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arvandus · 4 years

Text

Touch (Pt. 8)

Pairing: Dabi x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: 18+ only please! Drug abuse/withdrawal, adult language/themes, heavy angst, past trauma/abuse, anxiety/panic attacks, PTSD, fluff, pining, slow burn, eventual emotional SMUT. *please pay attention to the chapter tags as these warnings will apply at different times*

Synopsis: When you first joined the LOV to lend your healing quirk, Dabi terrified you. Not interested in attachments, he wanted to keep it that way. That is, until he needs your help. (Slow burn, soft Dabi).

Chapter warning: Another long chapter, clocking in at 10k words and 27 pages. First half is a bit heavy, so... Trigger warnings: physical abuse, verbal abuse, childhood trauma flashbacks

Chapter Songs: When The Truth Hunts You Down by Sam Tinnesz/Make It Rain by Ed Sheeran

Part 1 Part 7

Artwork credit to @hellowon31 on Twitter (https://twitter.com/hellowon31)

Part 8 - Memories

Dabi stared at his desk, now positioned in front of his bedroom door. He did it as soon as he’d returned to his room and swallowed the pills you had given him. He wasn’t sure what to expect for the evening, but whatever happened, he wanted to make it through it without leaving his room.

That was a decision he had made before he even showed up at your door with dinner, as evidenced by the plastic bags currently occupying the surface of his makeshift barricade. Ramen wasn’t the only thing he’d gotten while he was out. The bags were filled with a variety of items - more snacks, a pack of cigarettes, electrolyte drinks, over the counter medicines. Anything and everything he could think of was in those bags, the collection curated from multiple experiences of past detoxes. Granted, this wasn’t a full detox, but that just made it that much harder to anticipate what exactly his experience was going to be.

Next to the lineup of bags was a bottle of high-end whiskey and a far less fancy plastic cup. That part wasn’t exactly planned… it was a last-minute decision, swiped from the bar downstairs after he’d returned from his shopping spree. He knew you wouldn’t be happy about it; no doubt you’d grill him on the risks of mixing alcohol and drugs. But it was his safety net without the risk of leaving his room in search of something stronger.

The night dragged by slowly, painfully. Every inch of Dabi was restless and aching. His scarred legs screamed a discordant song through his veins, muffled under the influence of the pills you had given him. The aches he still felt were just annoying enough to make sleep impossible, despite the exhaustion that pulled at him. There was no comfortable position, nothing to ease the physical stress.

Still, the pain was bearable. Your treatment was working.

It had its limits, though. Despite the pills you’d given him, he was still functioning on an opioid withdrawal. A jittery energy consumed him, forcing his leg to beat like a jackhammer, while his mind raced. Dabi could never stay in one spot for long, switching between his bed to his desk chair, to his bed again. Sitting. Lying down. Standing. Sitting again. It hadn’t taken him long to break into his cigarettes, dragging long puffs into his lungs to ease his tattered nerves. It helped to ease the physical distress, but his mind continued to jump from thought to thought, no longer encumbered by a drug-filled haze.

The headache relief you’d provided him was proving to be a double-edged sword, allowing his sporadic thoughts to come through clearer without the sharp, throbbing ache as a distraction. Your conversation hung over Dabi like a vengeful ghost. He tried to run from it, distracting himself with various forms of entertainment on his phone. Music videos, books, TV shows, memes…

Did you like memes? Of course, you did. Who didn’t?

Damn it, there you were again, in his brain.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about you.

But he did anyway. Obsessively.

It wasn’t long before Dabi was sitting on his bed, his phone forgotten in his hand while his mind turned over every nuance of what was said, every detail of body language. It honed in on the fear in your eyes, the way you had wrapped your arms around yourself, the way you had frozen against his harsh tone. His mind chewed on it like a dog with a bone, a dog he couldn’t fucking train.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t fucking matter.

So, you were scared of him. That was to be expected. It wasn’t like he needed you to like him. This was all temporary anyway.

So, he had grabbed you. Big deal. It wasn’t like he really hurt you, right? It could have been so much worse.

The thoughts the did little to comfort him, his new-found conscience finding little of value in his weak excuses. The guilt sat in him like a stone, too heavy for him to move.

It mattered. It mattered a lot.

And he hated it.

Dabi still couldn’t remember actually grabbing you, but his mind filled in the blank space regardless, taking what he could remember and embellishing it into a brightly colored oil painting. It hung front and center in the castle of his mind, joining the tapestry of memories that wrapped around Dabi like a cage. And from it, it forced him to follow the threads of his life, drawing parallels to past wrongs, to things said and things done…

…To things better left buried.

“I hate you.”

The words echoed in Dabi’s mind, an old memory with his voice attached. Young, hot-headed, angry. He closed his eyes tight, resting the bridge of his nose on his interlaced fingers as he tried not to remember. He didn’t want to remember. But his mind was freed now, healing from the poison he’d been feeding himself for years, and it didn’t give a fuck what he wanted or didn’t want.

“This is all your fault.”

So, this is where his mind wanted to start first. He knew this memory, and he knew where it would eventually lead.

The memory came into focus with such clarity that it was as if he were there again. He could see her, clear as if she were there in person, white hair framing broken eyes as wet tears trailed down her hollow, pale cheeks. He could see himself too, younger, around thirteen years old, with red, wild hair like his father, his blue eyes filled with angry tears.

He watched, a prisoner in his own mind, as the memory unfolded before him.

His head hung low as his eyes stared ahead of himself, unfocused. Why? Why was this happening to him? His father’s harsh words wrapped around him like chains, restricting him, choking him, forcing him into submission.

‘YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A FAILED EXPERIMENT.’

Why was he cast aside so easily, as if he didn’t MATTER?

His father promised. He PROMISED that he’d help him become a hero. He’d trained every day, no matter how hard his father pushed him, no matter how much his quirk burned him. His father had called it the cost of greatness. It was all meant to mold him, to beat the weakness out of him and make him stronger, to prepare him for the greatest test of his life, the UA entrance exams. It was the ONLY path to becoming a pro hero. Not just any pro hero, but the BEST. His father insisted on it.

But now, with less than a year before he would apply, his father abandoned him.

“I tried so hard, mom. I did everything he ever asked, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he… he…”

His mother wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. “I’m so sorry Touya.”

His voice shook with the force of suppressed sobs. “If I’d been strong enough… if I was more like him, then maybe he’d have been proud of me. Maybe… maybe he would have wanted me.”

“Touya…” his mother whispered consolingly.

He stared at his bandaged hands, watching through blurred vision as his tears broke free and fell onto the strips of cloth. They soaked in, exposing the red blood beneath. He stared at it.

His fathers voice echoed in his mind. ‘You’re WEAK! Just like your mother!’

Tainted blood.

HER blood.

His father was right.

Touya’s pain transformed into anger. “This is all your fault.” He whispered.

Her embrace vanished as his words smacked her. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “What…?”

“This is all your fault!” He repeated, pinning his angry eyes on her tear-filled ones. “I HATE YOU!”

Dabi rubbed at the bridge of his nose, unable to get his mother’s facial expression out of his head. He had been such an idiot. A young, stupid kid. He’d destroyed her with those words. Maybe… maybe that was the start. The first crack in her mental fragility.

Her face faded away, and now he was in an office. His father’s office.

“I’m going to apply to UA.” He announced.

His father looked up at him from the newspaper he was reading. “No you’re not. I forbid it.”

“You may have given up on me, but I haven’t.” Touya said stubbornly.

Enji put the newspaper down. “If I thought you were capable of getting into UA, then we would be training right now instead of having this conversation.”

“But dad-“

“I FORBID IT!” He shouted as orange flames erupted along his face and shoulders. “I’ll not have you bring shame on the Todoroki name all for a childish dream.”

“It’s NOT a childish dream!” Touya shouted.

Dabi scoffed at the memory, noting his father’s hypocrisy about “childish dreams.” He knew the rest of this story… He’d applied behind his father’s back and failed the exam. His father was furious.

As if summoned, the memory burst forth, tying together with the previous.

He lay in the hospital bed at the UA Health Center, wrapped in bandages, nursing his failure. He’d lost control of his emotions during the exam, consumed by anger and a desperate desire to prove his father wrong. In turn, he lost control of his quirk. Not only had he injured himself with his recklessness, but he’d accidentally injured two other applicants with his wild flames – an automatic disqualification.

The school nurse, Recovery Girl, was treating the other’s wounds first, and then she would treat his.

Or so he thought.

Just as she was about to use her quirk to rapidly heal some of his injuries, his father burst through the door in a cloud of barely contained rage.

“Don’t treat him.” He ordered.

“Excuse me?” She replied.

Touya stared at his father, realization starting to dawn on him. He wouldn’t...

Enji narrowed his eyes. “I said don’t treat him.”

“But Mr. Todoroki, if I don’t use my quirk to help him then he’ll be left with scars. Worse than the ones he already has.”

“I know.”

“It will take him many weeks to heal. He may feel pain for the rest of his life.”

“He must suffer the consequences of his actions.”

“But sir, if I may-“

“You may not!”

“…very well, sir.” She mumbled. She left the room, muttering her disapproval under her breath.

After she was gone, a cold fear gripped Touya as his father stared at him with fury in his eyes. He waited for his father’s barrage of insults and accusations, waited for the lecturing on family honor and being a ‘man.’

But the attacks never came. Instead, his father cooled his expression, fixing him with a cold, emotionless glare. “You brought this on yourself.” He turned on his heel to leave, but paused to glance at him over his shoulder. “Remember this day, Touya.” Then he left.

Tears streaked down Touya’s face as he sobbed alone. No one could hear him. No one came.

Dabi stood up and made his way to his desk, pulling out another cigarette before sitting down in the metal chair. He lit the cigarette with the blue flame dancing on his finger and took a long drag of it as his free hand slowly spun the whiskey bottle in circles in front of him.

He didn’t want to think about this. Any of this. There was no fucking point to it, nothing to be gained. It only brought up the same pain he’d lived with for years, the pain he’d learned to ignore in place of vengeance.

He wanted to drink the entire bottle. He wanted to move his desk aside and seek you out, have you turn off his emotions like you’d done before. He could do it… the desk wasn’t really going to stop him.

But it served as a reminder. A reminder of what he had committed himself to. Why did he decide to go through with this? What the hell was he thinking?

He thought of you. He thought of the past few days. And once again, he was back on his thread of memories, following the tapestry down to its source.

The source of what?

He wasn’t sure. But it was as if someone had strapped him down and was forcing his eyes open. It wouldn’t stop. His thoughts continued unfettered, memories organizing with a clarity he hadn’t felt in years.

Touya sat alone in his room watching the rain pour outside as he nursed a black eye. Outside his second-story window, his father trained in the courtyard with his youngest brother. His quirk had manifested earlier that day – a perfect combination of fire and ice. Enji had been ecstatic.

Touya had punched the wall in anger.

Now he sat here, alone, watching his father train his replacement.

His replacement.

No wonder his father had abandoned him when Shouto was born. He was placing all of his chips on him once he realized that Touya’s body would never be able to handle his quirk.

A knock at the door interrupted his brooding, and his mother stepped in, disappointment already on her face.

“I heard you got in another fight today.” She said, as she closed the door behind her.

“They were picking on Natsuo.” He said. “I couldn’t just let that happen.”

“They’re talking about expelling you.”

He looked away from her, his eyes looking back out the window. “So what.” He replied. If anything, he welcomed it. Anything to thwart his father’s plans of making him go to college and get a business degree, only to work under his father’s thumb at his agency for the rest of his life.

“You can’t keep doing this, Touya.” She said, concern heavy in her voice.

“Doing what?” He looked back at her.

“Destroying your life like this.”

He glared at her accusation. “I didn’t destroy my life.” He looked away, watching the courtyard again. “He did.”

His mother walked over to join him at the window. A gust of wind blasted raindrops onto the glass. Outside, Shouto’s flames died away on his skin as he collapsed to his hands and knees. Enji grabbed him by his small arm, forcing him back up to his feet. She watched it with a sadness in her eyes.

“He’s too young.” She said quietly.

Jealousy soaked into Touya’s heart. “And I wasn’t?”

His words stabbed her, and she hung her head in guilt. “I’m sorry, Touya. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

Now he was confused. “Like what?”

She didn’t respond, and he looked at her to see her eyes glazed over in silent introspection. She’d mentally retreated within herself, to a place that Touya couldn’t follow. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her do this. If anything, it was happening more frequently lately. Normally, when this happened he wouldn’t press it, allowing her to escape within herself, to protect whatever part of her she felt needed protecting.

But now her words trapped him, and his heart began to pound at their unspoken meaning. “LIKE. WHAT? How was it supposed to happen??”

His words cut through her mental isolation, and she stared distantly at the floor as her eyes began to brim with tears.

“If only one of the others had been strong enough… of only I’d given them better quirks…” the tears broke free, landing on the hard floor. “Then maybe… maybe you wouldn’t have had to suffer so long. I’m so sorry, Touya. It’s all my fault. Everything is all my fault.” She covered her face in her hands.

Given them better quirks? Who?

His body went cold. Suddenly he was outside of himself, watching the history of his life fly by.

The birth of Fuyumi. Then came Natsuo.

Now Shouto.

Touya did the math in his head. He was 17 now. Fuyumi was 14, and Natsuo was 9. Shouto was 5. A four-year gap between each of them.

He’d always thought that his siblings came along as a natural process of a growing family, born from love despite his father’s harsh, obsessive nature. Why else would Rei have stayed with him all these years? But the age gaps were too uncanny, too similar. It was just enough time for each of their quirks to manifest.

Shouto wasn’t the only one who was intended as a replacement.

Which meant his father had given up on him long before he’d ever let on.

Touya’s chest heaved, as his world was up-ended. “It was all a lie…”

The intensity of his tone forced his mother to come back to the present, her hands falling from her face to stare at him. “What?”

“It was all a lie!” he repeated, his voice raising. “All these years…”

He stood up and began pacing his room, his hand in his red hair. “Tell me it’s not true.” He demanded. “I already knew that Shouto was meant to replace me. But Natsuo?” He paused and stared at his mother.

She looked way shamefully.

His breaths began to come out in ragged gasps as he fought the tears coming to his eyes.

“Fuyumi?”

“No, not Fuyumi. Not initially, at least.”

Right. Because his quirk had just manifested when she was born. His father didn’t know yet how weak and limited his body was; he’d still believed it was something that could be worked past, that it was something Touya could control. Which meant that Fuyumi was wanted. Lucky her. No wonder his father seemed to favor her over everyone else.

He sat on his bed, his head in his hands. “What the FUCK.”

All these years, he’d assumed his father had believed in him, and only gave up on him right before he was set to apply to UA. Even then, he’d thought that his father only abandoned him as a way to protect Touya from hurting himself, or even worse, killing himself. That was why his father hadn’t let him get healed back then, right? That was the lesson he was supposed to learn? To accept his weakness and take his mortality seriously? Sure, there was the whole thing about ruining the family’s reputation, but he’d always hoped that deep down, there was more to it than that. There had to be.

But no. None of it was true. It was all about HIM. His father and his stupid, obsessive goal to beat All Might, even if it was only through his progeny. Touya was nothing but a tool to him, a means to an end. And when he couldn’t meet his father’s needs, he became nothing more than a contingency plan. In the meantime, his father kept trying to make the perfect hero. The perfect quirk.

And he’d finally succeeded.

Touya stared at his scarred hands. “Did… did he ever even love me?” The words fell from his mouth, a forbidden, broken whisper.

His mother’s arms were around him then, cradling him to her chest. “Of course, he loves you. I swear it.”

The warmth of her embrace made him turn his attention on her, and suddenly a revelation hit him, cutting into him like a thousand knives. His body went rigid, his eyes wide.

“You knew.” He whispered. He forced her arms off of him and stood up, towering over her with his height. She took a step back, her eyes wide. “You knew and you never told me.”

He turned his back to her, unable to look at her.

“Touya, please...” she begged, her voice quivering.

He didn’t want to hear it. There was nothing she could say that could fix this. His father was one thing… he’d accepted that he was an abusive, shitty father. But his mother? His mother who he’d confided in? His mother who was supposed to protect him? His mother… who he trusted? Why didn’t she ever tell him?

The betrayal was too much. It cut too deep. His entire childhood was a lie, years wasted by those who were supposed to love and support him.

Disgust filled him. He wanted her gone. Out of his room, out of his life.

“Touya!” she said desperately. She reached out to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at bridging the growing chasm between them.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” He shouted.

Flames erupted across his body, uncontrolled, as his arm shoved her away from him. She stumbled back with such force that she collided into the wall before slumping down against it. She didn’t get up. Instead, she sat there with her knees drawn up like a child, her body wracked with sobs.

He stared at her, horrified, as his blue flames died away on his skin. He wanted to go to her, to reach out and help her, apologies falling frantically from his lips. He took a cautious step forward, one hand outstretched towards her. But she shied away from him, her arms wrapping protectively around her head.

“No! Enji, please!”

Her words stopped him in his tracks. Slowly, he lowered his hand and stared in stunned silence as his mother babbled incoherent apologies. Something shattered within himself, sinking away to leave a hollowness in its place.

He ran.

Dabi was drowning, as the weight of his past washed over him, choking him.

That was the longest one yet. And the most painful. It ripped at the exposed tender places in his heart, places he’d thought were long-since dead.

Dabi’s vision blurred and he wiped at his nose. This was what he did. He lashed out, hurting those close to him, those who didn’t deserve it. It was the same with you. It was who he was, it was who he was made to be. It’d only be a matter of time before it happened again.

He lifted his cigarette to take another puff but stopped when he realized that it had burned down to the filter, leaving a trail of ash in its wake on the desk.

He unpacked another cigarette and lit it. His hand began to unscrew the whiskey bottle.

She had avoided him after that, and he avoided her. It wasn’t long after that rainy day that his mother had her mental breakdown, scalding Shouto in an attempt to burn away the image of her husband. Or was she trying to burn away the image of Touya? Was there even a difference in her mind?

The news had shocked him, and he ran as fast as his legs could take him. He burst into Enji’s office, forcing himself into his father’s presence.

“Where is she?” Touya demanded, his chest heaving from exertion.

Enji frowned at the intrusion, looking up from his paperwork at his desk. He was dressed professionally, in a white button-up shirt with a blue tie.

“Who?” He demanded.

Touya clenched his jaw so tight his teeth ground together. God, did he hate him…

“My mother. You know, your wife. The one you knock up every four years and the ignore.”

Enji menacingly rose from his chair, his blue eyes carrying the threat of violence within them. He towered over Touya, his presence casting a shadow from the wall sconces behind him.

“You watch your tone with me, boy.” Enji said coldly. “I will not be disrespected in my own house.”

Touya knew if he pushed it, he’d never get what he came here for. So, he sucked up his anger and pride, bowing deep in apology. “Yes, sir.” Touya muttered with downcast eyes. “Forgive me. I just want to know where she is.”

Enji paused for a moment, staring down at his son before returning to his seat and picking up his pen. “She’s been admitted to the Musutafu Mental Institution.” He replied as he marked his paper.

A pause filled the space before Touya asked his next question. “Can I see her?”

“No.”

Touya’s breath stopped, his mind unable to wrap around the simple word that fell like a judge’s gavel. His father’s answer was cold and final, said with such heartless ease. He stared in disbelief.

He thought he had time to mend things, to finally overcome his cowardice and atone for his actions. But there was no atoning now. He’d lost her. Tears began to sting in the corners of his eyes, but he fought them back; his father always hated it when he cried.

“So that’s it…? She’s gone?”

“It was for the best.” Enji replied. “She attacked my son, almost made him useless. Now I can train him without her interfering.”

“Is that all you care about?” The words fell from Touya’s mouth before he could stop them, covered in bitterness.

Enji’s pen stopped scribbling. An agonizing ten seconds passed before he set it down and looked up at Touya, pinning him with his sharp eyes, dark eyebrows pulled down into an angry frown. “Excuse me?”

Touya steeled himself against his father’s wrath as the rage he’d been keeping to himself burst forth against its creator.

“Is that all you care about?” he repeated. “Your wife is in a mental institution and your son is scarred for life, but all you can think about is surpassing All Might?”

Enji pinned him with a look that was almost akin to pity. “How small-minded you are. This was always your problem, Touya. Your mother too. You both lacked vision, an inability to see the bigger picture. That was why you were never able to push past your limits. But Shouto… Shouto will be different.”

Enji’s accusations made Touya’s lips curl into a snarl. “Do you even hear yourself?” he spat. “No wonder she went crazy. She wasn’t attacking Shouto, she was attacking you! This is all your fault, and you don’t even care. You’re a shit father, and a worse husband.”

The pity in his father’s eyes turned to ice, and the man quietly set his pen down before standing up from his desk. “Shouto said the same thing.” He grumbled. “I excused it coming from him, because he’s young and doesn’t understand yet. But you… you should know better.” He loosened his tie and began to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve been too lenient on you. It looks like there are some lessons I still have yet to teach you.”

Touya took a step back at the obvious gesture.

Enji stared down at him in disgust. “Look at you. Already scared. You’re just as pathetic as before.”

Touya went into a defensive stance, his blue flames igniting across his skin.

His father scowled. “You dare raise your flames against me, boy?” His own flames erupted along his body. “Very well. If you’re going to talk like a man and fight like a man, then you will learn to accept your consequences like a man.”

Dabi took a drag of his new cigarette, already burned halfway from neglect. He inhaled deeply, wanting the toxic fumes to fill the gaping hole in his chest. It didn’t.

He picked up the now-open whiskey bottle and poured it to the halfway point of the plastic cup. There was no ice to chill it, but it would have to do. He took a swig, letting the fiery taste coat his tongue, burning away the taste of ash.

Enji had taken him outside into the courtyard, where he received the worst beating he’d ever gotten. His father’s blows lacked the restraint he typically exercised, fueled by a dark rage. It had left Touya gagging and coughing, crumpled on the floor in a heap. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, it hurt to think.

The beating may have been five minutes or it may have been five hours. He couldn’t really tell. All he did know was that no one came. Just like all the times before, no one came to say something, to stop him, even though the sound of their conflict shook the Todoroki grounds, incinerating nearby bushes and damaging the exposed framework of the surrounding buildings. And after his father had left, removing his tie and his shirt to clean the blood from them, Touya had laid there alone in the dirt, staring up at the cold, lifeless, star-studded night sky as an unforgiving universe stared back. He wanted to die.

It felt like eternity had passed before two sets of hands gently grabbed him and helped him up, each of his arms going around familiar shoulders. His siblings had finally come for him, now that his father was out of sight and they knew they were safe from his wrath. They had helped Touya to his bed, where Fuyumi tended to his wounds in silence and Natsuo sat beside her, his mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.

Dabi took another couple of decent gulps of his whiskey, resisting the urge to down the entire contents and pour another cup. How much did he pour? Four shots worth? Five? He needed it to kick in. If he was going to be forced to relive every bad memory he ever had, then he’d be here all night.

His body was worn down, his spirit tired. He really didn’t want to feel anymore.

But the alcohol wasn’t working fast enough; his brain wouldn’t stop.

It was late at night, the moon high in the sky, the air cold with the hint of rain as clouds rolled in from the distance. It had been a few days since Touya’s beating, but despite his sister’s protests, he decided to leave the confines of his room and take a walk on the family compound.

That was how he ended up here, six feet away from the training room. The light was off, but he could hear the sound of fists hitting, and every now and then the room would light up with bright orange flame. But there was no lecturing, no young voice crying. Touya knew Shouto wasn’t in there this time. He was still in bed, recovering from the burn his mother had inflicted. Enji was furious, pacing the grounds like an angry bear, snapping at staff and family and locking himself away in his training room to work out his frustrations, constantly striving for a goal he’d never be able to achieve.

Touya inwardly scoffed. If anyone should be admitted to a mental institution, it should be his father. The man was literally driven insane by his inability to surpass All Might. But of course, that would never happen. His father was the number two hero. He was “untouchable.” There was no one brave enough or strong enough to make that man face his own demons. It made Touya curl his nose up at the hypocrisy.

An odd silence drew Touya out of his thoughts. The sounds of fists impacting dummies and training equipment had stopped, the flames no longer bathing the ground in light through the open door. Then he heard it – an unfamiliar sound, one he’d never heard before. He furrowed his brow in confusion and inched closer to the open door before risking a peek inside.

The moonlight spilled in just enough for him to see the hulking form of his father, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. His great shoulders shook, and finally Touya realized the sound he was hearing.

His father was crying.

Disgust filled Touya, sour and bitter. For all of his father’s posturing, for all of his grandiose lectures about strength and commitment, here he was, sobbing like a baby. And for what? For his inability to reach his dreams, while his family fell apart around him?

Or was he crying FOR his family?

Touya pushed the possibility away, burying it deep, deep down where he refused to give the idea any chance of blooming into a belief.

No. This man didn’t feel for his family. He wasn’t ALLOWED to feel for his family. He was the reason his family was as broken as it was, every single one of them able to tie their scars back to him and his selfish actions.

Touya hated him.

And yet he loved him. How fucked up was that? He could feel it in his irrational urge to go to him and offer support, a support he’d never once received. And that just made him hate him more, because despite all that his father had done to him, Touya still fucking cared.

His father wasn’t worthy of it. He didn’t deserve Touya’s love, or his mother’s love, or anyone’s love for that matter.

And he certainly didn’t deserve to cry.

Touya fled. He fled from his feelings, he fled from his fears, taking only his righteous anger with him and riding it like a hellhound. He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the pain that sliced through him from his father’s abuse. His lungs burned. His ribs ached. As he ran, his thoughts followed, chasing him and swooping on him like a flock of crows, pecking at his sanity.

He ended up in an abandoned warehouse, a quarter mile from his house, across the railroad tracks that marked the separation of ritzy upper-class life and industrial city complexes. He fell to his knees, his palms landing hard on the dirt-strewn floor inside the old building, as sobs ripped lose from his throat, harsh and painful.

He hated him. He hated him more than anything. How could he have ever idolized him? How could he have ever loved him? His father was selfish. He was destructive. He was cruel. And now his father cried like a baby, as if he were a victim in all of this.

He wasn’t a victim. And he certainly wasn’t a hero.

What kind of hero saved civilians while simultaneously destroying his family behind closed doors? That wasn’t a hero. It was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

And it was devouring his family. His helpless, innocent family.

They deserved justice. They deserved saving. Where was hero society in all of this? Lining his father’s pockets, placing him on a pedestal to be worshipped. His father always preached about Touya accepting the consequences of his actions. So where were Enji’s consequences?

As long as his father continued to reign supreme, his family would never be safe. His family would never heal. His mother would never recover. Natsuo would never be freed of his anger. Shouto would never get to decide who he is and who he wants to be. Fuyumi would be weighed down by her obligation to her family, foregoing her own dreams to take care of them all.

His father needed to be gone. Permanently. Only then would his family be safe. Only then would they be free.

But Touya… Touya would never be free. He understood that now, even as his hatred and anger consumed him. He was just like his father, a proverbial chip-off-the-old-block. He’d managed to take all the worst parts of him and make them a part of himself. His obsessive nature, his anger, his jealousy… his violence. He could feel it in his blood.

If his family wasn’t safe with Enji, then what made Touya any different? He’d already played a hand in his mother’s mental demise. How could he be sure he wouldn’t hurt the rest as tie went on?

He was just like his father.

He hated his father.

He hated himself.

He wanted to die.

So then, who better to take on the Behemoth? Who better than his father’s son, the monster he’d made?

Touya had to kill Endeavor. He had to kill his father. His father, who he couldn’t even beat in a fight. He was stupid. A fool. But there were no other options. No other paths to justice. And Touya was tired of waiting for justice.

Touya’s sob turned into a dry laugh. Was this what it meant to be heroic? To bear the weight of this responsibility, even if it cost him his soul? Even if it killed him?

His dry laugh grew into a series of laughs, wild and hysterical, as tears ran down his face, while the reality of what he was committing to tore him asunder. As he heaved and coughed, a heat began to overtake him, building so quickly that by the time he realized what was happening, it was too late. Searing, blue flames blasted out of him in such magnitude and such intensity that the windows of the abandoned warehouse exploded, glass shards melting from the intense heat as they rained down. The flames roared outward, reaching for the night sky through the now-glassless windows, groping and writhing, their fierceness never waning.

Touya couldn’t stop it. The flames scorched through him and consumed him, the sound of it raging in his ears, his body devoured by agony as his quirk ate at him, destroying him from the inside out. Above him, the heat of the flames began to melt the structural metal beams.

But his hysterical laughter and tears couldn’t stop, even as smoke left his scorched lungs with each exhale and his mouth tasted ash. A screeching sound filled the space, the sound of metal bending and breaking. The beams gave way, the roof caving in as destruction rained down around him, silencing his laughter.

…..

Nothing but bright blue fire and broken remains filled his vision. Slowly, a dark form began to take shape amongst the flames, tall and towering. It was him. He’d come for him.

The flames parted, and he saw himself as he was now: black hair, dark scars, staples glinting in the firelight. The sound of a funeral bell tolled and his mouth opened, forming a single word. A name.

A gentle knock caused the image to begin to fade away like mist, even as the funeral bells still rang in Dabi’s ears.

“Dabi?” He knew that voice. It was you.

Groggily, Dabi opened his eyes to find himself still in his chair at his desk, his head resting on his arm. His forgotten cup of whiskey sat unmoved, inches from his fingers. It was a dream. He’d fallen asleep.

Another knock at the door, slightly louder, made him sit up.

“...Dabi?” you called again.

“Yeah.” He grumbled. He rubbed at his face. “Yeah, yeah.”

His body felt stiff and his neck had a horrible kink in it. He checked the time on his phone. 5:45am. Why in God’s name were you up so early? And why were you knocking on his door?

He stood up and stretched his back, and that was when he felt it – a sharp itching pain that ran along his spine, chased by the agony in his legs. It was worse than he remembered it being before he’d passed out. Your quirk was starting to wear off.

It looked like you were right on time.

He grabbed the end of his metal desk with one hand and pulled, dragging it slowly away from the door. The sound was grating, like nails on a chalkboard. If people weren’t awake before, they definitely were now.

As if on cue, three harsh bangs resonated from the wall next him. “What the hell, Dabi???” Spinner’s voice yelled through the wall. “People are trying to sleep!”

“Bite me.” Dabi snapped back before opening the door for you, and stared, giving you an obvious once-over. You were completely dressed, in jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, as if you’d been up for hours. Dark circles framed your tired eyes. “Hey, doll.” He greeted.

Your heart did a flip before you even knew what hit you, leaving you standing there like a deer in headlights. It’d been a cool minute since he’d called you that; you didn’t realize how much you’d grown attached to it.

It took you a moment to realize that he was holding the door open for you, inviting you in. Once you were across the threshold, Dabi closed the door behind you.

“Sorry… did I wake you?” You asked, as your eyes took in the room. His desk was haphazardly pulled away from the door, covered in plastic bags. The room stank of cigarette smoke and alcohol. A bottle of whiskey sat incriminatingly on the desk, some of its contents missing. You picked up the bottle and stared at it before pinning Dabi with a glare. You knew he knew better. For someone who was so experienced with drugs, he certainly did do some stupid shit.

“Really?” you scolded.

“Don’t start with me.” Dabi grumbled as he rubbed at his neck. He pulled out an electrolyte drink and downed its contents, wiping his mouth with his hand once it was empty. “There, you happy?” He moved on to a bag of chips, crunching loudly as he chewed in annoyance.

Normally, you would have been more diplomatic, navigated the waters a little bit more when you saw them getting choppy. But you slept like shit again last night, waking up repeatedly from bad dreams only to worry about this idiot while he decided to try to self-medicate by drinking his problems away.

“Don’t get mad at me for calling you out on your bullshit.” You replied. “If you act like an idiot, then I’m gonna treat you like one.”

“How’s it look up there on your high horse?” Dabi retorted.

“What?”

“It must be exhausting being so fucking perfect. Makes everyone else around you look like such fucking failures.” He turned his angry eyes away from you as he sat down on the end of his bed, running a hand through his messy black hair.

His words slapped you, and you stared at him for a long moment, taking in the sight of him. His eyes looked tired, his cheeks sallow. His hair looked tangled and unwashed. When was the last time he took a shower? His hand kept rubbing at his neck, no doubt nursing a sore spot. He must have fallen asleep at his desk after a rough night. You recalled the night you’d helped him through his withdrawal, and the breakdown it had culminated in. No doubt he was up all night battling his inner demons. Alone. Without your help this time. Guilt soaked through your frustration.

“I’m sorry.” You muttered. “You’re right, I shouldn’t judge. It’s just…” You sat down in his desk chair. “I’m trying so hard to help you. And… well…”

“What?” Dabi prodded. “You think I’m not trying?”

Your eyes fell on the desk, which sat askew in his room, and the bags full of various items that were obviously intended to help Dabi get through the night. “No…” you replied. “I know you are. I just wish you took better care of yourself.”

“I take care of myself just fine.”

Your brow furrowed. “I mean it, Dabi.” You rubbed at your face tiredly, letting your fatigue finally show. “I’m worrying about you, probably more than I should. I’m pushing my body to its limits, I can’t sleep, and when I do, I dream about you. Then I wake up, and I worry even more because I can never be entirely sure that you’re okay.”

You felt your body flush with heat at your sudden confession, and you looked at your hands in embarrassment. You weren’t supposed to say that. You weren’t supposed to say any of that. Stupid, no-good, tired, foggy brain.

A shit-eating grin spread across Dabi’s face, his eyes lighting up in amusement. “You dream about me, eh?”

“Shut up.” You grumbled. You grabbed a crumpled-up napkin and threw it at Dabi’s head. It fell pitifully to the floor, three feet from where he sat.

Dabi stared at the failed attack and gave a laugh. “That was pathetic.”

You tried to suppress a grin. “I said shut up. God, you’re such a brat.”

A moment of silence passed between the two of you before Dabi finally spoke. “Gotta solution to your problem… Stop worrying so much.”

You gave a small half-smirk. “Sorry, not gonna happen.” You replied. “I worry about my friends. That’s just how I am.”

Something did a flip in Dabi’s chest, and he averted his eyes. “Friends, huh? You don’t even know me.”

“I know you better today than I did a few days ago…”

He gave a dry laugh. You weren’t wrong…

“If we’re not friends when this is all over, then I will be greatly offended.” You teased. “Besides… like your company.”

Dabi stared at you like you grew a second head. You liked his company? For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Most of the time you’d spent together so far was him either feeling like shit or being an asshole.

But he liked your company too even though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, and for the moment he didn’t feel like fighting it. He’d argue with himself later over it for sure, but for right now… he enjoyed feeling your presence, enjoyed how your words wrapped around him like a warm blanket, safe and secure. His memories still sat upon his shoulders, lurking like crows, but they were silent for now, and he was pretty sure that it had something to do with you being here.

Your voice broke through his thoughts. “Let’s change your bandage. Are you okay waiting until I’m done treating you to get your pills?”

“Why, are you punishing me for drinking?” he replied. It took you a moment before you caught on that he was teasing.

You grinned and raised an eyebrow at him. “No, but now that you mention it, we should probably wait until after we’re done since I don’t know how long ago it was that you drank.”

Dabi narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously. Now you were just doing this on purpose…

You sat behind him on the bed and began unpacking your materials while he removed his shirt. When you removed his bandage, you stared at the healing burn for a moment.

“How’s it look?” He asked, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

“It’s healing okay, but it’s still going to take some time until you don’t need the bandages.”

Regardless of the status of his burn, he still needed to see you twice a day for your quirk treatment and pills. It was exhausting, and you were grateful that so far the others only returned with minor injuries. But that could change at any moment, and you needed to be able to handle it; otherwise, Shigaraki would start to question your value.

You could only hope that your seller could find a way to expedite Dabi’s medication. And your own too. You’d counted what you had left before you’d arrived, and you were getting low. Dangerously low. You could get through today and tomorrow morning, but if you didn’t have your refills by then…

You tried not to think about it.

You changed his bandages easily and began applying your quirk to his scarred skin just as you’d done the night before. When you adjusted your position to handle the scars on his front half, the fear crept up again. But this time, you were able to wrangle it successfully, only hesitating for a moment before you continued. You broke the silence with words, a helpful distraction from your increasing discomfort and wandering thoughts.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” You commented.

He eyed you for a moment, waiting for another lecture. But it never came and when your eyes met his in a quick glance, there was no judgment in them.

“Only once in a while.” He replied.

You read between the lines of his answer. “Does it help?”

“A little.”

Silence fell again as you became increasingly focused on your quirk. Your back was itching painfully again, and your heightened senses were making the light in the room seem far too bright. Still, your fingers traced along his neck, taking special care to make sure no space was left untouched. Dabi watched your face, inches from his own. That was when he noticed it. Something was wrong. Your smile was gone, your lips now pressed into a firm line. You took your breaths in through your nose, and your brows were pulled together as you focused. Your hands were starting to shake. Were you scared again? Or was it something else?

Just as your hands began to reach his face, he grabbed your hands in his own and pulled back slightly out of your reach. “Stop.”

Your eyes focused on him. “What? Why?”

“Your quirk. Does it hurt?” his tone was stern.

You stared at him, your expression caught like a deer in headlights before looking away abashedly.

“Yeah, sort of.” You replied.

Dabi held your hands, as he waited for a better answer than what you gave him.

Finally, you slowly pulled our hands out of his grasp, his touch leaving electricity on your skin, and sat on the bed next to him with your hands clasped together.

“So, you know how when I use my quirk, it numbs your pain?” Dabi waited silently for you to continue. “It sort of has an opposite effect on me. The more I use it, the more heightened my senses become. And if I use my quirk too much, then it becomes… uncomfortable.”

Dabi stared at his hands as you spoke, his brow pulled down into a dark frown. All this time… he knew you were pushing yourself to your limits; hell, you even said so earlier. But he had assumed it just caused fatigue. He never knew that it caused you pain. How had he never noticed? How many times had you treated him?

How much did you use your quirk on the first night of his withdrawal? How far did you really push yourself?

A car alarm went off outside of his open window, and your hands immediately flew up to cover your ears against the assault, your heart pounding. Once the pain and panic dissipated, you lowered your hands, embarrassment hot in your blood. It was the first time Dabi saw this part of you, and it made you feel weak and vulnerable.

“Sorry.” You mumbled.

Dabi hated those words. He especially hated hearing them from you. What the hell did you have to be sorry about? Anger bubbled in him, old and familiar. But he forced it down, aware of what his anger did to you as the memories flitted across his mind like a warning.

“It’s fine.” Dabi replied, keeping his voice even.

Dabi’s mind began turning over this new piece of information, fitting the missing puzzle piece into what little he did have. He became acutely aware of how little he really knew about you.

“Is that what those drugs are for?” he asked.

You paused for a moment, contemplating if you should spin your truth to fit his theory. But it didn’t feel right. Earlier you said you considered him a friend. Did you keep secrets from friends?

How much did you really trust him? How much did he trust you?

He was already trusting you more than you were, letting you help him through something very personal. You’d seen him vulnerable far more than he’d seen you vulnerable. So how would he feel if he learned you were keeping the truth from him?

You wondered how he’d react. If anyone would understand the pain you went through, it’d be him. If anything, it might make the two of you closer. You couldn’t deny that the idea of that resonated with an unspoken need within you.

“Sort of.” You replied, as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “I can’t use them for my sensory overload. It’d take too many to really have an impact, and I’d probably O.D. if I tried.”

“So, what are they for?”

Wow. He really wanted to know.

Your heart pounded in your chest, as your words got stuck somewhere between your mouth and your insecurity. It’d been so long since you’d talked about it, since you’d acknowledged it with another person. What if he laughed? After all, how ridiculous did you look complaining about a single scar compared to Dabi?? Or worse, what if he didn’t care at all?

But he’d asked, and now he was waiting for an answer.

The words still wouldn’t come, so you positioned yourself with your back facing him and lifted your shirt slightly, exposing the damaged flesh beneath.

Dabi’s eyes widened. He knew a burn scar when he saw one. And not just any burn scar. There was a pattern to it, a story in its twisted, marred flesh. This was done by a quirk. It spread across your lower back, the edge of it dipping beneath the hem of your pants. His hand began to reach out, fingers twitching with the urge to touch it, as if his touch could take the hateful mark off of you. But he caught himself, his fingers inches from your skin, and clenched his hand into a tight fist.

A long, heavy silence begin to fill the space between you while a thousand questions perched on the edge of his lips as he grappled with this new information and the emotions that erupted from it.

The silence dragged on, and you lowered your shirt, as heart-pounding anxiety smothered you. It filled the dark spaces in you, the weak places where confidence had abandoned you. It settled into a could dread that made you unable to turn around and face him. Why wasn’t he saying anything? You squeezed your eyes closed as tears pricked at the corners.

Did you make a mistake? You shouldn’t have shown him. You should have just brushed it off or lied when you had the chance.

Tears began to slip down your cheeks, and you struggled to stop them. But they wouldn’t stop, and you wiped away at them angrily, sniffling as you struggled to contain yourself.

The sound of your distress snapped Dabi out of his obsessive thoughts. You were crying. Why?

Was it something he said? But he didn’t say anything.

Was it something he did? But he didn’t do anything.

What the hell was he supposed to do? He had no words of comfort, and he certainly couldn’t hold you, not without crossing a boundary he’d set for himself. You had called him a friend. How did friends comfort each other? He had no fucking clue.

He scratched at his head awkwardly before standing up. He bit his cheek from the pain in his legs. Your pills had worn off, and they were in desperate need of attention. But he forced it into submission, instead making his way to his desk to retrieve a clean napkin and handing it to you.

The small gesture seemed to help, as you gave a small chuckle and accepted the gift, wiping at your eyes as you averted your tear-stained face from him.

“I’m sorry.” You said with a sheepish laugh.

There was that fucking phrase again.

“Don’t be.” He replied.

That answer seemed to help, too. You finally turned to face him, a sheepish smile on your face.

“I know guys typically freak out when they see a girl cry.” You commented. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Your emotional reaction embarrassed you, and now you were struggling to save face.

“It’s fine.” He grabbed the bag of chips from earlier and grabbed a couple for himself before holding the bag out to you in offering. You shook your head, keeping your eyes on your lap.

“It’s just… it’s been a long time since I’ve shared this with anyone.” You tried to explain. Not entirely truthful, but not entirely a lie either.

“I shouldn’t have asked.” He replied.

“No, it’s fine.” You replied. “I understand why you wanted to know.”

Silence followed for a moment, filled only by the sound of Dabi’s crunching. It grated on your ears, but you didn’t want to say anything, glad that he was at least eating something. Instead, you tried to cover the noise of his chips with your voice.

“It doesn’t hurt all the time…” you explained. “Only when my quirk gets overused. That’s what the pills are for.”

“What about your sensory overload?” Dabi asked.

You were grateful that the conversation was progressing forward, leaving your mini breakdown in the past.

“Usually it’s a matter of reducing exposure. Turning off lights, quieting noises, that kind of thing.” You replied.

As you spoke, Dabi watched you. He watched the way you never seemed to look up from your lap for very long, your eyes avoiding the light of his lamp. Your shoulders were hunched against the cold (or was it the pain?), and he recalled how the car alarm before had made you cover your ears.

He grabbed another chip as his mind analyzed all the things that he’d missed before. As soon as it crunched under his teeth, he saw your hands squeeze tightly on the hem of your shirt before loosening again.

He stared at the bag, before holding it up to you. “This bothers you?” he asked.

You averted your eyes, embarrassed. “Just a little.”

He slowly put the bag down on the desk, careful not to have it crinkle too loudly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrugged. He scowled. Then, he stood up with a wince, and closed his open window, drawing the curtains closed to block the brightening daylight. As he walked back to sit on the bed next to you, he turned off his lamp, plunging the room into darkness that faded to a comfortable dim light once your eyes had adjusted to the change, morning light seeping into the room at an acceptable level.

You could feel the relief immediately, and you stared at him, bewildered not just by his kindness, but by his awareness. Was he really paying attention to you that closely? It made your blood rush in your ears and your heart do somersaults.

“Thank you.” You said softly.

“It’s not a big deal.” He replied as he leaned back and stared at the light dancing on the ceiling. It was the least he could do, he thought. This discomfort you were feeling was because of him, after all. Besides, after all you’d done for him – were still doing for him – he figured you’d earned a little bit of kindness in return.

But only for you.

Dammit.

He really was a lost cause.

“I’m feeling better now…” you said. “I can finish treating your scars.”

“It’s fine.” Dabi lied.

You stood up and faced him. “Let me at least treat your legs. I wasn’t able to get to them last night.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“Dabi…” he looked at you and was met with a knowing look on your face. “Trust me. I know my limits. Besides, this is literally my job.”

Dabi frowned at you. “No, your job is to treat injuries, not help drug addicts.”

“My job is to make sure everyone is able to function to the best of their ability.” You countered. You crossed your arms with a smug look. “Don’t make me go tell Shigaraki that you’re being a bad patient.”

He scowled and looked away. You took that as a surrender and sent him into the bathroom to change into shorts to make your job easier. When he came back out, he was still frowning.

“You play dirty.” He complained. “And not in a fun way.”

You grinned but didn’t respond as you focused on running your hands along his scarred legs, starting at above the knee. By the time you were done, your quirk was riding the brink, your back on fire again. But you gritted your teeth and bore it, even as sweat beaded across your face.

You went to your bag and began to rummage through it, wincing as you bent over. Your back was facing Dabi, your butt in the air, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the view. A subtle smirk tugged at his lips. But the grin was short lived; it fell as soon as you stood up, holding the familiar pill bottle in your hand.

“No.” Dabi said adamantly.

“Give me a break.” You replied, as you opened the container. “What other options do we have?”

You held out the three pills towards him, but he stared at them. “I can’t take these.” He said.

You took his hand in yours and placed the pills into his palm, closing his fingers over them. “You can, and you will.” You replied. “Besides, it’s temporary, remember?”

He opened his mouth to protest, but a ding sounded within the room that made you nearly jump out of your skin with your sensitive hearing. You clumsily pulled your phone out of your bag and opened up your text messages. Your eyes lit up, and a smile spread across your face before you put the phone away in your bag.

“Good news,” you said. “Looks like the refills for my pills will be ready for pickup tomorrow.”

“What about mine?” Dabi asked.

Your expression fell slightly. “He didn’t mention them, so I’m guessing they’re not ready yet.”

“Well that fucking sucks.”

“It’s not all bad… once I get my refill, there will be enough for both of us. I asked him to double up the pills so there’d be enough. Then I can really start treating you properly until your pills arrive. See? I told you it’d be temporary…”

Dabi looked up at your happy face and couldn’t deny the relief he felt knowing you weren’t going to be hurting yourself for him for much longer. “Fine.” He replied. He swallowed the pills before he could change his mind.

You picked up your bag with another wince and made your way to the door. Dabi stood up to follow you, relishing in the painless effort of walking. He felt like he could run.

Before you opened his door, you half-turned to him. “Get some more rest.” You wrinkled your nose at him. “And maybe take a shower. And brush your teeth.”

Dabi rolled his eyes. “Yes, mom.”

After you left, he paused for a moment before sniffing his armpit. He didn’t really smell that bad… did he?

________________________________

Part 9

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#dabi #dabi x reader #dabi x you #mha #bnha #touch #dabi touch #soft dabi #angst #TW: verbal abuse #TW: physical abuse #TW: abuse #TW: childhood trauma #tw: alcohol

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ethanlivemere · 3 years

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Half-Life²: Anticitizen - Chapter 2

(Prologue and chapter 1 can be found on my profile)

Chapter 2

Friendly Faces

Barney Calhoun was a valued member of the Black Mesa Security Force. He did his job well and was particularly respected by the other security guards for his ability to passive-aggressively give a piece of his mind to some of the more pompous scientists who treated the security team as their inferiors, without ever directly disobeying their orders. He was the kind of guy you could grab a beer with after work – something I had been meaning to do for a long time before the… incident. I had always felt I had more in common with him than any of my fellow scientists: not only did we both have the bad habit of not being the most punctual, but he also gave a me a good run for my money when it came to my high scores on the Black Mesa Hazard Course. While other scientists were busy competing for grant money, I was out trying to one-up Barney at the shooting range.

I thought he was dead. That he had been lost in the aftermath of the Resonance Cascade, eaten by a bullsquid, or worse, turned into a grotesque zombie like so many others. And yet, here he is, standing in front of me with his arms spread as he cheekily grins at me, now sporting the black Metropolice uniform instead of the familiar BMSF standard-issue bulletproof vest and helmet. His face, previously hidden behind the white gasmask, looks older than I remember. The first hints of gray have started to appear at the base of his dark hair and in his 5 o’clock shadow. His face looks tired and worn out beneath his cheerful expression. The eyes are what give it away: I’ve seen the same exhausted eyes on every citizen I have encountered so far. They’re the eyes of a man who has been through hell. Well, I guess that’s one more thing we have in common.

“Surprised to see me?” Barney asks, noticing the probably visible confusion on my face. “Well, that makes two of us, Gordon. Where’ve you been? It’s been ten years, man!” Ten years. So the man in the suit was telling the truth. It’s really been ten years since Black Mesa. What happened in that time? “Sorry about the scare earlier, I had to put on a show for the cameras,” Barney says, pointing over his shoulder at the disabled scanner on the ceiling. “Listen, I know you have a lot of questions but I can’t keep you here too long. I’ve been working undercover with Civil Protection, we need to get you out of here before they get suspicious. All I can tell you for now is that if you thought Black Mesa was as bad as it could get, well… you’re in for a nasty surprise.” He turns around and starts fiddling with the console. Symbols flash on the screens, the same symbols that I saw on the Consul’s broadcasts and the red bands on the shoulders of the Metrocop uniforms. Whatever they are, Barney seems to understand them.

“Okay Gordon, we’re gonna try to get you to Dr. Kleiner’s lab. It’s not too far from here, in an old warehouse in an industrial part of the city.” Kleiner? Does he mean… Isaac Kleiner? Could he be alive too? “I can’t take you there personally unfortunately, I have a shift to get to if I don’t want to blow my cover. But I’ll let one of my guys in the streets know you’re coming, he’ll show you the way.” Barney walks to a small window that looks out over an equally small courtyard. He opens it and looks out. “Go through that door over there. You should be able to get to the plaza. My guy will meet you there.” He walks back to the desk and starts putting the front of his mask back in place.

I look through the window. It’s about an eight foot drop; nothing I can’t handle. The claustrophobic courtyard is empty save for a trashcan lying on its side on the mossy tiles. The door Barney was talking about is the only entrance or exit. I look back to the once again unrecognizable Barney. I briefly thank him, and he salutes me with two fingers. “I’ll see you later, Gordon. Try not to draw any attention to yourself,” his distorted voice sounds through the mask. I nod him goodbye and swing my leg over the windowsill, effortlessly jumping down and landing safely. I look up and see the window being closed. I guess I’m on my own again.

The rusty door takes me to a small boiler room, which leads into a short corridor. I let my instincts and the faint sound of the Consul’s voice guide me through the station and I soon find myself in the entrance hall. Like the rest of the building, it is a dilapidated remnant of former glory. What once were ticket booths have been transformed into some sort of dispensing machine, which slowly spits out featureless brown packages into the eager hands of the shabby citizens who form a long, patient queue under the watchful eye of Metrocops. Above them, the Consul spouts the same repeating message: “Welcome to City 17.”

A woman walks by, clutching her newly received package against her chest. I can now see some of the alien symbols on the brown, paper-like exterior, as well as some readable text: 4 rations. She glances at me but quickly directs her eyes back to the ground in front of her as she walks towards the exit. I follow her to the large, wooden double doors. She takes one hand off the ration packet to open the door, but in doing so looses her grip on the packet and drops it on the floor with a soft thud. She nervously glances around as she quickly picks it back up again, and I decide to help out by opening the door for her. I try to give her the warmest smile I can fake as she walks by. “We can’t be seen talking to each other,” is the only thing she mutters to me under her breath as she heads out into the daylight.

Although… daylight might be an exaggeration. The sight that greets me when I step outside is no different in tone than the station and the train ride before it, yet it still shakes me to my core. The plaza consists of a small, empty fountain surrounded by dead hedges and flanked by two tall pillars, each topped with a bronze statue of a prancing horse. Plastic bags, empty bottles and other kinds of small trash litter the otherwise empty street surrounding the plaza, and the only vehicle is a large armored car surrounded by a patrol of Metrocops. The few citizens that walk the street keep as close to the surrounding buildings – abandoned stores and boarded-off hotels – as possible. It is then that my eye falls on the gigantic structure that emerges beyond the buildings. It’s a looming spire of rust brown metal that forms an irregular shape I recognize from the various posters around the train station. Its exact height is impossible to tell as it disappears into the greenish clouds that obstruct the sky, but there is no doubt it is incredibly large – so large, in fact, that I’m amazed it took me so long to notice it. Several of the metal plates that layer the outside of the structure seem to move at very slow paces, almost as if the building is alive, and sometimes it looks like something flies in to or out of one of the many slits and crevices in the jagged exterior.

I tear my gaze away from the ominous sight and scan the plaza more attentively. Barney said he would have a guy tell me where to go once I got out of the station, but I can’t spot a single citizen not minding their own business like their lives depend on it – which they probably do. I walk down the stairs in front of the station’s entrance. I follow the citizens’ example and keep close to the buildings, heading the opposite way of the Metrocop patrol. I duck into a shadowy doorway to get out of their sightline and look around again when I hear a hushed “Hey!” coming from a bit further down the street that sprouts from the plaza. I see a young man beckoning me from another doorway. I glance around for Metrocops, decide that the coast is clear and hurry towards him. He is dark-haired, wears the same familiar citizen’s uniform and looks to be about my age… come to think of it, what is my age? Barney was about my age at Black Mesa, but the ten years since then are clearly visible on him, while the few times I’ve seen my own reflection since my ‘awakening’ hadn’t shown me any changes in my own appearance.

The man pulls me out of my thoughts when he grabs my arm and pulls me into the shadow of the doorway. “You’re Freeman, right?” I nod. “The name’s Jeremy. Barney told me to get you to Kleiner’s.” He looks at my chest, where Samuel had earlier noted the absence of an identity tag. “We won’t be able to get you through checkpoints since you’re not a registered citizen. Just follow me.” He starts walking down the street and looks at me over his shoulder. “It’s great to have you with us, Freeman. There’s no doubt you’ll be a great help in our fight against the Combine.”

I follow Jeremy through the abandoned streets of City 17. He seems to be excellent at avoiding Civil Protection, because we never cross them; I only ever see them in adjacent streets. Sometimes they are accompanied by an armored vehicle, sometimes they are stationed at a barricade of black metal, watching people get scanned before a gate opens to let them through. I guess these are the checkpoints we can’t pass through – or at least I can’t. While we walk, my guide confirms what I already knew: after the Resonance Cascade, Earth was invaded by an alien empire he calls the ‘Combine’, who laid waste to the planet and enslaved humanity. The otherworldly skyscraper in the middle of the city – called the Citadel – is their bastion. Apparently, every city has its own Citadel, but the one in City 17 is special in that it is also the residence of the Consul – Earth’s new leader.

He then tells me about a resistance group fighting back against the Combine rule. He says there are many resistance fighters outside of the city, but that Barney and Dr. Kleiner lead the more covert operatives within City 17. He remarks that I probably know Kleiner and I nod. I don’t just know Isaac Kleiner, he was my professor and mentor at MIT. I was one of his favorite and ‘most promising’ students (his words), and when I applied for the position of research associate at Black Mesa, it was Kleiner’s recommendation that got me the job, where I worked alongside him on the Anomalous Materials team until… Well, let’s try not to think about that too much now. It seems there are bigger issues at hand than regret.

Even though we successfully evade the Metrocops and their checkpoints, the Combine is visible everywhere in one way or another. For a start there is the Citadel always towering over the rooftops, a menacing silhouette on the dark sky. But the old, human-built buildings have also been corrupted by Combine technology. Large, complex locking mechanisms cling onto old wooden doors like tumorous growths. Smaller versions of the enormous wall I saw surrounding the city fill up gaps they themselves made, obsidian metal swallowing brick and stone. Watchtowers and other Combine structures have been planted on top of buildings, walls and roofs bending under their weight. Cables and pipelines run across and through walls like vines sprouting from concrete. There’s something almost fascinating about how the stoic, geometric order of the human city and the clean, essentialist order of the Combine tech overlap in a patchwork with chaos and destruction wherever they meet.

A rhythmic sound has been growing louder for a while now. Upon listening more closely, I realize it’s the sound of marching. An army marching. Jeremy rounds a corner and stops dead in his tracks. “Damn it… not good.” Down the street, at an intersection with a wide boulevard, I see dozens of soldiers walking in formation. They look a lot like Metrocops, but their masks are dark gray and they wear thick padding in camouflage colors instead of the black uniforms. They carry automatic rifles and their heavy combat boots send echoing thuds through the streets. I see several people standing by, watching the military procession walk down the street. My companion walks closer and I cautiously follow him. “Really not good. We have to cross this street, but this parade blocks our path.” He looks to both sides as if estimating its length. “I can’t even see the synths yet. This could easily go on for another twenty minutes. We can’t wait that long.” He looks up at the buildings flanking the street and points to a skyway that connects two apartment buildings on either side. “There.” I follow him down the street as he heads towards a large opening in the wall of the apartment building with the skyway. The opening is closed off by a cast iron fence, but its lock seems to have been broken for a long time and Jeremy simply pushes it open. It turns out to be a passage to a courtyard between the apartment buildings, with dark, vigilant windows and balconies looking out over it.

“Okay, you’re not supposed to come here if you don’t live here, so technically we’re trespassing,” Jeremy says to me as we make our way to the exterior staircase on one of the high walls surrounding the courtyard. “Then again, you were already illegal, so-” He cuts himself off abruptly freezes, seemingly listening. Over the still loud marching I can hear a soft, mechanical whirr with an occasional beep. Jeremy looks up and immediately grabs me. “Combot!” he shouts as he pulls me in the direction of the nearest door. I catch a brief glimpse of a floating drone with a single yellow eye before a bright, white flash blinds me. I stumble backwards and Jeremy, presumably also blinded, starts swearing with panic in his voice. The slow beeps of the drone turn into an alarm as I slowly regain my sense of sight, and when I can properly see again I find it’s still hovering in the same spot. By now I have seen enough examples of Combine technology to recognize that this so-called Combot is another one. Four metal flaps surround its eye, which has now turned red as it shines its flashlight onto us and continues its alarm.

Jeremy grabs me again and pushes me towards the staircase. “Look, it’s too late now. They know we’re here, there will be Metrocops swarming all over this place in half a minute. You gotta get out of here and get to Kleiner’s. I’ll hold them off.”

I try to object but am interrupted by a distant female voice echoing through the air: “Attention, Civil Protection team: unauthorized civil activity detected in residential block 67B. Investigate and report.”

Jeremy looks to the sky as if he’s looking for the source of the disembodied voice and then looks back to me. “Go through the residential block across the street, through the industrial district. Barney will meet you at the Manhack Arcade.” He points to something on the wall next to the stairs: between the various graffiti is a familiar Greek letter drawn in orange paint. “Follow the lambdas. They indicate safe routes for Resistance allies. Go!”

I hesitate for a second. I don’t want to leave him behind in the clutches of Civil Protection, but he doesn’t seem like he’s planning on going anywhere, so I give him a respectful nod before turning around and running up the stairs. I go as fast as I can, and I am almost at the top when I hear footsteps and the shriek of the broken gate. I look down and see several Metrocops run onto the courtyard with their batons ready. Jeremy puts his hands on his head before he gets grabbed by two Metrocops and forced onto his knees. One Metrocop steps forward. He looks different than the others, wearing a trench coat and carrying some kind of radio pack on his back. He asks Jeremy a question I can’t understand and when he doesn’t get an answer, he gestures to one of the Metrocops holding Jeremy down. A flash of blue as a stun baton is planted in Jeremy’s side. His body shakes a second before he falls to the ground. The trench coat-wearing Metrocop, probably an officer, barks a couple of brief orders. I can only understand a couple of words: “There were two”. I have to get out of here.

I ascend the final steps as quickly and as quietly as I can. There’s a wooden door at the top. I fidget with the handle. It’s unlocked. I open it, slip inside, and close it behind me. No time to rest. I hear the Metrocops coming up the stairs, and the Combot’s light seeps through the crack under the door. Got to keep moving. I scan the hallway. Apartment doors. Staircase. It’s dark: there are no windows and the lights don’t work, but there is daylight coming from around a corner down the hall. My footsteps echo on the brown ceramic tiles as I run past the closed doors and onto the skyway we had seen from below. Down in the street, the Combine troops are still marching. There are different units among them now. Hulking, mechanical figures, appearing to be almost eight feet tall, carrying enormous alien weaponry no human would be able to carry. These must be the synths Jeremy mentioned. Nestled deep in the armor between the bulky shoulders is something that doesn’t seem completely mechanical. I don’t stay to have a better look. Something tells me it would only disturb me.

I hear Metrocops banging on doors as I start making my way down the stairs of the building on the other side of the road, occasionally followed by a crash of splintering wood. The Metrocops bark orders at panicking citizens as they search the apartments. I use their preoccupation to put more distance between us, sincerely hoping my actions don’t get any of the inhabitants into serious trouble. I descend creaky stairs that wrap around the grating of an elevator shaft. A man stands in a doorway, curious about the noises that echo all the way from the other building, while a woman behind him urges him to go inside and close the door before they get here. I make brief eye contact with the man as I descend. My look must give away that I’m the cause of the tumult, because he whispers to me: “Go through the back door on the ground floor. I never saw you.” Another plea from the woman and he retreats into his apartment and closes the door.

I’m not sure I can trust the man. He might be leading me into a trap, or maybe he will point the Metrocops to where I went when they come knocking on his door. But right now, I have little choice but to accept all the help I can get if I ever want to reach Dr. Kleiner. When I reach the ground floor, there is an entrance hall with rows of mailboxes and a transparent door that leads out into a large street. I can see why the man told me to go out the back: it’s the street where the hordes of soldiers are still marching. I look around for a back door and find it in a windowless, unlit room filled with cardboard boxes. I have to move some of them to get the door open. Beyond the door is a courtyard much like the one where we got spotted by the Combot. The coast seems clear.

I can already tell which way I have to go. Amidst a tapestry of graffiti, there is another lambda drawn in orange spray paint next to a narrow passage. As I follow its guidance, I wonder why they chose this symbol for their ‘safe passages’. I mean, I can certainly guess where they got it from. Word must have gotten out about the Lambda lab’s part in stopping the Resonance Cascade – though, ultimately, it hardly saved Earth. Plus, no one at Black Mesa can really be praised for solving a problem we caused.

Having time to think again as I walk through the alleyway, I ponder exactly what happened to me during the ten years I was in the dark void. By now, I have come to the conclusion that I haven’t aged. My hair and beard haven’t grown, I haven’t gained or lost weight, my joints and muscles aren’t sore. But at the same time, my wounds and bruises from the Black Mesa incident seem to have completely healed. None of the clothes I’m wearing are clothes I have ever owned, yet my glasses are the ones I had on me during the Black Mesa disaster. The ones I managed not to lose throughout all the perils I faced and were cracked and stained with blood by the end, but now rest on my face clean and unscathed.

My memories of the void are a blur, like a distant dream. If it weren’t for the radically changed world I find myself in, I would think it never happened. On top of that, my memories from before the void have also gone blurry – or, rather, before Black Mesa. I can remember Black Mesa like it was yesterday, but my life before Black Mesa (MIT, high school, my parental home…) feels like a vaguely remembered childhood memory, even the things that happened when I was well over twenty. Is this his doing? Is he trying to erase the person I was, only to leave a mindless fighting machine in his stead? Or is it merely a result of the deterioration of a mind over the course of ten years of isolation?

I’m no longer walking between apartment buildings. The streets are narrow and the walls are all brick and pipes and steel beams. Steam rises from grates in the ground and mixes with the faint fog that hangs between the buildings. There is a constant whir of machinery coming from behind the walls. A train passes overhead on the elevated tracks while a lone Combot combs the empty streets. I try my best to stay out of its sight. The train sounds its horn. The Combot rounds a corner. I get the impression the sky has gotten even darker since I left the station.

A strange contraption stands lonely on the sidewalk. It’s a cylindrical tank filled with red liquid, cradled in a humming machine with green gauge lights and power cables running into the wall behind it. Like all other Combine technology, it looks extremely out of place, like someone just dropped it on the street and punched jagged holes into the wall to fit the cables. The Combine clearly plant their machines and facilities wherever they need them without a care for whatever was there before. It makes me angry, of course, but the irony doesn’t escape me. After all, it’s exactly what we did on Xen.

There is a silhouette in the dark liquid. Vaguely humanoid, curled up into a fetal position. I can just about discern a large red eye, half-closed, on the creature’s head. Even through the thick liquid, the shape appears… familiar. It seems impossible to believe, but it almost looks like…

“The Freeman.”

The voice behind me startles me and I spin around. Before me stands a green, hunched over figure with shackles around its long neck, wrists and ankles. All of its red eyes are on me and a vestigial third arm extends itself towards me. If there was any doubt about the creature in the tank, here it is unmistakable: I am standing in front of a Vortigaunt.

“At last, the Combine’s reckoning has come.”

Chapter 3

_________________________________

Yes, you read this right: chapter 2 of Anticitizen, which has been in production since July 2020, is finally finished! And boy, is it a long one! 4000 words, and yet we still haven't even gotten to Dr. Kleiner's lab! (Don't worry, we'll get there soon).

Anywho, here are the accompanying images:

Beta Citadel

Combot

Metropolice officer

Combine Guard synth

Industrial district

Vorti-cell

I'm very excited to finally have this done and ready to be read. I think (and really hope) the next chapter won't take as long. As I said in the last progress update, I have been doing a lot of overarching planning for the story which will make writing easier.

I have made a rough estimate of the story and predict it will be about 32 chapters long, though it's much more likely to be more than that than less, judging from the fact that it's taking 3 chapters just to get to Kleiner's lab. The thing is, you can't predict the length things will have in this story by looking at their length in the game. The opening requires a lot of describing and mood-setting so it's much longer than the short intro in the game. Story parts will be longer than they are in the game, while action parts will be shorter than they are in the game (looking at you, 'Canals' and 'Highway' sections).

By the way, I have started uploading Anticitizen to Reddit now under the name EthanLM427. Do with that what you want.

Anyway, that's it for me. I promise I won't take as long for the next one.

#anticitizen #half life #half life 2 #half life 2 beta #my writing #fanfiction #gordon freeman #barney calhoun

10 notes · View notes

heroes-and-woes · 6 years

Text

Uncomplicated

Author’s note: Who else is obsessed with Eraserhead’s awesome hairstyle?! Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes

Description: After a long time, Aizawa is reunited with an old friend.

Masterlist

Friday 8:36 pm

Drinks with Present Mic had always been a long standing invitation that, unfortunately, Eraserhead always had to decline. The blond hero was a magnet for attention and the reclusive brunette just couldn’t deal with that--not after hours. Fridays, were especially hard since there was no other possible excuse he could give besides being tired but this time it was different.

“I’ve already made plans,” Aizawa Shouta stacked the last of his papers into the corner of his desk, all the while ignoring Hizashi’s glowering eyes. With a tired sigh, he smoothed the top-most of the of the pile, glad to be finally able to call it a day.

The rest of the room around him was a bustle of bodies, of whom had also started to pack up their things. Beside him, separated only by a thin barricade of plywood provided by the cubicle, Hizashi had already convinced half of the faculty to go out for karaoke and beer. He was on Aizawa now, sitting backwards on a swivel chair so that he could face his neighbor properly. Hizashi kept scowling at Aizawa, obviously unsatisfied with his alibi.

“What could you be possibly be doing on a Friday night?” Although his intentions were good and his powers admirable as a hero, Aizawa couldn’t help but wish that Present Mic had another volume other than, loud. The irritated look he gave did nothing to deter the blond hero. Aizawa could only sigh as he supplied his friend with more information.

“I’m meeting someone,” he said simply, hoping that his colleague would finally drop the matter but of course this seemed only to spur the hero even more.

“Okay, then bring them! The more the merrier!”

“I can’t decide that.” Aizawa began to rub the lids of his eyes with the pads of his fingers in the hopes of easing some of his irritation. He had no time for this.

Present Mic made a move to argue but decided against it. He licked the top row of his teeth, thinking carefully about his next words. Defeated, he flicked his tongue on the corner of his mouth, with a loud disappointed click.

“You know, you’re turning into a real hermit, Eraserhead.”

Seeing as his friend had finally given up, Aizawa started to stuff his things inside his bag. “I know. It’s not that bad.”

“You’re never gonna find a wife if you’re like that.”

“And you think that I’m going to find her in a bar?”

“Well, we don’t know that--you hardly ever go out!”

Aizawa could only sigh in response. Sluggishly, he stood from his desk, his hand curled on the nape of his neck. “Okay, how about we go out tomorrow?”

Behind his glasses, Hizashi squinted in suspicion.

“I mean it,” Aizawa half shouted as he hurried out the door, “I’ll buy you a drink tomorrow night.”

Friday 10:13 pm

Aizawa fished for his keys in his sling bag. The dark made it a challenge to find anything so he mostly relied on his sense of touch. On the way to his apartment unit, he took the stairs, cursing quietly with each step that he took. He got to his floor at the same time he was finally able to hook his finger around the ring that held his keys together. He studied the keys in his hand and picked out the one meant for his front door. Aizawa looked up, ready to enter his house, only to see a figure sitting on the ground next to his doormat.

“Hi,” she looked up, a smile on her face.She always smiled. It was like her mouth was shaped specifically to rest in such a way.

She hugged her knees close to her chest, her chin rested in the small gap in between them. Aizawa noticed the bag beside her, a tag still hanging on its handle from the airport. The reality that they haven’t seen each other in so long finally dawned on him and he couldn’t help but sweep another quick look at her. Even dressed so simply, in dark jeans and a hoodie, she seemed to take his breath away.“Hi.”

Aizawa held out his hand to help her up. She gladly took it and they stood together, their shoulders almost touching. “Did you wait long?”

Her slender fingers shifted into the spaces between his, loosely intertwining their hands together. Aizawa was never really the one to talk, as much as he relished the feeling of her touch, he was content with stroking his thumb along her knuckles, quietly affirming her little gestures.

“A few minutes,” she admitted. She kept her eyes on the the door, seemingly absorbed in the way he unlocked it. It was only for a moment, but he felt her glance his face before it darted back to their interlocked fingers. “I’ve missed you.”

Aizawa didn’t waste time with words. There was enough of that for later. So instead of saying that he missed her too. Instead of responding with trivial things, the dark-haired man lightly placed his free hand under her jaw. Gently, guiding her to meet his waiting lips.

Saturday 12:27 am

The bath was more tepid than warm but with her sat in between his legs, Aizawa wasn’t complaining. She was as close to him as she could possibly be, flushed against his chest. Her head nuzzled along the crook of his neck, Aizawa only had to look down to appreciate her beautiful body. That was hidden in only a patchwork of water and bubbles.

A part of them always had to be connected in some way, he noticed this as he studied her dainty fingers between his own. He counted each one, raising his own fingers as he did so. Their proximity left his mind slow and cozy. The arbitrary task seemed to occupy much of his focus that he paid almost little attention to her quiet murmurs along the hollow of his neck.

“Are you listening?” The drawl of her peaceful voice echoed along the tiled walls of the room.

Aizawa paused in his ministrations, wordlessly trying to remember what she had said. “I am...”

“I must be boring you...”

Aizawa completely abandoned his counting to wrap his arms around her. He planted a kiss on the top of her head, ��No. It’s not that. The water is just making me drowsy.”

Without looking at him, she reached out to place her hand on his cheek. “You must be tired from work.”

Aizawa turned to the side. His lips brushed along the inside of her palm. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of her sweet scent. “I’m not. What were you saying?”

He pressed kisses down from her palm to her wrist. The stubble on his chin tickled the inside of her wrist which elicited a laugh from her. The sound trickled seamlessly with the soft patter of water.

“I don’t remember now.” She admitted. “Why don’t we talk about school? How is everything?”

“It’s the same as always...”

“So I assume your students are doing great.” This time she looked up to give him a wide grin.

Aizawa flicked his hand from under the water, sending a splash down her way. She giggled in his arms, “That’s good. And your co-workers?”

“Mic, was sulking earlier.”

“What did you do?”

“Why do you always assume that it’s my fault?”

She remained silent. Without even checking, the raven-haired man knew that she had her lips pursed in amusement.

He dropped his chin to rest on her shoulder.“He was sulking because I didn’t go out with him for drinks.”

“And why didn’t you?”

Aizawa gave an exasperated sigh.“Do you even have to ask that?”

“Oh,” was her only response. “I could have waited a little longer for you.”

“Well, I couldn’t,” he sounded genuinely annoyed, “I see him everyday and you--not so often...”

“Still,” she pressed, “going out is different.”

Again, Aizawa could only sigh, “Don’t worry too much about him. I promised to buy him a drink tomorrow.”

Happy with his response, she silently patted his forearm. Her hand drifted along his arm until she paused right above his wrist. “We can still make up for lost time.”

This piqued his interest.

In a slow, deliberate pace she lifted his arms away from her so that she could face him. Aizawa watched as she carefully straddled his hips, at the same time she guided his hands to rest on either side of her waist. Her left hand pushed him a little further into the water, allowing him to lie back more comfortably. Her right hand cradled the side of his face, compelling him to look at her.

It was impossible not to.

She was a sight to behold. Looking at her made his heart buoyant with emotions--awe, wonder, affection and all the things that he couldn’t possibly name.

So Aizawa just stared.

Saturday 3:42 pm

He was getting nauseous from lying in bed all day. Aizawa glanced at her. She still slept soundly across his chest and he knew he would have a hard time getting out.

“Hey,” he nudged her softly but gained no response. He tried several attempts but she only continued to snore against his chest.

Gradually, his prods transformed into tender touches that had wandered from her shoulders to the upper part of her back. He traced patterns along the creases of the threadbare shirt she had borrowed from him.

Saturday 7:19 pm

Aizawa left his phone to ring several times before he finally caved and answered the call.

“I’m at your building,” Mic said before the dark-haired man could even respond, “hurry up!”

The phone went silent and Aizawa could only stare blankly at his screen. “He’s here.”

From across the table she only lifted her thumb up, to show support. Her mouth was still full with noodles.

Aizawa set his chopsticks down to run his hand along his hair. “Brace yourself.”

Almost immediately after he said this, the doorbell rang. Aizawa shot one last look of warning towards her before he lumbered over to answer the door.She was quick to follow after him, temporarily abandoning her food. Aizawa gave her a quizzical look but nonetheless opened the door to Hizashi.

“Aizawa you bastard!” Present Mic exclaimed, clapping a hand down his shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”

“I thought I told you that we’d meet at the bar.”

“I didn’t want you skipping town on me.” Hizashi’s mouth fell into a devious smirk making Aizawa grimace.

“I’m going to change,” Mic made a move to argue but then his mouth went slack when Aizawa turned on his heel to reveal a woman standing behind him.

“Aren’t you going to invite him inside?” She was calling after the sullen hero and he gave her a vague gesture in response. She turned back to the confused, Hizashi and welcomed him inside with a smile.

Sunday 1:53 am

As expected, Hizashi grilled Aizawa for details stopping at no costs to figure out just who that woman in his apartment was. Aizawa had expected him to immediately jump off the minute he saw her but he was presently surprised to find out that the initial shock of their meeting had left the blond hero mute.

Of course, that left Aizawa with the painful task of having to explain things to the relentless Hizashi but at least he was able to spare her that.

“You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend!”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Then what was she doing in your apartment!”

“I told you that we made plans.”

“For the whole weekend?”

“I hardly ever see her.”

Hizashi coughed on his beer, his lungs burning at the presence of the foreign liquid. He hacked out a few more coughs, that seemed to be dramatic in Aizawa’s opinion, then proceeded to grit his teeth in pain.

“I feel like I don’t know you at all,” he managed to croak out. Aizawa shrugged and continued to down a third of his beer. When he finished he set down the glass in front of him, watching the bubbles flow up the amber liquid.

“So what kind of relationship do you guys have?”

“What do you mean?”

“This thing you guys are doing. What is it?”

“It is what it is.”

“So you just have sex...”

Aizawa instinctively made a face at the glass. Hearing that made it sound cheap like whatever he had with her could easily be tossed out and replaced. “Of course not.”

“Then what is it!”

“It’s hard to explain.She has...engagements that she needs to deal with.”

“Is she married? Is she’s getting married?”

The blond hero held up his hands when Aizawa turned to glare at him. “Are you an idiot?”

“Well is she?”

“It’s not as dramatic as you think it is. We’re just...taking things at our own pace.”

The silence filled the space between the two men as they drank their beers.

Sunday 6:00 am

He thought that by now saying, goodbye, would be easy but it still wasn’t.

Aizawa watched as he lugged her suitcase to the front door. Always, always, always, she told him where she would be heading to, what time she would arrive and what kind of work she would be doing. She told him everything--except for when she was going to come back.

He learned not to ask. It was too painful to expect disappointment. However, this time when she looked up at him, he dared to hope that things would be different.

“When are you coming back?”

For a couple of heartbeats, her eyes could only stare back at him. Aizawa grabbed her hands and brought them to his lips, assuring her that it was okay. He didn’t need to know.

Monday 7:48 am

On the way to class, Aizawa picked up a few things from his desk. There, in the faculty room he came across All Might, eagerly looking at his phone. The number one hero looked up and gave him a wave.

“Aizawa! How was your weekend?”

The brunette paused in his tracks thinking back to the days that passed. He remembered kissing her knuckles at the doorstep of his home ready to say, goodbye, again.

“What if,” she suddenly said surprising him, “what if the next time that I come back...I decide to stay... for good.”

Her words were slow to sink in but finally the realization dawned on Aizawa, so fiercely that it rendered him speechless.

“When that time comes will you let me stay?”

Aizawa gave All Might a rare smile. “It was alright.”

#boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #mha #aizawa shouta #eraserhead #fluff #angst

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