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“I didn't take you for a delinquent.”
Craning his neck upward, Oboro looks up from where he’s slumped against the headboard of the cot, offering a lithe smile. “C’mon, Shouta.”
At the edge of the mattress, there’s a dip as his friend settles at the edge. He dusts his knees off calmly, taking his time to dig his fingers into his lap.
However, Oboro’s always known that the particular crease beneath his lower eyelid signals a storm looming closer. The very eye of it.
While sure, he’d like to make a joke about Shouta’s quirk and him being the ‘eye’, that would mean having to laugh himself out of here before Recovery Girl -- or the punchline of the day himself -- take the liberty of whacking him with either a cane or a capture weapon, and laughter doesn’t seem like something he can just draw out nowadays.
Not like their other friend could.
Besides, with the nasty bruise on his throat from where that guy tried choking him out, it’s not like he could manage more than a minute doing so.
Fingers prodding against his temple sober him back within an instant.
His eyes dart around the room. They meet Shouta’s fairly quickly, given the infirmary isn’t too big. “What?”
“I said,” Shouta mutters, voice clearly exasperated, “You need to stop doing this. To yourself.”
He emphasizes the last two words like they’re gospel.
Huh, Oboro thinks. Shouta Aizawa, caring.
Slapping himself seems very appealing right now. Of course he cares, what the hell are you going on about?
A very faint image of the three of them crammed into a singular bathroom cubicle -- trying their best not to reveal themselves to the UA teachers passing on by, small snickers stored away in patchwork dreams and frustrated sighs as they tried comforting Hizashi -- pops up in his head just then. They’d gotten caught in the end, sure, and marched back to class once they’d assessed that, yes, their friend was fine, now, but those--
His chest feels awfully fond. And… tight.
“I’ll do what I want,” he finds himself saying, suddenly, like a preschooler declaring it’s her turn to use the crayons. “It’s not hurting anybody important.”
Shouta’s eyes flare wide. “Not hurting anybody important? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sidetrack, sidetrack, sidetrack.
Hoping it doesn’t look frantic, or, worse, desperate, he waves his hands back and forth.
“C’mon, Shouta,” he repeats, “All this?”
Oboro gestures down to himself. ‘It’s not that serious. This isn’t me being hurt, okay? I mean, you’d hate seeing the other guy, alright?”
Knowing his friend’s opinions on horror movies makes it strikingly evident that he probably would.
Briefly, Oboro considers whether he could risk another trip over to the guy’s dig, get a photo himself just to confirm.
It’s been a while since he’s seen Shouta scared by something stupid.
His jaw goes slack when familiar hands plant themselves roughly on his shoulders, a flinch working its way out of him within a matter of seconds.
“And that’s exactly my point, Shirakumo,” Shouta hisses out.
Oboro winces.
His friend hadn’t used that name since their work studies in second year.
“I shouldn’t have to SEE the other guy!”
Unbiddenly, like a complete idiot, he can feel his eyes tear up when the hold on him tightens. Oboro raises a hand to wipe at the corners of his right eye -- the scar tissue on his left is flaring up too much to even contemplate brushing against -- but his hand stops mid-way as Shouta lifts one from his shoulder to tug around his wrist.
“Shouta,” he says, throat dry.
When'd his wrist get small enough for that to happen?
Shouta looks at him questioningly.
He grits his teeth. “You're hurting me.”
Seeing the other flinch away is not something Oboro ever wants to claim enjoying, despite the relief flooding him as the firm grip on his shoulder slackens within an instant. Alongside it, his wrist is freed up. It paws uselessly at his eye as he turns his head round, watching idly as Shouta backs away in the corner of his vision.
Conversation over, he wonders?
Notably, Shouta does not continue on his mission to get away from Oboro.
Hard no, then.
Oboro wishes he could find humor in this. Confrontation is not something his friend’s accustomed to if it’s not necessary. And when Shouta does, when he gets his act together and just does it, it’s always something for them to pump their fists at, cheer for, because it’s always for them.
He’s not sure how to deal with the tables being turned on him.
“Sorry.”
Looking up, he cracks a smile, tilting his head. At least the angle’s right enough not to have Recovery Girl come running back in. “All good.”
Maybe the sound of Shouta scoffing is just another noise he’ll have to get used to; just like the silence that filled the space between them nowadays -- before Oboro got his act together, made things more 'party-rocking' as Hizashi would call it -- perhaps it would be something to shake hands with.
Shouta shakes his head. “Stop that.”
“Huh?”
“I’m sorry for earlier,” and wow, the speed that Oboro’s mouth drops open should be studied. Is that Shouta apologizing? Twice? In one singular day? “But the look on your face looked… familiar.”
Blonde hair and green eyes chant enticingly from the corner, slipping out of his vision before both of his pupils can even lock onto it.
This can’t be what he thinks it is. The conversation he thinks they’re going to have.
When Shouta doesn’t elaborate, he leans forward, a hollow chuckle on his throat. “I know my wicked, boyish charm--”
‘They’ll all be super jealous of my boyish charm when we get that agency, yo!’
Sputtering off into a cough, he clears his throat easily, even as a hand reaches out for him, the other's rolling eyes dropped mid way in some mocking of concern.
He waves it off.
“-- is quite recognizable from a distance,” he continues, tone meager, “But, that’s no reason to demonstrate your strength on me. I know you’re stupidly strong, Shou--
Catching himself, he corrects courses, "--Aizawa. It's impressive, really. I've always thought you could do anything you set your mind to."
'You can do it, Shouta! Come on, Shouta!'
Gritting his teeth, determination laced into the sleeves of his jumpsuit at hearing Oboro's words, Shouta unloops his capture scarf to jump onto the villain.
Hair floating, his eyes widen as Erasure activates, kind yellow warping the eyes slick with something wet; whether it's from the downpour or his tears remains uncertain.
It can't end here, is all he knows.
It doesn't have to end here.
Despite the faint, unrecognizable look that flashes through the other’s eyes, whatever’s running through Shouta’s head is not enough to halt him from propelling forward. He shakes his head.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, quiet.
Quiet's not so far from Shouta's norm to be concerning. But his voice being this low's a bit worrying, and Oboro's not dumb enough to dispel doubt this easily.
Oboro leans back into the headboard once more. Relishing the pillows, even in the state of bare-bones as they are, he adjusts his feet away from Shouta as he lays back. He plops his hands into his lap, lacing them together.
“What’d you mean, then?”
Shouta seems to... hesitate. Interesting. "You looked like me.”
“Like you?” he prods.
“In first year,” Shouta says, as if that explains anything at all. “You looked…”
In the same way a nun would, despite the suddenly tight feeling constricting his lungs, Oboro waits patiently for his friend to elaborate.
Shouta bites his lower lip.
He watches, curiously, as a sliver of blood ticks out from beneath the broken skin.
Oboro lifts a hand to cup his mouth.
“You looked like you were going to disappear.”
—
“Hey, could I talk to you about something?”
Wonderfully, green eyes lift themselves up to meet blue, red spirals poking out from beneath his friend’s sunglasses.
Oboro lets himself shudder an easy breath. At least something’s normal around here. The sweat draped across his back makes him feel like a sea king.
Grinning, he goes, trying to be light, “Is it cool if I bring someone over for lunch today? I know it’s usually just the two of us, but I figured we could do with a new face for a change!”
He should’ve just floated up there and back with a cloud. Tanaka being such a stickler for the rules of quirk-use was a horrible influence on him.
Hizashi’s eyes glint excitedly. “Tensei coming over today?”
While their speedy friend was busy attending to his duties in 1-B, he did sometimes make time to come over to bother them with lunch.
On occasion, he even brought some particularly nice bentos with him; the sheer quality of them did make them question whether they had a drug-dealer for a friend, or just some rich snooze, but they were pleasant anyways. Who’d object to good food?
“Nah,” he says. Placing a hand on his hip, he turns away, looking back to where he’d just run from the roof. “Just somebody who I thought could use some cheering up.”
Unsurprisingly, Hizashi has the nerve to pout. Preparing for his Present Mic persona in the future? Probably. “Calling in reinforcements? How unlike you.’
The blond nudges a shoulder against Oboro’s. “This guy must be real special, huh?”
Whipping around, the black bangs framing the other teenager’s face move jitteringly in the wind, snapping just enough in place to disguise the hint of yellow from poking out beneath his dark irises.
Vaguely, Oboro wants to ask what his quirk is, but thinks better on it. Maybe when the guy’s feet are safely on the ground, the question could pop out naturally. Especially when they're faced away from a ledge.
“If you’re thinking you can stop me from just looking off a roof,” the teenager scoffs, “You’re sorely mistaken. It’s not what it looks like, so don’t bother me. You won’t get much out of me.”
“I know,” Oboro snorts. The other hand reaches behind him to rub at his neck-- a motion he regrets instantly, from the sweat that pools onto his palms the moment it makes contact.
Looking right at Hizashi, a small smile plants itself on his lips. “Super special.”
His mood’s just too good to even acknowledge Hizashi’s coughed out chuckle of ‘pet project’.
—
Hizashi would find out just how special he was that very same lunch. Pet project was an understatement.
Oboro had practically screamed his heart and lungs out when some sense had finally been knocked into those two after a while of watching them teeter and tiptoe around each other. He's pretty sure he'd knocked Hizashi's whole world apart by proving he had a better lung capacity than the guy with the voice quirk.
Honestly, though, he’s just glad the confession hadn’t been too cliche.
Like the kind you'd find in those shows.
Sakura cherries and a nice breeze? Absolutely not!
To even think about it was plain gross. Who would he even place in the role of the girl from those trashy rom-com animes? Both of them were guys, clear-cut as night and day, and there was just no comparing them. Imagining Shouta even blushing, in any capacity, was just--
Very cute to imagine, actually. But mostly because it was Shouta.
No, the confession had happened by complete accident. Semantics? Who cares? He’d find out the bare-bone details when either Hizashi or Shouta finally popped The Question a few years down the line, and he’d-- hopefully, if Kayama somehow didn’t take up both of their underbuddy roles with her brilliance -- be their best man.
There’s no way they wouldn’t.
—
Shouta’s voice fades in and out, like the flickering light from a lighthouse on a windswept night, horizon peeking out tauntingly in the distance.
He’s not sure where the poetry comes from, but it sure helps distract from the real deal.
“I don’t want to lose another-- friend.”
Unfortunately, no form of poetry's well versed enough to block that out.
The words chosen are ironic enough to nearly make him snort. He’s well aware the particular title of ‘friend’ doesn’t suit right with anyone. And if it does, it’s not like he’s being much of a good one at the moment, gaze spanning down to stare blankly at the yellow bruises forming on his knuckles.
In Hizashi’s case, he--
Even if it hurts, a voice interrupts, it’s not like it’ll matter. Recovery Girl’s kiss later will make the sight a blip later.
“You won’t lose me,” he offers, quite uselessly.
After a few moments of utter, miserable silence, it’s easy to think that Shouta’s just ignoring him.
He startles when the other’s hand pats his knee.
“Fine,” Shouta declares. His voice is ruggedly low as he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. The urge to wrap his fingers around his friend’s throat to push it back into place is disturbingly fresh. “Fine,” he repeats.
“Have it your way,” his friend continues.
That seems to be the end of it. Then the pause that lingers is just long enough to quell that lovely idea down.
“But don’t do it again, alright?”
He blinks. “What?”
Shouta ‘I-don’t-do-things-I-don’t-want-to’ Aizawa lifts his other hand up to his ear, thumb and pinky finger sticking out as the other three fingers fold in on themselves, mimicking a phone call. “Call me if you feel like sparring next time.”
Before he can interject, ask why, exactly, would they spar, or why Shouta would waste his time on him, Shouta reads his mind and adds, “To work your anger out more productively.”
His mouth juts open.
“I wasn’t angry,” Oboro comments, blue eyes squinting.
If it weren’t impossible, with the hair down and all, he’d say that yellow, cat-like slits had begun to form in his friend’s eyes. Glowing as they observed him.
“I’m going to ignore that,” a statement to which he nearly loses his composure at, “Because I don’t like calling out people who don’t know they’re lying.”
Pointedly, Oboro does not grace that loaded cesspool with a response.
"We're due to graduate in a few months," Shouta tacks on, aimlessly. That statement in of itself is wrong; Shouta is due to graduate in a few months. Oboro will have to play catch-up for a little while. Like a lost puppy. "Don't let your little squabbles take that away from you."
His finger curves in and out. Little squabbles, huh.
"Yeah," he chuckles. Edges sharp, the undernails still coated with that university student's blood, he curls it experimentally, as if discovering something new. "Yeah. I'll try and stop."
Later on, when Recovery Girl presses a kiss or two onto his skin to heal his bruises, he’ll be rubbing at his wrists like they’re still there.
He’ll wonder if Shouta was right.
Maybe he’ll stop picking fights with idiots for a while; and, maybe, he’ll stop being one of them.
The black eye he’ll be treated to a week from then will point and laugh.
