Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been a tiring day so far for Chisaki. Actually, he hadn’t really done much, but he always did feel tired. It was the kind of exhaustion that sat deep in his chest, a heaviness that had nothing to do with work or lack of sleep. At the moment, Chisaki was making lunch for him and the old man. Cooking had become part of his routine, something he did without really thinking, like brushing his teeth or buttoning his shirt. It wasn’t passion or enjoyment, it was necessity.

It had been about four years since he got out of prison. Four years. Sometimes it felt shorter, like he had just walked out yesterday, and other times it felt like a lifetime ago. He still remembered the way the cold walls of Tartarus seemed to hum with silence, how every second in there felt like punishment piled upon punishment. He’d somehow managed to strike a deal with the Hero Commission, or something like that. He didn’t know every detail, didn’t care to, but they had wanted information about someone he used to know back when he was with the yakuza. He gave them what they wanted. In return, they gave him things he hadn’t even thought were possible: a small apartment, prosthetics, and freedom.

In all honesty, Chisaki hadn’t expected to ever get out of prison. No one really left Tartarus. That place was a tomb for people like him, a place you entered and never left again. But Chisaki… he didn’t have any arms anymore, couldn’t harm anyone, and he knew they must’ve looked at him and thought, what a waste of space he is now. He wasn’t a threat, not anymore. He was broken, neutered, something to be pitied rather than feared. And so, they let him go.

Soon after he got free, he started living with Pops again. That had been strange at first. Pops spent most of his days in the bedroom, watching TV or reading the old books he had collected over the years. He could walk still, but his steps were slow. Chisaki slept on the couch in the living room, the springs digging into his back night after night. It wasn’t the best place to sleep, but it didn’t matter. He had never slept much anyway. Even before Tartarus, his nights were short, restless. Sleep didn’t bring him peace.

He had managed to scrape together two jobs. One was being a bartender in the evenings, pouring drinks for people who didn’t know or care who he used to be. The other was as a cashier at a convenience store. With only a high school diploma and a record that screamed monster, those were the only places that would take him. He never complained, though. Work filled the hours, kept his mind occupied. It was easier to fold bills or wipe down a counter than to sit still and think about what he had lost.

Chisaki started preparing the table. Setting silverware, plates, napkins, all of it arranged neatly. He was precise with everything he did, it was just how he was wired. Even something as simple as putting a fork down had to be done right. Once he finished, he walked to Pops’ bedroom door and knocked gently.

“Lunch is ready.”

He listened to the slow sounds of the old man shifting, the faint scrape of slippers against the floor. Pops eventually emerged and sat at the table, his face unreadable as always. He looked at the food briefly before beginning to eat. Chisaki sat too, though his plate wasn’t much. He didn’t feel like eating. He rarely did. Hunger only ever hit him when it became unbearable, when his body forced him to. Otherwise, food was just another task.

The silence at the table was heavy, but familiar. They never spoke much during meals. It was like this most of the time. Chisaki only ever said something when leaving for work or when asking if Pops needed anything. The old man barely answered. Sometimes he nodded, sometimes he gave short reminders of Chisaki’s past, reminders of what he had done, of what could never be erased. Pops didn’t need to use many words to make the weight of his judgment felt.

Chisaki hated those reminders with all his being. He hated hearing them, hated knowing they were true. But he never spoke up. What was the point? Arguing wouldn’t change anything. He had done what he had done, and now he had to live with it. So he kept his mouth shut, endured it, let the bitterness sit inside him like a stone.

“I might come home a bit later than usual. Work is going to be longer tonight,” he said after a while, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Pops only gave him a nod in response, and Chisaki dropped his gaze to his plate, not wanting to meet his eyes anymore. That nod always felt like a verdict. Cold.

When Pops finished eating, he got up slowly and went to the bathroom to wash his hands. Chisaki stayed behind, automatically beginning to clean. He put the leftovers neatly into the fridge, making sure nothing spilled, then washed the dishes one by one. The routine was dull, but it gave him something to focus on. Something mechanical.

By the time he finished, the old man was already back in the bedroom, door half-closed, retreating into his silence again. Chisaki stood in the empty kitchen for a moment, staring at the spotless counter, the faint smell of food still hanging in the air.

Finally, he went to the couch, the same couch he’d slept on every night since he got out. He lay down, resting his head back, and closed his eyes. The cushions were uneven beneath him, and the fabric smelled faintly of dust, but it didn’t matter. He usually took a nap before going to the bar anyway.

As he drifted toward sleep, he thought about how every day felt exactly the same, silent meals, heavy nods, long hours at jobs he didn’t care for, then nights on this couch. It wasn’t prison, but sometimes, it didn’t feel much different either.

-

It was almost 2 when Chisaki got home from work. The streets outside were silent, the kind of silence that made every step sound louder than it really was. The air carried the faint smell of the city at night, exhaust, rain on pavement, something metallic. By the time he reached the door, his body felt heavy, his mind sluggish.

He felt even more tired now. He quietly entered his house, careful not to wake Pops. The old man was probably asleep anyway, but Chisaki had gotten used to keeping his footsteps quiet, almost ghostlike. He bent down slowly, removing his shoes, setting them neatly by the door. His prosthetics clicked softly as he moved, the sound sharp in the stillness of the apartment.

Without thinking too much, he dragged himself to the couch and crashed onto it almost instantly. His body melted into the worn cushions, the fabric rough beneath him. The springs pressed against his back in familiar discomfort. His eyes felt unbearably heavy, like they were begging him to close them, but he wasn’t going to sleep just yet. He never went straight to sleep.

Chisaki reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The glow from the screen lit up the dark room, washing over his tired features. His thumb moved automatically, until he reached the photo he always looked at before sleeping. Hari.

It was a picture of when they went on vacation to the mountains. A rare moment of peace, a time that almost felt unreal now. Hari was bundled up in winter clothes, layers of scarves, a thick hat pulled low, gloves covering his hands. His breath fogged in the cold air, his cheeks slightly red from the wind. Behind him stretched the mountains, sharp peaks coated in white, the sky pale but clear. A frozen, quiet world.

They hadn’t gone on vacations often. Work had always gotten in the way, responsibilities, obligations, a thousand little reasons that life threw at them. But that trip had been different. Chisaki remembered the crisp air, the silence of the snow, the way Hari’s laugh had echoed in the emptiness of the mountains. He cherished that moment like no other. It wasn’t just a trip. It was proof that, at one point, things hadn’t been all bad.

It had been 3 years since Hari had found him again. Chisaki still remembered that day with painful clarity. Hari’s face when he first saw him, relief, joy, maybe even hope. Hari had said he was so happy to finally see him, as though the years in between hadn’t existed, as if everything could go back to the way it had been. But Chisaki had shut him out.

He hadn’t allowed himself even a moment of warmth. He couldn’t. He had already ruined Hari’s life once, shattered it in ways that couldn’t be undone. To invite him back in, to pull him close again, would only mean more destruction. Chisaki couldn’t live with that kind of guilt again. He carried enough already.

Hari hadn’t understood. Even when Chisaki explained it in his blunt, broken way, Hari had been confused. He could see it in his eyes, the way they searched Chisaki’s face for something, anything, that contradicted the words he was saying. But there had been nothing. Just the truth.

In the end, Chisaki had told him that he didn’t want anything to do with him. That Hari should forget him altogether, erase him from his life. The words had felt like poison in his mouth, but he forced them out. It was the only way. Hari deserved better. He deserved freedom. Chisaki knew he could move on. He could build something new, something good.

But for himself? For Chisaki? There was nothing left. He knew that when his time came, he would die exactly as he had lived these past years, hating himself, drowning in guilt, wishing nothing but the worst for the person he had become.

He let the photo linger on the screen for a while longer, staring at Hari’s bundled figure, the mountains stretching out endlessly behind him. For a second, he let himself pretend it was still real, that he could still reach out, still grasp that moment, still feel the cold bite of winter air and the warmth of Hari’s presence.

Then, with a slow exhale, he locked the phone and set it aside. He plugged it in, the small click of the charger slotting in echoing faintly in the quiet room. He placed the phone down on the table beside him, its screen now dark, reflecting the faint outline of his tired face.

He closed his eyes, his body sinking deeper into the couch. The hum of the city outside faded into nothing, leaving only the sound of his own breathing. Slowly, he let sleep drag him under.

-

The days seemed to drag themselves further and further, one identical to the last, like they were melting into each other. But Chisaki was used to this now. The dull repetition had become his entire existence, work, silence, sleep, and the quiet weight of guilt pressing on his chest.

He made his way into the bedroom, footsteps soft on the floor. The old man’s door was always the same, half-shut, like a barrier between them. He paused, his prosthetic hand hovering near the wood for a second before he knocked lightly and entered.

“Do you need anything?” His voice was low, cautious, almost careful.

The old man nodded, his eyes flicking toward the nightstand where an empty glass of water sat. He didn’t say a word, just a glance. That was enough.

Chisaki stepped forward and picked up the glass. His fingers tightened around it slightly as he spoke again, his tone more pointed this time.

“You can say something.”

The silence had worn him down. At first, he had accepted it without question. he deserved it, after all. But now, after years of the same quiet contempt, something inside him itched. It wasn’t just silence anymore. It was like a wall, thicker every day, cutting him off from the only family he had left.

He stared at Pops, his chest tightening. “You’re my father.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. A plea, almost.

The response came sharp, final. “I’m no father to you. You brought this upon yourself. You put me into sleep. You destroyed my family. You failed me.”

The words hit like knives. Chisaki didn’t flinch outwardly, but inside he could feel the echo reverberate in every corner of his body. He had heard these things before, in different forms, but each time it tore something new from him. He looked down, the weight of shame pressing his head forward, but then something strange began to happen.

As Pops kept talking, Chisaki could see his lips moving, but the sound seemed to blur, like it was coming from underwater. He couldn’t understand anymore, couldn’t process the words. His body suddenly felt strange, his metallic hands tingled. For years, they had been nothing but replacements, hollow reminders of what he had lost. But now they itched, burned, almost as if they were real again, as if nerves were firing beneath them. It unsettled him, made his breath quicken.

He forced his gaze upward. Pops was still speaking, still reminding him of what a monster he was. His chest tightened, his lungs struggling to pull in air. His breathing grew fast, uneven, like panic was clawing at his throat. The room seemed smaller, darker, the walls closing in. And then, nothing.

Blackness.

When his mind came back, when the fog started to lift, the first thing he felt was touch. A hand on his upper arm, small and frail but there. He blinked, trying to focus. And then he looked down.

His own hands, those prosthetic hands, were wrapped tightly around Pops’ neck. His fingers were pressing deep into the old man’s skin, squeezing, cutting off his breath. The sight made his stomach twist violently.

Chisaki shoved himself backward, tearing his grip away. The sudden force sent him stumbling to the ground, the floor hard against his back. Pops fell forward, coughing violently, his chest heaving as he struggled to drag in air.

“Fuck, shit. I’m sorry, please. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what I did.”

The words poured out of him in a rush, frantic and uneven. His voice cracked. His body trembled. He wanted to move toward Pops, to help him, but his limbs wouldn’t listen. His eyes locked on the old man instead, and what he saw rooted him in place.

Those eyes.

Wide, terrified, filled with the same raw fear Chisaki had seen countless times before. The eyes of people just before he ended them, the eyes of victims who knew they weren’t going to make it out alive. He had lived with those eyes burned into his memory, and now they were his father’s.

And worse still, they weren’t only Pops’ eyes. For an instant, he saw her. The girl. The one he had broken piece by piece. Those same eyes staring up at him, trembling under Overhaul’s hands.

His chest clenched violently. His throat burned. He could hear himself pleading, apologizing again and again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to”, but the words felt meaningless and powerless against the weight of what he had just done.

Before Pops could say anything, before the coughing subsided enough for words, Chisaki’s body moved on its own. He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, and bolted.

He ran. Out the door, down the street, anywhere but here. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay in that house, couldn’t stay in that room with those eyes staring at him, carving into him.

The night air was cold against his face as he kept running, his breath ragged, his legs burning. But no matter how far he went, the image followed him, the sight of his hands, his father’s neck, those terrified eyes that told him, clearer than words ever could, exactly what kind of monster he was.

-

His heart was pounding like crazy, the kind of pounding that made his ribs ache with every thud. The past four days he had been living on the street. He could hardly keep track of time anymore. From sleeping on benches, the cold metal pressing against his back, to dragging himself into work with his head down, pretending nothing was wrong, then walking again at night without purpose. That was all he remembered. In all honesty, he didn’t remember much of what had actually happened. His mind had probably shut down, zoning out so completely that the hours blurred together. He had focused only when he was at work, only when he had to move his hands, follow routine, speak to customers. Everything else in between was just a blank haze.

But now… now he was going home.

His chest was tight as he made his way to the door. He did feel a bit scared about what might happen. Pops would be waiting. What would he do? Would he scream at him? Kick him out? Hate him more than before? Chisaki’s stomach twisted at the thought. Whatever it was, whatever punishment was waiting for him, he’d take it. Without a second thought. He had always taken it. He deserved it.

He entered the house quietly, almost cautiously, like he was intruding. The air inside smelled stale, untouched. The first thing he noticed was the dishes left on the sink. At least Pops had eaten while he was away. That gave him a small, fleeting comfort. Pops had managed without him. Pops was still alive. That was enough for now.

Chisaki set his bag down and slowly made his way to the bedroom. He paused at the door, his hand hovering for a moment before he finally knocked and pushed it open.

The TV was still on, the light flickering against the walls. But all Chisaki could see was the back of Pops. He sat there motionless, staring forward. No glance, no reaction, not even the smallest shift. *Guess he doesn’t want to even look at me anymore*, Chisaki thought. That was fine. More than fine. That was what he got. That was what he deserved.

He took a slow step inside, then another. His heart hammered with every movement as if he were approaching a battlefield. He stopped just behind Pops, staring at the back of his father’s head, trying to gather the words in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

Silence. Not even the faintest sound. That was fine. He could try again.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I’ll continue to be of use to you.”

The silence deepened, louder than any rejection. He could feel it pressing on his ears, filling the space.

“Pops, please… I’m sorry.”

“Father…”

And then, something caught his eye. Something wrong. The old man wasn’t moving at all. Not a twitch, not a shift of his shoulders. His chest didn’t rise. His fingers didn’t stir.

Chisaki’s stomach dropped. Panic surged. He reached out with shaky hands, grabbing Pops’ shoulder, giving it a shake. Nothing. He shook him again, harder, desperate. Still nothing.

His heart was racing wildly now, hammering so loudly it was all he could hear. His hands trembled as he turned Pops to lay on his back. He pressed two prosthetic fingers against the side of his father’s neck, trying to find a pulse, trying to feel something. Anything. But he cursed at himself almost instantly, realizing the truth. He couldn’t feel a thing with these hands. They weren’t hands. They were machines. Useless when it mattered most.

“No, no, no, come on, please…” he whispered, his voice breaking, pleading, but Pops lay still.

Chisaki pressed his ear against the old man’s chest, desperate for a sound, any faint beat, any faint rhythm of life. But there was nothing. Just silence. The kind of silence that never ended. That silence told him everything. Pops was dead.

His throat tightened painfully, and then the tears came. He started crying, shaking, the words spilling out in broken fragments as he pleaded for his father to wake up. He pressed his forehead against the cold fabric of Pops’ shirt, sobbing, his breath hitching against his chest. His knees gave out beneath him and he sank to the floor, collapsing beside the bed.

“Please… please…” His words dissolved into nothing, carried away by his crying.

He laid his head against the side of Pops’ chest, clinging to him like a child, wishing more than anything that he could hear his heartbeat again, that this could all be undone. But the body beneath him was still. Too still.

Chisaki’s eyes burned as he reached for Pops’ hand, desperate to hold it, to feel something human, something real. But again, he was reminded of what he had lost. His prosthetics gave him no warmth, no sensation. He could grip the hand, but he couldn’t feel it. The hollowness of it stabbed into him, deeper than any blade.

So instead, he guided Pops’ hand onto his own head. Just like the old times. Back then, that had been the only form of physical affection Chisaki had ever liked from Pops, that simple gesture, a hand resting on his head, grounding him. Even now, though lifeless, he tried to recreate it. Tried to pretend, if only for a second.

He stayed there, broken, crying until he had no more tears left to shed. His chest hurt, his throat raw from sobbing, his body shaking with exhaustion. The last time he had been like this was three years ago, when he had cut all ties with Hari. Back then, it had felt like the end of something. Now… now it felt like the end of everything.

-

The funeral had been pretty lifeless. He supposed that was fitting. Pops hadn’t been a man who liked attention, and Chisaki himself had no one to fill the silence, no friends, no family willing to stand beside him. The priest’s words had been dull, rehearsed, nothing personal. The graveyard had been quiet except for the sound of the wind brushing through the trees and the occasional shuffle of shoes on gravel. No one had really cried. Not openly. Only Chisaki’s eyes had burned, but even then, he’d held back. He didn’t know if he was crying for Pops or for himself.

He had sent out invitations, though. A small, desperate gesture that part of him already knew would lead nowhere. The first was to Hari. He had written it carefully, trying to keep the words plain, factual, without any attempt at pulling at the past. He knew Hari wouldn’t come. Why would he? Their last conversation had been bitter. Hari had made it clear, he despised Pops. He had spat out the hatred he felt, a hatred Chisaki had never fully understood. Pops had been strict, distant, yes. Cruel sometimes. But hatred? Chisaki couldn’t grasp it. Yet Hari had, and that had been enough to sever any chance of him showing up now.

The second invitation was to Eri. That one had been harder. Chisaki didn’t know how to reach her. He had sat in front of his laptop for hours, searching, hesitating. In the end, he had typed an email addressed to U.A., the only place he could think of. He had written about Pops’ passing and had asked, pleaded, in his own way, that his granddaughter be allowed to attend, even just for a few moments. He hadn’t received any news, no confirmation, no reply. And honestly, he told himself he didn’t care. He didn’t deserve a reply. He didn’t deserve anything from her. Still, a part of him had clung to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, she would come.

He had even thought about contacting Pops’ daughter. His sister. But he didn’t know if she was even alive anymore, or where she was. It had been years since he had last seen her. That absence hurt in ways he didn’t want to admit.

Now, the ceremony was over. People had left. The grave was fresh, dirt piled neatly, a simple headstone with Pops’ name etched into it. Chisaki had stayed long after. He didn’t know how long. Time blurred when he was like this, lost in thought. He sat still, his body heavy, his gaze locked on the stone. His mind drifted in and out, sometimes blank, sometimes replaying the last moments with Pops until he felt sick. He didn’t pay attention to the people walking nearby, to the faint murmur of other families visiting their own dead. He was alone in his own silence.

It wasn’t until his vision sharpened, like snapping out of a daze, that he noticed a figure standing in front of him. He hadn’t heard them approach. He didn’t want to acknowledge them, not at first. Whoever it was, it didn’t matter. If they spoke, he probably wouldn’t hear. His ears had a ringing in them, that muffled hum of grief and exhaustion.

But then the figure began to move, turning slightly, starting to walk away. And that was when his eyes caught something. The hair.

That color. His chest tightened instantly. It was the same color as his sister’s hair. For a second, the world tilted, and hope, sharp, impossible hope, spiked inside him. Could it be her? Could she have come here, after all these years? He didn’t know how, didn’t know why, but he wanted to believe. Despite everything, despite the fact that he had abused her daughter beyond forgiveness, he still cared for her. He had never stopped.

Before he could think, before reason could catch up, Chisaki turned and reached out. His prosthetic hand caught the girl’s arm. The movement was desperate, shaky.

The girl turned almost instantly, startled, and in that moment the hope inside him twisted violently. It wasn’t his sister. It was Eri.

The realization struck him harder than a blow. She looked so much like her mother it was uncanny, her eyes, her hair, even the way her face tightened as she looked at him. It was like seeing a ghost of the past, one he had both longed for and dreaded.

Behind her stood two men. One blond, one with green hair. Recognition hit him immediately. Heroes. He knew them. Of course he did. The look on their faces, alert, tense, shocked, made it clear what they thought when they saw him grabbing her. Their bodies were ready to intervene, but he barely registered them. His focus stayed on the girl.

Chisaki’s hand loosened. He released her arm slowly, letting it fall away. His voice came out low, flat, strained.

“I mistook you for someone else. My apologies.”

Eri glanced at him one more time. Her expression was unreadable and wary, maybe even curious. But she said nothing. She slowly turned and walked away, her small frame disappearing toward the men who waited for her.

Chisaki didn’t move. His eyes dropped back to the grave, to the flowers that had been placed on it. A new one had been added. Probably hers.

The sight twisted his chest. Another reminder of everything he had broken, everything he had lost.

And still, he remained there, silent, staring at the headstone, alone again.

-

Chisaki sat down at the dinner table, his food in front of him. The place opposite him stayed empty, Pops wasn’t here anymore, so that chair would be empty now, an absence made visible by nothing more than a vacant seat and the faint ring mark of a glass on the tabletop. It felt obscene and ordinary all at once.

He picked up the chopsticks but couldn’t bring himself to eat. The rice felt like sand in his mouth when he imagined swallowing it. He couldn’t dig in, not properly. So he leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with his eyes though they were the same cracks they’d always been. The kitchen lights hummed softly above him; the sound seemed foreign, as if it belonged to someone else’s life.

Now he was completely alone. The word should have landed with grief or relief, but nothing fit. He didn’t feel right. He wasn’t happy about it, but he wasn’t sad in the way he expected either. Anger, or something like it, a bitter, raw thing, wouldn’t describe it. Neither would sorrow. There was something colder that draped over him, something closer to numbness and hollowness: an indifference that felt like a fault line running through his chest. Almost empty.

He listened to the small noises of the apartment, an old pipe knocking in the wall, the fridge cycling on, and each sound seemed to underline the silence that had settled where Pops’ presence used to be. He tried to remember what he’d done today, whether he’d accomplished anything useful, but his thoughts kept slipping away, like fish wriggling free. He had always measured his days by chores and apologies and shifts at work, by the way Pops would look at him. Without that, the days felt unanchored.

Chisaki didn’t know what to do anymore. For so long his life had been defined by a single person: Pops. His routines, his guilt, even his small comforts had been threaded to that worn figure in the next chair. Now that thread lay severed, and he felt for the end of it in the dark. He thought of Hari, of course he did. Hari was still alive, somewhere, and they didn’t speak. The image of him popped into Chisaki’s head again and again: warm, patient, the way he’d smiled in the mountains photo, the way he’d reached out when Chisaki had shut him away. It stabbed at him gently and then violently, reminders of what could have been and what he’d thrown away.

He told himself, over and over, that he wanted Hari to move on. If Chisaki killed himself, if he disappeared, it would probably hurt Hari in ways he couldn’t predict. Maybe it would shatter whatever small peace Hari might find. At least that’s what Chisaki believed. how his absence might echo in someone else’s life. He didn’t want to be the cause of that. That thought, practical and ugly, kept him tethered to something like reason.

So he made a decision, small and stubborn, not heroic. He would live. Not for pride, not for redemption he didn’t deserve, but for Hari. If living even a little lessened the damage his absence might cause Hari, then he would choose that. If the world would be kinder to Hari because Chisaki stayed away, then Chisaki would stay. He would live for Hari, if only as a quiet, unseen guardian who didn’t interfere, who kept breathing so someone else might have the chance at happiness.

He set the chopsticks down without eating, the clack loud in the quiet kitchen, and felt the weight of that decision press into him like a stone. It was absurdly small and absurdly enormous at the same time. He would try to be alive. He would try to be less of a burden, to disappear from the lives of those he loved in the ways that still hurt them least.

He'd trade a comfortable life if it means Hari gets to be happy.