line between the colorful cars parked outside the station. Not really sure what is possessing him, Tobio feels his feet begin to jog across the pavement after her.

“Miwa!” He shouts.

She freezes, glancing back confused. Her makeup is smudged, and she looks the same as she did at sixteen. He looks down at her, as he had then, but he remembers how much closer their heights used to be. How she had seemed so tall and wise when he was little.

“I don’t blame you.” He rasps, throat trying to constrict around the truth. It’s as if he physically cannot handle being honest about so many things in one day.

“I don’t blame you.” He repeats.

She blinks at him, eyebrows pinched, tears welling. He curses his damn stupidity, his life, their parents.

“When Kazuyo died, I-“

The sound chokes off, his chest heaving far shallower breaths than a short jog should prompt. Miwa just stares, frozen silent.

“I was alone.” He finally says, dropping his gaze to his shoes in fear. One has a stain from stepping in a puddle by accident, the cream stripe on the side turned light brown.

“I lost the only person who knew what it was like to have… to be a mutant. And you know it went with school.”

He gulps, remembering how the other kids had looked at him back then. How it had been a deadly mix of unfair prejudice and his own mistakes. He can hear Miwa hold her breath, maybe recalling the very same events.

“But…” he continues. “I would’ve left too if I were you. It was miserable in that house, without him. You didn’t ask for our grandfather to die the way he did. You didn’t… ask for me to be born the way I am.”

He chances a peek at her face again as he speaks. A lump forms in his throat at her expression. Silent tears track down her cheeks, perfectly stoic otherwise.

“It’s not your fault, and I’m sorry I’ve held back from you so long. I didn’t blame you, I was just… scared.”

At that she finally breaks, face crumpling under her sniffles. He watches awkwardly as she rubs the heels of her hands beneath her eyes, blinking rapidly to stop the leaking. She blows her mouth in a weary sigh, looking up at him with a twisted frown. Then she nods curtly, once, twice, and her tears begin to dry.

“Was that the wrong thing to say?” He murmurs, shifting back and forth on his heels.

“No,” Miwa croaks, a humorless chuckle following. “No, I needed that. Wish you could’ve said it earlier instead of when I’m about to go sit in a crowded train, but I’ll make do.”

The sun is little more than a golden ribbon at the bottom of the sky. Miwa hugs him, short and hard. Her back gets smaller. Tobio thinks about home, and all he can picture is her walking in front of him through the door of their grandfather’s room, her tiny backpack catching the light with its glittery decals.

“I needed that too.” He says to no one.

He doesn’t put his earbuds back in as he starts the walk back home. Whether from the dread he feels at the thought of being alone, the more uphill curve of the streets in this direction, or the cramping weight of starlight over an ugly day, it seems impossibly longer than it had with Miwa. He barely registers his surroundings, doesn’t even consider jogging to make up for the loss of routine. It’s just him and the dark, the calluses on his feet.

Maybe he was paying too little attention. He should have noticed the uptick in traffic, people getting off of the closing shift. The laughter and chatter from distant streets should have made his nerves prick on edge. Nightlife was nonexistent around here, and yet the city was alive with something.

But Kageyama doesn’t pick up on any of it. He flicks his eyes lazily, not really looking where he’s going. With how much he runs, his poor sense of direction is completely overridden. Even blindfolded he could get home, why think so hard when he’s already so drained?

Mind and vision a shadowed blur, he drags numb feet to the crosswalk at the end of the block. The red pedestrian light blinks off, and he slumps into the road. He doesn’t hear the squeak of failing breaks until he’s a few strides out, the blinding headlights of a bus burning the side of his face. Kageyama snaps alert, turning to the side where the looming vehicle is shadowed by its own glow.

“Oh fuck.”

He flinches, eyes squeezing shut and body uselessly bracing.

He hits the ground, wind knocked from his chest in a punching swoop and ears ringing from the monstrous blare of the bus’s horn. So this is where he dies. Kageyama holds tense. Waits for the pain to sink in, his consciousness to fade. It takes an oddly long amount of time. Surely he should feel the blood from his scrapes by now? Instead, all he feels is warm. The only change he can process is the slow recovery of his hearing.

“…kay?” A voice swims into focus.

He groans, rolling over on the concrete. The warmth recedes, little ghostly patches of it clinging on his arms and chest. What the hell happened? And why does he feel motion sick?

“Hey! Answer me dude! I'm getting nervous!”

The voice is familiar, dipping in and out of gruffness and something else, something truer. He cracks his eyes open, peeved at how disoriented he feels. There’s someone kneeling over him, silhouetted by the silver moon behind them.

“What the fuck?” He grumbles.

“Oh thank goodness.” The stranger huffs, tilting back a bit in relief.

It’s then that he catches the light, and Kageyama’s heart stops. He’s cloaked in a dark navy that blends into the night, bright lines of neon orange draped across it in corny flamboyance. Spiderman crouches by his side, face cradled in his hands like a tired parent.

Kageyama lurches back, scooting on his ass as he sits up properly. Please not right now! Any other time! The sound draws the hero’s attention, his eye lenses flexing as he looks up at Kageyama. When he sees the hasty escape, he jumps to his feet, hands waving in a placating gesture.

“WAIT!” He squeaks. “I mean- wait!”

Kageyama ignores him, turning to clamber to his feet and run. Instead of the street however, he’s met with the sudden edge of the ground, open air beneath his rapidly tilting body.

Oh shit, this is a roof!

He tries to stop his half-run-half-crawl, but momentum takes control, and he dips forward dangerously.

He cries out, hands flailing uselessly in front of him. For the second time in a concerningly short amount of time, he shuts his eyes and prays. The sweeping rush of his fall is abruptly cut off, something catching the back of his shirt.

Kageyama feels the fight drain out of him, breathing ragged, as he is pulled gently back and to his feet. It isn’t comforting. The hand that softly clutches the fabric at his back belongs to an idiot, the person that hovers behind him worriedly is against everything he stands for. He feels that little bit of sanity left in him fizzle out.

“Are you alright si-“

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Kageyama explodes.

He whirls on Spiderman, stalking towards the unfortunate fool that stumbled upon him at his lowest. The man falls back, the lenses on his face bugging wide.

“Excuse me?” He asks, clearly offended.

“You heard me!” Kageyama shouts. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Why are you even out here!”

“I’m helping people!” The vigilante cries, stunned. He throws his arms wide in bafflement, planting his feet so Kageyama can’t crowd him further back.

“Oh please!” Kageyama scoffs, rolling his eyes.

He isn’t being fair, and he knows it. Still, the idea that a vigilante would be doing this for anything other than validation is ridiculous. They’re all naive kids that end up in the obituaries, encouraging other young mutants to follow them blind.

“I just saved your life!” Spiderman shouts, voice fully overcome with anger as the shock of Kageyama’s reaction wears down.

He doesn’t get it. No one ever fucking gets it. It’s not about good deeds, the whole mindset is sick. He’s sick of it. He’s sick with it. It’s happening again, it always happens again.

“You’re injured!” Tobio cries, voice cracking as he drops his hands in defeat. “I saw!”

Spiderman, who had just sucked in a breath to keep arguing, freezes. He cocks his head, eyeless gaze boring into the other man. Kageyama sees, just as he had when the guy had shown up in his neighborhood, just how small and young the vigilante really is.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” Tobio says. “So you stopped me from getting hit by that bus? It’s my fault for not looking. What if you were too slow? What if you got hit? Nine out of ten times the result is the same; some dumbass ends up hospitalized.”

He pauses, caught off guard by the feeling of wet trails on his face. This is humiliating. The vigilante just stares, ugly outfit reflecting the moonlight as clouds drift high above.

Of course everything has to catch up to him in front of a stranger. Tobio shakes like a leaf, desperately trying to bite back his emotions, but they just keep flowing. He can’t keep pretending it doesn’t affect him anymore.

“Are you…” Spiderman starts, dropping that stupid manly voice he puts on. “Worried about me?”

Kageyama feels his face twist, something ugly snarling to the surface.

“It’s been a long night, not everything is about you!” He hisses.

Spiderman doesn’t flinch.

“Sorry.”

That twists the knife. Here he is, breaking down and lashing out in front of a vigilante of all people. What has his life become?

“No- I-“ Tobio struggles to find the words.

He gives up, sighing. The tears are slowing down, his adrenaline wearing thin. All that’s left is a bone-deep exhaustion. He wants to go to bed. The issue of his mutation, and his family, and his loneliness, and Hinata, and school, and superheroes can wait until tomorrow. He should ask to be put back on the sidewalk.

“How are you healing?” He asks instead.

For a moment he thinks the hero won’t respond. Then he watches, awestruck, as a fear he hadn’t noticed drains out of the man’s body. Broad shoulders lower just slightly, head perking up and feet rocking back casually.

“Good!” He chirps, though his voice shakes with nerves. “I heal faster than normal people.”

Tobio hums, looking out off the roof to the street below. It’s quiet, but more cars than normal still roll past like a sea of metallic fish. His mind feels similar, shiny and swaying and completely incomprehensible.

“Hey.”

Spiderman speaks so softly, voice coming from closer than before. Tobio turns, head foggy, to find the other man standing right next to him. It should be uncomfortable. For some reason it feels like it isn’t the first time.

“Let me walk you home.” He offers. “It’s faster over the roofs.”

Kageyama looks out once more, soaking in the sounds and colors of his home. He doesn’t have the brain power to fight.

“It better be.” He mumbles.

Tendo drags himself home, quaking and sick. His stomach rolls, the thick taste of iron on his tongue, his teeth, his nose. It makes him nauseous, and he has to stagger into the bushes of a random townhouse to puke up bile. It doesn’t get rid of the guilt, or the sadistic glee.

His body thrums, electric. It’s good, really good. So much so that the pain in his skin is little more than a spur, the iron chasing away the flavor of sick and leaving him burning once more. No getting away from it, he might as well stop fighting.

So he keeps moving, and he doesn’t let himself feel bad for letting go. They had it coming, it was self defense. He has to do whatever it takes to keep the tiny piece of life he’s snagged. If he had to devour every last person in that horrible building to live free again, then he would.

Wakatoshi’s car is in the driveway when he gets back. Perfect, he doesn’t want to be alone. He slips inside, dropping his shoes by the front door silently. The darkness makes the house look heightened, shadows pulled into long twisting shapes that trick the mind. He follows them up the thin staircase, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard when he tip-toes past Iwaizumi’s door.

There’s a weak light at the crack of Wakatoshi’s door. It must be from the lamp on his desk. A mixture of excitement and concern bubbles in Tendo’s heart. The excitement twins with his adrenaline to overcome his reservations, hand flying to the knob to creep inside.

When he opens the door he is met with one of the most beautiful sights in the world. Wakatoshi’s neat, perfect room, with the man of the hour himself sat at his desk reading a book. It’s one of those funny catalogues, the kind that just lists types of birds or something, in as straightforward of a way as possible.

Wakatoshi is gorgeous. The way he absentmindedly tugs his earlobe, and furrows his brows in concentration. His fascination with bullet-point style information, and meticulous nature. He’s kind and simple and easy to tease. Tendo might love him.

He shuts the door behind himself, the click alerting Wakatoshi to his presence. The other man turns in his wheeled chair, eyes searching. It hits Tendo then that he had waited up for him. His heart rate pounds even faster somehow, grin stretching wide on his face. He probably looks insane.

But Wakatoshi looks nothing short of thrilled. He puts his book aside, standing to greet Tendo. The motion is stopped halfway, their bodies colliding as Tendo slams him into an eager hug. It is returned with vigor, strong arms coming up to cling at him.

“I was worried.” Wakatoshi rumbles.

Tendo feels a bird-like cooing in his chest, squeezing tighter.

“I’m not gonna to let anything happen.” He whispers back.

He feels Wakatoshi pull back slightly and follows suit, staring back at the stern eye contact he is met with. It riles him however, a wildfire still raging beneath the surface. And Wakatoshi is so wonderful and warm and alive. He has a friend. It makes something strange build within him.

Thick brows tense, eyes sweeping Tendo’s blown wide pupils and trembling body.

“Why are you agitated?” Wakatoshi asks.

Tendo hums, musing it over as he lets the buzz roll through him. Why is he agitated? He hated pulling back from the hug. That must be it. He wants to be close, to be human, to have Wakatoshi nearer.

He reaches out, looping his fingers around the other’s wrists loosely between them. The room is blurry, his brain still spinning. All he can think about is how nice it had felt to be held. Not really thinking, Tendo leans in just slightly.

“Satori?” Wakatoshi murmurs, color rising on his cheeks. “Are you inebriated?”

“No.” Tendo giggles.

Wakatoshi’s eyes twitch, his mouth curving in a barely there smile and his hands sliding up to intertwine with Tendo’s.

“Can I kiss you?” He mutters.

Tendo doesn’t give him an answer. He surges forward, pressing his lips hard against the other man’s. Wakatoshi is clearly inexperienced, and Tendo is as rusty as you can be, but it doesn’t matter. They make up for their lack of skill with eagerness, Tendo cackling as their teeth clash and their lips are bruised.

As the strange energy Tendo had felt dies down, he realizes what it had been. He pushes, backing Wakatoshi up until they tumble to the bed in a clumsy heap. The meal hadn’t been enough, he was still hungry.

Of fucking course the roofs are faster. Kageyama shuffles along, barely cognizant, but aware enough to hold onto the necessary spite to pretend it isn’t a convenient method of transportation. He keeps his eyes locked straight ahead, teeth grinding and eyes throbbing. When Spiderman reaches out, helping him across the gaps in buildings, he snatches his hand back viciously the second his feet are stable again.

“So,” the asshole dares to venture despite Kageyama’s outburst before. “Seems like you were having a bad night before that bus almost hit you…”

Kageyama bristles, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stomps across the ma and pa shops lining downtown.

“Someone’s observant.” He grits.

It should shut the guy up, but he has the gall to snicker. The poorly repressed sound echoes awkwardly in the night. What was wrong with this dude?

They fall into quiet again, though Kageyama can tell it won’t last. As he soaks in the glitter of occasional street lights and distant slopes of trees heading up the mountains, he can see a twitchy outline hovering in his peripheral. Spiderman flutters about, the grinding gears in his brain audible. A weary sigh pulls from between Kageyama’s lips.

“I met up with my sister.” He grouches. “Talked about some heavy shit so I’m a little irritated, okay?”

“Oh!” Spiderman chirps.

He fidgets, like that wasn’t the answer he had expected, toying his fingers. The mask does nothing to hide his expressions, beating heart sewn right to the sleeve. If they had met on better terms, as normal people, he would be charming. With the anxious prodding and audacity, he’d probably get along with Hinata. Then Kageyama would have two dumbasses to corral.

“Is that… all?” He pokes.

Kageyama feels his stomach churn. Of course that isn’t all! Didn’t this guy know a dismissal when he’s given one? What on Earth is Kageyama supposed to say to that? ‘No, you just are a trigger of my worst childhood trauma and I got outed as a mutant last night!’

The tops of the roofs grow further and further apart as they enter the residential area, and Kageyama realizes with growing displeasure that he will need to be either helped down or across them from this point on. He glares at the creamy concrete and earthy shingles, slowing his steps to a crawl. Spiderman follows suit, still wringing his hands and jittery.

The hero steps in line with Kageyama, toes at the edge of the building they stand on. It’s two stories, but sheer on either side. There’s no safe way to climb down for him unassisted. He pivots, locking his glare onto Spiderman.

The guy is deceptively short. The suit accentuates his muscles so much that he looks bigger from below. But on level ground he looks pitiful, wide eye lenses heightening the puppy dog effect of him tilting back to make eye contact. He waits for Kageyama to make the call.

Taking one more longing glance at the ground, Kageyama steels himself. Only five gaps until his apartment. He squints at Spiderman, looking him up and down critically. Then he points at the roof of his building.

“You see that one?”

Spiderman startles, but nods.

“That’s my place. Third window back on the third floor. Get me there.”

For a moment there’s no response, then Spiderman jumps in place as if shaking himself awake.

“Cool, cool, cool!”

He bobs his head aggressively, bowing slightly as he steps even further to the edge. His heels hang off, turning to face Kageyama where he now blocks him from the side of the building.

“I can do that.”

The movement makes reflections dazzle the threaded pattern of his suit’s fabric. It sort of looks like water cascades down his front for a moment, made obvious by their sudden proximity. When small hands come up, hanging in offering between them, Kageyama finds himself tracing the subtle flex of the hero’s arms.

If only he weren’t a super. It would be nice if it were just a beautiful stranger standing before Kageyama, nothing less, nothing more. Then he could focus on struggling through conversation, on making a new friend.

Instead he stares blankly down into the waiting arms of Spiderman, and finds himself, horrifyingly, wondering if he’s as pretty underneath the mask as Kageyama thinks he is. It makes panicked shame flash through him.

“I could push you off right now.” He blurts.

Spiderman’s shoulders quake with silent laughter, his hands gesturing again to be grabbed.

“You won’t.”

Kageyama must be more tired than he thought, because flint to steel, those measly two words have him wanting to talk back rather than clam up. He leans forward just slightly, forcing the vigilante to lean back precariously over the drop. Spiderman doesn’t give an inch, seemingly very confident in his claim.

“How do you know that?” Kageyama whispers, tone dangerously low.

They hover for a few beats, the air solidifying around them. Kageyama can see himself in the lenses of the suit. He can see the way the fabric lightens as Spiderman breathes, fibers stretching apart to reveal pale elastic with each expansion of his chest.

Finally he answers, voice small and breathless.

“I don’t know. But I trust you.”

It’s a sucker punch, a gaping shot. Kageyama blanches, then flushes bright red in barely an instant. He feels like any moment a camera crew will come out to tell him it’s all some big prank, because surely, most definitely, his life wouldn’t give him the reassurance he’s been starved of from the person who’s been tormenting his sense of peace. And even more so, surely it can’t be true.

He scowls, lip almost curling with malice, searching for signs of trickery, but Spiderman just waits. He stays patiently close with his arms still outstretched. Now, more than duped, Kageyama feels outplayed. Which is inarguably worse.

So he lets go of his inhibitions for the sake of victory, harshly grasping the hero’s forearms. His hold prompts a shocked and perhaps fearful jerk of Spiderman’s head, and Kageyama can’t help but laugh. No doubt a smug ass smirk just dropped under the mask.

He leans even further over the other, looming like the man’s own elongated shadow.

“Alright then,” he grins. “Hope you remember the window.”

And with that he tilts forward, falling into Spiderman’s waiting arms and sending them tumbling back.

Was it really worth it to risk death to teach some loser a lesson? Ask Kageyama when his life is worth living.

Third time really must be the charm, because he keeps his eyes open this time. For one blinding second the world turns to dark grey concrete hurtling ever closer. Then the arms, which had loosely looped his back out of instinct, drew tight, one flinging out to the side.

It’s like a cartoon, the snap of their momentum stopping its downward pull, then the sweeping arch of a pendulum. Kageyama only gets a moment to take in the wind fluttering his bangs, the drop of his stomach, the firm heat of a body against his own, before his feet are dragging uselessly across another rooftop while Spiderman holds him upright.

It’s magical really. He’s a kid again out of the blue, begging to be pushed on the swings with his heart in his throat. The feeling of one-upping somebody buoys his mood, providing temporary reprieve.

“Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap, holy crap!” Spiderman babbles somewhere near his ear, arms in a vice lock around Kageyama.

He’s shaking with adrenaline, fingers releasing Kageyama’s shirt numbly once they’re both standing up. With a quiet awe, Kageyama notices they’re on his apartment, his living room window right below the ledge they perch on.

“What the- why would- DO YOU WANT TO DIE?” Spiderman explodes, arms flailing wildly.

Kageyama opens his mouth to respond, something cruel and snarky on his tongue, but he’s cut off by a gloved hand shoved into his face.

“Don’t answer that!”

Kageyama opens his mouth to argue, maybe bite the hand that presses over his mouth. Before he can however, it shifts. Thin material, heated from within by the body inside, slides quick as lightning down his jaw and around his neck. With a startled growl he’s being pulled down by the elbow hooked behind his head, another crooked across his shoulders.

It’s a suffocating hug, pleasant the way crowded clubs can be despite the typical misery of a crowd. The arms around him, though corded with muscle, could not possibly be as strong as they are. Kageyama is forced to stoop, unable to fight the heavy drag. Even if he could he wouldn’t though, or at least it’s a convenient excuse to stay still.

Spiderman shivers against him, face pressed so hard against his neck that he’ll probably have pressure marks in the shape of the lenses. It doesn’t make sense. Kageyama can’t remember anyone being so unpromptedly affectionate with him, even when he was a cute little kid. So he just gapes at the rooflines over Spiderman’s shoulder, hands hovering, afraid to touch.

Spiderman speaks, nasally with emotion and muffled by Kageyama.

“I’m sorry.”

He makes a funny noise. Kageyama realizes, heart plummeting, that it’s sniffling.

“Whatever you’re going through, I’m sorry.”

“Uhhh…”

Kageyama pats his back, too taken off guard to muster up enough venom to bite back. He should be shouting at the uncomfortable display. Instead he lets it happen like a rolled over dog. Guess he’ll be calling Miwa way fucking sooner than he thought for a follow up chat.

“Thanks…”

Spiderman squeezes harder- how is that even possible?- and then he’s gone, zipping into the night like a phantom, throwing his hasty farewell from across the street.

“I’m gonna check on you soon!”

Kageyama slips into his window in a trance, after spending a solid fifteen minutes glaring gobsmacked where the vigilante had been standing. His hands open and close like they should be holding something. He slips his phone out, intending to ramble to Miwa, as he stumbles through his empty apartment.

The billow of his curtains and chill of his wood floors does nothing to ground him. He blinks unseeingly at his contacts. A clumsy thumb goes to click Miwa’s profile, but he freezes just millimeters before clicking. She already did so much for him today, and it had clearly taken its toll. But he had promised not to bottle things anymore…

Without really thinking, he scrolls and slams a finger down on another contact. One he had never dialed before. The drone of the line ringing is a death toll. After four rings he goes to hang up, the click of the call going through beating him. He stares in horror as the time of the call begins to count up from zero. After a while a tentative voice breaches the silence.

“H-hello?…. Kageyama?”

He yanks the phone against his ear in a rush, heart rate steadily climbing.

“I’m here.”

“Oh! What’s up? Why weren’t you a-“

“I think I just accidentally befriended Spiderman.”

There’s another long stretch of static, though the tense bafflement is palpable. He calls out again, a bit calmer, and very sheepish.

“Yachi?”

“Hold on, I need to sit down for this.”

The blue light of K’s computer monitor paints her in haunting sharp relief. She stares, wide and unblinking into it. She clicks play again, and the video restarts. There’s heavy panting breaths, the click of a gun’s safety turning off.

“Fire!” shouts the man in the video, crackling as he overpowers the camera’s tiny microphone.

It quickly devolves, crunching and cracking that the audio can’t properly process. The only thing that cuts through is screaming. The voices of the men rise up in bursts, before choking off into wet sobs. K shivers at the sound, delirious with the high of her project’s power. If only it would listen to her. But woe is she to allow her moods to go galloping away from such silly sources.

She closes the file, taking a measured breath. Best thing to do is distract herself. Find something else to be angry at, maybe get a little loose on her finest gin. She pulls up a news blog, mindlessly flicking through the articles. A lost puppy is reunited with its owner, the new equity laws and repeals for mutants are going over well, a woman was stabbed on her walk home, there’s been an uptick of hate crimes, the winner of the young inventors grant was announced, on and on until K’s brain turns into pasta.

She lets the emptiness overtake her body, her senses. The seconds separate into instants, the instants colliding as the colorful tick of images and headlines swarms her. Hours could go by in this dissected state, and K would stand on her solitary pillar, a picture of isolated thought. They don’t teach you that in therapy. In fact they discourage it, but money talks and her methods have made her plenty of that.

Then something happens. Her finger increases speed on the mouse, snapping article after article, nearly breaking the plastic, and then it stops. It hovers in the air, blood pumping in erratic catches through the appendage. She waits for explanation, for her subconscious to return in bits and pieces. It does not. K knows not why she froze, and yet understands all the same that something is terribly wrong.

It takes herculean strength to move her cursor to the side of the screen, dragging it slowly back up towards whatever she had seen. Buzzfeed quizzes and government addresses roll by at a sluggish pace she finds alien, unsettling. When the one she’s searching for appears, peaking over the top of the page like an enemy army backlit by the sun, there is no mistaking her response as being to anything else. She must be hallucinating.

K stands abruptly, rubbing at her eyes. When she blinks them back open, craning towards the monitor again, she gasps. The image is the same. Her palm stings, her wrist coming down on the wood of the desk without her control. The jolts that ravage her joint, pinballing through her elbow and shoulder then back down again, are delicious.

Eventually the rushing in her ears quiets, the sound of her clock ticking softly coming back. There are splinters in the heel of her hand, the precursory ache of a sprain in her wrist. Doesn’t fucking matter, she can just pay off some experimental prodigy to numb those nerves for a while.

What does matter is on the screen before her, the flickering rectangular monster taunting her. Because there, in the middle of some crackpot local news story, is one of her inventions, one of her designs. Not a company model, or a bought out competitor, but a real, mother fuckin’ original. Back from when she couldn’t even buy out the whole building. Worst of all, it’s been bastardized to another’s image. They can’t hide her touch though, she remembers all her babies.

She digs in her pocket for a key, shoving it into the bottom drawer of the desk. It was time for the emergency stash. Yanking open the drawer, she fixates on the feeling of hardwood, soft on the surface from generations of varnish, sliding against her fingers. The tinkle of bottles rolling into each other as their container swishes beneath them is an angelic chorus.

K rolls them over one by one, scrutinizing the labels and watching the amber liquids slosh. Finally, she finds the oldest one and promptly pulls the cork with her own teeth. It plunks against the wall when she spits it out, the soreness on her gums worth the smokey burn the beverage provides. She holds the swallow in her mouth, swishing it around to puff out one cheek, then the other, then back again. As she finally gulps it down, neck spasming under the acrid flavor, she swings the bottle above her head.

“To you, Hinata!” She cries so loud the sound bounces back at her from the door. “You outdid me one last time! Are you proud of yourself, you fucking cockroach!”

K doesn’t even notice when the bottle flies into her window, shattering like a big brown bug against the glass. It isn’t her, but her leg slams into the chair, sending it flying. She can’t help it, but one of her bookshelves gives beneath her grasp, slamming to the ground face first in a book scattering, paper ripping, wood splintering finale.

She stands over it, panting. The outline of papers, files, encyclopedias, and her own memoirs splays beneath the bookcase like a chalk outline. Her sightlineline shakes and lags behind, swaying as it drags across the floor, over the desk, back to the image displayed on the screen. At the top, the headline sits pretty and proud in Times New Roman.

“Miyagi Prefecture Sees A Dip In Petty Crime - Residents Crediting Their ‘Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman’”

Chapter Text

Shoyo checks left and right every few seconds, scanning the tiny stationary shop as though customers would magically be drawn to the beige shelves and mumble rap over the stereo. From the back room the worker shuffles around a shoebox office, leaving Shoyo alone and uncomfortable in front of the back counter. He jumps at every concerning bang and clatter, tapping his thighs and chewing on his lips. 

“You said this was on a letter to your dad?” The guy calls, startling Shoyo from his jaw-dropped stare at a slightly suggestive poster on one wall. 

“Uhhh… yeah…” 

There’s a gruff harrumph from the back room, footfalls as he comes back out. The man is holding some papers along with the stamp Shoyo had found in his father’s lab. Confused scowl making an already scary guy look like a borderline mercenary, the man lays out his parcel on the counter so Shoyo can see. It’s an article with a list of Tokyo prefectural stamps from the early 2000s to 2010s, with little descriptive notes to help identify them on the side. Shoyo blinks at it like they’re written in hieroglyphics, stomach swirling nervously. 

He peeks at the other man, who scratches his chin, tongue poked out in thought. When Shoyo pictures stamp collectors, he thinks of grannies, and sweater vests, and adults with braces. A charmingly nerdy mail enthusiast seemed like the perfect new face after the last few days, but that wasn’t what he found at ‘Rock Paper Scissors.’ Instead he was met with a man he can only describe as intimidating. 

            From the thick hands, to the wide stance, to the bleached buzz cut grown out to reveal dark roots, he looks like the kind of guy that thinks Shoyo’s optimistic attitude is girly. He’s even dressed like it; steel toed boots and a t-shirt with some kind of sports car on the front. Maybe there were a lot of frat houses around here… 

           “So,” he starts, voice as gravely as his exterior, “is your dad some kind of surgeon or something?” 

          “No?” Shoyo answers, head cocked in confusion. 

           Mr. Macho squints, looking at the stamp again. 

          “And you aren’t even a little bit loaded?” He presses. 

          Shoyo taps his foot impatiently, playing with the cuff of his flannel. His eye twitches.

         “No.” He responds flatly. 

         “Huh!” 

         Irritation flares in Shoyo’s chest, faster than usual. He feels itchy and wired, eager to move on from every step of every action. The pumping of his heart seems sluggish, let alone the annoying shopkeeper. 

         “Why do you ask?” He asks in his most measured tone. 

         It must work, because the guy lights up like he’d been waiting for a question like that. Shoyo feels guilty for being annoyed at him, though the ramped up energy lingers under his skin. 

         “Well this is a 2001 Tokyo stamp!” The guy starts eagerly. “But it’s a pretty fancy one! It was commissioned for charity and the price was steep even on print. The worth has only gone up as it ages…”

        He grins at Shoyo like they’re discussing something roguish, canines sharp. 

       “Make sure you wring ‘em dry if you sell!” 

       Despite his sour mood Shoyo laughs, flashing a matching smile. 

       “I will! 2001 you said?”

      “Yeah!” 

      The guy seems more comfortable now that they’re talking about his area of expertise, hip casually leaned up against the counter. 

      “So it had to be bought in Tokyo when the letter was sent, because regional stamps weren’t sold at the national level yet.” 

     Shoyo hums, mulling it over. That doesn’t really help him find out who K Hasegawa is, or was. He knew they were from Tokyo already. A frustrated groan pulls from his throat. 

      “What’s up? Were you hoping it was more rare? I wouldn’t sweat it man, it's pretty valuable already.” 

      Shoyo looks up, snagging onto that bit of information desperately. 

       “You said it was pretty pricey from the start, right? Custom art or something?” 

       Mr. Macho nods, tapping the year and title on his list. 

        “Yeah, your dad must associate with bigwigs or something.” 

        “How big are we talking?” Shoyo prods, leaning on the counter attentively. 

         He’s met with a long whistle, and a wry smile. 

         “More than a 10 million yen salary, that’s for sure.”

         Shoyo feels a thrill at that. 

         “So probably like a CEO, right?” 

        “Or a nepo baby.” 

That earns a genuine laugh, Shoyo’s eyes crinkling in the corners. The shopkeep is a lot more fun to be around now that he’s gotten some new clues. If K was actually upper class it would explain a lot. How his dad could afford all that personal lab equipment without telling anyone for starters.

“Thanks man,” he says, “This really helps me out.”

“Anytime!” 

With a toothy grin, the man passes Shoyo his stamp back.

“I love getting newbie collectors on their feet! If you ever have questions I do morning shifts, or you can just email me here.” 

He slips a business card out from a stack next to a rusted bell. Not sure how to explain he isn’t getting into collecting, Shoyo just takes it. With another thank you, he takes the card and stamp and makes his way out to the sidewalk. Once he’s out, he double checks he isn’t visible through the windows and inspects the card. 

It’s really aggressive for a stamp collector’s card. The base color is black, all of the text in fluorescent red, with a gaudy spiky outline around the whole thing. Instead of a business line it just has a personal email, and an Instagram handle. 

Tanaka Ryunosuke you mad genius.

            Shoyo rushes to his shift at the shop. The whole way over he drills into his brain over and over, CEO, Tokyo, Hasegawa. He’d look up the top businessmen in Tokyo from the early 2000s, and he’d finally make some progress on finding out what his dad was up to with the spider. The fact that it serves as a perfect distraction from his recent revelations about Kageyama has absolutely nothing to do with this newfound motivation. 

            Kenma is not stalling, and this is not sarcasm. He has a meeting to go to, but it would be rude to ask everyone else on the project team to come early just because he rushed through his morning commitments. So it is not stalling that he does, but rather killing time. And Kozume Kenma is a practiced killer. 

            He pulls up his news app on his phone, scrolling past all the buzzword riddled articles at the top. It’s soothing to see all the problems in the world from the palm of his hand. Some of them he can fix, some of them he can use to put his own first world problems in perspective. Just as he goes to click on a study linking a sports drink to cancer, the screen flashes black, the thick red bar of a J-Alert sat squarely at the top. 

           Kenma hums, rolling his lips into his mouth and out in a nervous fidget. He skims the text of the alert, squishing his spine back against the plush seam of his couch cushion. 

A dangerous mutant criminal has been spotted in Nerima City Ward. Civilians are encouraged to travel in groups, and report any suspicious individuals to the local authorities for the foreseeable future. Stay inside until the alert has ended.

Well shit. 

Kenma rolls onto his side, face pressed against the cushions of the sofa. His finger dances through the necessary clicks to call Kuroo, the pattern second nature at this point. The first ring barely has time to start before the line comes alive. 

“I saw it.” Kuroo’s smooth voice drips out of the phone. “Already called off the meeting, don’t worry.” 

Kenma sighs, a bit annoyed to be dotted on at his grown age. 

“Thank you,” he grumbles all the same. 

They go quiet, just breathing in the sound of the connection. Phones seem to have their own voices. It isn’t as easy to hear in new tech, the staticy buzz of electricity masked and prettied up. If you listen hard though, it’s still there. It’s like the ocean in a conch shell, wood in the metal. Kenma always did seem to find life in his stainless steel world. 

He takes comfort in the sound of Kuroo shuffling on the other end, and all at once they are kids again. They huddle beneath forts, starburst flecks of sunlight streaming through the windows to paint the sheets in speckled glory. In their cramped hands rest walkie-talkies, a crunchy bridge across the street between their bedroom windows. The monsters can’t get them here. 

“Hey,” Kuroo whispers, his soft tone distorted by the call. “Have you heard anything from your mom?” 

Kenma blinks, transfixed by the split second flash of white-to-black-to-white. 

“No.” 

Kuroo hums, no trace of pity. Only the flatness of pure neutrality can be inferred from the noise. 

“Me neither. Dad is back home, so he’s good.” 

That makes it Kenma’s turn to hum. The dry echo pulls a laugh from Kuroo. And so they stay like that for the rest of the alert, swapping robotic echoes of the subtle verbal cues they have developed through years of being close. The monsters can’t get them here. 

Down in the city, an invisible beast yawns and stretches. Far more deadly than bullets and claws, reporters take pen to page, and hobbyists press record on smartphone cameras. This new attack requires no third try to charm. It is unmistakably an act committed by the same culprit as before; the victim's DNA tangled and warped by an unidentified venom and bodies mangled by frighteningly large tooth marks. 

Something is different though. This time, no one cleaned up the scene. Five men are strung out in an unassuming Tokyo alleyway, their guts mingling with rain water and spilled booze. Their faces are left perfectly intact, as though to send a message, and the identities of the dead paint a picture too tantalizing for the press to leave alone. 

Five notorious thugs, mercenaries and gang members of the worst kind, slip into an alley armed with weapons never seen handled by them before. By morning all are dead, their attacker, and presumably target, gone without a trace. Who hired them? What do their families have to say? Did they deserve it? Were they hunting beast or man, and is the difference all that important? 

Something is different when Shoyo starts to patrol. He can’t seem to put his finger on why, but a hairpin trigger energy hangs over the town. The streets are quiet, nearly no pedestrians out and about. He zips from roof to roof, filling the time before his last class of the day. 

A car spins out of control on roads slicked by spring rain. Shoyo slings webbing between the stoplight, apartments, and trees either side of the road, attaching to the back end of the vehicle to bring it to a steady stop. A teen flicks her cigarette butt aside, nearly sparking a fire as she coughs from inexperience. Shoyo douses the embers as they lick against the trash around them, pulling the girl aside for a lecture on fire safety. He even saves a cat from a tree, giggling about the cliche. This particular feline has been a chronic repeat offender. All in all it's a slow day, so why is he feeling antsy?

Shoyo’s legs are twitchy, muscles dancing beneath sore and fresh healed skin as he jogs horizontally across a building towards the college campus. His palms are cold with sweat, eyes unconsciously split wide. In the back of his mind he runs circles. 

Get to class. Don’t be late. Watch for trouble. Where are you gonna hide the bag today? How are you gonna find K Hasegawa? What are you gonna find? Don’t mess this up. Check on Kageyama later. Make Dad proud. Get to class. What are you gonna find? Check on Kageyama. Are you making Dad proud? 

He nearly slams into a window on the dorm building, cursing under his breath as he swerves at the last second. Good thing for his sense. Shoyo had been way too close to crashing through someone’s pride flag adorned glass and skidding across their carpet. He shakes his head as he scrabbles to the roof, already tugging the hidden zippers at the ends of the suit. 

Get it together Shoyo!

He won’t get the chance to see it yet, but in his phone a storm is brewing. The weapons found on the murdered mercenaries have been identified as a new type of heavy duty tranque gun. A single shipment was brought into Tokyo for emergency use in zoos in the past year. About six months ago, the majority of the guns were reported missing. Their resurgence sparks arguments over why local crime rings would want them when they could just smuggle in regular firearms. 

All the while the idle hum of paranoia builds. Were mutants becoming involved in violent gang hierarchies? What did this mean for public safety in Japan? Because though the police avoid saying they suspect a mutant, the media has already decided it surely must be. Vigilantes fall under more scrutiny than ever, posts about the so called friendly neighborhood Spiderman skewing rapidly towards accusatory along with all the rest. 

Hinata Shoyo sprints across campus to his Photography class, unaware but stressed enough he might as well be. His heart pumps nearly as fast as the muted notifications from his news and social apps. 

The fragile pieces of his life crumble on a normal morning, and he doesn’t know it yet. It’s a slow morning. That’s how all lives are ruined. Under a blue sky, on a usual day, while the world turns just a bit faster than it should. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Fingers tense where they tug at the thread of his sleeves, Kageyama loiters at the gate of campus. The day is warm, and overly cheerful. Someone should snuff out the obnoxiously bright colors already, they’re giving him a headache. 

He isn’t sure when the last time he got so keyed up was. All Kageyama knows is that he can’t remember feeling this bad. Then he thinks back on everything that happened the last few days. Miwa, and Hinata, and Spiderman, and the spilling of a precious secret that started it all. Maybe he can remember. That all sucked even harder. Worse? Worse is probably a less gross word to think for that one. 

Groaning, Kageyama checks his phone again. Surely he misunderstood and has hallucinated Yachi’s interest in hanging out. The text isn’t real. Except it is. It sits blue on his screen the same as last night. A simple time and place she had sent at the end of their little call the other night. 

“You’re an interesting guy Kageyama… I can never guess what is happening in that big head of yours.” 

Her voice had been thick with sleep, but awake with excitement. Who but him could end up mixed in with the local hero? Her reactions as he explained the odd encounter were so animated he started to feel like he was gossiping about kissing or something. It was strange, but not unwelcome. 

“Kageyama!”

He turns to find Yachi jogging over, her purse bouncing and hand lifted in a bubbly wave. One of his hands comes up in a stiff return, prompting her to drop her own greeting as she comes nearer. Her breath is thin and a slight flush adorns her cheeks from rushing over. It only adds to the ruffled bird look she always seems to sport. 

“Hey!” She huffs. “Thanks for being flexible about this. I don’t usually make plans as last second as this.”

Kageyama nods, giving what he hopes is a smile. He isn’t really sure what Yachi could be talking about. They made plans the night before, now he’s here. 

“So where are we going?” He asks, not wanting to let boring niceties take over the conversation. 

Yachi perks up, adjusting her cardigan. She flashes a smile, eyebrows popping up briefly in some sort of exuberant signal. 

“There’s a new bakery nearby. I was hoping we could walk there.” 

Kageyama grunts an affirmative, following her lead when she takes the first few steps. 

K is in rare form. Her office is a demolition zone, an entire bookshelf sprawled across the floor. Janitorial staff aren’t allowed in, so who knows how long the mess will sit there. K might even make her clean it if she isn’t careful. She would do it gladly though. It has become second nature to mop up K’s spills. 

She watches, quiet as a mouse, as K begins to steam with rage. On the computer monitor in front of them is a spread of news articles. Some of them make sense. The reports and leaks about their case. The men for hire that failed to bring in the specimen. It's an utter disaster really. It seems their ‘little red’ decided to expose their operations to the public. Leaving the faces untouched and the weapons undamaged was a twisted stroke of genius. 

What doesn’t make sense to her however, are the splashes of blue and orange scattered all over the expansive screen. Spiderman takes up just as much precedent as the biggest set back they’d faced in a decade. Why the hell K would distract herself from the project with some plucky wannabe is beyond her. 

K throws her head back, taking a heavy swig from one of their last bottles. More would need to be bought, supplies are dwindling. A chill runs down her spine at the thought of K in withdrawals. She shivers, far too adjusted to the constant feeling of being prey in a maze. 

When K turns to face her, eyes flashing yellow in the dim light and pleasant smile making her look far younger than she is, it feels as though the monster within the labyrinth has finally found her. 

“New plan!” K trills. “I need a team in Miyagi yesterday!”

She falters at this, unable to hide the reaction from K. Might as well plow on if there isn’t a way to deny.

“I don’t understand…” She tries gently.

K scowls, grabbing her shoulder to force her closer to the monitor. She lurches forward, knocked off balance until she almost leans all of her weight against K’s back. The rough suit fabric grazes her throat, hot sticky breath against her ear.

“Don’t you see ?” K hisses, jabbing her free hand against a blurry photo of the silly little vigilante. 

She looks at where the tip of K’s gold nail taps blue pixels. Whatever she is supposed to see is beyond her. A lump of fear catches in her throat. What would K do in the face of such idiocracy? 

“I- I see Spiderman.”

“NO!” K howls, standing so fast that she flings her into the bookshelf behind them. “The suit! ”

It’s breathtaking in a twisted way. The heave of lithe shoulders under disheveled designer clothes. The feline flash of yellow-brown eyes. The hungry look that K gives her, as though she can’t decide whether she’d rather pull her close or kill her. 

“That… is my suit.” K mutters, sinking into her chair once more. “We need to retrieve it.”

“How will we catch the subject if we divide our resources between Tokyo and Miyagi?” 

K chuckles, turning to stare at the screen so that her face is obscured. 

“Good thing I assigned you to our search! It’ll just have to be your problem.” 

The shop is gummy with humidity. Less customers come in than usual on the increasingly balmy day, whittling the trickle of business into a spattering of activity. Shoyo uses the time to its full advantage. 

He looks side to side in the empty back room, sliding the laptop he’d packed out of his bag. Though Ukai has never specifically told him he can’t use devices on the job, it still feels like a crime. Shame licking at his heels, Shoyo scampers back behind the front counter, jumping onto his stool to shroud the screen behind the register. 

The radio mumbles out songs from a million years ago, as a plug-in fan pathetically rattles in the corner. A fresh stack of sticky notes, Ukai’s ashtray, and the now open laptop rest between Shoyo’s sweaty hands. He stares at the blinking line of his own cursor, wracking his brain for where to start. With a shuddering sigh, the kind that comes from deep resignation, Shoyo forces his fingers to poke at the keys. 

2001 Tokyo companies 

After many slow hours spent typing different variations of the same words, and grinding his teeth until they squeak, Shoyo amasses a terrifyingly long list of possible companies. A rainbow of neon paper notes cover the desk so thoroughly that he is stuck awkwardly shuffling them around whenever the odd customer wanders in. At one point, just before he gets through the last couple brands he could find, a gaggle of school girls come in. For the thirty agonizing seconds it takes to unbury the register, they stifle giggles behind their hands. Shoyo could combust on the spot. 

Still, he bears the humiliation with pride. The hard part is over. Now all he has to do is search up the different companies alongside the name “Hasegawa,” and he should be able to find any CEOs that could be K in the next few days. On the busy screen, clogged with tabs, Shoyo catches his own reflection. At some point the sunlight died down enough to stop shrouding the screen. He stares at his face, bright with mad joy. The tight stretch of his mouth and the heavy bags beneath his eyes make him look deranged. Maybe he is deranged. 

Throwing his head back to stare at the cheap spotty ceiling, Shoyo laughs. His shoulders shake upside down, cut off breath leaving the sounds that whisper past his lips almost silent. The ache that takes over his body is deeper than the burns, which are nearly gone by now. It slinks across his skeleton, leaving muscles sand and pain amplified in its wake. Shoyo hadn’t known how much it weighed on him to be so lost, but now he feels close to the surface. Just one more push, and he could finally talk to someone that knew what his father was doing. He could understand what he is supposed to be doing now. 

It’s as he leans back, throat bare to the empty mart and eyes closed to the sky, that the little bell above the door dings for the first time in the last hour of his shift. Shoyo startles, nearly slipping off of the stool as he snaps his eyes towards the door. All at once the vastness blanketed on his mind narrows to a single pinpoint place. He swears, for just a moment, that his vision actually tunnels, dark vignette in the edges. 

In the doorway stands the last person Shoyo expected to see, bent about the shoulders in defensiveness. Kageyema looks ethereal. Even as he scratches at the door frame, clearly forced to stop by Yachi, who waves from the street as she walks away. Even with a gaunt face, haunted by a night that Shoyo should know nothing about, a feeling that Kageyama had never entrusted to him. Even clearly uncomfortable and somehow grumpier than before, Kageyama makes the setting sun look like nothing. 

Eyes fixed to the inky sweep of feathered bangs, the long languid lines of a tall frame, Shoyo is forced to face everything he had wanted to put off. Kageyama is shockingly caring, impossibly vulnerable, and Shoyo only noticed after smashing whatever hope of getting close to him there was into a thousand tiny bits. 

So Shoyo does the only reasonable thing he can. He chokes on his own spit, throws his hands out to clean the mess of paper before him, and promptly careens onto the cramped floor behind the counter with a sad ‘ smack.’ 

At least his hands are kind enough to catch him before any damage is done. 

He had been prepared for Hinata to be dumb about this. It isn’t easy for normal people to talk after finding out someone’s darkest secret, and Hinata is a special case of ridiculousness. But, regardless of all the worst case scenarios Kageyama had run through his head beforehand, he did not expect to find Hinata in the middle of a disastrous solo study session. He did not expect Hinata to throw himself to the ground. That had to be a new low for humanity. 

More perturbed than concerned, Kageyama shuffles forward to look behind the squat front desk. Just as he gets close enough to see the tips of Hinata’s firey hair, it comes flying up to eye level. Kageyama jerks back as Hinata pops to his feet at breakneck speeds. Whatever calm had washed over Kageyama from the distraction is chased away by his stuttering pulse. 

Hinata pants, far too exerted for just standing up. He smiles too wide, one hand on his hip as the other gropes for a free spot on the counter that doesn’t exist. Eventually Hinata seems to realise his predicament, glancing down at his own floundering limb and resting it nervously on the back of his neck. 

“Hey!” He chokes out far too loudly. 

Kageyama just blinks, all the words he had been rehearsing in his head drying on his tongue. 

“So,” Hinata continues, clearing his throat when his voice cracks in the middle of the word. “What uh… what brings you here?”

Kageyama’s mind goes blank. 

“Protein shake.” 

“Protein shake…” Hinata echoes back his flat tone. 

They stare at each other for a minute, eyes empty of clues as they search the other’s. Kageyama breathes in deep, fingers trembling and cold from the shitty little fan. 

“Protein shake?” He whispers. 

“Is that a question?” Hinata whispers back, eyebrows screwing up. 

“Uh…” Kageyama can feel the tips of his ears burning, his mouth spasming into a grimace. 

“I wanted to…” he restarts. “... talk.” 

Hinata nods vigorously, shoving sticky notes into his pockets and avoiding eye contact. 

“Yeah! Yeah… cool cool cool.” 

Kageyama watches Hinata sort himself, taking in the other man’s appearance properly for the first time. Over the last few weeks of knowing him, Kageyama has come to think of Hinata as an endless ball of energy. A bright blazing spitfire that rarely shows signs of normal human emotion, rather operating at a nightmarish chipper twenty four-seven. That is not what he sees. 

Hinata, in a word, looks tired. His skin is almost as chalky as Kageyama’s, and his body moves stiff and stilted like he’d been running for days. The cowlicks and curls of his hair look so much messier than normal that Kageyama realizes it actually does do something when Hinata combs it. It is like someone plugged into his glowing heart and sapped the life out of it. 

When Hinata finishes gathering his possessions, he looks up expectantly. Kageyama’s heart squeezes. He has been given every reason to trust that Hinata doesn’t judge him for his mutation and yet… 

“Can we go somewhere less gross?”

Hinata snorts at that, raising one smug brow. It isn’t his full smile, but his eyes dance. 

“Don’t like the tobacco smell princess?” 

“Shut up!” Kageyama hisses. “You probably like smelling like ass.” 

Still, he has to bite back a grin of his own. The familiarity of bickering shouldn’t be so strong for how little time they’ve known each other. It’s quite a bit less threatening than everything else about this interaction. The shaking animal in his chest, the one he has been fighting since junior high, lowers its hackles. 

“Hey!” Hinata bites back, voice drowned with mirth. “Push me too far and I’ll just bike off before you can get a word in. My shift has five minutes to go, the clock is ticking dude.” 

Kageyama shakes his head, looking out the window into the quaint rows of houses. He always wanted a cosy home like that growing up. 

“Can I just wait while you close up then? Wouldn’t want to have to chase your kiddie bike.” 

“Oh just get out!” Hinata huffs, waving his hands.

Despite the amusement in his tone, it makes Kageyama’s heart stumble. He must make a face, because when he looks back up, Hinata’s face softens. 

“I’ll meet you there.” He reassures. 

The tension from the start resettles over them, but Kageyama finds he doesn’t mind. He nods sharply, turning to push out of the front door. The ding of the bell at the top follows him. 

Chapter Text

“I’m getting scared, Oikawa.” 

Iwaizumi keeps his voice low as he packs up the things in his locker. He usually gets the closing shift at the gym with him being a student still. Only dotted fluorescents keep him company. 

“He’s a good guy. It’s just…” 

He sighs, keys tinkling as he tucks them into his back pocket and turns to go.

“I don’t know! It’s wrong what’s happened to him, but he won’t even call the police. He’s so scared all the time and it makes me feel like maybe I oughta reach out to someone.” 

“Well,” Oikawa drawls, a little muffled where his cheek presses to his pillow. “You’re not a hero. Maybe you need to cut your losses and give him an ultimatum. Either find someone to help or move on.” 

Iwaizumi squeezes his phone between his chin and shoulder, trudging outside and fishing for his car keys. 

“I don’t know man, I just don’t know.” 

There comes a grainy sigh, some shuffling as Oikawa rolls dramatically.

“You’re a saint, Iwa. A saint for fucks sake.” 

The headlights of Iwaizumi’s car blink yellow in the dark. He skips off the sidewalk, sidling up to it in the parking lot. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He grumbles, swinging open the driver’s side door. 

“Oh nothing,” Oikawa sighs as Iwaizumi clicks his buckle into place, switching the phone to speaker and dropping it into the cupholder. “Just wonder where you would be if you didn’t insist on taking in strays.” 

Iwaizumi cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, already dreading the somehow still busy night streets. 

“I wouldn’t be talking to you, that’s for sure.” 

Oikawa’s barking laugh echoes in the fishbowl of the car. He can almost pretend he’s there, cranking the aircon too high and fluffing his hair in the mirror. It soothes Iwaizumi’s anxious heart, if only for a moment. 

Coming down from the chuckling fit, Oikawa stutters through his reply. 

“No, no- probably not! But I like to think… well.”

“Well what?” Iwaizumi snaps, eyes darting to keep track of other cars, street lights, pedestrians. 

“Iwa…”

Oikawa’s tone takes a genuine turn, soft and quiet. He sighs, and the sound races down Iwaizumi’s sides. 

“I just think you should put yourself first is all.” Oikawa finally settles on.

Iwaizumi hums, mulling it over. Maybe he should be a bit more firm. Tendo hadn’t caused trouble yet, but how long could things go on the way they are? Indefinitely hosting a man in hiding is a bit much. Especially so close to graduating, with a nice job under his belt. 

“You know…” Oikawa murmurs, as though unsure whether he wants to be heard. “It’s never too late for California. They said you could have priority if you reapply. Really! I think you should just send one in and see wh-”

“Stop.” 

Iwaizumi pulls over, unable to really see the windshield with how mad he’s getting. He flicks the ignition off angrily, throwing the keys onto the passenger seat. 

“Haj-”

“I said stop.” 

The line goes quiet, quicker than the car had. Only the swish of traffic going by makes any noise at all. The shifting lights of signs and ads rove through the air. Iwaizumi takes a deep breath in, then out. 

“I’m gonna hang up now.” He sighs, curt as ever. 

Tooru doesn’t respond. There’s a beep, then three angry chimes. The screen of his phone is red in the corner of his vision. 

A muscle he didn’t even know he had pops in his jaw, furious and tight. Of course he loses his head the one time he’s supposed to keep it. At home all that waits for him is uncertainty and risk. If he doesn’t get his shit together soon this is going to blow up in all of their faces. 

“Fuck,” he groans, whipping his palm against the steering wheel in frustration. 

What the hell is he supposed to do?

The curb is hard, cold, and squat. Shoyo has to bunch his knees up to avoid sticking his feet in the road, let alone Kageyama. They hunch like gargoyles, sharing air in the lonely night. 

Kageyama clears his throat. He has a finger curled up and pressed between his lower lip and chin. It’s probably making a pretty bruise, grinding at teeth and gum through thin skin. Shoyo wishes he would look over, give any kind of signal, but he just keeps glaring at the pavement. 

“The other day…” Kageyama starts, his voice flat and vague like he isn’t sure whether the sentence ends there or continues on. 

“The other day.” Shoyo echoes. 

He looks away from Kageyama’s face, tilting his head back to see the stars. They really can’t compare to up on the mountain. 

“Can…” Kageyama rasps, nearly silent. “Can you ask questions?” 

Giddy tapping comes to life in Shoyo’s chest. Can he ask questions? All he has anymore are questions, and no one is giving him any straight answers. 

“Yeah!”

He wiggles in his poor excuse for a seat, trying to think of the best place to start. 

“So you’re a mutant?” He finally lands on.

It is more of a statement than a question, but Kageyama visibly shudders anyway. Shoyo’s heart twists at the sight. How could anyone hate themself so much?

“Yes.” Kageyama grunts. 

“And, you’re one of those people you just can’t tell with, right? Like it’s not visible?” 

Now it’s Kageyama’s turn to fidget, grinding his teeth and tensing his legs. He blows out his breath like there’s water in his lungs, head taking a funny dive before he sits upright once more. Shoyo doesn’t remember seeing Kageyama move so much before.

“It’s uh- It’s not,” Kageyama swears, the sound disappearing just past his lips. “I cover it.”

“Oh.”

Hinata fails to hide the sadness in his tone. He thinks of Kageyama going through life ashamed, possibly his whole life. Thinks of the burden of keeping his own secrets. As though part of the conversation, his muscles bunch in evermore familiar soreness.

Kageyama must take issue with the somber response. He wrinkles his nose, predictable as ever, stealing a few glances Shoyo’s way. 

“Don’t give me that face. It’s easier this way. Being other on the outside is a whole lot different than the inside.” 

Usually Shoyo would say that Kageyama looks a bit older than he really is. The plain clothes, the tired eyes, the height, and his awkward way of speaking; They add up into a fairly geriatric aesthetic. Not now though. Not with his hands roving from one twitchy position to the next, his eyelids turning redder by the second, though no tears well up. He actually looks like a teenager for once, barely dipping his toes into adulthood.

“Do you have anyone?” Shoyo finds himself whispering. 

Finally- finally - Kageyama turns to look at him. Face as stoic as always, he studies Shoyo’s eyes, his hands, the threads holding their atoms in place. The response that follows is low in the throat, smooth and clipped.

“I have my sister.”

Shoyo feels his brows furrow, thinking that the end. He opens his mouth to protest, but is stopped short by Kageyama wetting his lips in another compulsive flash of movement.

“And I think I have friends.”

All at once the world is cobalt and steel. Shoyo sinks into Kageyama’s unwavering gaze, a stone in water. It rushes up him, from the tips of his toes, until the night isn’t so cold. As it weaves through his ribs, up and over his sternum, something comes loose. Like the first chip in an egg, just a bit of beak and the first gasp of air getting through, whatever it is unfurls within him. 

“Yeah,” he stumbles to say. “You have friends! At least… yeah .”

He can’t say, you have me. He cannot muster the courage. Not with an invading force growing steadily in the hollows of his skin, and a weight pulling him down from the elation of being offered trust. Because Shoyo doesn’t deserve it. 

Kageyama, who would not give a single shit about Shoyo if it weren’t for a coincidental shared tutor, still has allowed access to a part of himself hidden from light. He looks Shoyo in the eye, jaw wobbling with a hesitant smile- that smile. Shoyo can reassure all he wants, play pretend altruist, but at the end of the day he holds his armor close. He won’t tell Kageyama a thing in return. 

He wants to. Of course he wants to. But to Kageyama Tobio, Spiderman is an element of danger. Shoyo can’t lose him to that, not now. 

So as they sit together a bit longer, not daring to say why, he doesn’t wonder about what Kageyama would say. Doesn’t think about if Kageyama would have come if he had known. Above all, doesn’t let hope settle. He just looks at his constellation, the only one he can spot, too afraid to watch Kageyama walk away.

Something is watching him. He chews the air, letting the smell of the city fire off in his skull as he slithers along the rough ground. There’s a sharp metallic note underneath, sweat and blood and fear. That’s how he knows something is watching. It smells delicious. 

Ribs expanding, wide and thick as a drum, he tries to drown in the smell. Little rabbit’s foot thumps play in his ears. A pulse, blood, life, skin. 

He keeps moving, prowling closer. The neon is a nocturnal sun, the pavement his field. He hunts in the back alleys of Tokyo. 

It doesn’t take long to come upon it. Through the glass of its den, into the room where it watches wide eyed. The constant spinning, mirrored vision and delirium, cannot prevent the white of them from being seen. Two crescent moons hung in an apartment living room. 

He lets his nostrils flair wider, bringing the space into renewed definition. It tries to run, though they both know fear petrifies its limbs. With a squeaked scream, and a sad little plop, it collapses to the ground. He has to hold back a purring laugh.

Raising back on his haunches he looms above it, head brushing the ceiling. 

“Do you recognize me?” 

His voice comes out twisted, grander than anything a feeble human could create. It is the thunder before a hurricane, a river rushing over rocks.

The thing just shakes, pale and wet with terrified tears. How aggravating.

“SPEAK!” He booms, slamming his hands down on either side of it. A single clawed finger is as long as its thigh.

“Y-yes!” It cries, crumpling inwards.

Its sobs echo around them, like his mother’s the night she’d kicked him out. Like his own in his cell. Finally he lets himself laugh. The sound blankets over the crying with ease, thick and velvet. 

“Good, good. You see how this will go now.”

It blinks up at him, seemingly shocked to be left alive so long. Boldness begins to grow in its guilt ridden eyes. 

“Why come find me now? What do you want?”

Tendo hums, taking this in. It can be hard to think clearly, with the adrenaline and the something else his body produces now, but he isn’t completely senseless. He has goals, plans, desires the same as any other. Letting his gaze travel over it, he feels the words fall into place.

“I have a question for you.”

She relaxes a fraction, the red beneath her eyes fading. That strange worship they all look at him with comes back, like it had been there all this time. The curiosity, the awe, the hunger . If she had the choice, she’d probably cut him open right there just to watch the skin grow back. Once a back alley scientist, always one.

“What is it?” she whispers.

He can’t help the splitting of his lips. It must be quite the sight, based on how some of the chalkiness returns to her complexion. Do his rows of teeth stick out? Does spit he can’t swallow around the bulky protrusions drip out? Does it sizzle when it hits the carpet, telling her exactly what his bites can do? Is it as glorious as he feels? 

“What is my name?”

She opens her mouth as if to speak, caught off guard.

“What?”

“My name,” Tendo coos smugly. “What is it?”

He can see the moment she flounders, the instant she realizes how inhuman and monstrous she truly is. It stares at him, glassy and afraid. Knowledge doesn’t taste so sweet anymore, does it?

“I- I…” It stammers, mouth wobbling and fresh tears welling. “I left the project years ago! You know that.”

“Not what I asked.”

He lets his spine curve, coiling to lunge. His stomach sinks to the floor, prowling closer like his gator brethren- or perhaps the snake ones.

“How can you expec- I barely saw you!” It laughs hysterically, face turning back and forth between his hands. “How could I know!”

In one quick movement its body is trapped in the palm of his hand, rigid with terror.

“Fine,” he giggles. “You don’t remember my name… Now no one will ever remember yours.”

His jaw snaps shut. The haggard breathing and hollow groveling goes quiet. Must have popped a lung.

Her skin is easy to sink into, smooth as warm butter. Dutiful to its task, his spit melts meat off the bone. It falls in tender petals on his tongue, sliding down his throat with each gulp. Hair and cartilage gets caught between his teeth. He pulls the mangled remains of her body from his maw, running his elongated tongue between the razor ridges to tug the annoying clogs out. Spit and blood runs over his scales, hot and viscous. 

When he looks back to continue his meal, he finds the one surviving eye in her skull fixed upon him. Rattling air whooshes through the teeth marks puncturing her throat and chest. Muscle and yellow fat glitter where skin has melted away, her shattered jaw a jagged white line exposed to the night. She looks like a bloody bouquet, wilting in his grasp. 

“Sorry,” He murmurs. “Thought you were already dead.”

It goes quicker from there.

Shoyo can’t go home yet, though the hours tick steadily on towards dawn. He can hardly feel anything right now. All he can do, looking at the notifications that had piled up without his notice, is grit his teeth and breathe. He leans against the shelves in the back room, desperately holding to his composure. The headline that smiles back at him is enough to make his stomach roll. 

Superheroes Ordered to Cease Operations; Vigilante Criminals Suspected in Ongoing Mutant Attacks

There are missed calls from his mom, texts from Kenma reassuring him he’s safe, and notification after notification from his news app. He tries to focus on his own problems for one day, and this happens? Will police start tracking him as well as being aggressive during their occasional run-ins? Are the mutants at school safe? How will Tokyo law enforcement handle this threat without any supers? It races through his system like boiling water. 

Once when he was a kid, he’d gotten a nasty splinter beneath his nail. It had festered, until not just shocks of sharp pain came from the foreign object, but also gooey green infection. Shoyo refused to pull it out, scared by the jolts that came from the tiniest of jostles. 

He flinches back from pain now too, far too frightened to let himself wonder about his mom, Natsu. Every consideration that crosses his mind is wiped away by last second happy thoughts, only to float back up in an endless cycle of unresolved anxieties. It makes a yellow-gold quilt in the back of his skull, oppressive and hot. 

His mind wanders back to blue eyes, mad with despair on a crisp night. To white fabric twisted in his fist, holding a life. Shoyo’s stomach shrivels up. Kageyama is probably seeing this all the same time as him. He wouldn’t, right?

Metal glides along Shoyo’s tongue. He gasps, dragged back to reality by the blood leaking from his torn up lip. Had he been chewing it? 

When his mom had found the splinter all those years ago, she had poured rubbing alcohol on it. To disinfect it, clearly, but also to give him another pain to focus on, Shoyo thinks. He had not even noticed when she tore the piece of wood free. 

It isn’t hard to turn his phone off and shove it into his bag. He doesn’t hesitate to zip up the suit. It is exceedingly easy to set his mind on remembering Kageyama’s address, and pretending he isn’t himself. 

A too young man, with a long bloody path, sits in the back of a delivery van, hunched over a computer that probably costs more than his house. He had jumped at the chance to get off of the retrieval team bullshit. Mutant run-ins aren’t unheard of, that’s for sure, but whatever K has them doing is beyond anything he has ever heard of. 

Some people have even thrown around cannibalism, and he has to agree. He actually saw the photos, unlike most. A bite mark is a fucking bite mark. 

“I don’t know why we don’t just rob the bitch.” He mutters, flexing his arms idly as he watches the camera feed of the streets outside. 

The scathing sentence is muffled beneath the jazz playing up front. 

“Huh?” Hisashi asks, leaning around the front seat while turning down the stereo.

“K! We should just snatch all this shit and bail.” 

Hisashi just sighs, turning around to glare out the windshield again. 

“I can’t hear this. Our job is dangerous enough as it is.” 

“Exactly!” Yuu exclaims. “Why are we running around after super freaks? We should be interrupting shipments, and- and hacking databases, and-”

“ Shhh-sh-sh-sh!” 

Hisashi slaps a hand over his mouth, transfixed on a screen too far up for him to see. It must not be good enough, because he quickly removes it to press his earbud in further, brows low. 

Yuu holds his breath, scooting until he can lean his chest over the center console. The thrill of a fight looming on the horizon charges his body. Every bit of exasperated boredom goes flying out the window, sailing back down the road though the car is parked. 

Agonizing seconds drip by with Hisashi tuned into something he cannot hear. Finally, just when Yuu breaks and opens his mouth to say something, Hisashi flings his headpiece into the passenger seat and slams his laptop shut with a ‘ click.’  

“Hold on.” He warns, before hitting the gas so fast Yuu nearly rolls across the metal floor. 

“ Woo!” Yuu howls over the growl of the engine. “We got somethin’ boys! ‘Ita Number Two on the case!” 

All the while he scrambles, using the thick rubber of his boots and his white knuckle grip on the back of Hisashi’s chair to avoid slamming against the sides of the van. With his free hand he gropes to the left, the tendons of his arms strained. He has to scoot to the side in stupid little hops on his ass, but he finally reaches the rack custom-welded against the sealed shut middle door. 

Luck is on his side. When he collapses back against Hisashi’s backrest, elbow hitting the floor hard enough to bruise on a particularly sharp turn, he looks down to find his favorite new toy.

“ EY! Kinoshita!” He hollers backwards. 

“What?” 

“You think bugboy is as tough as the lizard?” 

A dry, weary chuckle comes from the driver’s seat. 

“We’re backup Noya. Leave it to group A or Ennoshita will kill us… but my bet is on the lizard.” 

The wheels screech, Hisashi breaking hard to make sure they’ll be quiet enough once they roll near the target. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuu grins. “Of course you would. At least the tranqs are cool though.” 

He checks the weapon is loaded, clicking the cartridge back in and testing its weight. 

Fuckin’ cool.

Shoyo’s feet and hands have gotten tougher. They slam into the tops of buildings, slide down the rough lines of webbing. It makes him feel like a gnarled old construction worker. 

He always gets the town to himself this time of night, leaping over impossible gaps with his stomach sweeping behind. It makes it easier to hold in his panic. The cool air is grounding as it whips past him, and he doesn’t have to play the perfect hero with no one watching. Shoyo falls into the rhythm of it. He can just barely see the roofs of the apartments Kageyama lives in when it happens. 

A monstrous jolt strikes him, blinding white and screaming ‘danger.’ He stops short, turning in circles nervously. The sense wouldn’t be that strong for a misfire. Feelings that big are usually reserved for lethal danger. 

Around him he finds only empty rooftops. Not even birds are flying, and nothing is on the streets except the odd parked car or chained up bike. It's so quiet that Shoyo can actually hear the way the suit fabric stretches, how his breathing picks up, the way his feet crunch on the dirty concrete he stands upon. 

Then he hears it, underneath all of those things and so soft no normal human would be able to tell. There’s a car engine turned off around the block, sucking in silence like a vacuum. His heart drops. Who would be driving around this late at night? 

CRACK

Shoyo flings himself to the side, rolling and tumbling before coming to his feet in a crouch. Where he was standing mere moments ago, the top of the building is crushed to gravel pieces in the neat round hole of a bullet. 

He flicks his eyes up, narrowing in on the window across the street, just one floor higher. No one stands there, but unlike all the others it has been cracked, and Shoyo knows better. 

Falling back he crawls over the back lip of the roof. He creeps across window panes and brick, throwing himself between structures like a grappling rock climber. All the while he does not make a single sound, unnaturally nimble and light. If he can get around the corner, he’ll be able to come up behind the gunman without being in the line of fire once. 

He reaches out his hand for an open wall, planning to swing around the other side of the shop he sticks to, when it scatters into splinters of wood with a loud ‘BANG!’

Shoyo flinches, standing up on the wall and turning to find his assailant. A man in regular street clothes, with no more than a nylon mask to distort cameras, stands in the middle of the alley with his gun trained on Shoyo’s chest. His stance is wide and his position is obvious, unconcerned the vigilante can see him. 

Well that’s his first mistake .

Shoyo slings webbing to the wall behind the strange man, shooting forward diagonally at the same time he sends another bullet flying with the twitch of a finger. Releasing the line before he hits the other building, Shoyo rolls to the ground, dashing forward in side-to-side bounds. 

Bullets chip the ground and walls around him, always narrowly missing his frantic movements, but the man does not waver. He stands firmly in place, unflinching though Shoyo is on him in an instant. 

Shoyo grabs the long snout of the gun, pushing it up in one viscous, swift motion. It slams into his face, breaking his nose with a sick crunch and spurting blood through the translucent tan fabric over his face. Shoyo can’t bring himself to care, keyed up as he is. He can’t fathom why there would be violent criminals of this nature in the area, let alone coming after him. 

“You made a stupid choice tonight,” Shoyo pants, shooting out three quick bursts of web to hold down each hand and the guy's feet respectively. “So you be good and wait, while I pick off your little buddy across the street.”

Shoyo freezes, stopped with his foot half lifted to go. Before it can click, what he feels right then, he sees bloody teeth revealed by a smug smile on the man at his feet. 

Pain blooms in his back, a sound he cannot process ringing in ears. He must’ve been shot, but when he reaches shaking hands to his stomach, he cannot find any bleeding, let alone an exit wound. 

There isn’t time to assess the damage. Shoyo stumbles right, just in time to dodge more fire from somewhere above. He attaches a line to one of the roofs, yanking himself through the air. It makes the wound on his back sting, but he keeps moving. Even as a warm tingling sensation begins rapidly spreading from that point. 

When he lands on his feet, he quickly notices two problems. One: his feet felt numb when they hit the shingles, his ankles almost buckling beneath his own weight. Two; he picked the wrong roof. 

Two men, dressed in similar garb to the one he left restrained below, are crouched mere feet from him. One holds a long gun with a wide barrel, steam gathering above the tip revealing it to be the one that landed a hit on him. It dwarfs its owner. The second man carries nothing but a long knife, though Shoyo is beginning to think that might still pose a threat. 

In the moment it takes for him to assess all of this, his body goes from tired, to gelatin. He stumbles, falling to one knee, and as he goes his vision lags behind. 

Why haven’t they attacked me? He wonders, glancing between them sluggishly. The fair haired one, and the small one with the weird gun; they just watch him. 

What the fuck? Am I losing blood?

Shoyo lifts one arm to reach around himself, mind swimming. The two exchange wary glances, and little one cocks his gun in warning.

“Keep it cool bug boy.” 

His voice is gruffer than Shoyo would’ve thought. 

When his fingers find the point of impact, there is no torn fabric. There isn’t any blood or shredded skin. Instead he grasps a thin metal cylinder, plucking it from his skin. He grimaces with discomfort bringing it around to see what it is. 

The tube shines, a blackish silver and no longer than his hand. From the end that had struck him protrudes a thick wire, pin straight and pointed at the tip. A needle.  

Oh shit. 

His fear must show in his posture, because before he can get his bearings the muzzle of the gun- the dart gun- is nosing at his chest. Looking up Shoyo finds the man holding it glaring down at him, a shock of bleached hair quivering in the air. 

“I said, ” he pokes at Shoyo’s chest for emphasis, “keep it cool.” 

Shoyo does his best to look calm and still. Every moment his heart beats a little slower, thick honey globs in his veins. It makes it hard to think clearly, to understand his feelings. Instead of contemplating why these people would target him he lets an emotion that has simmered on his backburner for some time to build. Without his wits about him to push it down it grows and grows, steadily marching on until all he can feel is a devastated, cold, exhausted rage.

Without thinking Shoyo grabs the gun, right where it opens over his heart. The man’s eyes widen, his finger squeezing the trigger, but the gun doesn’t fire. It just rattles and booms, metal screaming as Shoyo crushes it in his palm. 

He can hear the fair haired one mutter a baffled, ‘ oh shit,’ and then his attackers are hurrying to restrain him. Using the gun like a battering ram, the first one shoves Shoyo back to gather himself. Quick as lightning the next one is bearing down.

He swings at Shoyo’s side, and though he manages to dodge, Shoyo is more sluggish than normal. The second time the man swings, the razor edge of his knife gashes Shoyo’s arm. 

Through his drug induced haze Shoyo spots the window he had been searching for- Kageyama’s window. It's only a few streets over. Without forming a real plan Shoyo slings the end of a bit of webbing at the fair haired man and rolls. The weight of another body dragging behind does nothing to slow him. He ducks the punch the smaller man throws, coming around behind him to wrap the two together. With one last burst of energy he runs at the edge of the roof, swinging the now hollering men like a pendulum, before promptly throwing them off. 

He doesn’t even wait to hear them hit the ground. With the stubborn keenness of a bloodhound, he takes off sprinting for Kageyama’s building. He vaults powerlines, and jumps ten to thirty foot gaps like nothing. Quick as a hare, his pursuers have no shot of following. 

Back where he left them a heap on the ground, Yuu and Hisashi check over their injuries. If they can walk alright they’ll need to check on Narita, but if not it’s best to lay still and wait to be scolded. 

Hisashi groans, struggling to lift his head from where Yuu’s shoulder has it pinned. 

“Yeah,” Yuu sighs, staring blankly at the sky. 

“The tranq did nothing!” Hisashi hisses. “Aren’t they supposed to be strong?”

Noya laughs dryly. 

“Strong enough to take down an elephant.” 

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Hisashi gives up on lifting his head, letting it plop sadly into a puddle of who-knows-what. Their ribs expand and strain against each other, the webbing tight enough to leave bruises. 

“Pizza later?” Yuu sighs. 

“... yeah.” 

Shoyo isn’t sure if he’s really being trailed or not. Not with his ears ringing and his vision rapidly skewing towards cliche drunk goggles. There isn’t rain, but the roofs feel slick beneath him, and he scrabbles down them clumsily. His arm is numb, and his back has begun burning where the syringe went in. 

When he reaches Kageyama’s window, he nearly concusses himself against the glass. His skull is slammed back with a ringing ‘ gong!’  

Shoyo stops, trying to calm what little is left of his brain. He presses his hands to the window, trying to ignore the smear of blood his left hand leaves with a squeak. Pawing over the surface he looks for a gap, a latch, anything that could offer an opening, but his fingers are cold and thick. 

He must find the edge of the window, because open air replaces the glass beneath his hands. He loses balance, tipping forward. Crashing into some sort of furniture- Shoyo doesn’t get a good look with his vision swimming -he tumbles onto hard tile floors. The impact makes hot pain lace up from his left bicep, now squished beneath him. A choked sob escapes his lips, dragged free against his will and through his teeth. 

Darkness beads in the corners of his vision. He thinks there must be something on his lenses, but when he reaches up to wipe them his hand misses. It spreads, until all he can see is the blurred smear of grey flooring. In the last moments before the last bit of vision fizzles out, he sees a beam of yellow light spill across the floor.

110

The number stares at Tobio from his phone, ready to be dialled. All he has to do is click a button and it won’t be his responsibility. He groans, burying his face in his arms. There’s a man in his house, bleeding on his floor. So he’s hiding like a coward. It’s all too familiar. 

Rubbing his cheeks to try grounding himself, Tobio peeks his head around the edge of the counter he currently crouches behind. Of course he isn’t hallucinating. That is just his luck.

Crumpled in a small, but growing, puddle of blood, Spiderman takes up most of Tobio’s kitchen. Not only that, but every old dish and forgotten wrapper that had been piled around the sink have been flung to the floor as well. Tobio does not have the strength for this, he really doesn’t. 

He turns back to where his phone waits at his feet, panting. Who is he kidding? The police would make this a thousand times worse. 

Tobio allows himself one scream muffled by his hands, before crawling to where the vigilante lies. It is not clear how he lost consciousness. The gash on his arm is ugly, but superficial, and the blood loss isn’t severe enough to be the culprit. If it’s head trauma then he’s definitely going to wake up concussed. Tobio would have to lift the mask to check, and he absolutely refuses to do that.  

Resigning himself to an old nightmare, Kageyama checks the first few boxes. He feels along Spiderman’s jaw until he finds a pulse. It’s slow, a very bad sign, but at least he won’t have to deal with a corpse yet. Next he hovers his hand over where the guy’s mouth should be, squinting at the mask’s fabric for any movement. Okay, breathing going strong. Maybe it isn’t so bad. 

Normally he wouldn’t move an injured person, but Kageyama is utterly convinced if he leaves the body alone for even a second the vigilante will die on his kitchen floor and he does not feel like unpacking that right now. So, doing a halfhearted scan for any noticeably broken bones, Kageyama eases his arms under the other man’s legs and shoulders. Spiderman shuffles, mumbling something through the haze and lifting his knees in accommodation. Kageyama doesn’t let that get his hopes up for any miraculous wake-ups.

With how strong the guy is, and how obviously muscular in the tight suit, Kageyama would assume lifting him would be difficult, but it isn’t. Spiderman’s stature must be outweighing the other factors, because Kageyama stands and walks to his bathroom with comical ease. 

The other weird thing- temperature. Even through their clothes Kageyama can feel how much heat Spiderman is radiating. It can’t be a fever, it’s too hot and Spiderman would be sweating or shivering. Plus, as Kageyama turns sideways to get through the bathroom door and flick on the light, he notices that the heat is not all over the vigilante, but rather concentrated around the wound on his arm. Weird, but Kageyama is well versed in the way mutations throw a wrench into medical concepts so he shakes it off. 

He crouches, turning his knee at an uncomfortable angle, to deposit the other man propped up on the toilet lid. Spiderman’s head lulls, thunking against the wall. Even that small sound is enough to make Kageyama jump, swearing as he digs through the cabinets for his first aid kit. Dust coats his fingers as he feels over the contents of the cabinet. Finally his hand meets smooth plastic, and he pulls out the kit.

First things first, the cut. There isn’t a good way to find the cause of Spiderman’s loss of consciousness, so Kageyama will just have to wait and see if he wakes up. In the meantime, he pulls out a tiny pair of scissors, crouching on the tile in front of the toilet. The floor is chilly against his shins, and his hands shake as he lifts them. When was the last time he had done this? High school? Middle? 

He reaches to the cut in the suit. The fabric is a blackish brown around the wound, stiff from blood drying between its fibers. Tobio peels it back with a crackle, bringing the blade of the scissors to it. Bit by stubborn bit, he hacks away at the fabric to create a wider opening. It curls over itself, wilting open. So it’s one of those suits. Fucking ameture. 

Kageyama tries not to notice anything about the other man, but it is impossible. Warm skin dotted with light peachfuzz and faint moles peeks from inside the suit, taught over toned muscle. It’s soft and unblemished. How young is this guy? Luckily he is able to drive the thought away fairly fast. 

The cut has slowed its bleeding, shiny and tacky, but something is wrong. Around the border is puckered lighter skin, tight and fresh. Some of the cut has scabbed over, tough as bark, and it doesn’t look as deep as it had seemed. It shouldn’t be able to heal so fast. 

Kageyama blanches, falling back. His ass hits the tiles, forcing a pained hiss from him, but he stays staring at the prone form before him. It isn’t that unbelievable that a mutant’s abilities may be more than meets the eye. Complex mutations can give the illusion of multiple powers. But this? What does rapid healing have to do with webbing, or stickiness, or even agility? 

Small and unguarded, Spiderman sprawls, but Kageyama cannot help feeling threatened. 

“What the fuck are you?” He mumbles to himself more than anything else. 

He has to take a break. Tobio rushes through cleaning the cut, then exits the bathroom to gather his wits. Sliding to the floor, he presses his back against the door. He can hear the leaky kitchen sink in the other room, drip, drip, drip. The thin silky material of his pajamas is a poor insulator, leaving his limbs covered in gooseflesh. Instead of the floor he sees fabric ripping in his hands, under his blade, against the road, over, and over, and over . 

Tears prick in his eyes, so he shoves the heels of his hands against them, gnawing the inside of his mouth to distract himself. 

“Mom?” 

Miwa’s voice echoes in his ears, young and confused, yet laced with a knowingness that was creeping up on Tobio then too. Their mother had never answered. She just kept holding the phone. Just kept staring at the wall, holding that damn phone. They had known right then what happened. Tobio had been waiting for it.

He can’t do it again. Blowing out a shaky breath, Tobio lets his head fall back. He presses his hands to the floor. He turns, putting his feet on the ground. He stands, and opens the door.

The first aid kit sits open and abandoned in the middle of the room, the roll of gauze unwinded enough to spill out. Kageyama crouches to gather it up, and tucks it back into the cabinet. He needs a different approach now that the cut is dealt with. Just as he straightens up, braced against the counter, he hears a soft groan. 

Still as a stone, Kageyama snaps to attention. A mix of relief and panic flood him. Spiderman has started moving. Little twitches of his fingers, and tensings of his legs. Finally he shifts his head. The blue fabric of the suit glimmers as it moves under Kageyama’s dingy lights. Without support, Spiderman bobs forwards. Kageyama throws an arm out, but the vigilante catches himself at the last second, slapping a hand onto the counter with a loud smack. 

It’s hard to tell where the guy is looking behind his face shields, but his head swivels slowly. He must still be out of it. Kageyama flexes his eyes, reaching for the cord in the back of his head. Best to be ready for anything. Finally, after a good amount of dopey glances, Spiderman notices Kageyama hovering over him for the first time. His face levels with Kageyama’s stomach, tilting back gradually until he can make approximate eye contact.

“Oh thank god.” He croaks, weak and whispy. 

Tobio can’t help but grimace, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder to keep him from trying to stand up. 

“Do you remember hitting your head?” He grouses.

Spiderman stares at him blankly, heightened by the emptiness of the lenses. Then, one by one and slow as molasses, the lenses blink and reopen. 

“What?” the vigilante slurs.

“Oh for fucks sake.” 

Kageyama drops to his knees to be at eye level, holding the other’s head still as he futilely attempts to see through the mask to his pupils. The idiot is probably concussed. Spiderman goes rigid in his grasp, the lenses eeking just a tiny bit wider with a short whirring sound. Tobio uses his grip on either side of the man’s jaw to gently tilt his head side to side, searching for a moment of transparency. 

“Where do you think you are?” He snaps, glaring into the murky white eyes of the mask.

“Uh… I…” 

Spiderman swallows, a funny pillowy quality to his mouth as though it were numb. 

“Your… bathroom?” he eventually responds, glancing slightly at the toilet paper mounted to the wall next to him.

“Okay, good,” Tobio tells him. “Now, do you remember hitting your head?” 

“I didn’t.” Spiderman murmurs, his hands lifting distractedly between them. 

“Obviously you did,” Tobio muses, still struggling to check if the guy’s pupils are dilated. 

“Uh…” 

Tobio leans back a bit, realizing just how close he had gotten. Even through the mask Spiderman looks completely awestruck, the lenses of the mask blown so wide they nearly turn into circles. He gropes at the air, missing a few times before looping Kageyama’s wrists in a clumsy hold. Fingertips dance across Kageyama’s pulse, as Spiderman carefully pries his hands off of his face and leans in. 

“I think I’m seeing things…” He whispers, the letters blending together at the ends of his words. 

Tobio furrows his brow, a spike of concern in his stomach. Halluscinating is a bad sign. He can’t hand the guy over to a hospital if the injuries are too bad. How is he supposed to explain hallucinations?

“What do you mean?” He rushes to ask.

Spiderman just ducks forward a bit more, until Kageyama almost goes cross-eyed. 

“Were your eyes always that pretty?” Spiderman mumbles.

Kageyama sighs, realizing what the guy is on about. A prickle of humiliation runs up his spine, sour in the back of his throat. He pulls back, blinking and letting go of the cord to make his eyes a little bit less freakish, though he can’t fully cover them without his contacts. 

“You hit your head. You’re just seeing things.”

Kageyama rises, stretching his arms up until his back pops. Spiderman stares at him dumbly from the floor, head cocked. Best get him to a hospital so he can call his family.

“Can you stand?” Kageyama asks.

“I didn’t hit my head.” Spiderman pouts.

It was probably meant to sound mad, but it comes out stilted and jumbled up.

“Sure.”

Kageyama watches apprehensively as the vigilante comes to a shaky stance, swaying a bit before finding his footing.

“I didn’t!” He whines, throwing his arms out so dramatically he almost topples into the sink.

Kageyama  manages to catch him with a hand against his chest, grunting as his wrist bears the full weight of another person for just a moment. When Spiderman rights himself, he keeps it there just in case the vigilante has any more bright ideas.

“I got drugged!” Spiderman huffs, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Kageyama falters, taken aback. 

“Excuse me?” He presses, trying to keep up with Spiderman’s wandering gaze.

“Got attacked by some guys…”

Spiderman tilts forward, leaning onto Kageyama’s hand again. He stares at it, chin pressed to the orange paint streaks on his collar.

“They shot me with a dart… got all… blehhh…”

At the sound effect he crumples, flapping one hand in the air flippantly as he thunks his forehead into Kageyama’s chest. It makes a funny kick start up in Kageyama’s stomach, dizzy and awkward.

Kageyama sighs, jaw set as he stares the shower down accusatorily. How is he supposed to get rid of the guy now? He doesn’t even know what he got drugged with! 

Spiderman hums, going limp and nuzzling into Kageyama. Even through the mask, Kageyama can feel his cheek squish, sliding up as his nosebridge works its way dangerously close to Kageyama’s neck.

“ Okay! ” Kageyama almost shouts, face going hot.

Fucking, fuck!

He does not want an inebriated man coseying up to him, no thank you. Grabbing Spiderman’s shoulders, Kageyama pushes him around and hurriedly towards the bathroom door. The vigilante stumbles along, feet squeaking across the tiles as he fails to keep Kageyama’s pace. Doesn’t matter to him though, he just wants as much space between them as possible.

Not stopping to turn on the lights, Kageyama marches them to the living room. Without an ounce of decorum, he spins Spiderman around and shoves him onto the couch. The vigilante plops down with a quiet ‘oof,’ sending a throw pillow into the air. Kageyama turns on his heel, speedwalking to the basket he keeps the blankets in and blindly grabbing one off the top. 

His pulse thunders, torn between reliving the worst day of his life and fluttering from arousal. This cannot be happening. He dreamed it, and in the morning everything will go back to normal. It’s just the middle of the night and he needs to sleep. That is all. 

Trying not to look at Spiderman, Kageyama thrusts his hand out to offer the blanket. He’s scared that if he looks he’ll think about the last time. About a turquoise glow dancing over the solid arms open to him. Light trickles down the short hall from the bathroom, leaving a mustard yellow stain on the back of the furniture. 

Gingerly the blanket is lifted from his grasp, pulled into Spiderman’s lap with a quiet shuffle. The moment it’s gone, Kageyama hurries to leave, but the vigilante is faster. Strong as a vice, Spiderman clutches at Kageyama’s arm with a mad sort of desperation. 

“Woah, woah, wait!” He gasps, voice still thin but less slurred than before.

“What?” Kageyama hisses, shoulders hiked up defensively. 

Spiderman reaches up, tugging the sleeve of Kageyama’s pajamas until he’s forced to bend down unsteadily. The air is punched from Kageyama’s lungs, and only the small mercy of the other man’s face being hidden keeps him alive at all. He stares wide eyed, unable to move as the vigilante tilts his head, soaking in Kageyama’s face.

“I’m not crazy…” Spiderman murmurs, yawning just a little. “Your eyes are pretty.”

With that he collapses to his side, immediately falling asleep. Kageyama stays frozen, blinking at where the man’s head had been. Something in him cracks open, ugly and mangled and furious at being held down. It swells and burbles, filling Tobio’s throat and swallowing his organs. 

He comes to his full height stiffly, trembling. Remember what happens, he reminds himself, walking mindlessly to his room. You don’t even know him. You don’t want to.

“But they’re so pretty!” Miwa complains in his memory. 

He remembers putting on his contacts for the first time, ready to go into high school with a clean slate. It stung, poking and prodding his eyes until they overflowed with tears, Miwa hovering in the doorway. Always hovering after the incident. Never home long enough for it to make a difference. 

“Your eyes are pretty.”

Tobio takes a sleeping pill, though he’d already had one earlier, and screws his eyes shut. He waits for everything to just… shut.

Brrrrrrmmmmmm…

Brrrrrmmmmmm…

Brrrrrmmmmmm…

The call clicks to life, heavy and sharp. Faint grey light drifts through the sheer curtains of her bedroom. It isn’t enough to brighten the room, just enough to be irritating. Haggard breathing comes through the phone, the screen cold on her cheek.

“Hello?” she groans, rolling to rouse herself from sleep.

Her spine aches, not as flexible as it once was. The voice on the other end hitches, and she realizes they are crying. 

“It’s Shoyo,” the voice, her sister-in-law , gasps. “He didn’t come home.”

“What?” 

She sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and flicking on her lamp.

“Yuka talk to me, what’s going on?”

There comes some shuffling from the other end, crackling and dry. She waits, calm but focused.

“He’s been going out more, staying out later. I- I thought it was a good thing! He just made some friends! I didn’t- I thought-”

“Yuka. What is happening?” 

“Shoyo never came home last night. I have no idea where he could be! I- Natsu has to go to school, I-I- I have work!”

She bites her lip, mind drifting to another carefree redhead, always wandering right into trouble. How Yuka manages with two she has no idea. She throws her blanket aside, thinking back to where she left her keys, her coat, her wallet.

“I’m on my way.” She soothes, stepping into her slippers.

“I can’t ask that of you…” Yuka sighs.

“You’re not, I’m offering.”

The keys jangle as she drops them into her pocket. 

“Oh, Mae… I don’t know how you bear it.”

Mae chuckles dryly, striding towards the front door. 

“Our family has managed far more dysfunction than your kids, Yuka. I am quite used to this.”