Chapter Text
Kurogiri is familiar with the cloud he’s resting on. It’s high above an endless blue ocean, in a part of the world he can’t quite identify. Usually, that alone would scare him, being somewhere he can’t place goes against the very quirk he was designed to hold, but the place is one he’s been before, and the cloud is warm with a soft silver lining that puts him at ease in a way nothing has before. Nothing truly exists outside of this place, at least not while he’s here. When he returns to the prison of his body, he knows it will all flood back in like a broken dam. But not yet. Not here.
If he could stay, he would. If he could make the choice, the world would end around him when the earth finally meets the sun, and he would be at peace as flames consumed him and his little island in the sky. It’s only awareness that this is temporary that keeps Kurogiri aware of his surroundings. It would be all too easy to take this peace for granted and let time pass too quickly.
The wind will pick up soon, pull and stretch him until he thinks he should be uncomfortable, but it never goes too far. He remains intact. His island and his peace won't be disturbed by the faint voice around him. The whispers in the wind he can't quite grasp, but he knows it’s good. Maybe a higher power is attempting to lull Kurogiri back into relaxation. Telling him to lie back and let them unravel the tangled mess of his mind.
Kurogiri will lie back, and soon he won't be able to tell the difference between himself and the cloud. He’s used to being mist, it’s similar in all the ways that count, but different in only the best ways. It’s less hollow, almost solid, it’s more secure. He can't fall through, and even if he did, he’s somehow aware that the ocean below him would be warm and kind.
Unlike the waves that crashed along the rocks and the ice-cold rain falling from the sky. There would be no one else with him. No tears. No pain and no yelling. No begging and shouting for a person he’s not sure exists anymore. No calling the name of a child that might have been him if the world were kind…
Awareness slams into him the same way it always does, brief and painful. Kurogiri isn’t familiar with pain; he hadn’t experienced it before these sessions started. There’s only a moment of purple eyes and purple hair before he slips away into a dreamless sleep.
———
~ 8 Weeks since the recovery of Shirakumo Oboro ~
———
“Shirakumo Oboro?” Kurogiri clings to sleep like a cat to a tree it doesn’t want to be in. Which is to say he’s pulled out of it, hissing and scratching. Or he would be if he could find the controls to his voice and his wrists weren’t bound in front of him. The name is familiar, the voice less so, but he opens his eyes regardless. They don’t usually give him much choice; it's experience that he knows this. They will continue to call that name until he is responsive, and they will not dim the lights until they are done with their tests.
There’s a window in the room, but the curtains have been drawn since the first time Kurogiri noticed them, and he hasn’t had any sort of drive to open them. It makes it hard to know what time of day it is, or how many days have passed, especially when the doctor continuously floods his IV with the medication he needs to be able to rest.
“Shirakumo Oboro?” The face comes into focus the next time that name is called. She’s looking at him, sitting beside his bed and leaning towards him like it will help him hear her. He can hear her fine, but he’d rather sleep. “It’s good to see you awake, Mr Shirakumo.” Kurogiri disagrees. She’s talking like he can’t hear. Too loud and enunciated. “I’m Dr Han. I spoke to you last week over the phone, but I understand if you don’t remember, you were very tired.”
Kurogiri doesn’t, in fact, remember her. He thinks he would remember a phone call, or at the very least remember her voice; she has an accent he hasn’t heard before.
“I wanted to speak to you in person about your recovery.”
Kurogiri doesn’t want to speak to her. If he could find the key to his voice, it wouldn't be for her. It will be for the purple boy who sounds just like Tomura and sends him back to his cloud while he untangles his mind.
This preference doesn’t seem to deter the doctor as she sits up straight and looks through the folder of papers in her hand. If she means to be the only one speaking, then so be it, but he does hope she makes it quick; Kurogiri has a void to return to.
“X-rays show all 37 broken bones have healed after Recovery Girl’s seven healing sessions.” Dr Han is smiling, and Kurogiri supposes that’s good news, but he’s not sure when those bones even broke. Maybe some in his face from the beating he took from Mic. But during the fight, he can't remember breaking anything. 37 bones? That feels like too many not to notice. Subtly, Kurogiri rolls his shoulder. He doesn’t expect anything different from the usual crunch of his collarbone, but it’s smooth now. “The CT scan from this morning shows no internal bleeding, clots or infections.” Without moving, he tries to see if the left side of his chest still juts out like it always has. He can’t tell. Her words catch up to him slowly. Kurogiri can’t remember another scan; perhaps he was still asleep. “We’ll continue with the constant EKG and EEG, but from your most recent MRI, it appears my quirk has repaired all physical damage to your brain, heart, and nerves.”
Kurogiri lets Dr Han think her words mean something to him, like they’re important, like they’re not slipping into his mind and trickling out the back of his skull like sand down his newly unbroken spine. If he tried to catch it, it would just slip through his fingers. Maybe it would be like trying to catch a cloud, dense and cold and heavier than anyone thinks it should be.
“This is good.” She leans forward again. His body aches, that’s new, and he can’t imagine how that’s good. Those bones might have needed to be broken, they didn’t hurt when they were. And now Kurogiri has to put genuine effort into not letting his eyes fall closed. There’s a physical weight to them like there's never been before. “I know this is very… confusing… but I promise your medical team is going to do everything they can to help you.”
He’s not sure which part is meant to be confusing… All of it, maybe. If it is, he’s not upset by it, not like the doctor seems to think he should be. There would have to be some inconvenience to him for Kurogiri to become upset, but since Tomura isn’t here anymore, there’s nothing to do. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to protect. Nothing to care for.
“I return to Daejeon tomorrow morning, but I will be back for your follow-up in 6 weeks.” Han explains. “For now, I implore you to rest and allow yourself time to heal. You have been through something no one else has… it’s important to remember th…”
Kurogiri loses the fight to his heavy eyelids and lets the doctor keep talking her meaningless words. He has an appointment with sleep, where he hopes he’ll start to dream of his boy.
———
Kurogiri doesn’t dream of Tomura; he never dreams. Never has. Back home, he didn’t exactly sleep, just gave his mind moments where it could turn off, and he didn’t have orders to follow. He may be incapable of dreaming, although, until this hospital, he never gave it much thought. It seemed trivial. Nothing about him is normal; he is aware that he isn’t exactly human, he is aware of what a Nomu is, even if there are none other like him.
Until now, he never wished for the ability to dream. But if he cannot see Tomura alive, he wants to dream of him. If he can have nothing else, why not that? If the world were kind, he would dream. His dead brain would spark just enough to let him see his charge.
Kurogiri never cried before either. No emotion was ever so intense. There weren't any emotions before. Maybe a false impersonation of them to put his living compatriots at ease, but it was never organic. Never close to being real. If he could imitate their grief for Magne, they wouldn’t feel so alone in their pain, it was beneficial to the continued health of the league. So he lowered his head and closed his eyes, let the silence hang and let Toga cling to him. It helped. If their minds were not healthy, their bodies would not be healthy, and they would be of no use to Tomura or their master.
It’s odd, now that he thinks of it, that the lack of dreams is what makes his eyes sting even before he’s opened them. His eyes don’t normally have any sensation. It’s foreign and wrong. The nerve death in his host body makes sure he cannot feel something as trivial as stinging eyes. But it’s more than that, the normally broken ribcage of his feels tight, hollow and cold.
The room he wakes to is blurry, and the voices speaking softly beside him sound distant. At least while he gets his bearings.
Kurogiri has to blink multiple times to get the stinging to stop and vision to clear. He wants to wipe his eyes just to see if it would help, but he knows it won't, and he doesn’t have the hands to do it. The cuffs are too heavy to attempt it. If he could ask for them to be removed, he would, but there’s no one here he thinks would listen to that request. He knows in their minds that he’s a threat to everyone.
What, in their minds, would he do? Has anyone thought about that? Surely not since the cuffs remain. Without Tomura, and without his master's orders, what do they believe he is capable of doing? There is nothing to gain by hurting anyone here.
“Dr Han’s regeneration’s stable, but…” one of the voices is clear enough to understand just as he trails off. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurogiri can see the man looking at him, but he doesn’t look back. The wall is just as interesting as anything else in this room. “Is he crying?”
The doctor, one Kurogiri isn’t sure he’s met yet, has to turn to look at him. A frown pinches the corners of her mouth.
“Maybe…” She says, the speaks up as so many of them do. Like he can’t hear them. “Mr Shirakumo, are you feeling alright?”
Kurogiri is as alright as he has been from the first day they brought him here. It would do nothing to waste his breath on frivolous conversation.
“Mr Shirakumo?” The man tries, he might be a nurse or maybe a specialist. Or maybe a million other options since there's rarely a face Kurogiri sees more than once.
He wonders if that’s by design or if his memory has truly deteriorated so much. He is marginally curious.
“It’s probably nothing. A natural response to some stimulus.” The doctor shrugs after a moment of consideration. She turns away from Kurogiri again. “The kid said he’s close to something and neurology isn’t concerned, but quirks like that are unpredictable at the best of times and you know what neurology is like…”
“Overworked?”
There's a sound like a puff of air that might be an aborted laugh. “Something like that.” There’s a pause, it’s long enough, Kurogiri thinks they might be done and leave. Grant him some peace and quiet. But alas, he is not so lucky. “I’d like to start weaning him off of the Lorazepam. I’ve extended it as long as I feel comfortable.”
“Do you think we’ll see any cognitive improvement?"
“We might. The brain heals best at rest, so I'm hesitant, but I don’t think there's anything left to heal. Not physically.” The doctor glances back at Kurogiri, her expression still pinched, almost sad if he had to name it. “Those heroes seem confident, but…”
The man hums; it's some sort of agreement for the unspoken words. Kurogiri would love to assure them that, yes, their work was fruitful. But if he’s honest with himself, he has no idea what their work is meant to be doing. He feels exactly the same as he always has. More crowded if anything, like there's still that echo of wind in his head even when he’s not on the cloud, but he can’t even explain what that means to himself. It might just do more harm than good.
“His physical therapy starts in an hour. Let’s leave him to rest.”
Kurogiri would like that. Would like to go back to sleep and try yet again to dream, but even when the medical personnel leave, despite their words, the overhead light stays on.
Physical therapy, they said? That will be a new one. Or it might be something he’s done for weeks with no recollection. But he would like to know what it is they do to him in the hours he’s awake. There's so much that slips through his fingers, and if there's another thing he can hold onto or remember, he’d like to have it. If nothing else, just to know he has it.
Kurogiri is aware that muscles atrophy after mere hours of being still, if he’s been here longer than that, it must be something they’ve already done. Another thing done to him… eventually, that won't feel so wrong to know. Eventually, he’ll become used to it.
The wall is as interesting as it’s ever been. It lets his mind drift; it’s not so peaceful anymore.
———
~ 9 Weeks since the recovery of Shirakumo Oboro ~
———
The next time Kurogiri wakes up, it’s Sunday afternoon. He knows it’s afternoon because he feels clean and his body has been moved to sit upright. And he knows it’s Sunday because in the chair beside his bed is the boy with Tomura’s voice. Just like every visit, there's a bulky mask on his face and a long scarf around his neck. It’s probably the same design as Eraserhead’s, who is predictably standing guard at the door. Kurogiri would hazard a guess that the door is locked since the hero is looking into the room instead of out of it. Like the threat is in here with them.
Not far off, if memory serves. It usually doesn't, but Kurogiri knows they’ve fought before, but without Tomura, there’s nothing to fight for. He doesn’t think Eraserhead understands that yet.
“Good morning, Kurogiri.” Tomura’s voice says, raspy, like he used to be before his sensei changed him. He hopes this is finally his dream, and when he looks to his left, his charge will be waiting. If Kurogiri had a face to smile with, he would have. He can practically feel where the muscles would pull and force his eyes to squint.
“Good morning,” Kurogiri replies, remembering it’s only polite to do so. It’s not Tomura, but Kurogiri can’t say he’s unhappy to see this boy either.
The purple boy shifts, sitting up and rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for something. “How much do you remember of our last meeting?”
Kurogiri has to think; he can feel his eyebrows furrow, and his eyes squint even as his attempt at a smile falls. The purple boy comes on Sunday morning. Kurogiri is aware of this fact, but all he can remember from the last week is that peaceful cloud. There must have been more before that. This scene feels familiar, Kurogiri and this boy sitting here talking, but he can't recall what words were exchanged.
Kurogiri opens his mouth, or triggers a similar movement since he doesn’t exactly have a mouth that moves, the one behind the mist is rigid, fractured bones locking it in place. He tries to speak. It’s hard to explain what he knows versus what he remembers. The words don't come, and there's an audible sound of his teeth clicking when he shuts his mouth.
“That’s okay,” Tomura says. “Would you like me to remind you?”
That’s easy, he knows how to move the mist to look like he’s nodding. Kurogiri has done that many times before.
“For several weeks, I’ve been using my quirk to slowly undo the brainwashing and failsafe All for One and the Doctor programmed into your mind,” Tomura explains. He’s speaking oddly, not the same way Tomura used to speak, even if it's the same sound. It helps to remind him that the purple boy isn’t Tomura. “During this, I can send you into a dream-like state to avoid distress.” The cloud. Kurogiri is familiar with that part at least. “This will take several hours. Is there anything you need before I start?”
“No.”
Tomura asks that every time. Kurogiri doesn’t exactly remember it, but he does know that question.
“Ok.” The purple boy looks back at Eraserhead and gives a thumbs up. Eraserhead nods. “I’m going to use my quirk now. I want you to close your eyes, visualise a place you would like to go, and respond to me once you’re ready.”
Kurogiri obeys only because he does enjoy his time on the cloud. He tries to imagine Tomura there too, still small and clinging to him like he used to, but he knows once he arrives, he’ll be alone. It’s not the worst thing, since he’s expecting it, but one of these days he’ll succeed in seeing his charge again. One way or another.
“I am ready.”
The room slips away. The stiff bed gives way to a plush blue cloud, and the beeping of the heart monitor quiets with every other thought in his head. The sun is warm on his skin, he can smell the salt in the ocean and the waves below crash in a constant pattern that Kurogiri would fall asleep to if it were possible in this place. Can one fall asleep in a dream? He’s not sure, and he hasn’t exactly tried.
Regardless, the sound lulls him into a relaxation he can only achieve here. It’s peace he’s not sure he’ll ever find in the real world. There might be things he’s missing, memories he doesn’t have, people he’s meant to know, but it doesn’t seem all that important anymore. Now that he’s fading into that cloud, feeling his body disintegrating.
It’s just mist. Fog. A cloud floating above an ocean. Simply drifting by the wind, splitting minuscule pieces of himself off with a particularly strong gust. That would hurt, if he were human, but it’s just how clouds are meant to be. They’re meant to form and disperse in their own circle of life. It doesn’t hurt, and somehow Kurogiri thinks this is how it was always supposed to be.
There’s only a moment, when he wakes, that he sees wide purple eyes staring back at him with startling white irises before sleep once again greets him like an old friend.