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Peaceful days are like intermissions: far too short to get anything done and far more chaotic than what follows. Plenty of Atsuhiro's shows have gone awry, but nothing competes to the madhouse of an intermission. People fleeing for the toilet, vendors fighting for their lives as children screech for concessions, and the host of the show, yours truly, scrambling to prepare for the second act. It is the calm before the storm; the time where change is most likely.
As proven by the argument disrupting an otherwise relaxing period between missions.
"I am a valuable asset!"
Youthful behind the crackle of a gas mask, the words come from Mustard, their newest recruit.
He's scrawny, only taller than Toga, and in the two weeks he's been slowly transitioning into the League, Atsuhiro has yet to learn anything about the boy. Not his name, not his age, and certainly not his interests. His middle school gakuran gives a vague range and his borderline obsession with chemistry and war does have some personality to it, but the boy is a ghost in the bar's halls.
Shigaraki, their leader, is hardly listening to him.
"I know that," he rasps, curled over a handheld video game, hands gloved, while perched on a bar stool. Atsuhiro's back, ten years his leader's senior, aches in sympathy. "If you weren't, I wouldn't have let you join at all."
The eyes of Mustard's mask glow a sinister red and his fists ball at his side.
"Toga is going!" Mustard gestures to her lounging across a table.
She lifts her head at her name—even if Mustard cared to keep this matter private, the bar area is so small you can hear a whisper across the room. Most of lair's space comes from the maze of rooms built out of old offices, storage closets, and closed off nooks digging into the storefronts around them.
"Don't bring me into this," Toga says, narrowing her eyes. She twirls a knife between her fingers. When she draws blood, she licks it away.
Mustard ignores her and tries desperately to pull Shigaraki's attention from his screen. "What does she have that I don't?"
In a chair pulled up to Toga's table, Dabi says, "Her balls have dropped?"
The two of them snicker and Magne, sitting across from Atsuhiro, gets a kick out of it. Despite being the maturest here, Atsuhiro can't help the grin beneath his mask either. Mustard is surely flushing beneath his.
"Now, now," Atsuhiro speaks up. "Dear Mustard is attempting to meet with our leader. Please be respectful. Continue, Mustard. Apologies for the interruption."
Toga flops back down on the table, giggling to Dabi, and the rest of them pretend they aren't listening. Though, Twice has already turned in for the night and Spinner might be genuinely distracted cleaning his sword of many swords, so it's mostly Atsuhiro and Magne having to keep their eyes on the card game between them.
Mustard's shoulders hunch and he shifts so his back is to his audience—terrible stage etiquette.
"Like it or not, Toga's been here longer," Shigaraki says, finally looking up.
"But Moonfish and Muscular are on the Vanguard and they aren't even part of the League! They're assholes you picked up because—!"
"And," Shigaraki interrupts, emphasizing the word and glaring at Mustard. "She's sixteen—"
"Seventeen!" Toga shouts at the ceiling.
"—seventeen," Shigaraki doesn't skip a beat, "and that's, like, five more years of experience she has on you."
"You think I'm twelve?" Mustard asks, so affronted his voice cracks. Dabi's only capable of self-restraint because Magne shoots him a look before he goes to comment on it.
"Give or take," Shigaraki shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I'm not taking a new player to a boss match and I won't have time to babysit you while we're raiding Yuuei. Now, go away. You're pestering me."
"I'm not a child!" Mustard asserts. He stomps his foot and flaps his hands like an aggressive bird.
Shigaraki barely spares him a glance before going, "Obviously."
From where Atsuhiro is sitting, they're both bickering children.
"What's the point of letting me join if you aren't going to utilize my powers?" Mustard continues, steamrolling over Shigaraki's sarcasm.
Rolling his eyes, Shigaraki says, "There's bound to be more missions to go on—when you've leveled up. You're too close to this, anyways. I can't have you derailing the party to fulfill your revenge fantasy against Yuuei."
"But—!" Mustard cuts himself off with an exasperated huff. "But that's not fair!"
His words come out as a borderline whine, voice cracking like he's about to cry. Atsuhiro straightens up at the sound, abandoning his card game with Magne. Typically, he might assume these tears to be ones of false pretense; a trick to manipulate their leader into listening. Bad faith actors are everywhere in shows such as this.
But Mustard does not fit that character casting. While Atsuhiro knows very little about him, the few interactions he's seen have been… steady, grounded. Mustard is a pragmatist, perhaps the most logical of the group, and he is, ultimately, a child. Children cry when they don't get their way.
He doesn't know if it's the flippant regard Shigaraki has for him or if it's the eyes from his audience members embarrassing him, but Mustard freezes and is suddenly aware of himself—of the scene he's making. Without another word, the boy ducks his head and rounds the bar, disappearing into the curtained doorway leading to the dilapidated halls of their home.
"That went well," Dabi comments dryly.
Magne is already pushing herself up to follow, but Atsuhiro raises a hand to stop her.
"Allow me," he says. "I don't imagine he'll appreciate a stranger coming to check on him, but I've, at least, built some rapport with him already. I have a way with children."
Though, admittedly, much younger children. Teenagers are less impressed by magic tricks.
Atsuhiro goes to knock on Mustard's door, a workshop more than a bedroom, but it pushes open to reveal Mustard in the corner, quietly weeping beneath his mask. Atsuhiro's feet move forward on instinct.
"Mustard, dear boy, are you alright?" he asks softly, shutting the door behind him and blanketing them in darkness. Mustard's work lamp, dull and warm, is the only thing illuminating the room.
"Go away!" Mustard shouts, kicking his feet sporadically and wrapping his arms around his middle in a self-soothing squeeze. It's a tantrum, one far too childish for the boy's age. Perhaps this is why he fled.
It's an open secret that some of the League are, for lack of a better phrase, mentally younger. Shigaraki and Dabi, in particular, go through life as if they are children playing the role of an adult. It's not surprising given what goes unsaid about their backstories, but there's something sad about Mustard being in the same space. The boy is so small already—a child seeking to redo the childhood they should be currently experiencing.
Atsuhiro hums. This certainly won't do.
"If space is what you require, I'm more than happy to oblige," he says, crouching down on Mustard's level. He remains a couple meters away, safe from any flailing kicks. "But I don't mind spending the rest of this intermission with you."
"You talk weird," Mustard hiccups, shoving his hands under his mask to rub his eyes.
It's not an outright rejection.
Atushiro smiles beneath his own mask and says, "Yes, I've gotten that many times."
His amusement falters, however, when he realizes Mustard might be commenting on his inability to understand Atushiro's eccentricities. He must be particularly young; a little boy, inside and out.
"Apologies, I just meant I don't mind being here while you calm down," he amends, scanning the room for any sign of comfort. "You don't have to be alone if you don't wish to."
There's a stuffed animal on the boy's bed: a plump horse with floppy legs, soft fur, and a big head. It's a silver-y grey color with white on its snout and hoofs and a camouflage pattern on the bandana tied around its neck. Atsuhiro shuffles over and grabs it, scooting back to where he was and offering the toy as an olive branch.
Mustard doesn't move. He only stares at the horse and hugs himself, shuddering.
"That's alright," he murmurs, placing the horse down on the floor between them. He makes sure it's properly on its behind, front hooves between its spread back legs like a sitting dog. "I just figured you could use a friend."
Mustard sniffles. Atsuhiro is sure if it weren't for the mask, the boy would be rubbing his eyes with his balled up fists like a toddler.
"Why are you here?" he asks.
"I just figured you could use a friend," Atsuhiro repeats.
The words weigh heavy in the air, but they get through to him. Mustard's shoulders relax.
"I've never had a friend," he mumbles, fingers dipping under his mask and into his mouth.
Atsuhiro pats the horse. "Well, now you have two."
Mustard gingerly grabs one of the floppy limbs and pulls the plushie into his arms, hesitant like Atsuhiro will magically make it disappear. He does no such thing.
Thinking back to what started this all, Atsuhiro says, "I'll talk to Shigaraki about letting you on the Vanguard. I'm sorry you aren't being taken seriously."
"I just wanna help," Mustard lets out a distressed little baby hum, rocking himself back and forth.
"I know," Atsuhiro says, "and it's very admirable. He only wishes to protect you. You've likely seen enough tragedy in your life. No need to add to it."
The two sit together, processing. Mustard cries out the rest of his frustrations while Atsuhiro takes deep, meditative breaths for him to copy. When the boy calms, reduced to tearful sniffles, Atsuhiro decides to address the way he clings to his horse (and to himself).
"Mustard," he calls. "Would you like a hug? A cuddle, perhaps?"
"A cuddle?" Mustard questions, as if the word is foreign to him. Atsuhiro imagines his nose crinkling behind his mask.
He hums, affirmative. "How long has it been since you've had one, hm? Far too long, I bet."
Mustard's silence is an answer in and of itself.
Atsuhiro doesn't push him. He merely sits cross-legged with his arms open. Mustard is slow to respond, but respond he does. The boy crawls into his hold with his horse in tow and sits sideways in Atsuhiro's lap. If he were any smaller, he'd be cradled like an infant.
Mustard's gas mask, however, is massive and digs into his chest. Atsuhiro winces.
"That can't be too comfortable," he says, already reaching up. "How about we take it off—?"
Mustard whimpers and nearly scrambles out of Atsuhiro's hold, dropping his horse to hang on to his mask. Atsuhiro stops in his tracks.
He supposes he should've expected that. None of the masked members of the League enjoy showing their face, Atsuhiro included. Still, he'd rather not subject them both to the awkwardness of working around it.
"How about I take off mine first?" he suggests and unbuckles the strap of his mask. He pulls it off, along with his fabric headpiece, so Mustard can see him—frizzy hair and all. He gives the boy a warm smile and offers him back his horse. "See? Not too bad. We're all friends here."
Mustard hugs his plushie and gives a small nod. Atsuhiro takes his time pulling the gas mask off and doesn't object when Mustard immediately burrows into the crook of his neck, hiding his face before Atsuhiro has a chance to see it. All he gets is fluffy, light brown hair and the chubby cheeks of a boy that hasn't burned off his baby fat yet. It's enough for a burning paternal feeling to flicker in Atsuhiro's chest at this boy he barely knows.
"There we go," he murmurs, adjusting them both. "Let me know when you want it back, okay? I promise I won't look."
Mustard hums, shaking like a wet kitten. Atsuhiro gingerly rocks them back and forth, rubbing soothing circles into the boy's back. He isn't crying anymore, but it doesn't hurt to add a little extra affection for him to soak in.
"Compress," Mustard says, muffled. "We're friends?"
"Yes," Atsuhiro responds easily.
"And you think I'd be good for the Vanguard?"
Those like Mustard and Toga are children before they are villains. Little ones have no place in the dredges of filth and privation, and they work even harder than their adult counterparts to make it in a world that looks down on them.
But here they are, desperate for a gentle hand Atsuhiro is more than willing to offer.
"Yes," he says again, as honest as he is rueful. "I think you're a brilliant addition to the cast and we'd be lucky to have you on this mission."
Small and soft, Mustard curls into the embrace. The more Atsuhiro rocks, the more the boy melts into him, horse pressed to his chest.
"Thank you," Mustard whispers.
"Of course, my dear."
The second act is rearing for its entrance, but it hasn't arrived just yet. Atushiro settles in his new seat. His peaceful day returns and nothing is more relaxing than cuddling a baby as the intermission comes to a close.