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Neito is fighting.
He can’t remember when it started, can’t imagine when it will end, all he knows is the here, the now, the pain, the rush, the fight.
The mobs of villains are endless but so are the ranks of heroes at Neito’s side, and it’s a simple matter of reaching for any one of them, his fingers lightly skimming against their arms.
Quirks upon quirks upon quirks, with every brush of his skin against theirs, another weapon sits ready in his arsenal, and he rapidly shuffles between them as he fights and fights like their very lives depend on it.
Because they do.
They do.
The villains are faceless, shapeless in the inky black that is suddenly surrounding him, but still they don’t stop coming. It’s an endless stream of Noumu now, misshapen grotesque frankensteinian monsters pouring out of a shadowy gate and Neito reaches blindly for the heroes, grasping for a quirk, any quirk, quickly now before they—
His fingers find nothing.
And when he whirls around with his heart in his throat it’s to the sight of bodies littering the ground as far as he can see and the sudden realization that he’s the last one standing.
***
Quite frankly it takes Hitoshi a while to notice that something seems to be really really wrong with Monoma.
Looking back though, the clues had been there all along, blinking neon signs that Hitoshi’s sleep deprived brain had simply waved off as coincidence.
Point one. Not many kids in Class B drink as much coffee as Hitoshi himself so it's generally been a given that no matter what time of day it is there’ll be at least something left in the pot. And yet lately the pots been empty. And every time Hitoshi spots Monoma in the kitchen, the other boy is drinking deep from a mug the size of a soup bowl.
Point two. Monoma’s taken to wearing headphones during every waking moment that he isn’t in class, the big bulky kind that wraps around the top of his head like he needs to fucking feel it— or maybe he just likes the cat ears on top, Hitoshi’s not one to judge. Either way the volume on whatever Monoma is listening to is audibly cranked up to drown-out-the-world levels even if it simultaneously isn’t loud enough for anyone to make out exactly what it is he’s listening to.
Point three— and perhaps the most damning point of all— Monoma keeps… touching people. Which, granted, is nothing new, it’s the way his quirk works after all. But lately he’s been doing it randomly, for what seems to be no reason. They’re not in class, they’re not in battle, half the time they’re not even together. Monoma will just slip up behind someone like a ghost or a wraith, wrapping cold fingers around their unsuspecting wrist and then nodding to himself while walking away again.
It's odd.
It’s maddening.
It’s… honestly, it’s worrying.
Monoma’s been sporting eyebags to rival Hitoshi’s own and the picture it all paints is rapidly coalescing into something Hitoshi can no longer ignore.
So he doesn’t.
He walks right up to where Monoma is currently curled up on one of the couches and yanks those goofy ass headphones right off his head.
“What’s up with you?”
“Whu?” Monoma blinks at him dumbly like he can’t believe Hitoshi is even talking to him. Which fair, Hitoshi has never been the one to initiate their conversations, usually it’s all he can do just to nod his head at the manic blond’s rapidfire cackling as he waits for an opportunity to make his escape.
“You,” Hitoshi repeats, shaking the pink kitty headphones once for emphasis. “You look dead on your feet man, just go to–”
The tinny music currently playing suddenly registers now that it’s close and Hitoshi pauses as he realizes that he vaguely recognizes it.
“Are you… Julie and the Phantoms? Really?”
“No-oh,” Monoma responds, the word dragged and slow as he sluggishly attempts to get his headphones back.
Hitoshi pulls it further out of reach and raises an eyebrow.
Monoma sags in defeat. “It’s not the whole album,” he mumbles. “Just the one song.”
Hitoshi’s eyebrow climbs higher. “What, like on repeat?”
Monoma nods.
“Dude!” Hitoshi splutters. “You’ve had these on for like three hours!”
“Yes,” Monoma nods, reaching for his music again. “And if all goes well I’ll continue for another five, now give it back!”
Hitoshi blinks even as he reflexively steps back to keep the thing out of reach. There’s a desperation to Monoma’s movements now, an almost anxious expression taking over his face, and it simply doesn’t make sense.
How can a single song be all that stands between Monoma and what’s looking to be an encroaching panic attack?
And welp.
Only one way to find out.
The headphones smush his hair down as he slips them on but Hitoshi doesn’t even care because the song is suddenly loud and all encompassing in his ears, the chorus and crescendo of Stand Tall ringing through him and sending chills down his spine just like the first time he’d heard it.
Whatever happens even if I’m the last standing
I’mma stand tall
I'mma stand tall
Whatever happens even when everything’s down
I’mma stand tall
I'mma stand–
That’s as far as Hitoshi gets before the headphones are yanked off his head, the background noise of the common room filtering back in as the music is cut off and, huh. Noise canceling on as well. Monoma must be deeper in the sauce than Hitoshi had first thought.
Speaking of which…
Monoma is now cradling the headphones to his chest like it’s his last fucking lifeline and Hitoshi some kind of sick fuck for having tried to keep it from him.
Damn.
Now Hitoshi feels like an asshole.
Still that’s nothing new for him so he shakes the implications off and pokes Monoma in the forehead instead.
The boy jolts at the touch, and Hitoshi gets to watch in real time as something tense in his shoulders seems to settle right along with the copy of his quirk.
The pieces click into place almost faster than Hitoshi can process.
Because…
Because…
More coffee plus visible eyebags equals not sleeping enough equals nightmares.
And the specific song Stand Tall with its chorus of being the last one standing combines with the fact that Monoma keeps copying quirks for no apparent reason to equal…
Nightmares about being alone on a battlefield.
Shit.
“Hey so…” The words don’t want to cooperate. Dammit this is why Hitoshi isn’t usually the one to do this shit for people. “Wanna,” he tries again, cringing internally and turning away to grip tight to the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Wanna talk about it?”
Monoma eyes him with visible distrust, which, yeah, Hitoshi did just steal his headphones.
“Not particularly…” he huffs.
“Cool cool,” Hitoshi nods, feigning nonchalance as he walks to the nearest couch and sprawls out on it. “How’s about I guess then. And you can tell me when I’m right.”
Monoma opens his mouth but Hitoshi quickly steamrolls right over him.
“You’re worried about the big battles coming up. All Might’s down and Endeavor almost lost to a Noumu, and if even he can’t do it what hope is there for the rest of us right?”
Hitoshi stares up at the ceiling, his words coming slower now that he’s realizing all of Monoma’s fears are not only valid but they apply to every single one of them here at UA. What can he even say to comfort him when even Hitoshi is starting to freak out?
“Um so…” He licks his lips and tries again. “It’s gotta be nerve wracking for you especially. Like, everyone else can train with their specific quirks and go into a fight knowing we can rely on them. With you… you gotta like. Hope and pray someone else has a quirk you can pick up on the fly and master enough to be successful with.”
“You don’t say,” Monoma snaps, his voice tight and his fists clenched around his headphones and his jaw tense and–
Oh.
Whoopsie, Hitoshi hadn’t meant to feed those fears, holy fuck but he sucks at this.
“What I mean to say is,” and he quickly sits up so he can meet Monoma’s gaze with all the seriousness he can muster. “You’ll be just fine.”
“Wow,” Monoma deadpans, dropping his headphones onto the couch so he can slow clap sarcastically. “Truly inspiring, I'm cured.”
Hitoshi rolls his eyes. “Look I’m doing my best alright? Just. You were right, it’s like the song. Whatever happens, stand tall and all that shit. Keep listening to it and you’ll be fine.”
The two of them simply stare at each other for a minute and then suddenly Monoma is laughing.
“Oh my god that was terrible, you are so bad at this!” he wheezes, fully bent over from the force of his cackling.
At any other time Hitoshi would be bristling with offense but honestly… It feels like a win that he’d managed to yank Monoma out of his own head enough for the blond to even be able to laugh.
“Yeah yeah, yuck it up,” he snarks back. “Just remember that even if you’re the last one standing it doesn’t mean you’re the only one there alright?”
With that he turns on his heel, leaving the common room at a rapid stride because dammit he’s hit his fucking quota for socializing today.
Still, as he lays down on his own bed all set to do his usual doomscrolling until he can manage to pass the fuck out, he finds himself searching for a certain song that’s ironically now stuck in his head.
***
Neito is fighting.
He can’t remember when it started, can’t imagine when it will end, all he knows is the here, the now, the pain, the rush, the fight.
The villains are faceless, shapeless in the inky black that is suddenly surrounding him, but still they don’t stop coming. It’s an endless stream of Noumu now, misshapen grotesque frankensteinian monsters pouring out of a shadowy gate and Neito reaches blindly for the heroes, grasping for a quirk, any quirk, quickly now before they—
His fingers find nothing.
He whirls around with his heart in his throat, and the sight of bodies littering the ground swims before his eyes and the sudden realization that he’s the last one standing rocks through him and–
A hand wraps around his ankle, a familiar quirk settling in his chest.
He doesn’t even need to look down to know that it’s Shinsou at his feet and the realization soars through him like a wave of new life.
He very well may be the last one standing but… that doesn’t mean he’s the only one still alive.