Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cue the music, something orchestral with flair.

Ah, so you've finally arrived. About time. This is the grand tale of how Neito Monoma became the greatest– don’t laugh now. What did you think this would be about?

You see, history is made by the loudest voices, and his had been impeccably trained since birth. Or, well, since he could talk. Details, details.

While others were chasing popularity polls and getting by on flashy tricks, Neito was doing what truly mattered. He got by on strategic planning, outstanding perseverance, and a stunning sense of theatrical captivation.

I know what you're thinking. Monoma? That one guy from Class 1-B who was always making a scene. To that I say: Exactly. Because legends are not easily forgotten. They do not fade into the background. They stand upon injustice. They climb mountains of trials and tribulations to achieve their desired goals. They remain fearless in the face of–

Alright, alright, we’ll get on with the story.

Sit tight, keep your eyes open, and prepare to have your preconceived notions shattered.

This is the story of how Neito Monoma became the greatest hero in the world.

No, really, it is.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Neito was a loud child. If anyone who knew him now were to meet him in nursery school, they would only bat an eye because of how similar that little boy was to their loud, boisterous Monoma. He knew many quiet, shy children, the ones who kept to themselves and had few friends. Neito had few friends, but it was easier to go unnoticed as he made himself as large as a group of people.

His teachers complained.

“He’s troublesome. He talks in class and doesn't get along with the other children.”

His mom scolded him.

“Stop being so attention-seeking. It’s embarrassing.”

His dad tried to hush him.

“No one wants to hear you talk that much.”

Schoolmates, neighbors, people who worked at grocery stores and restaurants, they all knew that Neito liked to be noticed. Some called him bratty. Some called him funny. They all called him something. No matter where he was, he was always doing something. Acting out, doing cartwheels, showing off new tricks he'd learned, and sometimes crying. Crying did the trick, but it wasn't the most fun for him.

Neito developed many skills throughout his childhood. He got into writing and would spend his time writing dramatic monologues or short stories about suspiciously sad, ever-adored main characters. He took theatre classes, where his appetite for the spotlight was constantly fed. He wrote plays and consumed the work of playwrights and fantasy authors at a rapid rate.

He collected his favorite book series, mostly fantasy, some mystery. Fantasy mysteries were his favorite. His music taste was diverse, though not from any need to appear pretentious. He couldn't decide on a favorite genre. Classical, pop, the vocaloid music a girl in his class put him on, he liked all of it. He was a horrendous dancer, and didn't take lessons due to not wanting to be severely humiliated, but he liked to dance when he was alone in his room.

He learned piano and violin. He played his violin so often that his little brother yelled at him from the other room, telling him to shut up. He was worse when he heard Neito’s shower singing, but that sort of irritation furthered the verve of his performances. His inability to sing and dance didn't hinder his theatre career because his performance was just that flawless. He also played the kazoo, but shut up, that doesn't matter.

Besides his native Japanese, he could speak French, and he’d been learning German. His English was nothing spectacular, so don't ask. He never tried playing sports and chose instead to joke about people who did. Because his brother played football, and if Neito tried and wasn't good at it, he could never live with the humiliation. When he really wanted to be good at something, which he always did, he could make it happen. But he didn't usually try his hand at something he thought he'd be no good at.

He did take martial arts classes as a child, but he stopped once he reached middle school. He would need those if he wanted to be a hero one day, but they weren't a preference of his. No one believed he could be a hero, but his parents put him in lessons so he would shut up. They liked keeping him busy, it meant less time to spend around his antics, so when he came up with another thing he wanted to learn, he never heard a no. He rarely heard no when it came to anything he wanted.

He had collections decorating the shelves in his bedroom, anything to keep him quiet. It worked for fleeting moments until it became a never-ending cycle. When he started receiving allowance and could make his own purchases, his parents had to come up with other ways to distract him from them, but they spent most of their time working, so it wasn't a terrible conundrum.

He had bottles of perfumes, scents ranging from soft and girly to alluring and powerful. He smelled different every day. Like his music, he couldn't pick a favorite. Playbills stuck to his walls alongside anime posters and photographed evidence taken by his drama teachers of every time he starred in a production. It wasn't a hobby that stuck, but resin-crafted dragon eggs and amulets on hand-beaded chains were remnants of the time he got into crafting.

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure lined his walls and shelves, the colorful and creative series being one that he truly attributed to shaping him as a person. The soundtrack could often be found playing in his earbuds, and the musical references helped expand his taste. The vibrant art style got him into drawing for a short period of time, the men especially his favorites to doodle. It was one of the only really consistent favorites throughout his life, unlike the interests he routinely swapped for something else.

The reason Neito was like this, always having something to do, and therefore something to show off, was because he wanted to be seen. It wasn't as simple as that, but it all boiled down to the same thing. He wanted eyes on him. He watched the world with such adoration, more so than it seemed by the words he spoke. But he watched people with incredible talents, quirks, and passions. And he saw how short he fell in comparison.

He wanted people to think of him that way. He loved the impressed looks he received when he listed the many things he was able to do. He bathed in the glow of the spotlight, relishing in the sound of applause. He was starving for attention, and he was willing to do what it took to get it. And he would grasp that attention, that euphoric feeling, and hold it until it squeezed through the cracks of his white-knuckled fingers.

He didn't even care if he never became a hero, he would be famous one way or another. He would receive praise and adoration from the masses. He could feel that high all the time. Some people wanted fame because it got them nice things, like fancy cars and big houses. But Neito had always had nice things. All he wanted was to be talked about.

He was going to be the biggest, brightest star the world had ever seen. He could see it so clearly, a dazzling starlet illuminated by the flash of cameras. Silly, needy, and hopeless he may be in the eyes of many, one day they would see how wrong they were. They would crane their necks to see the top of his pedestal, look him in the sparkling eye, and he would grin. And they would have to ugly cry about it, far too beneath him for the sight to affect him.

The world would watch him rise. They would see him. And he would get to see the looks on their awestruck faces.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“He won't be able to see at all.”

The doctor’s words sank deep into Neito’s skin. He couldn't see the expression on her face, couldn't tell if she pitied him or kept that stony doctor expression that didn't do anything to alleviate worry. Neito’s mother was sobbing in the chair beside him.

His mother was a beautiful woman. Her hair was artificially-lightened blonde and her tears fell like gems down her rosy apple cheeks. She had gotten married young, while she was still worth something. Before she had him, she was even more beautiful. She always said pregnancy ruined her, that Neito stole her beauty. He wasn't sure where he'd put it.

She seemed to think she was rather unattractive, which was as ridiculous and attention-seeking as anything Neito pulled. He had never agreed, he thought she was the most magnificent thing he'd ever seen. The fact that he looked like her was a small comfort in his life, though it must mean she also thought he was ugly.

When he was upset with her, he used to call her a toad. He told her she looked like the gnarled witch of a fairytale or the protagonist before the beautification took place. He was just being mean, just making jokes. He wished he'd spent a bit more time just looking at her, admiring her. Now he would never get to see her face again.

The doctor tried to talk to her, but all she could do was cry. His mother was also an actress. A wonderful one. He didn't believe she cared so much about him that it warranted all those tears, but if he didn't know better, he'd be fully convinced. She begged for surgeries, for options, but there were none. His eyes were damaged beyond repair.

His life was over.

As his mother’s sobs turned to sniffles and hiccups, Dr. Enchi took the chance to better explain why surgery wasn't an option. Neito didn't care for an explanation. If this couldn't be fixed, it didn't matter to him what happened.

“The injury caused severe trauma to both eyes. The retinas are shredded, and there is extensive scarring and detachment. Think of it like wallpaper on a wall, completely torn off.”

The analogy made Neito picture dingy floral paper peeling back from the wall, and all he could think was that he would never see a wall again. He wouldn't be able to look up at the ceiling in his dorm room and lock eyes with the glossy characters hanging up there. He wouldn't see the soft blue color of his bedroom at home. He wouldn’t see anyone’s room.

“The optic nerves have sustained extensive damage, the left worse than the right. There's been ischemia, resulting in nerve death, which is why no visual signals are able to come through.”

His mother started crying again. She startled him by grabbing his hand.

“You won't be completely blind in appearance.”

Neito almost didn't realize Dr. Enchi was speaking to him. Was she looking at him? Did she realize how stupid that was?

“Your eyes are still there, and with proper prosthetics and medication, we may be able to reduce the discomfort and restore a relatively regular appearance. Vision-wise, the damage is permanent, surgery can't restore the function of your eyes, but at least you get to keep that handsome face.”

Her voice was supposed to sound encouraging. He suspected her face matched. But he couldn't see it, so it didn't matter. What did he care if he was handsome? He couldn't see his face. He couldn't look at himself ever again, not to pick on his own insecurities or applaud his appearance.

For the first time in his life, Neito was quiet.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Neito ran his fingers along the fabrics of familiar clothing. If he touched an item, feeling out styles, patterns, and buttons, he could guess what was what. But there were too many he had to put down because he had no idea what they were. How was he supposed to dress like this? Even if he memorized all the clothes in his closet, there was still a chance of him looking like a fool.

He could feel the sharp shoulders of blazers. Gym pants were separated from trousers by weight and texture. It wasn't as simple as a glance, a thought that barely registered. He had to feel through everything, pick carefully, adjust the whole ensemble to perfection, and eventually ask someone else if he looked alright.

There goes any chance at being fashionable. How was he supposed to shop now? He didn't know anyone with a similar or as good a sense for fashion as he had. Would he have to wear the same clothes forever? Either that or have someone else dress him. Both sounded torturous.

At least he didn't have to dress up for school. Slipping into his uniform was muscle memory. Except with his tie. Day after day, he watched in the mirror as his hands folded the material into a perfect knot. But mirrors didn't exist to him anymore. Just the memory of it.

The first try was too tight, the next too loose. This was stupid, he shouldn't need eyes to tie a tie. His hands shook as he pulled through loops and twisted the slippery fabric. He could just tell it didn't look right. He yanked it off, tossing it angrily to the floor. It was just a tie, it wasn't that difficult.

But it wasn't just a tie. It was buttons that took twice as long as they used to. It was clean laundry folded with careful touches. It was socks hidden beneath trousers because there was no way of telling if they matched. And it was every slow, measured step toward the door. The tie was done as well as it could be for now, adjusted frequently to make sure it was at least not crooked.

He had a cane now, to help him walk. He wondered how long it would take to get used to it. He hated using the stupid thing, the thought of people seeing him with it filled him with so much dread he wanted to hide in his room and never come out. Ever. But it would be a million times worse to bump into walls. He was already going to be treated differently now, he didn’t want to look incapable.

He felt like an idiot walking at a snail’s pace through the common room. He nearly bumped into Kosei, feeling the brush of his shoulder as he turned around. He could smell the apple scent of him mixed with what always just smelled like cereal to Neito. Kosei didn’t say anything, didn’t move an inch. He hadn't seen Neito, and Neito hadn't seen him. He hadn't captured the attention of the room with a stride, he'd become as invisible to the world as it was to him.

“Are you staring at me?” Neito said, batting lashes over acrylic eyes.

“Ah, no, I'm not,” Kosei answered nervously.

“You don’t have to pretend. I understand. Though I didn't know you were like that.”

“Like what?”

Neito smiled, hoping the vibrant gesture would draw more attention than the fact that his eyes were definitely not looking at Kosei. He made a quick movement with his hand, wrist limp and stuck out like he was showing off a manicure. He withdrew his hand rather quickly, because he hadn’t been taking the best care of his usually well-manicured hands. Rather, he wasn’t sure how much it looked like it.

“Are you,” Neito wished he could confirm the smile he heard in Kosei’s voice, “calling me gay?”

“Rich coming from you,” Tokage joined in.

Neito got that feeling he kept getting all during his absence from school, from his parents and doctors. That sense that someone was staring at him, but he couldn't find them to give it back. They were both just staring through one another.

“What does that mean? Why are you laughing? What kinds of jokes have you obnoxious creatures been making about me behind my back?”

Fukidashi laughed loudly, and Neito hated the way he instinctively turned his head to find him.

“She’s just saying it’s funny for you to be making gay jokes. Considering…”

“Considering what?”

The room went quiet. Great, he loved silent stares. He couldn't read those anymore. He couldn't even read anymore.

“You know, it’s rude to stare at blind people. It’s also rude to assume a man is gay just because he's fabulous, which I assume is what’s going on.”

“We just thought,” Awase said, and he was laughing again. Why was everyone laughing at him? “Are you telling us you're not gay?”

“We really weren't trying to stereotype or anything,” Kendo said. “It’s just, you know, all the dramatics and performing, the beauty routine, that one time you were obsessed with that Aoyama kid.”

“Obsessed?” he screeched. “I was not obsessed! That is not at all what was going on. I was pointing out a lot of very important observations.”

“It’s okay,” Tetsutetsu said. “You can admit it, we won't think less of you. You can be our brooding gay best friend now.”

“I am not brooding. And I'm not gay!” He turned angrily to his left side. “I think I would know if I was.”

“I’m over here, dude.”

Neito turned abruptly around, sending a scowl nowhere in particular. A hand on his shoulder made him flinch. Why did he keep doing that? He used to love physical touch from his friends. Kids at his old schools used to make a joke out of staying away from the quirk-stealing boy, so even a handshake was out of the question, forget about a hug.

“Why are you getting so angry?” Kosei asked. “Is it cause you're gay?”

Neito gathered himself, running hands much less careless than usual through his hair, and smiled.

“I assure you, I'm not a homosexual.”

“Only a homosexual would use that word,” Tetsu said. “You just give the vibe.”

“The only vibes I give are those of power and elegance.”

“And emotional instability,” Kendo unhelpfully added. “It’s giving bisexual disaster, at least.”

“I’m going to class, homos,” Tokage said. Her perfume breezed past him as she did, the orange and jasmine scent he’d always liked seemed more noticeable now. He remembered asking her about it when they'd first met.

Neito found himself paying extra attention to the footsteps leaving the dorms. As everyone filed out, someone approached him, and only from the cinnamon scent of her did he realize it was Kendo. Suddenly, her hands were on his tie, straightening it.

“A little help for the fabulous?”

“I don't need help, thank you,” Neito said, but he let her fix his tie. “I’d appreciate if everyone stopped playing with me like I'm a doll. I'm blind, I didn't lose all feeling.”

“Sorry, champ.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You're doing great, by the way.”

“Of course, I am. As if this was going to stop me. And someone needs to keep you fools entertained. If your fantasies about my sexual preferences do that, so be it, but someone should tell my middle school crush.”

Kendo laughed, and instead of admiring the smile as he wished he'd done more, he let the sound fill him with warmth.

“Seriously, though, I really liked her skirt collection. That means I'm not gay, right?”

Kendo placed two steady hands on his shoulders, and Neito would probably kill someone to see the look on her face.

“Yeah, Mono. That means you're not gay.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

The hallways sounded louder than they did before. It was like the absence of eyesight put his other senses on high alert. Voices bounced off the walls, footsteps slapped against vinyl flooring, and laughter came from every direction. It was overwhelming, and it was his new normal.

And it was all happening without him. He was on the outside of a perfectly shaped bubble, pushed through the soap film and into a world of complete darkness. Darkness where he could still hear and feel everything around him, but because he couldn't see it, he wasn't invited in.

Kendo offered to walk with him, but he said no. He wasn't a tragic side character who needed to be helped along, his sob story serving to make the heroes look more heroic.

“I’m back!” His announcement wasn't at all dulled by the fact he'd almost tripped through the classroom doorway. “Despite my cruel fate, I have returned to grace you with my presence. Weep no more.”

“We literally just saw you,” Kaibara said.

“I was talking to Sensei.”

“I saw you yesterday.”

“But you're happy to see me, right?”

“Very. Sit down.”

He counted the steps to his desk. He was pretty sure it was his desk. He reached his hand out to pull his chair back. He missed. Chair legs scraped across the floor and suddenly his chair was closer. He assumed it was Kosei, who sat right beside him.

The class started regularly, with morning announcements and routine Neito fell easily into as it only required listening. Then there were practical demonstrations. Neito had arrangements made for him, ways he could stay a member of UA’s student body. His parents said he should drop out, that he could never be a blind hero, but Principal Nezu said he was allowed to stay as long as he could keep up.

“Monoma,” Vlad said. “You’ll be observing today. No participation until the support team finishes your new aids.”

Aids to help him study using sounds instead of visuals. He would need specialized software if he were even thinking about surviving here. Which he was, if that wasn't clear.

“Observing?” he said with a laugh. “Oh good. My favorite thing to do with my eyes.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Which was just wonderful. All he ever wanted to be was a vibe killer. So much so that he could make Monday mornings worse than they already were.

“Observe with your ears.”

That he did. The other teachers did the same for him. Lesson plans were changed for him. In any other world, he would have enjoyed the attention. For any other reason, he would.

Neito was slow to leave classes, always the last one out. But everyone waited for him. He wasn't sure if he liked that or not. Everyone was treating him like a king, but a very helpless one. They would probably do anything he asked, but only out of pity.

“Coming to lunch?” someone called out to him. Tetsutetsu, somewhere near him.

Neito didn't want to be in the cafeteria, surrounded by bodies and tables he couldn't see and could easily trip over. The stomachache he'd had all morning worsened within seconds. He didn't want to be around all those people. Anyone could say anything, could see anything. His stupidity was all of a sudden harder to hide.

But he agreed, and Tetsu walked with him to the cafeteria. He guided Neito by the elbow, an assistance he didn't need. Tetsutetsu smelled like generic soap and sour candies, and his footsteps were heavy on the floor. When they entered the cafeteria, Neito received no warning before a sturdy hand was pressed to his chest, stopping him from treading where someone had spilled soup. He didn't appreciate the handling, but he wouldn't have wanted to make a fool of himself by slipping, so he could let it slide.

“I don't think I’m very hungry,” he said.

“Let’s go eat somewhere else,” Kendo said.

They didn't give him much chance to refuse. Kendo, Tetsutetsu, and Kosei grabbed lunch for themselves and Neito, who remained by the doorway, and snuck outside to eat. Eating wasn't very difficult. He'd already gotten used to picking around his plate and going through the familiar movements.

“Well,” Neito said as they sat around in the grass. “If I’m going to be the school’s mysterious blind prodigy, I refuse to be its cautionary tale. Now I've more a point to prove than before.”

This was a poor attempt to deflect from the fact he was clearly afraid of the cafeteria. One that was caught, because laughter rippled through the group. Something hit his shoulder, a tiny piece of food, he assumed. Maybe a grape.

“You’re the opposite of mysterious,” Kendo said.

“You’re just saying that because you're intimidated.”

“By what? Your aura of tragedy?”

“Yes, that. I'm riddled with tragic origins. Like all the best heroes are.”

A hero. Wasn't that what he was, what he was going to be? Wasn't this the price a hero paid? No one had believed in him before, they thought it was downright impossible now. How was he supposed to spite people and hold his victories over their heads if he didn't have any? He wasn't sure how he was going to do it, but he would. He had to.

Neito’s previous after-school activities and hobbies were replaced by adaptive rock climbing and gymnastics that was mostly just stretches and simple body movement, despite how agile he already was. He used to take a tumbling class as a child, but that was now one more thing he had to relearn. On weekends, he would take swimming lessons, relearning another skill he already had. He never even liked swimming.

School was easier with his new aids. Some were things that helped with reading and writing, like screen readers for audio dictation or tactile writing guides. He practiced writing his autograph on the corners of all of his school notebooks. He had to keep up his penmanship. Voice commands, tactile assists, and a new tablet more advanced than any he'd ever owned helped him get through the day.

Less high-tech support was added to his life as well. His clothing was fixed with tags covered in raised patterns that distinguished every individual piece. It didn't help his styling problem, nor the mismatched sock dilemma, but it was helpful in its own way. A smart watch with a voice assistant and tactile interface replaced his regular, now useless wristwatch. It wasn't like he could admire the beauty of it anyhow.

He wasn't allowed to do combat training yet. They wanted to give him time, to take things slow. He might have argued if he didn't think he'd be thrown out for defying their stupid precaution rules. He focused on other things in the meantime.

Cartwheels and balance drills didn't seem like much, but for a hero who couldn't rely on sight, they were necessary. The repetition of it trained his body to trust momentum, to let his movements guide him across the floor with all the elegance he claimed to possess. Swimming was humiliating at first, the feeling of being submerged in water he couldn't see was disorienting. But he knew how to swim, so once the fear subsided, nothing would stop him from taking laps across the pool.

Rock climbing was his idea. He would have a harness to keep him safe, and it was easy to feel around for something to hold or step on. He memorized routes through scraped fingertips and fumbled feet. Eventually, when he could reach the top without error, he would be able to do it without the harness. He promised himself and everyone else that he would get there.

In the privacy of his dorm room, he practiced tying his tie ten times in a row. When no one was around, he walked around the dorms, memorizing the layout with step counts. He poured tea himself, one finger dipped into the cup to prevent it from overflowing. He might never be able to drive a car, but he wasn't going to be entirely helpless.

He didn't talk about this practice. It didn't need attention, nor was it worthy of applause. Regardless of what he said, he didn't want to be the blind prodigy. He didn't want to be the blind hero. He didn't want to be blind. Alas, fate was not on his side. And if he had to be blind, he wasn't going to let his life fall into the hands of others. Heroes were strong enough to carry everyone by themselves, they didn't fall back and wait for people to catch them.

His class didn't seem to be on the same page as him. Probably a factor of having to read different textbooks now. They hovered, they kept touching him without warning, and they helped him walk around and perform tiny tasks he never asked to be helped with. But they didn't hesitate with their jokes, which he appreciated. Yes, they treated him like he was incapable, but at least they didn't find him fragile to the jabs of humor. That would be much worse than excessively offered help with homework.

Neito didn't want anyone’s pity. He refused to take it. That's why every day was practice, practice, practice. Why he dressed himself every morning, sometimes crookedly. Why he read and wrote and would not drop his burdening dreams he'd harbored like grudges since he was a child. He might not be able to see the spotlight anymore, but his feet would find center stage.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Before Neito was allowed to start training again, he was brought into a meeting with Principal Nezu and Vlad King. They were still figuring out what to do with him. They couldn't simply send him into the same old training he used to do. He could work on controlling his quirk, but sparring, rescue simulations, and any more extreme physical activity was temporarily taken off the table.

Neito wasn't sure what he was going to do, either, but when he sat down before the principal, he didn't get the verdict he'd been expecting. He got the absolute worst thing he could hear. Besides, of course, that he was getting kicked out. He was honestly surprised they let him stay, and he wasn't going to ruin the chance he was given.

“We’ve been discussing a potential transfer,” Nezu said. “We were thinking of moving you out of Class 1-B in order to focus on your special needs. With your new handicap, you may want to consider continuing your hero work training on a non-combative path.”

That wasn't what he wanted. Nobody believed in him. Nobody thought he could do it. How wrong they would all be.

Vlad could tell it was upsetting him, and tried his best to soften the blow. It was kind, but went unappreciated.

“Monoma, you’ll get more one-on-one time, and a flexible academic pace. It’s not a demotion, it’s just to give you more personalized resources.”

“But I’m not failing.”

“I assure you, it's not about grades,” Nezu said. “You are doing exceptionally well.”

Exceptionally well for a blind person. That's what he meant.

“We have some concerns about your classroom environment. We’re afraid your new adaptations may be distracting the other students, and your training may potentially throw them off.”

Distracting? Did his classmates tell him that? They were trying to get rid of him. Neito pushed that thought aside in favor of his outrage, something easier to deal with.

“Oh, is that what this is? I'm an inconvenience now.” He leapt from his chair. “Let’s sweep the blind kid to the side and get on with the picture-perfect heroes. Out of sight, out of mind, right?”

“Monoma, sit down.”

“I fought in the sports festival, remember? I've passed rescue drills and exams. I don't miss class, I've done everything right, and I never ask for exceptions.”

“I understand, but-”

“I work twice,” he stuck two fingers in the air, his breathing coming out heavy, “as hard for half the recognition some people around here get. And now you want to pack me up and sit me in a corner where I won't be in the way. I don't think so!”

“It has nothing to do with your value as a student,” Nezu said, unfazed by the dramatics. “But dealing with unforeseen challenges means your place in our standard hero curriculum may have to change.”

“I’ve earned my seat in that class.” He splayed his hands across his chest. “It’s mine. I'm not moving.”

“It would be for your own benefit.”

Would it? Were there even classes for disabled students? Or were they trying to toss him to the side somewhere he wouldn't disturb the regular students’ learning?

The door creaked open, distracting the three of them. Neito was learning to recognize footsteps and guessed these belonged to Kendo. It sounded like she wasn't alone.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Kendo apologized. “I didn't mean to listen in.” She definitely had. “But, sir, you can't move Monoma. We need him.”

“He is one of our own,” he heard Shiozaki say. “Were he lost, we would cross rivers to find him. He is adaptive by nature, as are we. We shall survive hand in hand, and only so.”

“He's not going anywhere!” Tetsutetsu shouted.

“He makes us work harder,” Komori said. “He makes us listen and think. He doesn't distract us, we swear.”

Several other voices rose in protest. Neito smiled to himself. His classmates gathered behind him, enough of them to fill the room and form a wall, as if daring them to try and push Neito past it.

Nezu cleared his throat.

Vlad sighed, and Neito could picture the way he was likely rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, calm yourselves. It was just an idea. We’re not taking him away.”

The class erupted into cheers and Neito joined in, bouncing around the group and their tight hugs.

After that, everyone made it a point to include Neito during training sessions. He started off with obstacle courses and basic movements he had to relearn as someone who couldn't see. He wasn't yet permitted to train in combat. Not even sparring.

Covering his eyes in a sheen of midnight blue, was a thin visor shaped to the curve of his face. It used detection sensors and haptic feedback to navigate the space around him, enhancing sound and picking up heat signatures, solid obstacles, and terrain. It rested in place on his temples, synced with sensory threads woven through his suit and in his boots.

He'd been practicing with the visor, and the buzz in his inner ear miraculously stopped him from bumping into walls, but it would take a lot of getting used to. He only wore it for training, as he didn't really need to acknowledge the whistle of change in the air or the snap of a footstep in casual settings. He became something instinctive, reactive, his body relying on its intuition to move him up mountains and through cold waters.

His first sparring match was against Kaibara. He couldn't see the stance, prepared and steady, across from him, but he could feel the subtle shift of weight when Kai moved. Neito breathed in, tapped the side of his visor twice, and let a grin spread over his face.

“Looking pretty confident for a guy who's going to trip over his own feet.”

That was not, as it may sound, a jab at Neito’s current predicament. It was a reminder of the time he'd broken one of the unspoken rules of keeping himself in check, and he danced in front of his friends. And tripped. Over his own feet. It further cemented the fact that dancing was simply something he would never grasp.

“You’re going to be crying like a baby when I beat you. You’ll carry the shame for the rest of your life!”

“Drama queen.”

Neito’s boots pulsed, his visor buzzed with spatial calculations. Kai’s movements sent waves of pressure rolling over Neito’s feet. Fast-paced, incoming attack. Step, pivot, dodge. He missed pressing his fingers to Kaibara’s arm as it slipped by, but he dodged the spiraling hit.

The next exchange was faster. More direct. Neito couldn't do much unless he got his hands on his opponent. He was effectively quirkless. He deflected, ducked, rolled away. He caught sounds, feet bouncing off the floor, and a body lunging at him. He slipped around Kaibara, breathing down his neck as he curled a hand in his hair.

Kaibara threw him off, sending him to the ground with a thud. He was quick to pick himself up, but Kai faltered, hesitated. It didn't matter where he was looking, Neito’s wild stare was clear.

“Don’t you dare!”

“I wasn't!”

Kaibara was much more skilled with his quirk as it was one he'd spent years with. Neito’s movements were less controlled not simply due to lack of skill, but he found it hard to plan and execute attacks while focusing so hard on where his target was standing. Kaibara used that to his advantage, jumping around the floor and pulling no punches.

Good.

He heard Kaibara’s foot slide across the floor, the drop when his wind spun. Neito had tricks of his own. Kaibara might have experience and sight on his side, but he couldn't follow Neito’s movement, alerted to the changes in his breath. Kaibara couldn't sneak up on him.

He could, however, catch him without the element of surprise. Neito’s attacks grew weaker with the passing minutes and it wouldn't be long until the quirk faded. Kaibara seemed to be either trying to tire him out or confuse him. The latter was somewhat working, but he wasn't tired yet.

In a burst of attacks and a gust of spiraling wind, it was Kaibara who ended up taking Neito to the ground. He climbed on top of him, pinning him down. Neito shut his useless eyes and breathed through a smile.

“Don’t enjoy this too much,” he said, wiggling his hips. “Or I might think you're the gay one.”

Kaibara chuckled. “You wanna find out?”

Neito couldn’t toss back a response because he was pulled out from under Kai and into a circle of his classmates. They showered him with praise despite being the one who lost the match. He took it, letting it fall like dewdrops on his skin and soak through to touch his heart.

How he loved that glow, the one that came from other people’s light reflecting onto him like sequins in the sun. How he'd missed it. He'd been forgetting himself, letting himself become exactly what he didn't want. A blind person. Yes, he was blind, and, yes, he was, in fact, a real person and not some alien creature sent to earth as a baby. But he was also blonde, and of average height, and good at math.

Just things. He needed a visor to fight, and he needed a cane to walk through a hallway, but he didn't have to be blind rather than being Neito. He freaked out on anyone who treated him like he did, yet turned around and treated himself the same way.

In the locker room, he ran his thumb over the raised threads sewn into his gym bag. An M and N embroidered into it. Monoma Neito. A blind boy. A funny one, too, if he did say so himself. A smart one, smarter than he was given credit for. A scared one, with the terrible fear of failure. A determined one who refused to let himself become so.

When he left the changing rooms, bag slung over his shoulder, Kendo greeted him.

“Hey, Mono, do you want to watch a movie later? Komori and Kuro want to watch that one rom-com they love.”

“The one with the fencing scene and the homoerotic tension?”

“Yes?”

“Count me in. I'd rather not follow along to that anyhow.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Kendo’s embarrassment flooded into Neito’s cheeks. He hadn't meant to make her feel bad, it was just a joke.

“It’s fine, really. Cinematography is overrated. Anything important going on you can just let me know.”

Kendo laughed, slightly awkward.

Neito held his arm out for her, and she slipped hers around it.

“Lead the way. For no particular reason.”

She laughed again, real this time, and they headed to their dorms.

Chapter Text

Neito used to be alive. He was bursting with energy and fire and verve. He sang the loudest in the choir. He made the best jokes and laughed the loudest at them. He was like the flame of starlight, setting the world alight with sparkling fire. He was life, the ever fast-paced vitality of it.

Now, he was something more like the dull, dry scraps of wood that kindled the fire but went unnoticed in the blaze. He sat at his desk with a blank piece of paper in front of him, running his fingers across the lines he couldn't follow. He still practiced writing, but it wasn't something he would be doing much of anymore.

It wasn't like he ever planned to be a writer, but he never realized how much he relied on those self-expressing essays, written monologues, and short stories until he couldn't pick up a pencil and jot one down with ease. Most of his work was text-to-speech now, or vice versa, which was fine for school, but it wasn't as meaningful. The wit and melodrama, the talkative heroes and fantastical adventures he sent them on, were once gloriously alive. Now they felt empty.

If he tried to write now, it would be a mocking attempt at something he used to do so easily, so casually. He could type still, sort of, but anxiously as he couldn't check it himself. Being blind was so embarrassing. His teachers and doctors said he would adapt, that he would learn, and his life could be relatively livable. Not easy. It wouldn't be easy. Another thing he got from those who were supposed to help him was the sense of dread that the rest of his life was doomed.

No one informed him how slow a drag it would be, all this adapting. All of a sudden, his brain was moving at light speed, thoughts zipping around his head until they ultimately slammed into the newly built brick wall. A wall that only stood in front of him. The patter of footsteps ran past him, everyone in the world moving ahead while he chipped away at the bricks like he was told to. He was promised something only slightly better on the other side.

He could read if he wanted, but only if he learned how first. Like he was four years old. He had a collection of books at home waiting for someone to pick them up. They would be waiting forever. They could be replaced, maybe, but that really wasn't the point. It wasn't that he couldn't do anything anymore. It wasn't that he had no options. But he didn't want these solutions. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before.

He could watch movies, but not without a droning voiceover explaining scenes that he would have to imagine to understand. Instead of just blinking at a screen and taking it in. He could still play music, but, like everything else, it would take just that much more focus. Just an extra thought. Just a clearer mind.

He could act if he wanted, though he didn't do theatre anymore. But he couldn't watch himself. He could no longer watch plays. It was possible, just like movies were, but he couldn't do it. It wouldn't be even close to the same feeling. The thrill of watching actors on stage, the meaning in their movements, subtle gestures, expressions, the message in lighting and set design, all of that was gone.

It was a joy sparked many years ago, when his dad took him to the theatre for the first time as a little boy. It was a heart rush like he'd never felt before or since. He fell in love. Before his brother was born, he went to the theatre all the time. After the brat was born, his parents had less time or interest in him, but he still got to go on occasion. It was still a magic like nothing else in the world.

Tears trickled down his cheeks before he could stop them. He stood abruptly from his desk, knocking his pen to the floor. He didn't bother searching for it. He cried about the books he would never write and the future shows he would hear about but never properly enjoy.

He cried, too, for the fact that he would never look into another face and find beauty in it. Or ugliness. Or kindness, joy, sorrow. He hadn't thought much of it when it was right in front of him, but now he wished he could see Kendo’s sharp grin or the light in her eyes when she teased him. He wouldn't see Kosei’s crooked smile, the firework bursts in Tetsutetsu’s eyes when he laughed, or the silky hair that draped over Reiko’s soft face.

He could count up a hundred things he wanted to stare at, just to admire the natural beauty of it. His friends were so beautiful, he wished he'd appreciated it more when he could. Just to see them again, to trace the lines of their faces and take in every detail, every eyelash, beauty mark, and color in their eye, was all he wanted.

He wouldn't see people on the street and find them attractive, or make fun of their outfits. He wouldn't meet new people and take in aspects of their personality through the way they decorated themselves. He wouldn't fall in love with someone’s features, their rosy red blush, the shape of their lips, or the curve of their body. And who would want that? He didn't know the statistics, but he bet blind people didn't get a lot of dates. Who would want a partner who couldn't admire them?

He couldn't see his parents. The thought wouldn't have crossed his mind before, but if it had, he probably wouldn't have cared. What did he need to see them for? He wasn't sure, but he missed it. He thought of all their little expressions, the way his mom tilted her head when she smiled, and his dad pressed his lips tightly together to express disappointment or embarrassment. He pictured them in his head, holding onto the images lest they slip away for good.

And his brother. Neito’s breath caught in his throat. His little brother. The one he'd fought with, kicked out of his room, yelled at, and picked on. He wouldn't get to see that gremlin’s little face ever again. He wouldn't be able to tell in an instant that the boy was happy or sad without him saying a word. He wouldn't catch the tiniest of details, the tells when he lied, or thoughts hidden in the corners of his eyes and lips. He wouldn't watch him grow up.

They fought all the time, everything was always a competition with them. Which of them could insult better. Which could do something quicker, better, or with more ease. His brother was a lot younger than him, but that didn't mean he wasn't eager to prove that he could outsmart Neito or do something he couldn't. Like whistle. Or dance. Or literally anything else.

He was actually proud of his brother, if not jealous at times. The little boy was a thousand times brighter than himself. He could tell he would grow into someone smarter, more interesting, more ambitious. He would achieve every goal he ever set. He would get everything he wanted. And he deserved it. At such a young age, he was already so intelligent and driven.

He lay back on his bed, tears pouring hot and soundless down his face and trickling into his ears. He hadn't realized how much he loved those faces until they weren't his anymore. He was like everyone else in the world, taking the simple, marvelous things of daily life for granted and regretting it once those things were snatched up.

He and his brother had a joke, they would call each other ugly, like the other was the single most ghastly sight in the world. Their mother thought it was rude, but it was the funniest thing to them. They did it to annoy each other, and it worked both ways, but it was a comical disdain. He never thought his brother was ugly. Right now, there was no other face in the world he would rather see.

When Neito was in the hospital, his eyes bandaged and the world around him blank, he could only hear his brother’s voice. He could only feel a smaller hand squeezing his own. His brother never showed affection physically like that. Or at all, really. He heard that little voice, coming from a mouth pinched or relaxed or twisted in distress.

“It’s okay, nii-chan,” he said. “You’re not any uglier.”

That was all he needed to hear then. Odd as that is. He needed to know he hadn't changed, that he could still be the same person he was before.

He rose from bed, walking toward the mirror that still hung on the back of his door. He didn't need it, mirrors were useless to him now. He pressed his hand against the glass, no worries about smudging it. He didn't check his hair anymore, didn't glance at his reflection every time he passed it to make sure he looked okay. He was teased for that habit. He wouldn't be teased anymore.

He liked looking in the mirror, making faces at himself and practicing expressions. Fixing his hair and washing his face, looking up to meet a water-soaked, clean smile. He liked to pinch his cheeks until they were red because he read in a magazine once that the natural shade was the one that best suited you, even though he didn't wear makeup.

His hair looked pretty when it caught the light, glinting like pale gold. His eyes were blue, with clouds of grey streaked through. Like a sky waiting for rain. He could get lost in the colors. He used to wonder if anyone else could, if he would meet someone who thought his eyes were the most gorgeous, enticing sight in the world the way love interests in books always did. Now, his eyes weren't even real.

He couldn't tell if his eyes looked alright, if they were red around the rims, or darkened underneath. The doctor said the scarring wasn't terrible, but it was there and he couldn't see it, and that was terrible in itself. He didn't know if the prosthetics suited his face even though they were designed specifically to do so. He couldn't tell if he looked tired, if his face looked as sickly as he felt. Did he look stressed? Were his lips pale? Was his hair shiny? He probably looked the same as always, there was no reason he shouldn't, but he wouldn't know.

He couldn't even hate himself properly. He couldn't point out and pick at flaws, even if he knew they were there. He was too thin, except in his round face and weak jawline. There was nothing exciting about his face, no remarkably unique features. Beauty marks dotted his whole body, from his neck down to his arms and across his ribs.

He wished his legs were longer, his face shaped differently, his muscles more prominent. He had weird knees, weird shoulders, a weird stomach. Sometimes he threw the mirror nasty glares, cursing it for showing him how ugly he was. And other times those flaws slipped his mind and he looked amazing, hair and skin flawless, and outfit perfected. Neither of those mattered anymore.

Even himself he hadn't properly appreciated. Even on good days. He hated looking at himself. Every inch of himself, from the surface of his skin to the metaphorical insides beneath it, was hated. It still was, it always would be, but he wished he'd paid more attention to those good days, given himself more compliments. He wanted to stare at himself, to observe and memorize every feature. He was pretty sometimes.

He wouldn't get to watch himself grow up either. He wouldn't catch the first strands of white in his hair or the creases of age on his face. Only others were allowed to observe the fading of his youth, the way his beauty disappeared with it. His skin would stretch and wrinkle, the shape of his body would change, and he would know it only by the feeling.

Neito left his reflection alone. He'd subjected it to enough misery, and maybe not enough, but plenty of love. It could get on the rest of its life without him. It didn't have a choice. Those weren't something he got to make anymore. He had to be blind and slow and perpetually anxious about looking weird. He had to wear support items and learn things all over again.

At least he wasn't a miserable loser. At least he wasn't friendless and alone. He would understand if he became so, if all his friends decided he was holding them back and kept moving forward, leaving him crawling after at his slow pace. But they had done the opposite. They wanted him right where he was, beside them. They were about ready to fight the principal for it.

Neito grabbed his cane and headed for the common room. He came across a pair of shoes he assumed had been tossed aside in the middle of the hall. He tapped his cane in the rhythm of accusation.

“Who was trying to assassinate me?”

Someone scrambled forward. He was pretty sure it was Shoda. He could smell his pineapple scent. His apologetic voice confirmed it.

“Sorry, Monoma! My bad.”

“Hey, grab me a drink from the kitchen,” Kendo called.

Neito moved to fulfill the request, thoughtlessly as the dorms were familiar to him and he knew exactly what Kendo liked to drink.

“Oh, you don't have to,” she started.

“I can do it,” Shoda said. “Come on, I’ll help you find a seat.”

“I know where the couch is. And the kitchen, thanks.”

There was a thump on the floor followed by Tetsu’s voice, to which Neito could perfectly picture him jumping over the back of the sofa.

“I’ll come with you. I need some snacks.”

That would have been fine, but as they were gathering snacks and soda, Tetsu tried to pour Neito a drink.

“You want juice, yeah?”

“I didn't ask for anything. I’ll have you know, I reheated a bowl of curry last night without killing myself. Isn't that heroic?”

“Uh, yeah, man,” Tetsu said hesitantly.

Neito made a grab for the cup, accidentally sticking two fingers in it. If his eyes worked, he would have shut them to avoid the shame of Tetsu’s stare. Instead, he angrily flicked his juice-soaked fingers at Tetsu. Tetsu was quiet for a moment, until Neito realized he was stifling laughter.

“That didn't,” he laughed, “hit me at all, dude.”

“Shut up.” He leaned forward on the counter, sighing. “Life was easier when I could dirty look people.”

“You still kind of can.”

“It’s not the same.”

Tetsutetsu gave him a pat on the back. He didn't guide Neito as they went back, probably because he feared upsetting him more. Neito settled on the sofa between Kendo and Tokage.

“Hey, Monoma,” Tokage said, a smile in her voice. “There’s something for you.”

“What is it? A prank? You can't prank blind people, that's law.”

“I thought you wanted us to treat you normally,” Tetsu said.

“Only I’m allowed to pull out the blind card when it suits me.”

“It’s not a prank,” Kendo said.

“Is it flowers?” Neito asked. “It smells like it. What is that?”

He breathed in the scent of powdery lavender, warm chamomile, and sweet citrus. He knelt by the table, feeling for petals spilling from bouquets. He knocked over a card. His hand brushed a box wrapped in tape. Excessively.

“What the hell is this?”

His hands roamed the table to find the entire thing covered in packages, some wrapped, some not. Bouquets and cards he couldn't read. A balloon squeaked as his hand brushed the string. He found an array of envelopes, one covered in a horrendously excessive amount of glitter.

“1-A went way overboard,” Kamakiri said. “That’s all from them.”

“Of course, those fools would send me cards. Are they aware blind people can't read handwriting? Why did they do all of this anyway? Trying to gain my favor?”

They pitied him, more likely. The poor blind boy who still thought he could be a hero. The one who could never catch up to them no matter how fast he ran. He would always end up stumbling over something he couldn't see was in his way.

“I, uh,” Shoda spoke up. “I sort of said something to Midoriya the other day, about you. That you were handling the whole blind thing well, and then he got all emotional and weird-”

“Yuck, I don't want to know.”

He picked at the taped-up gift before handing it over to Kendo.

“They’re not heartless, you know,” she said. “Momo’s actually cool.”

“I don't know who that is.”

He opened a box of chocolates and popped one in his mouth. He started to cough, holding his throat, and dropped to the ground.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “I’ve been poisoned. This is definitely a hate crime.”

He feigned passing out, his arms limp and head lolling to the side. Kendo lightly kicked his head.

“Who’s that from?”

“Mina Ashido,” Tokage said.

“She has bad taste,” Neito said, sitting up.

“Don’t forget about this one,” Komori said in a sing-song voice. “It’s from Shinso.”

“Shinso?” There was definitely not excitement in his voice. Everyone still had the nerve to giggle.

The gift wasn't wrapped. It was a knit hat, likely made by hand going by all the loose threads he counted. Two little add-ons at the top felt like cat ears.

“It’s purple,” Komori informed him.

Neito ran his fingers over it, turning it inside out, feeling over the woven knots. He could sense the impatience for an answer. He didn't give them one. He didn't know what they were waiting for, but he wasn't going to give it.

“You like it?” Komori asked, insufferably teasing.

“It’s nice. Who talked to Shinso?”

Apparently, no one. None of them recalled doing so. Of course, Shinso knew. Everyone knew. But if no one talked to him, if he had no idea how well or poorly Neito was handling his new handicap, then he was only gifting him something because he thought to. Maybe he felt bad, or maybe he just thought Neito could use some cheering up in the form of a cat hat. Whatever the reason, he pulled it over his head and went back to his gifts.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

The buzz of the lights was more noticeable than usual. Meaning he noticed it at all. A mutter of voices traveled through the bathroom walls. A creak in the wall. A drip from the faucet. A whisper of wind outside.

His forefinger traveled across the smooth edge of the counter until it dipped into a spot of water. He turned on the faucet and let icy water run through his fingers before splashing it on his face. The cold drops trickled down his neck, absorbed by the material of his collar.

His perfume was strong. Sweet, soft candy. It was all over his clothes, mingling with laundry detergent. He could smell his hairspray layered over his conditioner. He smelled the sanitized, lemony scent that didn't make the room all that much sweeter. The soap in the dispenser, unscented suds that smelled like bubbles and clean.

He'd been told of the myth that when someone lost their vision, their other senses tried to compensate for the loss. He found it wasn't something that happened overnight. Blind people did not, unfortunately, turn into special humans. Humans were visual creatures, they took in the world through their eyes, so when that was taken, their brain redirected the way it assimilated.

It was the only thing he had to rely on. It didn't simply come in handy while training, it was something he was forced to lean on. Outside of combat, he was still following movement and observing. He had heard, smelled, and felt his friends before, but now a scent of mint, a brush of hair, or the way feet fell against the ground could tell him who was beside him.

His gymnastics coach told him to listen to his body, to trust that it would guide him. When he leapt, somersaulted, and twirled around the mat, he needed to let his feet move with their natural, instinctive flow, not look for where he was supposed to be landing. Front flips and handsprings fit into his new fighting style, they let him trust the flow of movement to direct him. If only he could quiet his overthinker brain.

He heard the door open, breaking through the invisible bubble that surrounded him at all times. Everyone seemed to want to poke their fingers through it. He was alone inside, hearing the world around him, but it never really left him alone. That cruel, not blind-friendly world wanted to get to him. That was fine. He could be cruel too.

He didn't recognize the footsteps, so his shoulders tightened and his smile was pulled on. He wondered if he looked any more intimidating with his scarred eyes. Did it make him look scary? That might be funny in school, but not so much when it ended him on a heroes who look like villains list.

This person walked in a quiet way, like their steps were measured and careful. Their cologne filled the room. Like, really filled it. It would cling to the walls and stay stuck in the air long after he left. It wasn't bad, it actually smelled nice, though he could tell it was cheap. Definitely a boring guy scent, but much better than what most guys smelled like around here.

Neito scrunched his nose. “What are you wearing?”

“A new cologne. Is it bad?”

Oh god, it was Shinso. He just told Shinso he smelled bad.

“Whatever,” Shinso said. “I didn't come in here so you could smell me.”

The sink turned on, soap squirted, and Shinso’s hands rubbed together beneath the water. Paper towels tore, crumpled, and landed softly in the bin.

“What are you doing?” Shinso asked. Asked because Neito was just standing around in the bathroom.

“Just admiring my reflection.”

Shinso didn't laugh, though Neito didn't take too much offense to it as he wasn't sure he had the ability to laugh.

“Ever cracked a smile, purple?”

“I'm smiling right now, blondie.”

“You are?” he gasped. “How unfair, how cruel can this world possibly be? The one person to be graced with a Shinso smile can't see it. You did that on purpose, didn't you?”

“How do you know I don't smile?”

“I stalk you frequently. The worst part about being blind is the loss of my favorite activity.”

“It’s weird that since you're blind now I can't make faces at you. I have to tell you you're weird.”

“Everyone else keeps forgetting that. They stare at me like I’ll know what it means.”

“Hard to get used to, I guess. Though probably harder for you.”

Neito opened his mouth to retort, but Shinso was right. It was hard, much more for him than anyone else. And Shinso wasn't saying that to be rude or coddle him. He was just saying it. Shinso said what he thought, not worrying if Neito would crumble at the mention of the thing he literally had to live with. He knew his friends were trying to spare his feelings, but they never had before, and that hurt him worse than them accidentally saying something wrong would.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” Shinso said. “Mr. Aizawa wants to talk to you. But I have to warn you, he feels really bad about what happened. I think he thinks it’s his fault.”

“I already got the ‘anything you need’ talk from him. What more does he want?”

Aizawa visited him in the hospital and spoke to him before school started. He said anything Neito needed or wanted from him was his. He offered basically everything in his power that would make Neito’s life more comfortable. He didn't need anything from that brat wrangler. It was no personal hard feelings toward the man, but he could get by without all these handouts everyone was trying to give.

“He wants to work with you one-on-one, if you're interested. To help with adapting, awareness, stuff like that.”

“I’m already learning those things with my teacher.”

Shinso didn't reply immediately, and Neito assumed a shrug might be involved. “I don't know. He thinks something just focused on you might be helpful.”

Was it Aizawa who wanted to take him out of class?

“Why would he tell you all of this?”

“I’ve been training with him for a while now.”

Aizawa trained Shinso? One on one? That made sense. But Shinso wasn't moved from his regular classes. He wasn't nearly ready for the hero course yet, so that also made sense, but what did Aizawa want with him?

“Big day, I suppose,” Neito said. “I’ve been bumped up from student to charity case.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it? Isn't this the part where I feel grateful to the great and noble Eraserhead for taking in a sorry case like me? For wanting me? Did you know that children with disabilities are significantly less likely to be adopted and find permanent homes? They don't even get temporary homes.”

That sounded random, and it was, but he'd been looking into things about people who lived with blindness. He'd never even met a blind person before, and now he was feeling bad for strangers. It angered him, hearing about the way blind and disabled people were treated. It made him sick to his stomach. He had no proof that Shinso had ever been rude to a blind person, but sometimes it felt like everyone who wasn’t him was against him.

“I do know that. I'm well aware of how messed up the system is, and how awful it feels to watch the nice, normal kids get treated better and find real families while people only take you in for the money.”

Oh. Shinso was a foster child, wasn't he? Well, how would Neito know that? He didn't mean to upset him, and he actually felt rather bad for doing so, but he’d started this with a thick wall of pride and he wasn't going to lower it for something as humiliating as apologizing.

“Oh my. Struck a nerve, did I?”

He heard Shinso sigh. “Whatever. Take the offer if you want, or don’t, I don't care. Just know it’s not about pity. He sees potential in you, and you know not everyone does. So when you're done feeling sorry for yourself, think about it.”

“You’re very rude. I guess you don't kiss your mother with that mouth.”

Shinso didn't reply, and the stillness was stifling. Neito burst into laughter.

“You should see the look on your face!”

“Are you insane?”

Neito just kept laughing. He didn't know what would happen if he stopped, but he didn't intend to find out. It was only ever something unpleasant.

“Possibly. I’m also late for class. Later, loser.”

Neito slipped past Shinso, who was silent save for the quiet “bitch” that Neito heard as he walked out of the bathroom. He laughed himself all the way to math class.

He didn't stop thinking about Shinso’s offer. Not because he was going to take it, he was only curious as to why it had been made. And what would become of him were he to give Aizawa a chance. Which he wouldn't. Never in a million years would he let the teacher of Class 1-A assist him with anything. Yes, he was holding onto that. And he'd rather never become a hero than say it was with someone else’s pity help.

He didn't need him. He didn't need space or helping hands. Okay, he needed a few, but he didn't need to lean on anyone. He could do this himself. He was going to be a hero no matter what and everyone would be proven wrong about him.

He trained on his own, sharpening his edges and adapting. He trained later than his classmates, spending hours in the gym or out on the lawn in the evenings. They weren't permitted to use the training room after hours, but Neito was granted an hour for his own use. Blind privileges were few, but he used them to his advantage.

An hour wasn't much, but when the room was empty save for the thud of his feet on the floor and the sharp exhale of breaths, it allowed more time for focus than he ever got during the day. The chaos of a training session was good, he would need to get used to that to be a hero, but his focus now would be a sharpened tool later.

He was too slow, too anxious about messing up or missing something. Everyone and everything moved so quickly, the world spinning beneath his feet. He needed discipline. He needed to trust his instincts. He couldn't afford to let things slip by him. Anyone else could see a strike before it landed, could react before they or someone else was hit. He didn't have those simple luxuries anymore.

He had to move even quicker, think even faster, work even harder, only to end up on the same page as them. He could never stop moving, or he could be left behind. When that fight took his sight, it took several other things as well. Any ease his life might have seen was gone. He wouldn't have called his life easy before, not in terms of his path to heroics, but he would say so now. It was extremely easy compared to now.

The rhythmic thud of impact sounded through the room. His ears perked up, his boots sending shocks of feeling prickling over his skin. His visor guided him across the floor. He could work his body as hard as he wanted, but he wished he could practice more of moving around while using a quirk. It was difficult enough to fight with a quirk without any knowledge of how to use it.

It was a stupid quirk. He could be anything he wanted, one touch and anyone was his for a matter of minutes. His goal was to one day get it up to an hour at a time. Or at least somewhere in the twenty-minute range. But if he couldn't touch them, he had to rely on combat. Which was fine until he was fighting Deku or something. But he had managed to touch Deku.

Everyone doubted Neito, he couldn't doubt himself. He had a lot to prove, he wasn't near the level he should be, and he'd just been knocked down too many pegs. But he was going to catch up. Mark his words, he would. Step by agonizing step, he would get there. Even if it killed him. It wouldn't, because he would never live down the embarrassment of dying before getting what he wanted. If he died a hero, maybe he could live with that. He had already helped save the world, so maybe dying now wouldn't be the worst thing ever.

But he wasn't dead yet. He was only on his knees, breathing rather harshly. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He brushed his hand through damp hair. He was pretty sure a bruise was forming on his jaw from a fall he'd taken earlier. That would be annoying, being unable to cover up bruises. There was little he hated more, he realized, than asking for someone’s assistance.

His watch beeped, the voice alert letting him know his time was up. It didn't matter, he would continue outside. He cleaned up, grabbed a towel to wipe his face, and headed out with his bag over his shoulder. The night air was refreshing on his sweaty, tired body. He was sore, but he wasn't ready to stop yet. The life of a hero was full of aches.

He took a seat on the lawn, just for a few minutes to breathe. To collect himself. He heard someone approaching, but he couldn't tell who. Maybe it was the grass. Maybe he was too tired. Sometimes he got it wrong. He thought Juzo was Shiozaki yesterday. He hated not being able to catch someone from the corner of his eye, or simply look up and know. But it was a small complaint in comparison to other challenges.

“Monoma?”

Oh, great. It was Shinso.

“Are you stalking me now? Most people are obsessed with me, but that’s a bit creepy, don't you think?”

“I thought stalking was a favorite activity of yours.”

“I see you've caught onto my hypocrisy. Shame.”

“You look terrible.”

“Oh no,” Neito gasped, hands to his face in horror. “How could I not notice?”

“Is that all you do now? Make blind jokes.”

“Only around stupid people.”

Shinso crouched beside him. “Do you realize your hand’s bleeding?”

No, he didn't. It must only be a scratch, which meant there was no reason for Shinso to point it out.

“It’s a common misconception, but blind people can still feel things.”

“If you push yourself too hard, you’ll just end up burning out.”

“Did Mr. Aizawa tell you that?”

“No,” Shinso said. “I learned that one on my own. I asked Aizawa if there was any way I could transfer to his class, and he told me I would need to work a lot harder. You're in the same boat now, but you can't run yourself ragged or there’ll be nothing left to show.”

This boy was endlessly frustrating. His words weren't completely idiotic, Neito wouldn't want to spend all his energy in rehearsal only to come on stage drained and empty-handed. But Shinso didn't understand. Neito couldn't take the same breaks everyone else could.

“We’re not in the same boat. You can look someone in the eye and see what they're about to do. I'm fighting with a blindfold on. If I slow down for even a second, if I let this take anything else from me…”

He paused, pressing his lips tightly shut. Maybe Shinso didn't need to know all that.

“You need to prove you belong, I get it. I may not be blind, but being blind isn't the only setback in the world.”

Wasn't it? Didn't everyone else get to see the sky and the grass, to keep colors and faces from fading away, to see things and just know them without having to think about it? Wasn't there a world of bright lights and purples and blues that he didn't get to have anymore? Wasn't everyone standing on the opposite side of a thick velvet curtain, one he reached out to touch but couldn't find a way past?

“Fine, your life’s hard, too,” Neito admitted. Perhaps that acknowledgment would get Shinso off his back. “You and I have to watch heroes fight while we fight to be heroes. Terrible fate, isn't it? As it stands, I don't need your sympathy, so please stop trying to offer it.”

“Tough. Can you stand up?”

Shinso stood, and, at a slower pace, Neito followed.

“Don’t train until you break,” Shinso said. “Train until you grow. You won't prove a thing by crawling back in pieces.”

“Shinso-Sensei, you get wiser every day. I don't need you to tell me what to do.”

Shinso didn't reply for a moment, and Neito knew why. It happened constantly with his friends.

“Come with me,” Shinso said.

Neito grinned. “Did you just gesture for me to come with you?”

“Shut up.”

“You did! Oh, it’s so tragic, isn't it, for you seeing folk? Must be tiresome always having to remind yourself.”

“That’s the least tiresome thing about you.”

“What’s the most?”

Shinso started walking. Neito wasn't sure he still wanted to be followed, but that gave him more incentive to actually take the invitation.

“My quirk always freaked people out,” Shinso said. “Parents would tell their kids not to talk to me. Teachers didn't know what to do with me. Over and over I heard the same thing, “Are you going to use your quirk to control people?” Like that was just a bit of fun to an eight-year-old.”

Neito wasn't sure why Shinso was always trauma dumping on him like that, maybe he was just that comforting to be around, but he didn't want it to stop. He and Shinso had quite a bit in common, and it was interesting to know how the boy grew up. The side of the hero the world raised.

“I’ve been told plenty of times that I would never be a real hero,” Shinso went on. “Not with that kind of power. My quirk’s not physical, and it’s not flashy, so I've had to work twice as hard just to get a seat in the room. And then it always feels like I’m behind in something. You're not the only one running uphill.”

“Kids used to call me copycat,” Neito said. The stupid childhood nickname tasted sour on his tongue. It was ridiculous, poor little Neito got called a name once and was never the same, but it still bothered him to think about it. “They would say I barely even had my own quirk. I was told I’d never be a hero either. My parents tried to dissuade me from applying to UA.”

“And you still got in. You should remember that. You’re not going to disappear if you stop moving for a bit. You learn ways to adapt, to survive, and fight smarter.”

“You speak in quotes, I can tell.”

Neito missed the days he could read people’s faces, the sudden shock or a blush they tried to hide. The way they would adjust a mask after a slight slip. No one had to worry about hiding around him now. They could make any face they wanted and it wouldn't mean a thing to him.

“I know someone who talks a lot of sense.”

“I don't want pity.”

“Good, you have none of mine.”

“Do you want to spar?”

“I want you to shower and take a nap. Then I’ll kick your ass.”

A wild giggle tickled Neito’s throat. How promising. His classmates were always so hesitant to spar with him now, so afraid a hit would break him. Just because he couldn't see it didn't mean he could handle it less than he used to. He grinned at Shinso.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Neito liked Shinso. No, not like that. He liked the mirrored image he set up, the reflection Neito could see in him. Shinso was someone he could relate to in more ways than he'd thought. He faced the same injustices, from childish name-calling to the weight of the world’s doubt. Neito was never touched as a child because people were afraid of him stealing their quirks, and Shinso wasn't spoken to for fear of losing their control.

But Shinso seemed to trust Neito. And Neito trusted him. More, maybe, than he should. He could admit it, not to Shinso, but he could admit it, that he'd tried getting on the boy’s good side immediately because that wasn't someone he wanted as an enemy. It was a bit more than that, now. Shinso’s ability was incredible, and incredibly scary. He deserved a seat in Class 1-B, and he deserved to know he could be a hero with that kind of power.

Shinso was, however relatable, around ten times better than Neito. He harbored none of the same resentment, none of the negative aspects that grew from seeds of self-doubt. It was as though they'd been placed at the bottom of the same rock wall and Shinso scaled it with ease while Neito struggled to find footing. And now Shinso was standing in front of him, this very fact taunting.

Neito could feel the grass under his feet, the tickling wisps beneath the soles of his boots. The rocks, the tree roots, the pair of larger-sized feet, were all taken in. The tapping of Shinso’s foot reverberated through Neito’s legs. He took a stance, evidence of well-practiced martial arts lessons. Shinso took a stance, too. Neito could tell what he was doing, from his feet up to the arms he couldn't see.

“Nervous?” Shinso asked.

Neito opened his mouth with a ready taunt, but quickly snapped it shut. He shook a finger at Shinso. He wasn't getting him that easily.

Shinso moved and Neito felt like an animal hunting prey, survival instincts igniting from his core. Subtle air movement, slight increase in breath rate, light steps on the ground. On his left.

Shinso lunged, a strike aimed for Neito’s left side. Swift. Neito sidestepped, sliding across the grass. The scarf was harder to avoid. It was fast and moved on all sides of him. But Shinso couldn't control it very well, giving Neito an advantage he didn't hesitate to take.

They circled one another like vultures, predators waiting to see who would take the first swoop for a piece of meat. Shinso tried to confuse him, throwing him off with a fake low sweep. It worked, the switching angles too sudden for his slow reactions, but not well enough that Shinso’s substandard scarf skills caught him.

“What’s the matter?” Shinso called out. “Too slow?”

Neito figuratively and literally bit his tongue to keep from responding. He let out a bout of agitated laughter instead.

“You’re smart. But you still can't keep up with me.”

Keep up, catch him, he'd do it all. He steadied his feet, let Shinso’s movements vibrate down to the tips of his fingers. They clashed again, coming down to nothing. They were both so used to the waiting game, relying on how quickly someone slipped up to grab the upper hand. Shinso’s a good fighter, Neito would give him that. He might give him more, but not at this current point in their relationship.

Shinso stumbled back. He landed behind Neito.

Neito’s shoulders relaxed, the words of his gymnastics coach guiding him. Like water, she said. Flow. Follow. Feel. A childish motto they slapped on posters around the gymnasium. He launched backward with a precise, graceful spin. His fingertips grazed Shinso’s exposed one just enough.

It was his.

“You’re not the only one learning new tricks, little boy,” he cackled.

There was an intoxicating kind of thrill when he managed to snag a quirk. An electric surge of power. Shinso hesitated now, he was afraid now, and Neito got high off it.

“Don’t go easy on me now. Come on, what kind of a hero are you?”

How did Shinso do it? How could he get him to talk? Winding people up was a special talent of Neito’s, it couldn't be too hard.

“I don't need to see you to know your moves are sloppy.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie. Shinso pounced, nearly tripping himself in that stupid scarf. But he was scrappy, and he wasn't going down without a satisfactory performance.

“Getting feisty? Careful, don't lose yourself now. You're lucky I’m a humble man, or I might have to hold my victory over your head.”

No snarky comeback. He's good. Neito grabbed hold of the scarf, throwing it off balance, but only for a moment. That Aizawa was good. Of course, Neito knew that, but any doubt he might have still held about Shinso’s progress was draining.

“Don’t let an ego hold you down. That would make a terrible villain origin story. Too proud to be good, too arrogant to admit defeat. Do you think people become villains because of that?”

Shinso’s scarf whipped out to catch Neito’s legs. He heard the whisper of fabric through the wind, received buzz of motion. He flipped backward, dodging much less theatrical attacks that followed.

“You need some more flair to your fighting style. People like a hero with pizzazz. Such as myself. Not a mere boring, forgettable storyline. I'm the plot.”

“You’re a filler episode.”

Gotcha.

Shinso lost his focus. Neito’s jokes distracted him. He couldn't not make that terribly unfunny joke. Neito heard the way Shinso’s hands slapped against his voice-modulating mask.

Neito put on a grin that felt beautiful. It started like a drop of ink splashing in water. Slow, mesmerizing. Then the ink began to bleed, stretching, smearing, and blurring at the edges. He didn't know what to pick at first, which part to try and make sense of. It was like looking through a fogged-up window, trying to wipe away the glass to get as close to the other side as you could.

The static of Shinso’s mind was difficult to decipher, but he managed to speak.

“Fall.”

Shinso’s body froze, trapped under the chains of his own quirk. Neito stepped forward, sweat plastering his bangs to his forehead as he loomed over Shinso’s face. His grin was bright and wildly pleased.

The paralysis faded, Neito releasing Shinso from his control. He wasn't quite sure how to hold it. He kept him pinned to the ground with a knee on his chest.

“I win. And how dare you? I am not a filler, I'm that one episode that brings everyone to tears and makes them reevaluate their life choices.”

“I’m reevaluating mine right now.” His mask clicked off and a breath equal parts frustrated and impressed left him.

“You’re welcome.”

“That was cool. I've never thought about what that felt like. But I liked you better quiet.”

Neito moved off him, sitting back in the grass.

“Don’t let me catch you and I will be.”

“I think your mouth moves quicker than your reflexes.”

“You want to see how my mouth works?”

“I’m side-eyeing you right now.”

“These slow reflexes beat you,” Neito said, previously boasted humility fading with the settled dust.

“You trip over benches.”

“Next time, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m excited,” he deadpanned.

“Of course, you are. I excite most guys who know me.”

“Ew, jeez. Take me out to dinner first.”

“I would, but I have to prove to my friends that I’m not gay.”

Shinso laughed, a small, short, kind of giggly breath that made the walls around Neito’s heart feel sort of fuzzy. Definitely not helping the gay rumours. But he didn't like Shinso like that, so that feeling could be ignored. His friends made him feel like that, too. Kind of. Maybe not like that, but he liked how they laughed. So it was fine. It was nothing.

“You’ll have to teach me how to control that,” Neito said. “For a moment, I feared my head would explode.”

“Yeah, it can be like that. You get used to it. I’ll let you borrow it sometimes.”

“I have it right now, can I go again?”

“Give me a minute, dude. You heroes are non-stop.”

Neito grinned and graced Shinso with a thought he'd had all day.

“You’ll be a good hero someday.”

If it was what he so desperately wanted, Shinso deserved that spot in Class 1-A. 1-B would be better. Because that's where Neito was, but that wasn't the only reason, just the most important one. They would always treat him like an equal there, even if the rest of the world wanted to deem them lesser. In a world of heroes, there were winners and losers, and, well, you couldn't have too many of either. Someone had to be the loser.

And the winners, they liked to boast it. One would think they had every right to, but what more did someone like Todoroki have over Shinso. One word out of his mouth and he wouldn't even have control over himself. The only reason he was in the school was because his father was a famous hero. And he happened to be born with a flashy combat quirk. Todoroki was good, of course Neito knew that, but his greatest power was the same superiority complex that made up the entitled brats of this world. Some people got what they wanted, and some people worked for it. It was that simple, wasn't it?

“You think?” Shinso said. “Even with this villainous quirk of mine?”

“It’s stupid, don't you think? You could stop a villain easily, you know how they love to monologue. It would be immensely helpful. Petty crimes would be practically nonexistent with you around.”

“I don't think that’s true.”

Neito noticed the bashful acceptance of the compliment beneath his words. He knew it was settling somewhere between all the doubt and rejection others had pushed onto him. Right in the middle of “villain” and “scary” was “you can be a hero.” Neito admired Shinso for holding so tight to a resilience he was never meant to have. They tried to push him down, muzzle his voice, and kick him out of a world made for only the pure and overpowered.

“I think you’ll make a pretty decent hero yourself. You already beat me, so that’s something.”

“Barely. You were tripping over your feet half the time.”

“This scarf is insane. Aizawa said it took him six years to master it.”

“How many to get the hang of it?”

“I have the hang of it.”

The scarf in question whipped against Neito’s arm.

“Ow! How dare you? You can't hit a blind man.”

Shinso laughed, the sound slipping past what Neito assumed was a bitten lip. He wished he could see that. What a sight, no? The laughter would do.

“You shouldn't worry yourself over being transferred, by the way,” Neito said, giving Shinso’s arm a push only for the purpose of getting him back in some way. “You don't need the hero course to become a hero.”

“Easy for you to say, you're in the hero course.”

“Which is how I can be sure you don't need it. The world of heroes is one of status and tradition, it’s not made for people like us. Those critics of yours are lucky you didn't decide to actually become a villain. Imagine the absolute doom you could bring upon them.”

Shinso was quiet, and Neito was left to assume he didn't like that thought. He was so good. Better than Neito. He didn't want to become a villain either, but he'd entertained the idea, imagining the way it would play out if the boy everyone said couldn't be a hero became something else. Wouldn't they be sorry then? Wouldn't they have to know it was all their fault?

“I’m not trying to prove people wrong,” Shinso said, because, of course, he wasn't.

“No, as noble and precious as you are, you wouldn't. I suppose then that all you want is to be a hero. May I ask why?”

“I've always wanted to help people. It bothers me to see people in pain, people who need protecting. I felt like that a lot as a kid, but heroes were something to look up to. I want to make people feel like that.”

“As I said, so noble.” Much more so than Neito’s selfish, bitter reasons for wanting to be a hero. He hated having to acknowledge that he was bitter, so he didn't. “Who’s your favorite?”

“My favorite hero?”

There was a nervousness to Shinso’s voice that made Neito ever more excited to know who his beloved, biggest inspiration was. Who had lit that flame inside him, sparked the desire that was now raging through this world with no plans on stopping until it ravaged the barriers put up to block it.

“It was, uh,” he cleared his throat, as if that would make the words come out easier. “Eraserhead.”

Neito made sure to give the expected amount of drama in his gasp. “No? Does he know? Master planning is a promising hero trait, too, though I have to say it’s rather vil-”

He rolled out of the way of Shinso’s scarf.

“He doesn't know. And he never will.”

“I’m sure he would be flattered. I didn't know anyone’s favorite hero was Eraserhead. Is that why you wear your hair like that?”

“Shut up.”

“I admire the dedication.”

“Who was yours, then?”

“My favorite hero? Well…”

Well. It was also Eraserhead. Yes, the very same. He couldn't very well say that, not after the taunting and the slander he'd put on “that man.” Eraserhead wasn't really his favorite anymore, but not because he found him any less cool. Favorite heroes were such fickle forms of devotion, blankets in the form of capes to cover your deepest insecurities and most painful hurts. It was more a matter of who struck the right nerve, who pressed into the right wound with a touch you could pretend was healing because it didn't hurt as much as the other touches did.

“It’s you,” Neito said.

“I guess I'd better not disappoint then. You can be my second favorite hero.”

“Second place as a returned favor? How generous. Likely the closest thing I’ll ever get to being someone’s favorite.”

“You’re just a little kooky, I’m sure people will still like you.”

Shinso really was very sweet. Ignoring his choice of the word kooky. Theatrical was what he meant. Most people tended to confuse that with things like weird, annoying, or overbearing. Or, you know, kooky. But Shinso thought that was the only reason Neito would never find himself on a chart, even in a random magazine meant for teen girls.

“I’ll have to learn to settle in at least one area. Who would ever love a blind hero?”

“A blind kid?”

The sweetest. So sweet that it felt like ringing the bell at the top of a rock wall, letting everyone know that you, a useless waste of space, had done something right. It made the next challenge seem less daunting. If you scaled one wall, why shouldn't you be able to take on the next? The one wall he couldn't climb had a bell on top that jingled in the sound of thank you. Thank you for making me feel like I’m not nothing, people don't usually do that.

Neito stood up, brushing grass and dirt from his trousers. “Dust me.”

Having Shinso brush his hands up and down his legs was maybe not one of Neito’s finest plans, but, like, what did that even mean? Who cares? You shouldn't. He was going to walk away all the same, with no more and no less than he came with. And he was going to come back, though he didn't know that quite yet.

Neito’s one-hour slot became Shinso’s, too, their training sessions becoming a shared one. Shinso didn't pester him about training with Aizawa, but the question was always lingering in the silence Neito worked so hard to read. He wasn't going to accept it for any reason. Nostalgia was powerful, but the things spite could do to one's drive was unimaginable. Good-hearted Shinso knew nothing of that.

Shinso would fit in well with Neito’s classmates. They, too, were all of good hearts. Try as he might, he hadn't yet managed to get them on board with his agenda to spit in the face of the world that had done the very same to them. He loved them for it, truly, he did. But he had trouble believing he was the only one who was angry.

But maybe he was the only one with reason to be. Sure, the way the entire class was treated was ridiculously unreasonable in comparison to 1-A’s mostly undeserved glory, but if one hadn't lived in that shadow all their lives, did they have any reason to resent it? It would be another thing that disappeared after school, like tests and hallway crushes.

Maybe they didn't look at themselves the way Neito looked at himself. Maybe they saw the same things he saw when looking at them. Bravery to rival All Might’s. An undying drive. Ambition, beauty, and kindness he could only dream of what it was like to have. Never would he discredit how hard they worked, but they didn't have to fight to be perfect. They probably had parents who hadn't thought twice when they wanted to apply to UA.

And Neito had parents who laughed. Yes, laughed. Chuckled. Shook their heads and asked if he was sure. Even went as far as to warn him against applying, as if their reactions hadn't already humiliated him beyond belief. It was why he never spoke of them to his classmates beyond mentions of all the things they bought him. And he didn't ask about their parents, though he did sometimes think he'd like to trade with someone. Anyone, really. Such well-rounded people must have parents to match.

Though you could have bad parents and still turn out a nice person. Shinso had a slew of awful people take turns bringing him up, and he still wanted to take people by the hands instead of kicking their teeth in. That’s just an example, it’s not something Neito thought about doing. Usually. And who would know? Shinso wouldn't.

Because the more time they spent together, the more Neito got to know Shinso, but this didn't go both ways. There weren't many people in this world who could say they knew Monoma Neito. Sometimes, he wasn't sure there were any. His friends knew many aspects of him that were true, but there were many pieces missing. The very worst ones that he had no intention of showing anyone. His friends knew too many unsavory facts about him already, there was no reason to add onto it.

And Shinso needed to know none of that. Because, again, Neito liked Shinso, and he wanted to keep the feeling mutual. It was already a surprise he was being tolerated the way he was. Most people didn't put up with him willingly. There was something his mother used to say, a set of words that sat atop his highest shelf like the finest porcelain. Hard to swallow. She said Neito was hard to swallow. He wasn't easy to take in. He was too much to bear.

People who were hard to swallow didn't make a lot of real friends.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Neito really, really, really, really hated being blind. In case anyone was having trouble piecing that together. And if you’re wondering, yes, the tantrum he was very close to throwing was because he tripped on the sidewalk that morning. Curbs were high on his list of enemies, right next to stairs.

His anxiety had spiked to unprecedented levels. He already lived with the constant fear of embarrassing himself, and now he had to navigate a world he couldn't see? There was so much potential ruin there. He couldn't even walk across a room without the worry he might catch on some edge.

The other day, he was in Kosei’s room and he tripped over the bed frame which resulted in concern that only made his humiliation worse. He didn't bruise any more easily than he did before, and he knew that would have earned a laugh once, but since he was blind, he was also fragile. They were all driving him mad with that. He was with Kosei because he needed Neito’s help with math, something he was clearly still very capable of doing. If Neito hadn't already been helping out before, he knew he would never be asked.

He despised every single one of them for treating him like this. So what if he couldn't find a bus stop by himself or his cereal always spilled on the counter? He wasn't completely useless. Right? That’s the thing, isn't it? He might be completely useless. Navigating school was hard enough, and by the time he got the hang of it, he'd probably be graduating.

And then what? He'd step out into a world that didn't want him. A world that only respected people who could read menus and didn't take too long in the grocery aisle. Teachers adapted board work for him, but who was going to adapt the endless supply of paperwork, books, maps, and graphs he would have to read? Who was going to let everyone know that a blind person was no less capable or productive? He couldn't tell them himself, because once you were sightless, you became voiceless, too.

And what if it was true? How capable was he really? Productive maybe, but compared to who? What was he without special accommodations? What was he at all? A person who couldn't read glances across the room? That used to be one of his favorite ways to communicate. Now he could only wonder. Wonder how long it would be until they were tired of him, until he wasn't funny annoying and just regular annoying. He had to wonder how much longer they would wait as he stumbled behind them.

They didn't want to become his caretakers. Would he need one of those? Was he supposed to take care of his own home, make his own breakfast, and take himself to the doctor’s? In a world of worded signs, written labels, and visual cues, what other choice did he have than to accept help? What other life was he to be subjected to besides one of eternal humiliation?

When he thought of what would become of him, it was fear that gripped him. This was going to be the rest of his life. The rest of his entire life. Forever. And ever. He would never see again. He would have to live like this for the rest of his life. His life would always be difficult. It would never go back to the way it was before. Not ever. Never. Did it sink in yet?

When he tapped his cane against the floor, it was irritation he felt. When he pressed fingertips to a hastily pasted label on his locker, it brought out a scoff at the stupidity. Blind people didn't wake up helpless, nor did they suddenly gain the skillset seasoned sightless people used to navigate the world. There were actually many spaces in between those. He ran his finger over the raised bumps of Monoma Neito. It was one of the only times he didn't like seeing his name on something. Feeling, rather.

It was with regret that he thought back to the moment it happened, the pain that tore through his eyes, the warmth of blood trickling down his cheeks. Aizawa, who didn't need to know a thing about Neito’s complicated feelings toward him, had called out his name because he couldn't reach him. If he'd protected his eyes, the weapon he was using, this wouldn't have happened.

When it was all over, Neito cried. Maybe from the pain, maybe from something else. His friends met him at the hospital, and some of them let their own tears slip. He wasn't sure if there was any silent crying. His brother sniffled at his bedside. His mother sobbed when she found out he would never see again. His father cried as he put his hands on Neito’s face, thumbs brushing scarred eyelids. His father never cried.

Neito didn't like crying. It didn't fix anything. It didn't change anything. It just made his eyes swollen. He liked taking action, fixing the pieces of him that hung loose and cracked. There was so much to pay attention to, so many odds and ends to improve. Tears did nothing for him. Self-pity was just as bad as pity from others, no matter how much he felt he wanted to wallow in it.

There was no need to cry as he walked down an empty hallway, every other student occupied with lunch. Lunch was difficult for him. He already lived with a pit of anxiety in his stomach, a little monster that awoke in social situations. It told him to be funnier, louder, better. It bit him when he did. It had tripled in size recently and it was much harder to control. Slipping out and walking around to distract himself was easy. And no one ever missed him.

He thought different when he heard a group of footsteps approaching him, but as they got closer, he was sure none of them were his classmates. A shoulder bumped his hard, sending him colliding with the wall. Well, that was rude.

“Whoops.” The following laughter was cruel. “You've really gotta watch where you're going.”

Wow, hilarious.

“Can I help you?” Neito asked, swiping a hand across the swoop of his bangs.

A mocking voice answered. “He’s still got that bitchy tone even when he's helpless.”

Helpless? Hearing those words coming from the mouth of some random delinquent rather than his own self-deprecating mind sparked anger instead of tears.

Two hands landed on his chest, pushing him backward. Something caught his feet, keeping them in place. It wasn't something like Juzo’s softening, it didn't feel like anything physical. He wished he could look down at his feet and see what kind of quirk this was.

Humiliation flooded his cheeks, far more unbearable than the pain in his back. All his ‘you can't pick on the blind’ jokes would be useless now. In fact, it would fuel the fire. But, really, what kind of person picked on the blind? The defenseless. The weak. They could see it as clearly as anyone, what Neito was now.

His cane was tugged from his hand. He tried to grab for it, but he had no idea where it was, and he still couldn't move. He felt a hand brush against his face as it grabbed for his hair. He felt scaly skin almost like Rin’s, and sharp nails. He was shoved forward, toppling to the ground. Someone delivered a kick to his thigh that was more mocking than painful, making it all the more so.

“You want this? Go fetch.”

He heard his cane clatter to the floor. Whatever. He didn't need the stupid thing. Fine, okay. He could play dirty, too. He always could. And anyone who knew him knew that he loved to. He placed their presence with their voices. A footstep to the left. Too slow. A kick to an unprepared shin. Swift, water smooth movements. A sharp elbow in the side. Too quick on his feet.

He barely dodged a punch. He shoved. He was shoved. A knee to the stomach. Someone yanked him backward, sending him to the floor. He swept their legs out from under them. That was a move Shinso loved. Neito was quick, but he wasn't three people, and he again found himself stuck to the ground. A punch connected with his face. To his ribs. Laughter rang as he dropped to the ground.

Pathetic and weak. Perfect combination. At least he wasn't a coward like the boys who scattered, afraid of being caught as lunchtime came to an end. He wondered what their quirks were. He should have tried to snatch one. They didn't seem to have been utilizing them as well as they could have. Or were they? Maybe they just hadn't needed to. Neito had been on the receiving end of plenty of schoolmate tussles, and sometimes punching just worked better.

When he was in middle school, Neito used to pick on the other kids, winding them up until it escalated. And they would show him how well their superior quirks could leave him bruised and bloody-nosed. He had to be dragged to the nurse's office because he refused to go. He still did. Kendo had quite literally dragged him to visit Recovery Girl after purposefully pissing people off.

This was an unusual situation, still. He hadn't started it. He hadn't done a thing to provoke it. He didn't even know who those guys were. Just a bunch of random losers. Cool. What a great group to get beaten up by. God, he was a loser. He could admit that to himself. He could admit a lot of things to himself, he just didn't because he chose not to dwell on the negative.

Cradling his jaw, he made his way to the bathroom. He couldn't do much more than wash his face and feel for what might be visible damage. If it bruised, he wouldn't be able to tell unless it hurt. Judging by the way it felt now, that shouldn't be a problem. Except for the fact that he couldn't cover it properly because he couldn't fucking see.

But everyone else could see very clearly. They could also open their loud mouths to gasp when they saw him. That’s what Kendo did the next day when she caught sight of what he could feel was a rather large bruise staining his jaw.

“Who hit you?” she said, grabbing his face. “What did you do? Who were you picking on now?”

“You’ll be pleased to find I wasn't actually picking on anyone.”

“Yeah? And this just formed from nothing?”

“Are those my only options?”

“Is there another one?”

Neito tore his face away, burying it in his hands. He muffled a scream. It was partly for dramatic effect, but honestly, he needed to scream. He lifted his head with a smile.

“I bumped into a wall.”

He expected roaring laughter. Taunting. Jokes of some sort. But he was met with something so unsettling he would have bolted if running didn't make him nervous. His classmates formed a bubble of concern around him, trapping him inside the strange invention.

“What’s with the solemn mood today?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Yes! Yes, it is! It’s hilarious.”

Neito laughed at himself, loud and endlessly to make up for all of the lack. Kendo’s hand came up to his jaw, and the gentleness of the touch was upsetting. He slapped her hand away and marched up to the table in the middle of the room because, crazy surprise, he could still walk without help. He climbed atop the table and let out a couple more of those hand-muffled screams.

“Monoma, be careful,” Komori warned.

He feigned falling and laughed at whoever’s startled gasp he heard.

“I despise every single one of you. You treat me like I’m completely useless. I’m blind! I can't see! I’m not any weaker than I used to be.”

“We don't think that,” Kendo started.

“You! You haven't hit me in forever. Why? It’s not going to hurt worse just because I can't see.” He stamped his foot on the table, enjoying this tantrum a little too much. He hadn't thrown one in a while. “Be mean to me.”

Now he got his giggles.

“You want us to be mean?” Pony said.

“I want you to not get me drinks and warn me they're too hot. I can feel.”

“Yeah, but you can't see the steam,” she innocently pointed out.

“I don't need your help. I don't need you to organize my notes when I didn't ask or help me walk through the hallway. I can do that myself!”

“Did you not just say you bumped into a wall?” Reiko said.

“So what if I did?” He crossed his arms petulantly, holding onto the lie out of pure spite. “I’m not dead. I've bumped into things before I was blind, and I’ll continue to bump into things now. I'm not going to fall apart.”

“We’re just trying to help, man,” Shishida said uncomfortably.

Kosei seconded that with an equally uneasy, “Yeah.”

What did they have to be uncomfortable about? Was listening to the person they were treating like a broken doll too awkward for them?

“You’re not helping at all. You don't make jokes about me. You take things out of my hands. You tell me where my water is like I can't find the damn table I’m sitting at!”

“Monoma,” Kodai said softly. God, he hated softness. “When you came back, you hardly could find the table. You're doing great, but it only makes sense that you would struggle. You've been through-”

“I know what I've been through!”

He knew better than anyone else possibly could. He struggled every day, more than they even realized. It wasn't pouring himself a drink that troubled him most.

“You don't understand!” he all but screamed at them. He did scream a bit. More than a bit. But they needed that. Or he needed it. “My life is ruined, it’s gone. Over. And you make it worse by treating me like I can't do anything by myself.”

There was a long, stretched-out silence that spread over all of them, Neito included. He felt his cheeks grow hot. Why was everything so hard on him? Why hadn't he ever spared a single thought for the blind, as if they were invisible? How painfully visible they must feel, in the worst sort of way. Not visible like heroes on tv screens, visible like cracks on the sidewalk. Ugly and stepped over, barely a thought spared for someone to fix that.

Someone, Kendo, walked up to the table. “Get down, you goof.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll fall?”

Neito let himself fall backward off the table, unafraid of the small bump it would cause. A pair of oversized hands caught him.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, righting him with her hands on his shoulders. “My turn?”

He shrugged.

“We didn't want to pretend nothing happened, and we were worried about you. Mono, you lost your eyesight. That’s not just a typical Tuesday. We were…” she paused, maybe to find the right word, maybe to question whether or not she wanted to admit it. “We were scared.”

Ah, scared. Fearing for his safety. For his life. Terrified about his future. It was scary, being blind, not being able to see as you put one foot in front of the other. He happened to be familiar with that feeling.

“We’ll stop babying you,” Kendo said. “But you have to draw a line somewhere. Tell us when you need help and when you don't, yeah?”

Hm, no. How could he ever do that? Wasn't the whole point of the tantrum he just threw that he didn't need help?

“Monoma.”

A warning. Just a small one to say, “I know what you're thinking, and you better stop.” Or what? She'd hit him? Fight with him? Chase him? He hoped so. He missed her.

“Fine, I’ll submit to your will. What is it you want from me?”

“I want to know when you're okay, and when you're not. I won't offer my help unless you ask, but that means you have to ask.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. I agree to your terms.”

“Good. And Monoma, you’re not helpless, even when you need assistance. No one can do everything. We’re all here for each other, aren't we?”

“Ugh, Kendo. Not my heartstrings.”

“Idiot,” she said, a laugh in her voice. She gave his shoulder a shove. “You’re not useless, okay. I know you're struggling with training, but I also know you're doing really well adapting. You can let both of those things be true. I can only imagine being blind isn't easy, it probably never will be, but it doesn't make you nothing. You're still a person, and you're still as much a hero as ever.”

The room cheered their agreement. They all thought Neito could be a hero. They always had. They fought for him to stay in this class. They were thrilled to find out he wasn't leaving school after his injury. They saw something in his future that he couldn't currently see. Of course, they could see more clearly than he could.

He didn't feel like much of a hero, but Kendo thought he could be. The rest of his friends thought he could be. Eraserhead and Shinso thought he could be. And maybe all he would ever have was that and one blind kid, but, hey, at least it wasn't nothing. Maybe he'd be the shittiest hero ever, but he could say he'd done it. And what were all the critics doing? Absolutely nothing. So ha.

Amidst his joy, something else popped up, something that pricked at the corners of his eyes. For what reason, he couldn't tell. He wasn't afraid to cry in front of the others, he’d cried through many a dramatic piece of music or cinematography that moved him. He didn't cry when people were nice to him. People weren't supposed to be nice to him.

Kendo brought him into a hug, which didn't really help his state, but he let her. Tears dripped onto her shoulder and onto the hand that tried to rub them away. Her laughter cooed in his ear, strong hands holding him for as long as he needed. He needed much longer, actually, but he wouldn't make her stand there forever.

When everyone else tried to join in, he slipped out between arms. He didn't need that many hugs. He was overwhelmed enough as it was and this out-of-character behavior was unsettling. Though not in an entirely bad way. He wouldn't ask for it, freely given as it may be, but he’d like another Kendo hug.

Chapter Text

“You’re not supposed to turn there!”

“I can't see!”

Playing video games was, it turned out, not impossible when blind. On the condition you had the patience and capacity to re-learn with a slew of new adjustments. Neito had much more patience than people gave him credit for. And perhaps a bit less than he liked to think. Shinso was endlessly patient with him as he navigated this new territory. Mostly.

“Dude, you're running into the wall. Use your space thingy.”

“That’s not what that's for.”

Neito attempted to use his audio guide to tell him where to step and how far away Shinso’s character was. A combat game might not have been the best choice, but he'd lost one too many rounds of Mario Kart. He consoled himself by believing that Shinso was just really good at video games. A master, even.

“Are you ready to start the match?” Shinso asked.

“Can we fight? Me and my single win against you are coming back for vengeance. I have to earn my pride back.”

“Hang on.”

Shinso leapt from his spot on the floor and shuffled toward the corner of the room. Neito heard his closet open.

“What are you doing?”

“I won't mess with anything.” Neito’s closet was organized with extreme precision that a single misplaced item could ruin. Of course, he didn't tell Shinso that. Perhaps it was obvious. “I’m borrowing a scarf.”

He couldn't see what Shinso was doing, but he got the idea. Shinso was tying a scarf around his eyes. Neito heard the shuffle of putting on headphones and Shinso clicking on the audio-instructed version of the game.

“There. Now we’re both blind.”

Neito couldn't help it, okay, it warmed his heart. The cocoon around his heart broke with the birth of a butterfly, fluttering its new wings around the open space. It got stuck in the middle of his chest, making it harder to breathe. And he was just glad Shinso couldn't see his face either.

They started the match, the first one that didn't involve yelling over one another as they were both trying to pay attention to the guide. Neito hadn't realized just how accustomed to blindness he was becoming until now, witnessing Shinso’s even sloppier playing. He couldn't decide if that feeling was nice or affronting, and he didn't dwell to find out.

“Are you hitting me?” Shinso asked.

“I just kicked you into that wall.”

“What wall?”

Instead of helping Shinso out with understanding the guide, Neito couldn't stop cackling. Buttons clicked and frustrated grunts mixed with laughter.

“Where am I?!”

“Shut up and listen to the sound effects. They’ll tell you when I’m coming.”

“You’re on my left?”

The furious flurry of buttons smashing accompanied taunting. Their moves were sloppily aimed, most landing more out of luck than intention. Neito was hardly any better practiced than Shinso, his only advantage understanding the way the assistance worked.

“Why is it so hard to move like this? I can’t stand straight.”

“That’s just because you're stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

They went back and forth between staying eerily quiet, lost in concentration, to shouting at one another. Neito was enjoying the rare win that came with having the upper hand, something he never got these days. Challenging his friends to video games, sparring matches, even board games was only fun if he was trying to embarrass himself. Which, if you were wondering, he never was.

He wasn't doing a very good job, though, because his amusement was getting the better of him. Shinso ran into walls more than Neito ever did. They accidentally threw themselves off cliffs, missed several hits, and lost track of each other and, in Shinso’s case, themselves.

“Get back over here,” Neito yelled.

“Stop shouting at me! I can't see.”

“Oh, no,” Neito said, concern well exaggerated. “That must be so difficult for you.”

“Shut your mouth, I can't focus with your yapping.”

They mashed buttons, spun controls, and yelled so much that both ended up confused. Several rounds of chaos went by, each one ending by one of them– mostly Shinso, though Neito had his moments –defeating themselves instead of their opponent.

“Put us on a different stage,” Neito said. “One where it’s not as easy for us to kill ourselves.”

“Sure…”

Shinso struggled to switch the map, accidentally exiting the game. Which really wasn't that funny, but it had Neito beside himself with mirth. He laughed so hard he couldn't sit upright, falling face first against Shinso’s shoulder. Infectious as laughter was, Shinso started, too. His hand came up to rest on the back of Neito’s head before giving him a light smack.

“Stop laughing, I hate you.”

Neito didn't stop laughing until they had the game and match reset, and even then it wouldn't be long before he was at it again. In a terrible attempt to be helpful, and somewhat annoying, he narrated the match like an audiobook reader, adding unnecessary and dramatic emphasis to the fight. Somehow, through the shouts and hits, the screen stopped and a voice announced game over.

“Oh my god,” Shinso gasped.

“Oh my god!”

“How did you win?”

“I told you I would. You poor, misguided man, doubting me. How wrong you've been. Don't you know I adapt, I evolve, I-”

A pillow whacked him in the chest. Neito caught the pillow, chest heaving against it with laughter. He tried to hit Shinso back, but he was already jumping away, grabbing another pillow from Neito’s bed to defend himself. His scarf blindfold never came off. Neito was much more accustomed to moving around his dorm room and gained an advantage over Shinso simply for that fact.

Shinso tripped over the bed, landing on his back. Neito was quick to climb on top of him, pinning him down.

“You’re going to regret this, sound of music.”

Neito paused his manic cackling, as if someone had pressed pause on him.

“What did you call me?”

“Sound of music?”

“You like musicals?”

“Um, no.” Shinso shifted slightly beneath him. “I was just making fun of you. Cause you like musicals.”

“How did you know that?” Neito was certain that had never come up.

“Your walls are covered in those music program things.”

That's right, they were. How silly was that, he was forgetting what his own room looked like. It was a momentary slip, not seeing his things every day let them slide to the very back of his mind and stay there.

“Have you seen any?” Neito asked, climbing off him. “They’re quite popular in Western culture. I watch them in English to help with the language. I used to go to the theatre a lot when I was young, have you ever been?”

“No,” Shinso said, something quiet in his voice that had nothing to do with volume.

He gave Neito his scarf back. It was the navy blue and white one. Maybe. Neito felt for the label hidden beneath the folds. It was. He placed it back in its proper place, among the astounding organization that only came from someone terribly lost.

“Can you still go to the theatre?” Shinso asked.

Neito tried to laugh lightly, but much to his chagrin, it came out rough and too close to resentful.

“It’s possible, but it wouldn't be the same. Part of the beauty in performance is every word spoken through movement. The tiniest twitch of a face, the direction of the lighting or set design, the details that make up the image of a scene. Without those, I’m not sure I'd even enjoy it half as much.”

“You still have music, at least. And the opera or whatever.”

Neito sat on the floor across from Shinso, crossing his legs beneath him.

“I didn't realize you were so familiar with me?”

“We’re friends, why wouldn't I be?”

Friends? Oh. Silly of him, he hadn't realized Shinso thought of them that way. As most things did, it made sense in hindsight. Typically, people who played video games in your bedroom and fought you with pillows were on the friendship level. He liked being Shinso’s friend, it wasn't that, it was only that he hadn't realized Shinso liked being his friend.

“If we’re friends, then you have to tell me something you like. I’m far more self-absorbed and rude than you are, so I haven't been listening.”

“I don't really like doing anything,” Shinso said. “I like to watch tv, I guess. Eat. Sleep.”

“What a marvelous life you lead. And sleeping, I didn't know you did that. Wonderful.”

“I like to draw. Just sketching mostly.”

That was something he could work with.

“Do you? I like to draw, too. It’s not near my best, I'm afraid, just an inconsequential hobby.”

Neito shuffled through his things without wrecking a single part of the intricately placed puzzle. He found a sketchbook, full of doodles that hadn't been looked at in too long, but he knew what was scribbled on the pages. He handed it to Shinso.

All he heard was the crisp crinkle and turn of pages for a while, Shinso’s focus unnecessary for sketches that were not that good. That is, until a chuckle escaped him.

“You're a Jojo fan?”

“Why is that funny?”

“It’s not.”

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m not.”

He was.

“I like the style. And if you watched it, you would know that the fights involve actual precision and out of the box thinking, relying more on clever twists than physical power.”

“Oh, yeah?” Shinso sounded only mildly interested, but interested nonetheless. “Is that where you learned that?”

“Not all hero lessons are taught in school, my sweet, innocent disciple. You would do well to learn that.”

“By lessons do you mean memorizing every one of these poses?” He tapped the page, referring to one of the many character poses Neito had, in fact, started unconsciously striking.

“You doubt my wisdom, but you’ll need it one day.”

“If I ever need to backbend, I’ll call you. I bet you're good at playing limbo.”

“I am.”

Shinso moved to sit with his back against the bed, letting his head fall onto it. Neito did the same, rolling his head to face Shinso. How terribly he wished he could see him. He wished to see notebooks full of Shinso’s drawings, pencil lines, shaded spots, and his own rendition of his favorite things. He wished to see the purple of his hair and the violet in his eyes.

“You can never dye your hair a different color,” Neito said.

“Why?”

“Because I won't know what you look like.”

Shinso didn't brush this off as a joke, though Neito had purposely spoken it like one. He didn't find it weird, or a ridiculous request made by someone too frightened to accept the unchangeable reality of his fate.

All he said was, “I won’t.”

Neito can't see it, which is a tragedy in itself, but he knew Shinso’s face. He wished he'd known it better. The way his eyelids twitched open and shut, thoughts, memories, ruins, and magic hiding beneath them. The line of his lips, always tugged downward as if someone had looped thread through the corners of his mouth and wouldn't let them go. The curve of his cheeks. The perfect (yes, perfect) line of his jaw. The crooked bottom teeth that informed Neito he'd never worn braces as a child.

And his eyes. The windows to the soul. How would anyone ever reach Neito’s soul? Through orbs of synthetic blue-grey? Would they gaze deep into acrylic resin and know him? Eyes told on a person in a way nothing else could. Lines of your heart streaked through them, the blues of your brain clouded over them, and the utmost of your elation or misery glistened in them.

At least he could keep his emotions hidden from villains. That would be handy in the future. They wouldn't know if he was scared or confused. They couldn't tell by a glimpse he couldn't hide. He wondered constantly if he looked lost, but maybe he just looked relaxed. And if he did look lost, that could throw off an opponent. His classmates used to joke that he had crazy eyes. The last time they said it was to lighten the mood before they separated to help with the fight. They hadn't said it since.

He wasn't sure why he did it, maybe he was too lost in his own mind and that amplified the starry feeling Shinso’s company brought, but Neito reached out and touched Shinso’s face. His thumb stroked over sharp bone, sweeping beneath puffy undereyes, and pressed into the softness of his cheek. He traced a line down the long bridge of his nose, feeling the way it turned slightly upward.

Shinso stayed quiet as Neito felt the brush of his eyebrows, thumbs dragging across his forehead. The skin between his eyebrows wrinkled and Neito smoothed it out. He closed his eyes so Neito’s touch could ghost over the lids, tickling his fingers on the short lashes. Neito’s hands took in the angle of Shinso’s face, the sharp edges, the soft spots, the structure.

He dragged one finger over Shinso’s thin lips. They were a little dry and he came away with a spot of spit on his finger. Shinso took Neito’s hands, taking them from his face and holding them against his chest. He could feel his heartbeat beneath his shirt. Which wasn't Shinso’s intention. No, why would it be? He just wanted Neito to stop touching his face.

But then Shinso’s hands were on Neito’s face, and that wasn't supposed to happen. But Shinso had kept quiet and let Neito take in the face of his friend the only way he could, so Neito did the same. He closed his eyes and let Shinso’s fingers run around his eyes, where they stayed instead of roaming his face.

He traced the scars, the marks permanently ruining his face. The reminder that had been torn into his skin, splitting the surface and seeping through the cracks where the blood spilled. He had lost more than his sight that day, and every chance he didn't get to look at his own face was a reminder of that. He lost any chance of love he'd ever had. No, that's not dramatic. It’s true.

People didn't want to date a blind guy. Sexting was a lot less fun when it was dictated by a computerized voice and not the sexy imagination of a partner. Meeting up for a date sounded cute until your working eyes landed on the bumbling blind guy with a long cane and no idea where you were. Going for walks where half the time was spent worrying about curbs, stairs, and elevation changes wasn't romantic.

And then there were menus he wouldn't be able to read and waiters he couldn't make eye contact with. The fact that he would need to be guided through new places. He would never catch silent cues. If someone was looking at him sexually, a stare across a bar or an up and down, he would need to be told. He could ruin a lot of moments like that. Remembering not to nod was already annoying enough.

“I like your eyes,” Shinso said.

“Thanks. Picked them out myself.”

Shinso touched the largest scar, a jagged line starting on the outer corner of his left eye and stretching out over the side of his face.

“Did you know,” Shinso’s thumb rubbed across his eyebrow, “you have an eyebrow split?”

“I was pretending not to notice.”

“I think it looks cool.”

“You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Who knows? Maybe he only meant that it was typical, expected, that Shinso was the one to like his new charms. He would likely be the only one ever. No one would want Neito, they wouldn't be able to see past what he couldn't see at all. They wouldn't want to hold him, to admire his body, and fawn over his figure, if he could not return it.

And he couldn't return it. He wanted to, he wanted to admire the beauty, the craftsmanship and artistry that was the human form. But he couldn't. Undressing for someone who could only stare at a random spot on the wall, unimpressed, and with no compliments to offer, would turn them off so quickly they'd have their pants back on before he knew what was happening.

He wasn't sure that he did care about romance much. It was another way he'd been an outsider, but he wasn't at all obsessed with the idea of finding “the one” or making a life with them. Romantic worries seemed trivial and silly to him. He was quite indifferent to the whole thing. But he wanted to be wanted. He wanted someone to love his body, and his soul in the way only a connection like that could bring about.

He wanted to feel close to someone. His close friendships meant more to him than a romance ever could. But he liked the things that came along with romance, liking kissing, or touching. He wondered, perhaps, if there was something wrong with him, some wire misplaced in his heart that stopped him from feeling properly. But he felt just fine for his friends. And he felt for Shinso.

The very same Shinso sitting in front of him, looking at his face. Or maybe over his shoulder. Maybe at his hair. Maybe his hair looked funny. If it did, Shinso didn't care. So right now, Neito didn't care. That’s what it was. Neito had never not cared. It didn't slip past him. It just didn't feel the way people described it. Maybe it wasn't romantic, maybe he didn't know what romantic even meant. He couldn't see how it was much different than loving people as friends.

It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Shinso was his friend. His friend who didn't care that he was blind, who would still pillow fight him and wear a blindfold so they could be on even ground. His friend who he loved, something he'd decided at some point between being surprised by the sentiment and caressing his face. Yes, he loved him. Very much.

And so he asked him a very important question, one that had been sitting like a weight in his pocket since he was led out of the doctor’s office.

“Am I still pretty?”

The brief beat of silence was agonizing.

“Yeah, Monoma, you're still pretty.”

“You can call me Neito.”

“Okay, Neito. You're still pretty.”

What he said in response was, “Good. Wouldn't that be a terrible loss?”

What he meant to say was thank you.

“Why don't you think I’m scary?”

Neito laughed. Because why would he think Shinso was scary? He knew what he meant, but it was still silly to him.

“Scary? Shinso, you're marvelous.”

“You can call me Hitoshi.”

“Hitoshi, you're marvelous.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Being guided through an area you couldn't see was more terrifying than it sounded. Maybe it required a level of trust Neito simply hadn't reached, but when it was Kendo or another of his friends leading the way, that excuse couldn't really be used. Especially now, with how closely they paid attention to his safety. They hadn't exactly stopped doing it, they just asked before grabbing hold of his elbow.

Today, he had been bullied into joining them in the cafeteria. It was nice to see they'd gone back to their old ways of merciless cruelty, but that was the only good coming out of this situation. It was partly his own fault. He told them not to go easy on him and now they were pushing him past his comfort zone in a way he did not deserve.

They were supposed to start with small things, like not handing him things when he hadn't asked. Perhaps a nice walk down the sidewalk or a commute to their place. The dorms were still a thing, but not as strict as they had been when they'd been needed for security and safety purposes. Neito was glad they didn't get rid of them completely, as were plenty of his classmates. Being there felt more like home than his actual house ever did.

But they were allowed to leave as they pleased, opening up opportunities to visit streets he didn't recognize. He'd like to visit his friends’ places, even if the house decor would be unremarkable to him. He would let Kendo guide him through her neighborhood, his hand in the crook of her arm as they walked down a street she knew so well and he would never be familiar enough with, no matter how many times she brought him there.

So, yes, being guided was scary, despite the fact that he wasn't navigating the world alone. He still feared every foot in front of the other, worried his companion would miss a difficult step because it was so easy for them that it slipped their mind. He didn't know where they were going, his cane sweeping the floor alerting him of potential dangers, but the arm he stayed glued to offering little sense of protection.

Maybe it was the trust thing.

Being guided also felt like safety. Both of those things could be true, couldn't they? The reason it felt safe was because being alone was perhaps the scariest feeling in the world. Worse even, than a crushed dream. Those could be dealt with if you weren't alone. But being left to yourself, left figuring out how to push through a new world not made to fit you, was terrifying. He'd yelled at his friends for paying too much attention, and it was irritating, but it could be something worse.

They could have abandoned him. They could have decided they didn't want a blind friend, that he was too slow and too much work to keep up with them. They could have let him be transferred, let him train by himself, and learn how to figure himself out in a bearable way before they let him back into their circle. There were many choices they could have made instead, many that might make their own lives easier, but they chose to stay by his side.

So, yes, someone taking your hand, placing it securely on their arm, and giving you a pat before letting you follow their motions at your own pace felt like safety. It felt like something besides the end of the world. Asking for help was a treacherous thing. Admitting he wasn't strong enough to do anything and everything on his own felt like a slap in the face. A particularly stinging one because when it landed, it was on the face of a six-year-old who had just been told there was no point in trying.

Being blind may not be the single worst fate on the ever-whirling wheel, but it would be a lot easier if everyone else in the world could be like his friends. At least they tried. At least they listened, instead of behaving as though his voice had been connected to his sight and therefore lost with it. It was an unfortunate truth that, if you were lucky, as Neito seemed to be, the world was made up of one small bubble where everything was alright, sitting inside a vast wasteland where only cruelty and idiots could be found.

And if you happened to have been dealt a hand of cards that wasn't especially auspicious, such as he and every other blind person had been, you tended to bump headfirst into the less forgiving part of the world. No one wanted a blind person in their way. No one wanted to do any work they didn't have to. He would continuously make things harder for people, and there weren't many who would be kind enough to pretend they weren't annoyed by that.

Neito was stopped by a large hand landing on his stomach. The enlargement was an unnecessary safety precaution, which, be honest, we all know it was. But Kendo had done the very thing Neito requested she do if they were coming to a stop. What? Surprised at such maturity? Communicating his needs, trusting they would be listened to? Yes, he did do that.

Proud as he was at this act of personal growth, he still wanted to turn around and run back to their dorms. The cafeteria, the people staring at him, talking around him, the stairs, it wasn't a challenge he found the slightest bit exciting. Kendo seemed to notice this, and Neito wondered if his eyes were somehow still readable to everyone else. Maybe just her.

“Come on, you're not allowed to back out.”

“You’re not supposed to force disabled people to do things they aren't comfortable with.”

Kendo considered this, though not very considerately. “Do you have any valid reasons for not wanting to?”

“Yes, I don't want to.”

Wasn’t being scared out of your mind a valid enough reason? Apparently not for Kendo.

“Do you need help going down the stairs, or do you just want me to push you?”

Neito took a sideways step away from her. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He found the first step with his cane, and made an extremely slow move down the staircase, hand clutching the railing. Kendo had no need to step so slowly, but she stayed at his side the entire time. His heart skipped a beat when he landed at the bottom of the stairs instead of the final step he expected. But he was kind of glad that Kendo hadn't warned him. Maybe she hadn't noticed, or maybe she realized that falling on the floor wouldn't hurt anything more than his pride, and was willing to let him learn and fail on his own.

The cafeteria was as busy and bustling as it always was. He hadn't expected anything else. He'd just been crossing his fingers that it would somehow end up being a quiet day.

“Where’s 1-A?” he asked, sticking his arm out to the left. “I’ll just run past them like this,” he brought his arm forward with a slapping motion, “say I didn't see them.”

He was yanked forward by the ear, his joke unappreciated.

“Ow, ow, it was a joke. Can't a blind man find some humor in his situation?”

He really would like to stop by 1-A’s table. He'd been so wrapped up in himself lately that he barely had time for his favorite hobby, riling people up. But there was something he needed to know, especially after all those gifts he'd received. That he wasn't being pitied. He wouldn't allow that from them of all people. He wouldn't allow it from anyone, but the world would burn before he let that class of teacher’s pets look down on him.

He'd have to wait for another chance, seeing as Kendo wouldn't let him go. She dragged him to the lunch line, a worry he hadn't thought of popping up. Kendo seemed to be catching all of his thoughts, because she acted as a guide all the way down the line. She didn't touch anything he didn't ask her to, and he didn't ask her to. It was a balance he was willing to settle for, under certain circumstances. Such as it being Kendo and no one else. And only for now, until he mastered whatever skills needed for moving through the world missing a crucial sense.

Carrying his lunch tray to the table, acutely aware of how easy it would be for him to trip over a chair, or a person, or his own feet, was another challenge of zero thrill. Unless you wanted to call a racing heart thrumming in his ears a thrill. It was too loud in here. He was too focused on trying to catch every sound, and it wasn't a thing he could simply switch off and put himself at ease. As he sat down, snippets of conversation floated past him, the voices at his own table getting caught in the flow.

Neito did his best to ignore it. He hoped this wasn't his best forever, because he was doing a terrible job. He pressed his palms flat against the table, moving them along to find the tray. Carefully to avoid spilling, he found his cup. And then there was the worst part, the one he hoped no one would catch him doing. Everyone sitting at his table had already seen it, but anyone sitting nearby or passing them could see it and have a field day with useless blind Monoma and his oddities.

As swiftly as he could, his pointer finger traveled his tray, dipping into every portion of food. Rice with chicken on the right, spinach on the lower left side, and apple slices above it. He found his chopsticks and went about his meal in as much peace as you can expect. Maybe a bit more than that because he wasn't harassed the entire time. Having a pack of guard dogs for friends helped with that.

Neito heard someone approaching him from behind, but through the ruckus he couldn't tell who, or even if it was actually him they were coming toward. Telling someone by their footsteps was an easy thing to do when there were only one or two pairs around. It was in the way they stepped, the weight they put down, and the pace of their breathing. Fukidashi wore a keychain clinking with dangling items, so Neito could always tell when he was near.

Scent was also a good identifier, that floral, woodsy smell alerting him of his company before she threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Someone’s staring at you,” Komori sing-songed, her chin resting on his head.

“What, ew. Who?”

“Shinso.” The name spilled sugary-sweet from her mouth, spinning around her finger like cotton candy. That's what Neito heard, anyway.

“The tone of your voice implies I have something to be excited about. He and I are friends.”

“So, why doesn't he come over here?”

“He's antisocial and you guys look unwelcoming.”

“I feel like I look nice.”

Secretly, Neito was interested in Shinso’s staring. Had he assumed Neito wouldn't find out? That was likely, it’s not like he could spot it. Being antisocial meant Shinso didn't have friends to inform him of staring boys and taking any opportunity to tease. He wouldn't know such things were staples of a proper friendship and it would have been strange had Komori spotted Shinso and said nothing.

“Is he still staring?”

“He is.”

“Make me stare at him. Guide my head.”

With two hands on either side of his head, Komori directed his head so that it was lined up with Shinso’s gaze. He narrowed his eyes for effect.

“Huh,” Komori said. “He looked away.”

Good. He knew they caught him staring, which meant he could never deny it were Neito in the mischievous kind of mood that would make him bring this up. Not that he wanted to know why Shinso was staring at him. He did, desperately so, because not knowing made his stomach ache and the blood rush to his cheeks. But the real reason, or the one Shinso gave, would be purposely as uninteresting as he could make it, so Neito wouldn't ask.

When lunch ended, Neito was no worse for wear, except for the fact that his heart was still beating uncomfortably fast. He greatly preferred the dinners they had alone in their dorm kitchen. He knew he had to be a part of society, there was a whole other world outside of high school, and it would be best to get used to it now. But everything was so much easier when it was just him and the people who understood him.

That evening, they made dinner together, and Neito didn't try to pull out his blind card to avoid doing dishes. It never worked anyway. His parents had completely absolved him from responsibility. Dishes, laundry, and bedroom cleaning all fell on someone else’s shoulders. He still did all of that stuff at school, so he let them pamper him at home. He deserved that much for the great deal of stress he was always under.

The night was a regular one, accompanied by a movie that Neito talked way too much during to either understand or enjoy.

“I think the writers forgot we had brains.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying, that laser shouldn't have hurt him if he had that special suit. Didn't they explain that earlier?”

He could feel Kendo’s glare on him. “They explained the weakness, which you would have noticed if you were listening instead of talking.”

“Someone has to provide intellectual insight and refreshing humor.”

“Is someone doing that?” Tetsutetsu remarked.

Neito scoffed. “You should all be embarrassed that even a blind person can critique and understand cinema more deeply than all of you combined.”

Komori, who sat on the floor at Neito’s feet, leaned her head back against his knees. “The dialogue does feel a bit dull.”

“That's what I was saying. The entire thing lacks nuance. I can name a hundred different movies with similarities.”

“Please, don’t,” Awase begged.

“What was that move?” Neito exclaimed. “Any competent hero would have known to-”

A handful of popcorn hit him in the face, spilling onto his lap while Juzo laughed.

“Whatever.” He brushed the popcorn onto the floor. “This movie is a detriment to my ocular nerve pathways.”

“But you don't have ocular nerve function,” Pony pointed out.

“Don’t try to understand how his brain works,” Kosei said.

“You’re all illiterate. Or whatever the version of that for movies is.”

“Lacking in media literacy,” Tokage supplied. “Also, rude. All that just because we’re not annoying during movies.”

“I’m going to bed.”

He'd meant to step away with an only slightly dramatic strut, but his foot managed to catch the corner of the sofa, sending him tumbling to the ground. The room seemed to be put on pause, the end of an on-screen skirmish the only sound. And then they all burst into laughter. As Neito got up, he was only pretending to be annoyed. His friends hadn't laughed at him like that in a while.

He wasn't overly offended when he shut himself in his room, he simply wanted to be alone. And that movie truly was horrendous. Or maybe he hadn't understood it at all. Were his judgments even safe anymore? It was easy to be funny, still, and he was grateful he had that, at least. But shaming a decent movie because he'd misunderstood crucial plot points wasn't exactly his idea of humor.

Neito plopped down on the floor, reaching underneath his bed and pulling out a case. He flipped it open, gentle hands bringing out his violin. Music was one thing he could do right. His fingers knew their way well enough over the strings. And listening to music required no skill. It was a small comfort, but one he wouldn't get through without.

Halfway through his sad violin solo, someone knocked on his door. He could tell it was Kendo. He could recognize her knock even before he had to. He called for her to come in.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

They shared that few seconds of silence that always came after someone asked a question like that. And then they both laughed. Kendo sat down beside Neito, and he silently noted the lack of a light switch flipping.

“My parents invited you to dinner,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because they like you for some reason.”

“Even though I'm a blind loser?”

Kendo chuckled. “Yeah. I'm pretty sure they think we're dating.”

Neito made a face. “Why are we trying to fuel these false ideas?”

“Cause it’s funny.”

“For who?”

Kendo laughed fully this time and Neito was hit with that familiar pang he got whenever he thought of never being able to see her smile again. What if he forgot what it looked like? He raised a hand to her face, cupping her cheek to feel her smile. He felt as it faded into what he guessed was confusion.

“Can you smile for me?”

Her cheeks rose under his touch. He pressed a thumb into her dimple. She was so beautiful. He wanted to run his hands all along her face, tracing and taking in every feature like he'd done to Shinso. But that had been a specific moment and he wasn't sure the vibe was there now.

But he would memorize her face. He would keep it with him. Shinso’s too. And everyone else’s. He never wanted to forget, to have to lose this. He'd already lost enough, his memories could do the least and not fade. He wanted the details printed in his mind, as clear as when he used to stare at them in real life.

“Say something funny,” he said. “I want to feel a real smile.”

No joke was made, but her grin widened and she leaned into his touch.

“It is real.”

Chapter Text

“It’s too cold for this,” Hitoshi complained.

“Don’t be such a baby.”

Why Hitoshi and Neito were in a pool (a heated one, might I add) at six in the morning, wasn't an important question. Maybe it was, but most places their training led them to weren't discussed among them. Really, it was only because Neito had taken to swimming in the mornings. It was part of that whole overworking himself routine that Hitoshi didn't approve of. Neither did Vlad-Sensei, but when he found out Neito had company, he was much more comfortable allowing it.

Neito’s intensity had been toned down somewhat since he and Hitoshi started training together. And hanging out. Pushing away human interaction in favor of hero training had not originally been part of the plan, and it wasn't part of the new one. Losing friends wasn't something Neito could afford to do, considering he probably wouldn't ever make new ones. He was surprised his current ones even liked him.

Neito tugged his goggles down over his eyes. “Do you want to race?”

“Can you race?”

Neito could feel the ripples of water coming from Hitoshi’s movements.

“My teacher said I shouldn't, but blind people race, you know.”

“Sure, in the Olympics.”

“Yeah, see.”

“Are you in the Olympics?”

Neito dipped below the water, popping up a bit too close to Hitoshi. Water rushed as Hitoshi moved back.

“Fine, we won’t race, but don't think I don't know you're just afraid of losing to me.”

“So, how do you not drown?” Hitoshi asked.

“Do people who aren't five drown in swimming pools? I know how to swim, I didn't lose all proprioception when I went blind.”

“Proprioception,” Hitoshi repeated quietly. “Sorry.”

Neito flicked water at him, hoping it landed somewhere on his face. “It’s okay, but everyone seems to think that. The reason my mom signed me up for swim lessons was because she thought I had lost the ability. She was acting as though I would have to start from the very beginning. Everyone makes assumptions about what I can and can't do, and they think I can't do anything.”

“Do I ever act like that?”

“No. You never help me with anything.”

A wave of water splashed across his face.

“And you assault me.”

“What else is really annoying that people do now?” Hitoshi asked. Neito pretended he didn't know why he was asking.

“I feel so sorry for you. This must be the single most terrible thing to ever happen to someone, what a tragedy. There goes your life.”

“I can see why that would be annoying, yeah.”

Neito sank low beneath the water, hiding his shoulders beneath the warmed water. “The doctors love to tell me I’m still handsome, that I don't even look blind.”

That was not the compliment they thought it was. No one ever told them they didn't look stupid, despite being unfortunately so. He didn't want nor did he ask for someone to cheer him up with empty flattery. He noticed, and didn't pretend not to, that it hadn't felt empty when Hitoshi said it. But maybe that was because he had asked for it then.

“What about when people offer to do things for you?”

“Ah, funny thing that is. Offer? Sure. Most people don't offer, though, they just go ahead and do it for me. Which is not only offensive to my capabilities, but it stresses me out when I don't know what they're doing.”

Somehow, in the glaring truth that was him being unable to see and needing help, people forgot that he could not see. He wasn't prepared for people to touch him or his things, to be a guide he hadn't asked for or make a big deal of something he could have done completely fine on his own.

“So, basically no assumptions should be made,” Hitoshi concluded.

“I don't think assumptions should be made for anyone. I want to be spoken to and treated just as you would anyone else.”

“Got it.”

He did get it. More so than Neito thought he gave himself credit for. But maybe he did. Maybe all of that was very much intentional. Hitoshi didn't offer his help, he teased Neito without the worry that being blind had heightened the sensitivity of his feelings, he even joked about him being blind. And he did things like calling instead of texting after Neito offhandedly mentioned he preferred that and blindfolded himself for video game matches.

“So,” Neito said. “Race?”

“No. Let’s do laps. How do you know where the wall is?”

Neito stuck his hand out, palm flat in demonstration. “I’ve gotten used to my timing in this pool, I usually know when I’m getting near. I just stick my hand out to find it.”

Neito and Hitoshi spent the rest of their chilly hour swimming laps that eventually, much to Neito’s excitement, turned into a race. Neito won none of them, but the delight of the game was enough. And he didn't mind losing to Hitoshi. He got a free pass. For no particular reason, just because. You know, because.

They headed to the showers cold and smiling. At least, Neito was smiling. He wasn't sure if Hitoshi did that. The locker room was mostly empty and mostly quiet except for Tetsutetsu’s too-loud-for-seven a.m. voice and his and Rin’s fake boxing match that jumped around benches and slid across the floor.

“Shinso!” Tetsutetsu called, clapping him on the shoulder. Neito was pretty sure Hitoshi lost his balance slightly, but he couldn't prove it. “What’re you doing here, man?”

“Go away, Tetsu,” Neito said.

“We were swimming.”

“I can see that.” Tetsu ruffled (maybe?) Hitoshi’s damp hair.

Rin pinched Neito’s wet rash guard, earning him a misplaced glare. “You took him swimming.”

“I didn't take him anywhere, shut your mouth.”

Rin leaned close like he was going to whisper something, but only ended up laughing in Neito’s ear. Neito hissed at him. Rin hissed in return.

“I, uh, I'm gonna go,” Hitoshi said. “Get ready for class and stuff.”

Hitoshi disappeared and Neito slumped against his locker, sighing and awaiting his fate.

“You’re so obsessed with him,” Tetsu said. “You’re always spending time together.”

Rin touched two fingers to Neito’s face, lifting his mouth in a smile. “You’re always smiling when you're with him.”

Neito snapped his teeth at Rin’s fingers. “You two know why we spend time together. We’re training, and he needs all the extra help building up stamina. He goes for a run, like, once a week. He's working on being fit enough to pass the hero exam, and I'm-”

“Working on figuring out your feelings,” Rin finished.

“It’s okay, dude, we’re cool with it.”

If that was supposed to be encouraging, it was the opposite. They had to let this go, so Neito could also let it go and stop having to think about how confusing romance was. Oh no, he 𝑤𝑎𝑠 working on figuring out his feelings. Well, he wasn't working on it. He was sort of just letting it sit there. So, Rin was still wrong, which was the most important factor here.

“I don't have feelings for Hitoshi.”

Oops.

“Hitoshi,” Rin repeated. Neito didn't need eyes to see his grin.

“You do always fix your hair when he's around,” Tetsu pointed out.

Did he?

“And get all flustered when we bring him up.”

Did he?

“I’m always fixing my hair. It’s not like I can look in the mirror.”

Neito turned his back to them, peeling his wet top off.

“So if Shinso came in here right now and asked you out for coffee,” Rin said. “You would just say no?”

“I would say yes, because friends go out for coffee.”

“But if he specified it was a date, you'd say no?”

He slipped his shorts off and wrapped a towel around his waist, trying to keep his mind off of anything besides Hitoshi despite the conversation at hand.

“He wouldn't do that. How many people do you know who would ask out a blind guy with a bad attitude?”

That might have been a little bit harsh on all parties involved, but it quieted the boys enough to let Neito slip into the shower. They didn't let it affect their teasing mood for too long, following after him.

“Are you kidding, man?” Tetsutetsu said. “You can't see it, but we can. He stares at you while you talk, like stares at you. He laughs at your jokes.”

“Because my humor is impeccable.”

“No, it's not.”

“Also,” Neito could tell from his tone that Rin was about to bring up the most undeniable of facts, “he remembered you like those gross ginger cookies and I don't know why anyone would want to remember those.”

“You remember I like those.”

“I've known you for years. How long has Hitoshi known you?”

Fine. That was a decent point. But so what? So Hitoshi remembered those cookies and picked some up because he saw them at the store while buying himself chips. He also forgot that Neito had decided to stay off sweets. And so what if he hadn't reminded him of this, and ate the cookies anyway. Because they were his favorite, not because he was touched by the gesture or anything.

Neito ignored their points until his shower was finished. What did they know? Basically nothing.

“So you're not asking him out?” Tetsu asked as Neito got dressed.

“No, I am not. I wouldn't even know what to do with a boyfriend.”

He left it at that. He wouldn't know how to explain further. He just knew it was true. He headed out of the locker room and down the mostly empty halls. Not thinking about Hitoshi. That's what you were thinking, wasn't it?

Someone ran into him, knocking him back onto the floor. How rude. The hall wasn't even crowded. He was positive he hadn’t run into them. He heard their footsteps, and the three or four other people around them. He hadn't moved, but he was blind, and they could actually see him. Not to mention he was walking in front of them. He wondered if they'd done it on purpose, but only for a second before he heard a loud exclamation.

“Kacchan! Be careful! You just knocked him over.”

“He's not gonna bruise from falling over.”

Someone whispered, the voice of “Kacchan’s” redhead friend. The hard guy.

“Man, take it easy.” He’s blind. That went unsaid.

Neito righted himself, brushing invisible dirt from his uniform. Bakugo, Redhead, and someone with very soft footsteps and little to say walked away. Midoriya didn't.

“Sorry about that. Kacchan can be a little rude sometimes. Are you okay?”

“Perfectly. I, in fact, won't bruise from falling over, you should know.”

“I know, but who likes being knocked on the floor? Anyway, I'm glad I ran into you.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’ve heard about what you're doing, your blind training. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually. What sorts of specialized things do you do in sessions? Do you still practice with your classmates? I imagine you've had to adapt a lot, which is pretty important for all heroes, especially for diverse combat styles.”

What the hell was going on? Why was this green-haired goon talking so much?

“I found a reference in one of my notebooks to an American hero, she wasn't blind, but she used echolocation and audio-based tracking in her fight style. Have you tried anything like that, or just basic O&M stuff?”

“O&M?”

“Orientation and mobility!”

Right, that. Why did this kid know more about being blind than him?

“That’s the foundation of it, isn't it? Spatial awareness, audio cues, the way you use your cane regularly, I’m sure that all plays into the way you fight now, doesn't it? How’s your visor, by the way, I've had some ideas for it, if you're interested.”

How did he know about that?

“And I've been wondering, how does your specific quirk complicate things? If you copy a quirk that shifts senses in a way, it could potentially throw you off balance.”

He hadn’t thought of that.

“If you copied a quirk that relied on enhanced vision, would that-”

“That’s enough.” Neito raised a hand to stop him. “You’ve asked me seventeen different questions, yet haven't stopped talking once to let me answer.”

“Oh, sorry. I got a little carried away, I guess. But I do think it’s amazing what you're doing. I've seen you fight, you're strategic and sharp, and I'd love to see you in action now. If you wouldn't mind, that is.”

Of course, it was stupid, insufferable Midoriya who still respected him. He didn't see a disadvantage, just another learning opportunity for himself. Neito didn't want to be his lab rat for observation, but he could admit (to himself, not Midoriya) that it felt nice to be seen as a hero facing a challenge, not a hopeless case.

Midoriya must have had to go through something similar with the way he used to injure his arms all the time. He hadn’t given in to a life of crushed dreams and wallowed in the misery of other people’s doubt. He'd simply changed his toolkit. And he'd ended up saving the world.

And now, he was constantly changing and adapting to moving through a new world after everything that had happened. He'd been transferred, by choice, to the support class, his new love lying in helping other people, people like Neito and himself, navigate a world where only people in peak physical condition were valued. That must be how he knew about the visor. Neito had only spoken to one support student, he didn't know everyone who had a say in, or the knowledge of, making his aids.

“You can watch me train, if you wish to see how inferior you still are. But I won't be answering any more questions today.”

Or ever. Midoriya didn't deserve to know. Though, he had abandoned that class of higher-ups, even if he was still practically one of their own and still trained with them plenty. He wasn't technically one of them, and Neito had a tiny bit more respect, or something akin to it, to offer people outside of Class 1-A.

Midoriya didn't need to know this, so Neito walked away. He paused, inclining his head in thought. He could answer one question.

“If a quirk involved enhanced vision, severe damage to their eyes would rob them of their abilities. So unless it also included knitting their retinas back together, it would do nothing for me.”

“Wow. What about-”

“Goodbye!”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“What?”

A very valid question in his current situation. He would think Tetsu and Rin had set this up, but he couldn’t think of any reason why Hitoshi would listen to them. Oh, right, the unbelievable incident folding out before him. Hitoshi had asked him if he wanted to get a coffee. He said that very thing. Not “Do you want to go out” or “let’s get something to eat.”

He said, “You want to get a coffee?”

Together.

“No,” he said in pure disbelief.

“Oh. Okay.”

“No, I mean, yes. I mean,” he cleared his throat and hoped Hitoshi didn’t think he was weird. Do you think it’s too late for that? “That would be nice. I could use a coffee.”

If Hitoshi thought anything was unusual, he said nothing. They headed out into the evening that was settling in, turning down the road toward the coffee shop frequented by UA’s students. They gave discounts to senior students. He’d already walked there with his class a handful of times, so he walked closely beside Hitoshi instead of holding his arm. Hitoshi read the menu aloud, and everything was going fine until Neito heard a familiar voice to his right, probably at her favorite window table.

It was Shiozaki. Shiozaki and– he leaned in to hear better –Reiko? It sounded like she was, no, was she…laughing? Giggling, more like. So Reiko and Shiozaki could go out for coffee together alone, but if Neito and Shinso did it, they were a thing. Unless Reiko and Shiozaki were a thing? Not that coffee dates automatically meant dating, but what if they were?

He would have marched over there and interrupted their date to ask, but then they would see that he was with Hitoshi, which was what he didn't want. He slid his arm instinctively around Hitoshi’s, only realizing this was weird after he'd done it.

“Let’s walk.”

“Sure.”

Bless him, ever unfazed.

“My place is right down here,” Hitoshi said. “If you want-”

“Perfect! Lead the way.”

He had no idea what Hitoshi’s home life was like or who he lived with. Was he still in foster care or had he been adopted? Was it okay to be at his place? Probably, or he would say something, wouldn't he? When they were walking through the door of Hitoshi’s apartment, the scent of cats and some super girly perfume bombarding him, Neito asked.

“Who do you live with? Are you adopted? You said something about-”

“I’m being fostered for adoption,” Hitoshi interrupted, out of excitement, Netio thought. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“Why?”

“Who would want to adopt the kid with the evil quirk and bad attitude?”

Oh. That. Yes, Neito was familiar.

“I’ve only been here for a few months.”

A few months. So, around as long as they had known one another. Maybe a bit longer. Why hadn't he ever brought it up? Though, it wasn't as if Neito ever showed any interest.

Hitoshi led him to his bedroom. It was one of those moments where Neito wished he could see so badly it hurt. Not so he wouldn't trip over Hitoshi’s desk, but so he could see what was on it.

“What does your room look like?”

“It’s, um, purple.”

Purple. How pretty.

Hitoshi walked around the room as he spoke, detailing as much as he could. Purple walls were covered in things like band posters, records, and pictures of album covers pasted to it. It was mostly very popular and basic teen music, but Neito kept that observation to himself. There were one or two artists he'd never heard of. He had a small collection of books that were a mix of your average teen section and horror stories.

“You like horror? I prefer fantasy. Are any of these mysteries?”

“Like, one. I can give you the titles if you want. How do you, you know?”

“Audiobooks. My book collection is useless for anything but looking pretty. You should see it, it’s much better than yours.”

“I just moved in, give me a break.”

He continued the room tour, though there wasn't much. He had puzzles and games that could all be found on a teen boy gift ideas list. He had art supplies he didn't use and a guitar he couldn't play. The things on his desk were a pair of black and purple headphones, earbuds shaped like gummy bears that were also, you guessed it, purple, and anime figurines of characters Hitoshi barely knew. It was like someone else had decorated the room for him.

Neito realized that must be exactly what happened. The place must have been set up before he even got there, not for him, but for a teen boy with unknown interests. Hitoshi set something on the desk and Neito picked it up, not realizing what it was until he was holding it. He couldn't not put it on. Hitoshi must not have been looking at him, because he said nothing.

“Hitoshi.”

“Take that off,” he replied, rather tired. Neito hadn't even started.

He twisted the knobs on the side. “How do I change my voice?”

He succeeded in putting on different pitches and tones, making jokes and singing through them, but how did he make his voice sound like someone else’s?

Hitoshi took the mask off his face. “I’ll take that. And you,” he guided him by the shoulders, plopping him onto the bed, “can sit right here.”

The bed was clothed in what Neito found upon questioning was checkerboard and lavender, and a copious amount of stuffed company.

“Those were all gifts,” Hitoshi said, and Neito wished he could see the way his cheeks turned pink.

“Can I touch them?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Hitoshi joined him on the bed, handing over every plushie for Neito to pet and squish. Neito’s leg hung off the bed, and he felt something brush against it, making him jump.

“Sorry.”

The bed shifted and Neito heard a purr. It was one of those cats he'd smelled earlier.

“What are you doing, silly? You can't scare people.” Hitoshi’s voice became soft as he spoke to the cat, returning to his normal dull tone when addressing Neito. “This is Misfit. She's a calico cat. Do you want to pet her?”

He stuck his hand out in response. Hitoshi guided him to Misfit’s plush body. The cat was cute, but Neito was far more focused on the feeling of Hitoshi’s hand on his. And the fact that he was right there. Neito moved closer, bumping his face into Hitoshi’s. He smelled like the coffee they'd just had and peach lip balm. He was too cute. What? Of course, Neito was aware of Hitoshi’s cuteness.

Neito pressed his lips against Hitoshi’s, landing on the side of his mouth. Hitoshi fixed the angle, taking Neito in a proper kiss. Rather a sloppy, eager one that informed him this was Hitoshi’s first. It filled him with excitement knowing he was the one to take this honor. He should make it a good one.

They heard it at the same time, the front door opening. Neito would have pulled back, there was no need for dramatics, but Hitoshi pushed him so suddenly he toppled over the edge of the bed. He was sprawled out on his back when someone knocked on the door. He pushed himself up on all fours, kicking his feet forward to stand up. He heard Hitoshi mutter something close to “what the hell” before answering whoever was at the door.

“What do you want me to get for dinner?” an all too familiar voice asked. “Hello, Monoma.”

“Hello, sir.”

Hitoshi’s foster parent was Aizawa? It made both complete sense and none at all. Why hadn't he said anything?

The two held a mostly silent conversation, one probably full of shrugs and head nods.

“Are you staying for dinner, Monoma?”

“No, thank you. I should be heading home.”

There was more silent conversing before Aizawa left.

“Why didn't you tell me you lived with Aizawa?”

“Forgot to mention it, I guess.” He nudged Neito’s knee with his own. “Now would be a good time to talk about that thing with him.”

“You mean that thing that I told you I wasn't doing?”

“That one, yeah.”

He didn't want to give in now, even if accepting Aizawa’s help didn't seem like the worst thing in the world at this current moment. But what about his reputation? What about his pride? Did he even dare? But Hitoshi was so close with Aizawa the man was planning to adopt him. And Hitoshi was friends with Midoriya, something that hadn't existed in Neito’s realm of mind for sanity-preserving purposes.

They'd also just kissed, something they seemed to have silently agreed to ignore for now. So, did anything really matter? He could at least talk with Aizawa, see what kind of ideas he had, even if nothing came out of it. He could do it for Hitoshi.

“On second thought, I’ll stay for dinner.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“You did a good job today, Monoma,” Sota said.

“I’d say the same to you, but I didn't see.”

The joke was met with laughter, the perfect kind that came only from someone who truly understood. You see, like Neito, Sota was blind. He was a part of Neito’s rock climbing group, along with several other characters of varying disabilities. Sota was nineteen and much cooler than Neito, though that was not a thought ever spoken aloud, only compensated for by being especially funny around him.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” Sota asked. “There’s this museum my girlfriend’s been dying to go to, so I’ll be spending my Saturday with ancient history.”

“If you weren't so uncultured, you'd find that interesting. Also, you have a girlfriend?”

“I don't like the tone of surprise you said that with.”

It wasn't that Neito was surprised, but, yes, he was. He couldn't quite find words to explain it, despite knowing exactly where his shock came from.

“I just thought that, well…”

“You didn't think blind people could get girlfriends?”

Quite simply put, but yes. Sota’s voice softened in a way Neito had never heard from him. It was sort of like sympathy, but not quite. Not the same way everyone else sympathized with him.

“My girlfriend’s pretty cool, but I’m sure she's not the only one in the world. You're cool, man, you're funny and super smart. Someone’s gonna look past the blind and see that.”

He wanted to tell him he was wrong, but the proof was right in front of him. Sota may be cooler, and more fun, and probably better looking than Neito, but he might be onto something. Are you thinking the same? That being that Neito already had someone who saw past it. Someone who could see him as a blind person without only seeing him as blind.

Neito kept Sota’s words in his mind, put them on a shelf right next to the memory of how Hitoshi’s lips tasted. He was saving them for later. He didn't have plans of pulling them out, but they sat there, visible and threatening to fall, when Neito and Hitoshi trained.

Neito had talked to Aizawa about training and found out he had a surprisingly good amount of advice to give for someone who wasn't blind. He was half-blind, which wasn't the same, but must come with sight-related challenges of its own. He still decided against one-on-one training, but not for the same reasons as before. He liked training with his class, and he liked his time spent with Hitoshi.

The most difficult thing about training with Hitoshi was that when they sparred, he had to be completely quiet. Unless he touched him, then he could turn the tables and be the one to talk nonstop. There was something quite fun about Hitoshi trying to rile him up. He'd succeeded more times than Neito was willing to share.

This time, as Neito and Hitoshi circled each other, each ready to pounce, Hitoshi was unusually quiet. He was nervous. Nervous as a result of the thing he had suggested they do. Hitoshi had tied a blindfold around his eyes, wanting to see how well he could hold up without sight. He said it was important, something about adaptability. Probably a line he stole from Midoriya.

Hitoshi hadn't stood a chance to begin with, so Neito took his boots and visor off. They padded barefoot across the floor of the training room, ears perked up and conversation reduced to Hitoshi’s sparse comments. Neito could hear his feet on the floor. He dodged hits more easily than Hitoshi did. It was like he felt them coming, like he'd gained an extra sense to replace the one he'd lost.

Neito wished he hadn't left martial arts classes as a childhood hobby. Those moves would be helpful now. He was only now getting better at hand-to-hand combat. Hitoshi beat him in that area. He said it was annoying the way Neito flipped around during fights. Annoying in the sense that it made him harder to catch. Which was all fun until Hitoshi’s scarf caught his foot and sent him tumbling to the ground. Neito stepped on the strand, yanking Hitoshi forward.

When it came to movement and physical interaction, Neito preferred to slip around his opponents rather than directly attack them. He let his body guide him, finding a path his brain could follow. He trusted his instincts, found his rhythm, flowed like water. Then he struck.

Neito spun around Hitoshi, both hands coming up to touch his face.

“Got you.”

“Bastard. 𝑆ℎ𝑖𝑡.”

“You make this too easy.”

Neito didn't like using Hitoshi’s powers, so he took him to the ground instead, pinning his arms behind his back.

“I win.”

“You didn't use my quirk.”

“Didn't need to.”

Hitoshi squirmed underneath him. “Okay, you win, get off me.”

Neito smiled, greatly pleased with this mild victory. Winning against Hitoshi was always fun. Losing against him could be fun, too. Being around him was just nice.

“You're very agile,” Hitoshi said.

“Gymnastics.”

Neito reached for his water bottle and Hitoshi did the same, his hands patting around the floor to find it.

Neito laughed. “Why do you insist on being this way?”

“I want to see the world through a different pair of eyes.”

“That’s the worst way you could have phrased that.” Neito took a long gulp of water.

“Uh, Neito.”

“Hm?”

“You’re drinking from my water bottle.” Hitoshi’s fingers circled the bottom of the bottle, and Neito followed. There was a sticker on it, one Neito’s water bottle distinctly did not have.

“What? We swapped spit but you can't share a water bottle with me?”

Hitoshi didn't say anything, just took the bottle from Neito’s hands, replacing it with his rightful one. So they weren't talking about that. Got it. Should he say something funny to show it didn't bother him? Something rude? Perhaps something self-effacing. That's what Hitoshi always did, though it was the complete opposite of Neito’s style. That would only serve to make things weirder.

What he finally decided to say, for what reason, do not ask, was, “The blind guy I rock climb with has a girlfriend.”

So there. Ha ha. Fuck you. Do you think that's the message he got?

“Neito.”

Why did he have to say his name like that? You know, like that. That way that made him want to kiss him all over again.

“I didn’t- it’s not like that.”

He wanted to ask what it was like, but he didn't think he wanted to know the answer. Especially if Hitoshi was only saying that to spare his feelings. Maybe having a blind friend and a blind boyfriend was different. Neito couldn't see how, he never could understand what made romantic partners different. Weren't boyfriends just friends you wanted to kiss?

Neito stood up, picking up his gym bag and heading out. Hitoshi followed him, which he was pleased to see. He didn't want things to become uncomfortable between them now that they'd kissed. Neito would let it go. Eventually. He'd find someone else to kiss one day. Okay, maybe he wouldn't, who would want to kiss him? But that wasn't important right now, and dating really wasn't that important anyway.

One thing that was good about being blind, and don't get any weird ideas now, was that being in the changing rooms with Hitoshi posed no challenge. Listen, it was easy to get a little distracted by cute boys with their clothes off, okay? It hadn't always been, but lately Neito’s imagination had been drifting to unfamiliar places. Not like that! Sometimes like that. But mostly he'd just been thinking about boys. Not boys, Hitoshi. He'd been thinking about Hitoshi.

They were heading home, so Neito dressed in a sweater to block out the recently arrived chill in the air. He had a certain accessory in his bag, one he'd been wearing around the dorm room even when it wasn't that cold. He tugged it on now and heard Hitoshi breathe out a laugh.

“Nice hat.”

“I don't know why you're laughing. This was your stylistic choice.”

“It wasn't really,” he said. “My foster sister made it for you when she found out. She’s really into crocheting, I guess, and she said you might still want a pretty hat even if you can't see it. Apparently, she knows you.”

“Why would I know your sister?”

“Foster sister,” he pointedly corrected.

Yikes. Wonder what that's about.

“Eri,” Hitoshi said. “She stayed here for a while before she started living with Aizawa.”

“Your foster sister is Eri? Yeah, I know her, why don't you tell me anything?”

“I just did.”

“Why wasn't she there when I came over?”

“She was out with…” Hitoshi paused. How suspicious. Why was he not allowed to know who she was with? The only reason he didn't ask was respect for Eri’s privacy, not any lack of desire to pester Hitoshi.

“She should be home now, if you want to say hi. I have something to show you, anyway.”

“Ooh, what is it?”

“You’ll see.”

“Will I?”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

Neito felt slightly odd coming back to Hitoshi’s house. He'd been here two entire times now. It was basically his second home. Or third, including the school. He should start telling people he had three homes, it would make him sound rich.

When they entered, Eri was there to greet them, the jump of her feet sounding on the floor. Neito realized she was the perfume scent he'd smelled when he was first there.

“Neito-chan! What are you doing here?”

“Hitoshi and I are best friends, so I’ll be around a lot.” More excited jumping. “And I wanted to say hi to you.”

“You’re wearing the hat I made. Do you like it?”

“I love it. It’s the comfiest hat I've ever worn.”

Eri was quiet for a moment and Neito guessed she'd been smiling when she let out a small “yay.”

Eri grabbed his hands. He knelt to meet her height.

“I saw a lady on the tv who was blind and she had to use a cane to get around. Do you have a cane?”

“I do. But I don't use it all the time.”

“How do you know what you're wearing when you get dressed?”

“I have special tags in my clothes. Look.” He let her feel the tag on his sweater, run her fingers over the bumps.

“Ooh. Can you play video games?”

“Eri,” a voice came from what Neito thought was the sitting area. It was Aizawa.

“It’s okay,” Neito smiled. He would never turn down such copious amounts of freely given attention. “I can still play video games. I can do lots of stuff.”

“How do you go to the bathroom?”

“Okay,” Hitoshi interrupted. “That’s enough questions. I have to show Neito something.”

Eri gave his hand a tug. “When you're done, do you want to play video games with me?”

“I would love to. But I have to warn you, I’m really good.”

“He’s not,” Hitoshi said.

Neito pressed a hand to his chest. “Et tu, my friend?”

Eri giggled. He promised to play with her when they finished, and followed Hitoshi to his room to see this surprise he had waiting for him. It was just a notebook.

“What is this?”

“Midoriya does this thing, he writes a lot about heroes, studies their quirks and stuff. He's been doing it for me, helping me with ways I can better utilize my quirk for combat.”

“Why would I care about that?”

“Because, idiot, he made this for you. It’s just some ideas he wrote down, if you want me to read them to you.”

What did Midoriya know about being blind? Apparently, a lot. Neito was just being a jerk, something Midoriya was not in the slightest. And he had been involved with the making of his visor, and possibly the rest of his costume, so maybe he had some more useful ideas. Neito lay on the bed, Hitoshi in his desk chair, and they went through the notes. Hitoshi read aloud to him, starting with the unnecessary bit Neito didn't need to hear.

𝑃ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑚 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑒𝑓
𝑄𝑢𝑖𝑟𝑘: 𝐶𝑜𝑝𝑦

𝑈𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑖𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡. 𝐶𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠’ 𝑓𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑢𝑏𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠; 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑟𝑘 𝑒𝑛ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝐵𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑥𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑡𝑦/𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑠. 𝐶𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑠 (𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑙!)

𝑉𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑟-𝑠𝑡𝑦𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 (𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠, 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑡𝑐.)

𝐹𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑛, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙𝑒𝑟. 𝐻𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠, 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑑𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒. 𝑈𝑛𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡. 𝑀𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑒.

Neito had not once considered that. Midoriya kept lowering his hateability notch by notch. And he was already down a good few notches.

𝐸𝑛ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒, 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠, 𝑒𝑡𝑐., 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑙. 𝐶𝑜𝑝𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝐽𝑢𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑎’𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚, 𝐾𝑜𝑑𝑎’𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒, 𝐽𝑖𝑟𝑜’𝑠 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘, 𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝑀𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.

𝑊𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠: 𝑖𝑓 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑗𝑎𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 (𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠, 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑒𝑡𝑐.) ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑

“Why did he do all this?” Neito wondered aloud.

“He likes being helpful. He's helped me a lot.” The page turned with a quiet whisper of paper against paper. “There’s some more stuff. We can use some of his suggestions next training session, if you want to try.”

“What did he write for you?”

“Well, uh,” Hitoshi sounded nervous. Shy. “He suggested I could potentially control more than one person at a time, which is pretty cool. He also pointed out that I wouldn't be able to use my quirk against a mute opponent. And, there was something…”

“Something?”

“I was going to bring it up during training today, but I wasn't sure you'd want to.”

“You want to brainwash me?” Neito said, springing up. “Do it, I want to try.”

He'd been under the influence of Hitoshi’s quirk, it wasn't pleasant, but he was willing to try anything to help him. And experimenting was always interesting.

“Midoriya thought that, maybe, if I asked a question while using Brainwash, they might answer honestly.”

“Perfect. Like truth or dare, but I don't have a choice.”

“Yeah. So, you’ll try?”

“Absolutely. Do it.”

They sat cross-legged on the floor, facing one another.

“Okay. What’s your favorite color?”

“Light blue.”

Neito felt his mind go fuzzy, everything still there, but not in focus. It was like looking through a camera lens that blurred everything. He knew where he was, but nothing was clear.

“Neito, why do you want to be a hero?”

That was a rather heavy one right off the bat, no? In his right mind, he would have told Hitoshi that he wanted to be the biggest, brightest star the world had ever seen. Which wasn't untrue, it just wasn't the whole truth. He wanted people screaming his name at every turn, he didn't want to be nameless anymore. All eyes would be on him. But he didn't feel like a star. He felt like a little kid standing in the middle of a stage, screaming at everyone to pay attention to him.

“I want attention,” he answered. “I want people to like me. I'm not an altruistic hero, not like you and Midoriya. I want to be adored so I don't have to feel so lonely and useless anymore. I want to be a star because people love looking at stars.”

He felt his mind slip free and met Hitoshi’s silence. It was best he couldn't see the look on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Hitoshi mumbled.

“You can make it up to me by telling me why you want to be a hero.” It was all Neito could do to bite back the storm of nerves whirling inside him and turn this around.

“I've told you.”

“Tell me again. The whole thing.”

“I want to help people, but, I guess, I've always felt the need to prove myself, too. Like I have to become a hero to prove I’m not a villain.”

That was the greatest thing Neito had ever heard. He loved knowing Hitoshi, this disgustingly real version of him. Of course, he'd suspected as much, but he was sure there were dozens of stories Hitoshi could tell to really sink in the feeling. Hitoshi was pure, beautiful power. He was change and growth. It was different, something nobody was used to, but that didn't throw him off.

Neito grabbed Hitoshi’s face, tugging him close. “You’re amazing. Truly amazing. You're a wild, intense, creative mess of expression and obsession.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“You are so welcome! You're completely beyond, Hitoshi Shinso. And do you know what else you are?”

“What?”

“Exactly what nobody asked for.”

“Uh, what?”

Neito let him go, falling back.

“You never tried to make a mess of things, did you? No, of course, not. You didn't mean to be unpleasant, you were only caught in an unfortunate situation. But you have a clear vision, unlike myself, get it? And you might not be flashy, but you're undaunted, and unbelievable, and unexpected.”

A wild grin split Neito’s face.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“W-why?” he said, stuttering through a laugh. “Because to me it’s so awesome. You're awesome. It’s alright if it’s hard for you to admit, I’ll say it for you. You’re unique, and you don't stop. You hit every mark, yes, you do, and you keep moving forward. Even though nobody needed you to.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody!”

“You’re kind of like that, too,” Hitoshi said, much less excited. “You were intense before, but you've really focused in on it. What you're doing, no one else has done it, or understands it, but that doesn't stop you. Even when people tell you it’s hopeless, you really believe it’s not. You're giving everything to becoming a hero, and nobody’s even excited about it. But I…”

Neito clung to the silence. Nothing came. That's okay. He squealed with laughter and elation. He sprang up to jab a finger at Hitoshi’s chest.

“When you become a big hero, I’m going to be right there saying I knew it. And I'm going to be the most proud because I got to know you back when you were tripping on your own scarf.”

Hitoshi’s hand wrapped around Neito’s wrist. “And when you become a big star, I’m going to be there.”

That dramatic confession of love (it’s as good as one) made up for the things he'd admitted under Hitoshi’s influence. Hitoshi was going to be a great hero. The greatest. Neito was going to make sure of it. How, he didn't know yet, but he would. Hitoshi’s dreams would come true, every single one of them.

“You’re perfect, Hitoshi.”

He didn't answer. That’s alright, he didn't need to. He just needed to let it sink in.

“Come on,” Neito said, standing up. “I promised someone video games.”

“Go ahead. I think I’m going to read Midoriya’s notes some more.”

“Do you hate your sister or something?”

Hitoshi sighed. “I don't hate her. It’s just, I haven't lived here that long, and she’s really, really friendly. I’m not used to it.”

“I have a little brother who’s not nice at all. I’ll trade you.”

Hitoshi gave him a dry laugh that was nothing more than acknowledgement. As he left to find Eri, and all through their game, Neito wondered what he'd said to upset him.

Chapter Text

“Hope you know we’re not going easy on you,” Tetsutetsu said, cracking his knuckles.

“I could’ve beaten you with my eyes closed before,” Neito shot back.

“Enough talk,” Kendo said, bumping her fists together. “Start.”

Neito tilted his head slightly to the left, ears perked up. The thud of footsteps pulsed through his boots, sound and rhythm traveling toward him. Turning on one foot, he stepped to the side, avoiding the strike of her oversized fists.

“Copy,” he smirked, pressing his fingertips to her arm as he glided by. Kendo was easy to get as she had no choice but to get close to him.

Their fists clashed, Kendo’s fighting style better suited to match them, but Neito mimicked her strength. Kendo jumped back, the landing of her feet a wave of movement beneath Neito’s.

Neito’s sensors picked up a surge of new life, mushrooms sprouting around him. He heard Kendo curse under her breath.

“Vantablack, now!” Komori called out.

Kuroiro was more difficult to feel as his body melded in and out of darkness. Neito didn't know where he was until he was too close. But if he focused, he could find the patterns of his breathing. Komori’s mushrooms were annoying, he could feel every one of them, not only those swarming his body.

Still, he centered himself and tried to find Kuroiro. Let him get close. That’s what Neito needed. His hand snapped forward, catching the ripple of fabric. His other hand surged forward, landing on Kuroiro’s face before he could pull back. Neito swept away into the darkness to surprise an earlier opponent, Tetsutetsu, who Pony had been keeping busy. She was due for an assist.

He glided through the shadows, popping out silently behind Tetsutetsu.

“Copy!”

Tetsutetsu turned around with a punch that met a duplicate of his own steel arms.

“Get him Phantom Thief!”

Metal clanged as he fought off both Neito and Pony’s attacks. Kendo jumped in to help her teammate, throwing big fists at them. Neito was knocked aside and felt someone creeping up behind him. Awase. Neito leaped around the floor, dodging his attempts to trap him in one spot. He barely escaped some of his tries, his only reference point for them being the spot where Awase stood. It was easier to keep his distance.

Neito weaved his way through the battlefield, dodging whispers of wind and tracking every pair of feet bouncing around the room. Every pair was different, the weight on the ground and the pattern of their steps. The air inside the room was thick with sweat and heavy with heat. Breathing and heartbeats quickened. Komori’s mushrooms were distracting.

He ran his finger around one of his watches. He only had a few more minutes with Big Fist.

“Got you,” Reiko’s whispered voice breezed past him.

His sensors found the floating objects, but they were too fast and too many for him to dodge them all. He put his steel form on just as he was knocked to the floor by whatever she’d thrown at him. Reiko could attack him from a distance, so stealing her quirk would prove a challenge. He'd have to practice with her more.

Neito sprang backward, rolling between Shishida’s legs. His beastly opponent slammed into him, but not with anything he couldn't now take. He was good at slipping away, falling into shadows even without Kuroiro’s quirk. He wasn't done with Reiko yet. With his borrowed strength, he charged forward, her attacks too small to do much except bruise him later.

He tackled her to the ground, taking her quirk easily. He was knocked off her, but he had what he needed. It wasn't very easy to control, but he hadn't expected it to be. Maybe she would let him practice with it sometime. He sent attacks around the room, more recklessly than a proper fight might require. But some of them landed. He grinned, laughing at the grunts of his classmates.

A shallow breath came from behind him and he leapt out of the way, but not quickly enough. A BANG from Fukidashi knocked him off his feet. The round, the third of theirs today, was called to a halt. One half of most of the teams were still standing, Pony and Neito not being a part of these winners. Everyone paused, breathing hard, slightly bruised, and exhilarated.

Fukidashi helped Neito up. Neito wiped spit from the corner of his mouth. He felt a hand clap his shoulder, Awase’s voice in his ears.

“You’ve really been training your other senses like crazy, huh?”

“Yeah, I think you fight even better than before,” Fukidashi said.

“Well, of course, I do. I'm only going to get better.”

“You’re getting scary good,” he heard Tetsu say.

“You’re getting steadier on your feet,” Kendo observed.

“And you've been really good at rescue training,” Pony added. “You locate the victims so easily now, you would make a great rescue hero.”

He liked this, being treated like their equal. Being acknowledged and respected just as anyone else would be. They hadn't come to coddle him or go easy. They had never held back before, and they didn't plan on changing that. Good.

They sat in a semi-circle, water bottles and towels in every hand.

“So,” Rin said, nudging Neito’s arm. “How’s your loverboy?”

Neito didn't answer, but he must have looked visibly upset, because Komori aw’d at him.

“Are you sad because you can't look at hot guys anymore?”

That wasn't the reason, but he appreciated Komori’s concern. He hated being pitied, but he didn't always like being called a brave, inspirational hero either. Sometimes, being blind was just sad.

“He’s sad because he kissed Shinso, but Shinso doesn't return his feelings,” Kendo informed everyone.

“Hey, you don't even need him,” Tetsu said, the encouragement doing little.

“Guys, am I hard to swallow?”

The group went silent, something he took as a yes until he felt Kendo’s hand squeeze his wrist.

“You’re really cool, Mono. You're loud, and funny, and kinder than you think. And really fun to be around.”

“Even though you talk during movies,” Juzo said.

“We still like you,” Bondo added.

“You’re only slightly annoying,” Kamakiri said. “I’ve met far worse people.”

Someone came up behind him. He felt Tokage’s hair tickling his cheek as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt if you told me more often.”

“I’ll tell you every day, you goofball.”

Kendo, who hadn't let go of his hand, said, “You’re not hard to swallow, whatever that means. Maybe Shinso doesn't think so, but we do.”

“You do not need the company of any boy to make you whole,” Shiozaki said. “But companionship is a natural need of the heart, so it is alright for you to feel saddened.”

“That reminds me,” Neito said. “Are you and Reiko dating?”

“How did you know that?” Reiko said, confirming it.

The circle erupted with equal parts surprise and I knew it’s. Everyone had a question for the girls, and Neito was glad to let the subject of Hitoshi drop.

When their gossip session was done, meaning when they were kicked out and told to hit the showers, Neito stayed behind. There was something he'd been thinking about for a while, a careful consideration that really didn't need much consideration at all. Neito was always sure of what he wanted and now was not any different.

He approached Vlad King, hands clasped behind his back, and a familiar expression that meant “I want something” on his face. His Sensei knew that one well. Neito didn't make many requests, but he wanted a lot of things. And he could always find a way to get it. So, again, now should not be any different.

Neito stood silent for a moment, taking in a deep breath of his Sensei’s smell. Something like rust, metallic, and the sweeter smell of tea. Neito could smell the sweat on himself, mingling with the remnants of the perfume he'd sprayed that morning.

“You know, it’s noticeable when you sniff people.”

“It is?”

Well, that would have been a good thing to have been informed of. He'd been going around sniffing people for a while now. He wondered if Hitoshi had noticed him doing it. Hitoshi smelled fresh and fruity, sort of like apples and berries. He also had that noticeable natural smell, the one that couldn't be described. His natural musk, the scent that Neito loved so much, but couldn't put into words. It was simply Hitoshi.

“What do you need, kid?”

“Oh, right. You're familiar with Hitoshi Shinso?”

“I am. What about him?”

“I have a proposal to make. One that involves him.”

Neito saw no purpose in kidding himself. He wasn't going to be a hero, not like this. The world he had dreamed of was no longer his. The life he wanted was out of reach. He had sat at the bottom of that hill for so long, staring at the golden prize sitting at the top. But he couldn't see it anymore. It was useless to him.

He could do something, he wasn't giving up completely. He'd be some kind of hero. But Hitoshi deserved a chance, and they'd already thought of removing Neito anyway. There shouldn't be a problem with it. He would make his own way. He could still train, he could practice under the restraints of this new curse put upon him. Don't think this was him quitting.

“I want Shinso to take my place in Class 1-B.”

He waited in the moments of quiet for a response. He was sort of glad it wasn't an immediate yes. He wanted it to eventually be a yes, but it hurt his pride less knowing that Vlad-Sensei wasn't eager to toss him out.

“You threw a tantrum to stay in this class, now you want to give away that seat you earned?”

“Yes, well, if you saw Shinso, you'd understand.”

“I’ve seen him. I don't understand.”

“You don't agree that he has hero potential? Under your guidance, don't you see him flourishing?”

It was a logical decision. There was no room for someone like him in the hero course. They'd been right all along, he didn't belong there. He was being strategic, helping both of them. He wasn't giving up being a hero entirely, he was stepping aside. That individual training he'd been originally offered didn't look any more appealing, but it seemed like the easier path for him to take. He couldn't keep kidding himself.

“I agree, he's impressive. Good for him.”

“Sensei, I'm not going to drop out completely, just step aside. Isn't that what you wanted? I’ll switch with him, do more studies than combat. He'll be a good addition to the team. He's more versatile.”

“How’s he more versatile than you?”

“He can see, for one. It may surprise you, sir, but seeing is quite vital when it comes to navigating the world. He can do that, which makes him a better fit than me, and much less of a nuisance to work with.”

“Was this about today’s drill? You slipped up a few times, but it’s nothing you can't work on. You've been doing good.”

“So has Shinso. Better, I'd say. He's meant to be a hero, I know it.”

“Monoma, you helped save the world. How can you think you're not meant to be a hero?”

No, he didn't. The Neito who could see was the one who helped save the world. He deserved the praise. This Neito was someone else. He didn't know what it was like to see what you wanted and take it. He knew only of darkness and confusion. And he couldn't pretend to be that older version. It wouldn't fit the same as his other masks did. He was only worth something when he was playing as someone else, but he didn't fit into anyone’s costume anymore.

“How can you see me as anything other than a liability?”

He had to ask. He had to know. It was something he had been wondering for a while, but he couldn't let the words out before. Because he had to prove it wasn't true. He had to show everyone that he wasn't something that would hold them back. That nothing could hold him back. But that wasn't true. He knew that now. He could say it.

“I watch you every day,” Vlad said. “Because you're my student, not Shinso. I see how you adapt, that you're sharper and quicker than ever. You notice things before anyone else does. The only thing you haven't noticed when you're trying too hard not to be seen as a liability is that you're a valuable asset to this team. And you’ll be an outstanding hero.”

To who? His high school teacher? He had a feeling not everyone would react as fondly as that. And even if Neito did become a hero, he would not be an outstanding one. That's not the word the tabloids would use to describe him. He would never be the amazing, talented, remarkable, enchanting Phantom Thief. He might be inspirational, or even exceptionally heroic, but only because all he would ever be to the world was blind.

The Blind Hero: Phantom Thief.

“I don't know if I’m meant to be a hero after all.”

He had always been a placeholder, hadn't he? It didn't matter if Vlad didn't think so. Of course, he didn't. He was the only person who had ever believed in Neito, he encouraged all of his dreams. He felt a guilty sort of disappointment knowing his Sensei would never see him become the star he'd so wanted Neito to be.

“Monoma,” Vlad spoke, his voice calmer than before. “You’ve lost something big, I know, and that's going to be difficult, but you've gained from it, too. You're an excellent strategist, you use your head and you're quick on your feet. You took what you were told was a limited quirk and made it something everyone else has to plan around. You did that, not someone you copied.”

Was he still all of that? He supposed he was, but his one setback seemed to dim all of those. You could say it dulled his vision. Every day was a never ending fight to prove he was enough, but hadn't it always been? Wasn't perseverance Neito’s whole thing? The spirit of one who never backed down. Where was his spirit?

“You think I can be a hero?”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I know you can. You're a star, Monoma, I've known that since the first day you walked into my classroom. You're relentless, you're driven, and you're powerful. Shinso’s good, but he's not you. My class is full, so my answer is no.”

“O-okay.” Now was not the time to be getting emotional.

“You’re here because you wanted to prove wrong everyone who doubted you. So what are you going to do? Prove them right by giving up?”

He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“What are you going to do?”

Neito didn't feel very powerful picking his head up and letting his sightless eyes focus on who knows what random spot. But he swallowed down the doubts that wanted to rise from his throat, and he spoke a promise to himself instead. The very same he'd made as a child who was told a world of heroes would eat him alive.

“I’m going to prove them wrong.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Neito’s feet were kicked up against his headboard, laptop resting on his stomach. Midoriya had sent him a digital copy of those notes, along with some more of his ideas. Hitoshi being friends with Midoriya was helpful, but that wasn't the only reason Neito liked it. Surprising? I know. But he did like it. He hadn't had many chances to speak with Midoriya in a normal setting, but he would like to. He was smart, and his analytical way of fighting could prove useful to Neito.

He should learn to do this, to analyze people to such an extent. He should thank Midoriya for the idea, and the other ideas that had already helped him without his knowing. Like his support items. He hadn't thanked anyone for those, which was very rude of him. Someone had worked hard to make his life a little bit easier and he hadn't given them a second thought.

He really was selfish. He always had been. The whole reason he wanted to be a hero was selfish, which was why he had decided to do something selfless for once. To consider someone else. Hitoshi deserved to be a hero more than he did. Sure, there was room for both of them, but he had a head start that Hitoshi didn't. If he could give that up to help his friend reach his benevolent dreams, he would.

He'd been thinking about what Vlad-Sensei said about proving everyone wrong. That was what he had always wanted to do. It's what he was made for. Born for greatness. Destined to be a star. But the truth was, Neito didn't feel like a star. He didn't feel bright or beautiful, like something that sat high above the world to be wondered at. He felt like something they couldn't see.

He didn't want anyone to make him feel better. He knew what he was. Perhaps not completely useless, but not strong. Not outstanding. He would have to find a different path in life. Midoriya had left the hero course for the support class, despite being allowed to stay. He'd chosen to let go of those hero dreams. He'd already fulfilled them, hadn't he? Now he could help someone else do the same.

Maybe Neito could join the support class, too. Or General Studies. It didn't really matter where he went, but he'd like to go somewhere where there were friends. Not that he and Midoriya were friends, but maybe they could be. I know, I know. Neito being friends with a Class 1-A brat? Unbelievable. But they weren't all bad, and maybe it wasn't entirely their fault that they were given such an unjust amount of attention.

And maybe it was partly deserved, at least this time around. He watched the way they fought, the way they had put their lives on the line for everyone. Bakugo nearly died. He had died. That thought haunted Neito sometimes, the way he saw Bakugo fall to the ground, blood splattered across his pale face. The way he couldn't stop looking. That was an image he would be perfectly fine letting fade.

He wondered how Bakugo felt now. He had to spend all that time in recovery over the summer, dealing with who knew what kind of physical therapy, medications, and people’s rude assumptions about his capabilities. Did he have any new hobbies, new ways of adapting? What did he have to adapt to?

Neito knew, because he had researched it recently, the kinds of things an injury so severe could do to you. It could cause brain damage and impairments, movement disorders, and permanent heart complications. And that was only the physical of it. One run-in in the hallways wasn't enough to be able to tell the kind of lasting damage Bakugo had been left with, but he assumed there was something.

Did he use support items now? Had Midoriya helped make them? Midoriya used a slew of aids to assist his immense power. Aoyama used that belt so he didn't throw up every time he shot a laser. Which was a regular observation anyone could have made, don't think too much into it. With all this talk, you may be wondering, does Neito like the very thing he'd been sworn against, those awful 1-A students? Well, yes, maybe he did.

He had no reason to be against them now, did he? They'd proved themselves worthy of their glory. They were heroes. And they were not above Neito. He was a hero, too. He'd shone like the star he always wanted to be. All Might took enough notice of him to remember, to call him in to help win. He got what he wanted. Maybe his glory days were only meant to be one day.

He rolled off his bed, stepping toward his closet for a hoodie, and wondering what kind of hero he would make. Part of him wanted to try. Not for anyone else. He wanted to prove to himself that he really could do it, that he was meant to be a hero. But what if it was too hard? What if he simply couldn't do it?

“Who was in my room?!”

Neito’s frustration carried down the hall, reaching who he knew was the culprit.

“Don’t speak to me with that tone,” his mother scolded, paying him only half of her attention as she rummaged through what he guessed was her always brimming bag. “Your closet was a mess.”

“It’s not a mess, it’s how I need it!”

“For what? It doesn't make much difference.”

It made all the difference. He may have tactile tags on all his clothing now, but that became more hassle than help when he had to feel every piece of clothing to find the shirt he wanted. He'd arranged his closet meticulously so he wouldn't have to do that.

“I’ve asked you not to touch my things.”

“Neito, stop. I'm going to be late. I can't deal with this right now.”

Her heels clicked away as she descended the stairs. He followed after her, but not to complain anymore. To drop himself on the sofa beside his little brother, Akito, who was slipping on his dance shoes. Neito reached out to find the younger’s face, pinching his cheek.

“Why are you spreading your filth to me?”

Neito chuckled, poking Akito’s round face.

“Stop touching me, cretin!”

“Make me, goof.”

Akito didn't make him, he simply moved down the sofa. Neito followed him, crawling atop his smaller brother and holding him in a tight hug. He pressed his cheek against Akito’s, who wrestled in his grip. He couldn't believe his brother wouldn’t be this tiny forever. He would grow up, get taller. His face would lose its baby fat, he would wear different clothes, and style his hair differently. But to Neito, he would look like this seven-year-old forever.

“You’re going to mess up my hair,” Akito whined, pushing Neito’s face away. They sat up, Neito swooping his hands over his brother’s hair and furthering his aggravation.

“I think you’ll look like me when you're older,” Neito said.

“You think I’m going to be ugly?”

“You already are. You still have a chance to grow out of it.”

“It didn't work for you.”

“I hope you trip in the dirt on your way to dance class.”

“I hope someone puts a curse on you and your offspring.”

Neito grinned and scooped Akito into his arms, spinning him around the room while he demanded to be put down.

“You’re getting heavy. Have you been bulking up?”

“Maybe you're getting weak.” Akito wriggled out of his hold.

“Not true! Feel this.”

He flexed his bicep. Akito wrapped a hand around it and made an unimpressed noise.

From the hall, their mother called for Akito. “Are you ready? Do you have your bag?”

He muttered an “ugh” under his breath. “Coming, Mom!”

“Why do you still take dance class, anyway? You’re already perfect.”

“Improvement is more important than perfection. And all of my friends are in dance.”

For the first time, Neito realized something about his little brother, something he, in his juvenile green-eyed stare, had never thought of. When their mother’s photographic memory quirk met their father’s temporary borrowing of non-quirk-related skillsets, it gave Neito Copy, and Akito something even more special. After learning something, he had the ability to retain the skill forever.

This quirk manifested around the same time Neito was starting at UA. For all the overconfidence he displayed, and the need to prove everyone wrong, he'd still been jealous of this quirk that everyone had loved so much. Akito had no interest in being a hero, not that he ever mentioned, but with this ability, he could be anything he wanted. So what if he never fought, he had the world at his small fingertips.

The thing Neito had never considered until now was that being so far ahead of everyone else could be just as lonely as being behind.

“I forgot my hat,” they heard their mother call, followed by her feet on the stairs.

Just as she left, the doorbell rang. Akito ran to get it while Neito remained knelt on the living room floor. Until he heard his brother call his name. Expecting nothing serious, he made his way to the front door and waited to be informed who he was dealing with.

“There’s a weird emo at the door.”

“Hitoshi?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hitoshi said.

Somehow, Neito could perfectly picture the accusing way his little brother raised his eyebrow even before he spoke.

“Is this your boyfriend?”

“What? No!”

“This is the purple-haired guy you were talking about, isn't it?”

“No, I- that's not- I didn't say you were my boyfriend,” he assured Hitoshi. He didn't need to look any weirder than he already did.

His severe embarrassment was momentarily spared by the return of his mother.

“Alright, I'm ready. Oh, who is this?”

“Hello, Monoma-san. I'm Shinso Hitoshi, Neito’s friend from school.”

“So polite, my son could learn a thing or two from you. Neito, why didn't you tell me you were having a friend over, I would have been more prepared.”

“It’s fine, Mom. You have to go, don't you?”

“Don’t be so rude. Is that how you want your friends to think you treat your mother?” She pinched his cheek, earning herself a glare hidden under a smile.

“Mom, we’re going to be late.”

“Right, we’re off then. Nice to meet you, Shinso, dear. Be good, Neito-chan.”

Neito was positive she had only pulled out that nickname, and the childish request, to embarrass him. She never called him that. Neito let Hitoshi in.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, heading for the kitchen.

Neito moved easily around the kitchen, filling two glasses with soda and feeling around for snacks. Hitoshi didn't talk, which he was partly glad for. He probably didn't want to hear it. He placed a bowl atop something on the counter. He slid his hand over it to find a piece of paper. An envelope.

“What is this?” he asked, handing it to Hitoshi to read.

“A letter with your name on it. It’s open.”

“What?” He hadn't received any letters. “Read it.”

Of course, his mother had kept this from him. And because he would never be able to tell on his own, she’d left the evidence of her crime on the kitchen counter. The letter was a request for him to do a work study under the hero Manual.

“Where’s the line?” He stuck a finger out for Hitoshi, who slid it across the signature line. Neito creased the paper in that spot, then found a pen and signed along the folded line.

He'd make sure to send that out before his mom noticed. He grabbed their snacks and led Hitoshi to his room. Hitoshi was quiet for a moment, standing still as he (probably) observed Neito’s room.

“What are these, your opera glasses?”

“Yes, don’t touch them.”

“I wasn't.”

“I’ve never actually used them, but I plan to one day.”

“You used to do stage productions?”

“What?” he yelped. “Who told you that?”

“I noticed some of the pictures when we were walking upstairs.”

Oh. Right. Hitoshi had seen him dressed up as animals and princes, a goofy grin on his round face.

“I’ll have you know I was brilliant.”

“I’m sure.” Hitoshi kept moving around the room. It wasn't very large, but it was a museum of everything Neito had ever loved. “Light blue.”

His favorite color. Hitoshi remembered.

“This is why you always smell nice.”

Hitoshi thought he smelled nice?

“Can you read these?”

“I assume you are referring to the French and or Belgian of my comic collection. Yes, I can. I'm cultured like that.”

His cultural wisdom and expansive taste were met with a mildly impressed grunt. Hitoshi sat on the floor with Neito.

“I got an offer to transfer to the hero course. A secured spot, if I can make it through the exams.”

“You did? Hitoshi, that's brilliant! This is perfect, isn't it? You're going to be a hero. You don't sound very excited, why aren't you excited?”

“I still have to pass.”

“You’ve been training like crazy, you’ll definitely pass. I passed them, I can help you prepare.”

“Thanks,” Hitoshi said, unexcited as ever. “If I pass, I’ll take Midoriya’s spot in 1-A.”

“Now I see why you're not excited.”

“I know what you tried to do. Your teacher told me.”

Traitor.

“Why would you do that? What happened to your big dreams? I thought you were going to be the biggest star in the world.”

“I don't think I'm cut out to be a hero, not like you are. I've done a lot more training than you, I was graciously giving you my other half. I could figure something out. I wasn't giving up entirely.”

“But why? I don't understand.”

Why was he making him say it out loud?

“Because,” he said with a deep breath. “I’m not like you, I don't have noble motives. I want to be a hero for selfish reasons.”

“So do I,” Hitoshi said, a passionate heat rising in his voice. “We want the same thing, to prove everyone wrong. We’re going to be heroes together, Neito, you can't give up.”

“You’ll be a great one.” He felt his face growing hot and he hid in the crook of his elbow so Hitoshi wouldn't see the tears forming in his eyes. “I’ll be one of the smaller stars in the sky.”

Hitoshi let out a low grumble of frustration. Why couldn't he just leave it be?

“I can't,” Neito said, voice slightly muffled. He wanted to, he so badly did. “What kind of hero am I going to be? I get beaten up in the hallways.”

“You what? Who beat you up?”

“I don't know, some random guys. Those aids help, but I'm useless without them.”

“So what? So am I. Needing extra help isn't a reason to give up on your life, that's just stupid.”

“Me thinking I could ever be a hero was stupid.”

“The other day,” Hitoshi said. “When you were saying all that stuff about nobody wanting us, I meant to tell you, I do. I want us. I’m excited. I think you're awesome, too. You're so awesome. And when you become a star, I'm going to be there, knowing you already were one.”

Tears wet Neito’s sleeve, shoulders rolling with his stifled weeping.

“You’re the reason I’m becoming a hero,” Hitoshi said. “Training with you, seeing your dedication, it’s made me better. You make everything easier to deal with. I’m not doing this without you.”

Neito lifted his head and a tentative hand touched his cheek.

“And I did like kissing you. I was just confused.”

“That’s okay. I was confused, too. I’m still a bit confused.”

“We can figure it out together, if you want.”

Neito nodded, a tear trickling onto Hitoshi’s hand. This was not at all how he'd imagined their love confession going, but as Hitoshi moved in to hug him, he didn't mind. Their lips met, and any more confessions from them could wait. Hero talk and big fears could be saved for later. They didn't matter now.

Hitoshi whispered against his lips. “I really do think you're pretty.”

Neito smiled, their lips brushing. “Thank you. I think you're pretty, too. I'm sorry I can't show it.”

Hitoshi huffed. “Can’t show it? Dude, I felt like I was in a movie when you were,” he took Neito’s hand, touching it to his face. “I didn't, uh, I still don't really know how to say it. But the way you make me feel it’s- it’s really good.”

“Eloquent.”

“You’re not missing much by not being able to look at me. But I don't think anyone’s ever looked at me the way you do, if that makes sense.”

Neito rubbed his thumb over Hitoshi’s cheek. “It does.”

“So, what are you gonna do? About the hero thing? You’re not really giving up, are you?”

Neito smiled. He couldn't help it. “Depends. Are you giving me a choice?”

“I wasn't planning to, no.”

“So I have to be a hero whether I like it or not?”

“Yep.”

“I guess my answer is yes, then. I’ll keep trying, I want to. I just can't promise anything will come out of it.”

Hitoshi squeezed Neito’s hand once before lacing their fingers together. “We’ll see.”

“Eraserhead, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“Eraserhead was my favorite hero. I saw him in a five-second video clip once when I was a kid and it really sealed the deal for me.”

“You jerk.” Hitoshi shoved Neito’s shoulder. “You were making fun of me about that, and you’ve been a fan the whole time.”

“I used to be a fan. I haven't changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind about what?”

“You being my new favorite.”

“You can be my new favorite, too,” Hitoshi said. “But you've got to live up to it.”

Neito leaned in, letting Hitoshi guide him into a kiss. Neito smiled against his lips.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“He did it!”

That's what the crowd that had gathered around Neito was cheering. The hooligan he'd just apprehended was taken away, and a crowd of civilians clapped and shouted for him. Someone gave a loud whistle. He couldn't properly face them, but it wasn't too difficult seeing as they were all around him. And they knew, they didn't mind.

He raised a hand to wave and gave his adoring fans a bow. He loved this part. Yes, because it fed his ego, but he was not too proud to admit that. He also loved it because something about making others happy, knowing he was the reason for those smiles he couldn’t see, brought one to his face. He stuck around to sign autographs because it made him just as happy as it made them.

He heard a small voice from behind him, sensors picking up the smaller form of a child in the crowd.

“E-excuse me, Phantom Thief?”

Neito turned around, kneeling to meet the child’s height. “Hello, there, sweetheart.”

He held out a hand. He felt the brush of someone else, the child’s mother, he thought, guiding her son’s hand into Neito’s.

“Wow,” the boy gasped. “You’re so cool, Phantom Thief. You're my most favorite hero ever.”

“Me? No way. Even more than Lemillion?”

A burst of giggles followed. “Even more.”

“I’m honored.”

“I’m blind, too,” he said, bouncing with excitement. “Just like you.”

“You are?” Neito gasped, matching the boy’s excitement. “That’s amazing! Do you want to feel something cool?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, give me your hands.”

The boy placed both hands inside Neito’s. Neito guided them to his face, letting him touch the sides of his visor.

“This helps me find my way around. It can sense where the bad guys are and what they're doing. It helps me fight.”

“And your boots!” he added, proud of his knowledge.

“Yes! And my boots. You already know everything, don't you?”

“I know everything about you. Cause you're my favorite.”

Neito held the boy’s small hands against his face.

“Thank you, dear. You're my favorite, too.”

The child giggled. “How can I be your favorite?”

“I don't know, you just are.”

“When I'm a hero like you, I can be your favorite.”

“You absolutely will be. You're going to be the best hero in the whole world.”

The boy bounced again, bursting with excitement.

“Can I have a hug?” he asked.

“You most certainly can.”

Neito took him in his arms, holding him until the boy decided to let go. As he was leaving, the child’s mother gave him a quiet thank you, having no idea how much it meant to him as well. So much so that he recounted the event later that night.

Hitoshi sat on the sofa of their shared apartment, head against Neito’s chest and wrapped in his arms. Hitoshi didn't do hero work during the day, or as often as Neito. He had become a stealth hero, just like with Kuroiro, who he worked with sometimes.

“And then he said he could be my favorite hero once he became one.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hitoshi said, playing with Neito’s fingers.

“Yeah. And then he gave me a hug. He was so sweet.”

“He sounds adorable.”

“He was so excited to become a hero. He had absolutely no doubt that he could be.”

“He shouldn't,” Hitoshi said.

“No, he shouldn't. He’s a lot braver than I was. He’ll be better off than me, less of an idiot like I was back then.”

“You’re still an idiot.” Hitoshi kissed his hand. “And you didn't have someone to look up to. But that kid does because you never gave up.”

Neito brushed back Hitoshi’s purple hair. “I still don't know why you stayed. I wasn't easy back then.”

“Yeah, well, neither was I.”

Neito’s hand cupped the side of his boyfriend’s face, tracing along the familiar line of his jaw. After a long pause, Hitoshi spoke again.

“I should have said something better, like because you really saw me or something. I just missed a poetic moment.”

Neito laughed, pressing a kiss to Hitoshi’s forehead. “You’re my poetic moment.”

“See, that was cute.”

“You’re cute.”

A hand on the back of his head brought him down into a kiss.

Neito couldn't be the one to explain what their relationship was, romance wasn't one of the things he'd grown to understand, but he knew exactly what it had always been, since the very first conversation they'd held. A connection that had only grown since then. Hitoshi was right, Neito did see him. They saw each other.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Curtain call.

I hope you enjoyed the story.

Were you satisfied with the way things ended? I hope so, otherwise that would have been a whole lot of hard work for nothing. This wasn't meant to be a mere footnote, you know.

Unlike many that you call heroes, Neito was not expected to change the world. They didn't believe he had it in him. He nearly didn't believe he had it in him. He spent so much time trying to prove that he was not what everyone thought of him, that he almost forgot to ask himself who he was.

Which, I think we've all come to realize, was what this story was truly about all along.

See, pain has a way of shaping people. That sounded rather villainous, didn't it? Hardships, let’s say. That sort of thing lights a fire in you, one as bright as the sun itself. One that can not be ignored, giving the world no choice but to look at you. Just like it looked at Neito. And he learned to see it in a slightly different way.

And that concludes his story.

The Phantom Thief. Legend. Pro hero (and a big one at that). Former member of UA’s Class 1-B. This was the story of how Neito Monoma became the brightest star in the world.