Chapter Text
For the first time in a long time, Eijirou simply moves.
He was supposed to be on the train home, looking forward to a three day weekend. Instead, he’s getting sucker punched by some asshole who decided to take his revenge on the workday rush home…or something. Maybe his day sucked, too. Still, Eijirou would argue this is excessive.
The young woman he jumped in front of screams when his head reels back, hardening rippling in small cracks across his jaw. His eyes slowly peek open after the impact as he shakes the radiating pain away, needing a moment to find his bearings. He takes another punch to the gut and it feels like he’s barreling down a tall rollercoaster, breath lost to the wind as he crashes to the ground.
Eijirou heaves in a shuddering breath as his eyes snap open to sunlight. A light wind blows across his face, kicking up dirt into his eyes as he stares sideways at the world. The street is empty…eerie. Thick clouds slowly drift past, playing a game of peek-a-boo with the setting sun. His palms are scraped from his fall, little bits of gravel have lodged their way in and it stings when he puts weight on them. Just as he pushes himself onto his feet, he’s once again doubling over as a sharp pain flares from his side.
He hears a voice yelling something at him, muffled by the ringing in his ears.
He doesn’t know when he got outside—or how he got outside. He’s not even sure where he is, exactly. He was heading home, wasn't he? His vision swims with the pain, with the displacement, with the cold. The ground feels like it’s tilting, and no matter how hard he shakes his head, he can’t clear the dizziness that clouds his mind.
He’s not sure how long it takes or how long he’s laid there, but soon the vertigo transforms into a steady wave, and the blood that pools from his gut warms him. The ringing in his ears quiets to a pleasant hum and the shouting fades to rumbling earth.
Clarity comes slow, so does silence, and then…
He shuts his eyes to the wind and lets the cool evening consume him.
He figures it’s about right that death is a little contradictory. That the coolness of spring warms him in a way it hasn’t before. He can pinpoint each waning ray of sun that hits his skin, feel its heat bubble and break the chill in patches.
He should’ve been home by now, sitting on the stool by his stove watching water boil with the evening news running in the background. He could’ve been in lounge-wear already, ready to tuck into the couch with dinner and finish the next volume of Slam Dunk on his shelf. He wanted to sleep in, had a full day of lazing around the house planned for tomorrow, to shut his phone off and breathe.
He should’ve kept to himself, he thinks, as his second attempt to get up fails and his arms give out, dropping hard to the ground again. Maybe this time he actually should have kept to himself. He’s not a hero. He can’t play pretend, putting his life at risk like this. Pretend is what gets people killed.
Pressure pushes his body further into the concrete, his lungs ache with the need to breathe. A boot twists into his back as he realises he’s not alone, that there actually is someone causing the pain, that it’s not just whatever lingered from the train station. How did he ever think he could do this?
He gasps when the weight doubles. He knows he’s going to die here, he's sure of it. Someone is yelling at him and he still can’t understand a word. His hands sting, and the more he fights to get up, the more they bleed. Black spots dance across his vision and he knows this is it. His cowardice life cut short the moment he finds it in himself to be brave.
The weight on his back disappears as a series of loud blasts crackle in his ear, reverberate against his chest, heat the back of his neck. It’s jarring how distinct the noise sounds, like the ringing of his ears knew it couldn’t compete with the pressure. He listens as they keep coming, counts them in an effort to keep his head. Somewhere between the seventh and eighth, or maybe the sixteenth, they start to sound more shrill. Short. Rhythmic.
For the second time today, Eijirou finds himself somewhere new with no memory of how he got there.
Light filters through the window, curtains pulled to the side as the golden sun sets. The blinds cast tall shadows across the bed, illuminating bleach white bed sheets and tangled wires, old machinery and a work-worn face settled next to him. His body aches, and when he shifts to get more comfortable, a dull pain flares up his side.
The hospital is cold, and the gown he’s in doesn’t help much—thin and scratchy and barely even covering his ass.
He double-takes the person at his bedside, and he needs a moment to accept that it’s Dynamight, as in: Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, hunched over the side of the mattress in deep sleep.
He looks exhausted. His brow is furrowed in a tight crease, dirt smeared across his cheek, his hair messy. Even in sleep, his hand is gripped firmly onto the hospital sheets—and inadvertently, Eijirou’s gown, too. He wouldn’t take Dynamight for an easy sleeper, but this seems extreme.
He doesn’t have much time to wonder if he’s dying as the door to his room opens. Nothing could beat the fear induced by waking up next to Dynamight, but the two pros walking into his room sure give a run for his money.
Chargebolt steps in first, holding a cup of steaming coffee and talking over his shoulder to Pinky, who’s got a tray of food in her hands. She snaps her jaw shut and Chargebolt turns, whatever he wanted to say gets abruptly cut short when he sees Eijirou awake.
He closes his eyes tight, he just needs a moment, maybe a pinch to the leg, too. He's had a stressful week, he reasons, this must be some kind of fever dream.
When he looks up again, Chargebolt has left, but Pinky is walking towards the bed.
"Oh, thank god," she says. Her voice is soft, mindful of Dynamight’s slumber. "You really scared us, dude. That last guy got you good. Took you out for a couple days, too."
She must be talking about the station. Or, maybe when he was outside? How did he get outside, again? It was before the train, it had to be. He must not have made it to the station, then. Got attacked outside, first.
"Ah—sorry." His voice is hoarse, his throat scratchy and dry.
She huffs a laugh as if he’s being ridiculous, but still, she reaches for a cup of water.
"I wasn’t even on call, and yet," she shakes her head, smiling, "can’t help being in the right place at the right time with me." He takes the small cup, finishing it in a few gulps. His head lulls back against the pillow.
"You got lucky I was craving chicken. Blasty’s the one that actually saved you, like always. I just got you to the ambulance." She rolls her eyes, glancing at Dynamight.
He mourns his three day weekend as her words wash over him. He’ll have to call his boss, let him know he’s been hospitalized. Eijirou doesn’t even know what day it is.
"I’ll have to call out…" he mumbles.
Pinky snorts. "No duh. You’re definitely not going back for at least a week, I think Bakugou would actually kill you first."
Bakugou…Bakugou is Dynamight. What did he do to deserve the wrath of Dynamight?
When he tries to remember what happened, everything comes back fuzzy. The only thing stark in his mind remains a phantom pain in his side. Did he get in the way of the heroes? Got hit by the villain’s quirk, or something. Or, maybe he accidentally hurt someone…maybe it’s his fault it happened in the first place. Quirks like that exist, right? Make people do things they wouldn't normally? Whatever the case is, what happened outside the station must have been serious to have three highly ranked pro heroes as his watchmen.
He averts his eyes, sinking further into the flattened pillow, turning his attention to the faded buttons lining the bedrail. The movement makes his head spin, the bed feels like it’s tilting. Nauseated, he fists the thin hospital sheet in his hands, trying to find an anchor.
It takes a while for him to ask, shame eating him alive as he tries to focus on settling his nerves. "‘M I in trouble?"
"What?" He hears Pinky take a step forward. "Eijirou, I was just joking."
His stomach turns. Of course she remembers him. He’s barely changed since middle school and laying in a hospital bed hooked up to a million machines while Ashido Mina stands over him unscathed and in uniform really makes their differences all the more obvious.
"Eijirou…" he wheezes, "‘M dying then, huh?" Because there’s no other reason she would be here. They’re not friends. He’s just somebody in her junior high yearbook, somebody she saved, somebody she has a duty to.
Silence blankets the room and it only serves to confirm Eijirou’s suspicions. Pinky stands frozen by the side of his bed. Dynamight is still fast asleep next to him. The beep of his heart monitor syncs with the ringing in his ears, only worsening his throbbing headache that makes the lights too bright and his vision swim.
The door swings open. Chargebolt rushes back in with a nurse in tow. The mattress shifts as Dynamight abruptly sits up, shaking himself awake. It doesn't take long before he's staring at Eijirou, his brow furrowed, a sour downturn to his mouth, something cold.
Everything passes by in a blur. The nurse introduces herself but her name still escapes him. He's asked how he feels, what his name is and what year it is, where it still hurts. She pushes something through his IV and the dizziness comes back tenfold. He hears the others talking with the nurse, he can tell they're concerned. Dynamight stays an imposing figure next to him, though, still staring.
The nurse asks him about what he remembers, patiently waits as he thinks. It's fuzzy. It's been fuzzy since he woke up.
"I had a three day weekend…
"I was in the station…
"Someone punched me, I think. Or, maybe I fell…
"I don't know…"
Chargebolt and Pinky exchange a look. The nurse just nods.
"You're experiencing some minor memory loss after sustaining a head injury. The good news is, cases like these usually last twenty-four hours or less, the bad news is we're gonna keep you under observation until tomorrow due to your other injuries." She turns to address the others in the room.
"I understand this can be worrisome, confusion is typical, but it's a good sign he's alert. He probably won't remember his fight in its entirety—or most of this hospital stay. Things should even out within the day, though, and new memories will start to stick."
"Is it normal for something like that to fabricate memories?" Chargebolt asks, stepping closer to the bed. The nurse turns to him, her brow furrowed.
"It depends. Sometimes confabulation can occur, especially if the brain was hung up on some idea prior to the injury."
Chargebolt turns to face him. "You have a three day weekend?"
Eijirou nods.
Dynamight breaks his gaze and addresses the nurse directly. "His schedule's packed until next Tuesday."
"Well, maybe taking this break to heal will be good for him."
"He wasn't in a station, he was on a patrol route." Dynamight's voice is clipped.
The nurse doesn't sound any kinder, "He was near the station. It very well could have been overwork, heroics is stressful. I see it nearly everyday, people dreaming about their next vacation. This is all very run of the mill."
He can't keep up with the back and forth, it all washes over him as the tension in the room climbs higher.
"Blasty…he's gonna be fine in a few days, if the doctors say this is typical, then there's nothing we can do but wait."
"He's sustained worse than this. It shouldn't be this severe."
"That's nonapplicable. One stray hit can cause irreversible damage, no matter how small it may seem. As heroes, I'd hope you understand that risk."
Pinky clears her throat. Her voice hesitant when she speaks, "He doesn't seem to recognize me."
That silences the room. Eijirou's attention snaps back to the people around him. Embarrassment floods his cheeks to see everyone's eyes on him.
"Of course I recognize you," he sputters, not wanting to seem like he isn't eternally grateful they saved his life, no matter how bad his outlook may be. "You're all very active heroes. Who would I be if I didn't know who patrolled my neighborhood streets?" He tries to laugh, at least to ease the tension a little, but the injury to his side hurts and it devolves into a pained grunt.
The heroes all turn to the nurse, of whom, Eijirou really should learn her name. It's the least he could do since he's causing her so much grief. Pinky just aggressively gestures to him, her eyes wide.
"He's known us for over a decade. Could something like that cause him to forget who we are?"
"It shouldn't…" The nurse starts, but Chargebolt gasps, interrupting her.
"Do you think it's a quirk?" he suggests, turning to face Dynamight. "We've been watching a guy that has memory altering abilities. He could've been in the group you were fighting. Maybe this was an attempt to get Kirishima off the field."
Dynamight nods. "It's a possibility."
"I'll send in a request with the station, then. Once we get reports back, we'll know how to reverse it, right?"
So it was a quirk. He was right, then—at least somewhat. But…all this talk about patrol routes and police reports, being targeted to get him off the field. Is what he thinks they're saying true?
Dynamight's car is nice. Like, nice nice. It's painted black, with a sleek polish shiny enough to reflect the bags under his eyes. The door opens to expensive, cushy leather seats that are supposedly heated. The engine is smooth, a low purr when idle but indistinguishable on the road, especially with the radio playing. It feels too luxurious for someone like him to be in.
Eijirou looks out the window, watching familiar buildings pass by as they leave the hospital. He wishes Dynamight was giving him a ride back to his apartment. He really wants to crash in his bed, wiggle under the safety of his blankets, and forget all about this accident. But, apparently that's not possible, because apparently his apartment isn't real. None of his memories are.
It doesn't make sense to him.
He knew some pretty crazy quirks existed out there, knew that some were dangerous, too. Theoretically, he knew that at least someone had to have a memory altering quirk. But, it feels so…
It feels wrong. To think that everything in his life is fake; his home, his education, his coworkers, and that stupid job he's overqualified and underpaid for. That he's actually friends with the people who were in his hospital room, a pro hero just like them, and he's established his own agency, too. That's what Dynamight said when he brought up the fact that Eijirou wasn't going back to work anytime soon. In some ways, the break feels relieving. He has no idea how to be a hero.
He is a hero. Somehow.
It was a pipe dream in middle school, he never even applied to UA, and he let the idea go by the time his mom suggested he follow in his father's footsteps. Computer engineering was interesting enough. He liked to tinker with spare parts. It helped that his friends wanted to go to a vocational high school, too. He wouldn't have to find a new study group if they all went together.
Or…well. He did go to UA, didn't he?
It's hard to keep track of everything. He's unsure of where the line gets drawn, how much of his life really happened. Of course, he went to middle school and he must've had friends. Was it even true he and Pinky were in the same district? There had to be some merit to his memories, if they knew each other for real.
The heroes—his friends—didn't talk to him much in the hospital about who he was. They seemed more concerned with finding the villain who caused this first. He overheard Dynamight talking to someone before he was discharged, though. An unfamiliar voice said something about possibly jogging his memory, that there was no harm in getting a little nostalgic even if it didn't help.
Dynamight brings him to his house. It's just as nice as his car, and it's peaceful in the suburbs, he even has a little garden right out front.
Eijirou understands it's better if he stays with one of the heroes. If he really is a pro—and he definitely doesn't remember how to be one—it's safer to be with someone who does. It seems Dynamight was the only one to volunteer when the nurse brought up who would accompany him after discharge. Pinky and Chargebolt both looked to him first.
It's still a bit frightening. He knows they're his friends, and they've all been nothing but kind to him. But, he just remembers Dynamight as incredibly harsh, frequently volatile, and definitely with a nasty bite. The whole car ride he'd been quiet, though. And in Eijirou's hospital room, too. He let Chargebolt and Pinky take the lead, opting to sit at his bedside and keep to himself. Cellophane even dropped by for a quick check, bringing a change of clothes for Dynamight. Chargebolt left with him, but Pinky stayed for a few hours longer before she also had to go. It took until the sun had set for Dynamight to pack his things, quietly muttering he'd be back in the afternoon to bring him home.
Dynamight sets his keys in a bowl by the door, takes off his shoes, and walks further into the house, motioning for Eijirou to follow. The living room is cozy, a little cluttered but not too messy. The low table has a few books, a half empty glass sitting on a coaster, a couple pillows surrounding it that look like they belong to the couch—of which, a neatly folded blanket is draped over the back. There are bookshelves that line the far wall, with a myriad of textbooks and novels, manga, action figures, and photographs. Lots of framed photographs.
Eijirou is shocked when he gets closer. Is that what he looks like? There's a group photo with everyone who visited him in a bar. He recognizes a few other heroes in it, too; Earphone Jack, Sun Eater, Uravity. A man with shaggy purple hair. Someone who looks vaguely familiar. And then, him.
His hair is red.
It's gelled to hell and back.
He's still got that scar over his right eyelid.
He looks a little like his middle school idol. Which would be ridiculous. Comparing himself to someone with such a strong spirit. He'd be nothing but a lame imitation, if that were the case. He gave that up years ago.
So, his hair's red, and he looks bigger, too...which makes sense, of course he works out. He's a hero, he needs to be strong to save people. Is that really what he looks like?
Dynamight clears his throat. Eijirou turns to face him. He's standing across the living room, almost in the kitchen, shifting from one foot to the other, all the while staring at Eijirou like he doesn't know what to do with him.
Eijirou doesn't know how to break the tension.
"I have a morning patrol tomorrow," he says.
Eijirou nods.
"I'll get something for you to change into. You can take the guest room, it's got its own bathroom with a shower." He gestures down the hallway. "The towels are in the linen closet.
"Anything in the fridge is free game, don't worry about dishes or cleaning up or anything. I'll get back sometime in the afternoon, and we can talk more, then. Maybe I'll have some news about whoever tagged you, if the damn station does its job."
Eijirou hums, he doesn't know what else to say. Deep in his heart, he hopes this is all a bad dream, that he'll wake up to his alarm clock bright and early and put all of this behind him. That he can laugh with his coworkers about it—imagine him, best friends with some of the greatest working heroes in their prefecture.
Dynamight's guest bed is cold. He feels guilty messing up the crisp sheets, pulling them out from where they're tightly tucked in. The duvet wrinkles as he crawls in, pillows once perfectly aligned skew as he settles. He feels like an intruder in this body, over whoever lived this life before he did. He wonders if the others think the same.