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"How does this look?"
Shouta raised his head, and his mouth tipped into a helpless smile at the sight of Oboro’s grin. A lopsided crown of daisies perched in the wispy clouds of his hair, some of the stems tucked in at odd angles, petals trembling whenever he moved.
"Almost."
Oboro whined, lifting the crown from his head with exaggerated care, like one wrong tug would snap the whole thing. And one wrong tug might.
"How do you do it, Shou?" He pouted. "It’s because you have thinner fingers! Look at mine—they’re so much thicker!"
He reached for Shouta’s hand and pressed their palms together, lining their fingers up to compare. Heat rushed into Shouta’s face at the touch. Enough that the world went a little soft at the edges—especially when Oboro laced their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"If it’s not that," Oboro demanded, "then what’s your secret?"
"Um—" Shouta fought for something coherent to say, but the words tangled on his tongue.
Oboro, merciful as he was infuriating, just giggled and tugged him closer until Shouta was nearly in his lap. The flower crown crumpled between them with a soft, doomed rustle.
"Oops."
"'Boro!"
…
“OBORO?!"
Shouta looked over, wild-eyed, trying to spot his friend upright and clear of the falling debris. But the rain came down in sheets, and all Shouta could see was gray and ruin—shit, fuck! He tore the goggles off and let them slap against his chest.
He could do this. He could do this.
Time went strange. Shouta kept moving until his legs finally gave, until he could collapse and breathe. The villain was down. Oboro was okay—he’d cheered him on—and the thought developed into a stupid, helpless smile that warmed Shouta’s face even through the cold.
Then sirens. Then boots and shouted orders, first responders flooding the wreckage, and Oboro wasn’t okay. Oboro wasn’t okay because there was too much blood, because there were hands on Shouta’s arm, and suddenly Hizashi was there, fingers bruising tight, and—
“You couldn’t have heard him… He was already dead—”
Shouta bolted upright, sheets twisted around his waist, sweat slicking a cold line down his spine. He turned too fast, heart already in his throat, and—there. Still there.
Shouta let out a long-suffering breath.
Oboro lay beside him, his bright blue clouds muddied with purple, his eyes no longer that clean cloud-blue white, but he was there.
Alive, even if he wasn’t who he used to be.
"Shouta?" One milky yellow eye cracked open to look at him, unblinking.
"It’s nothing, ‘boro. Go back to sleep."
Oboro huffed and pushed himself up on an elbow. "It’s not nothing."
"Oboro—"
Warm hands closed around Shouta’s cold ones, firm and familiar in a way that made something inside him ache. Before he could think to pull away, Oboro drew him in, tucked him against his chest, and nudged the blankets back up around them.
"I’m here," Oboro murmured. "I’ve got you."
Shouta shuddered, the tension in his ribs finally giving way.
"Okay," he managed, voice rough. "Thank you."