Chapter Text
“The end justifies the means. But what if there never is an end? All we have is means.”
- Ursula K. Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven
—
He’s got a migraine in his head, a watch that’s two minutes behind on his wrist, two Aspirins and some lint in his pocket, and a desperate need for a drink. Coffee or a vodka shot, he’s not sure.
The bright lights in the hallway are beating down at Shota in some offensive, aggressive way. They’re too pushy. He’s reminded vaguely of Hizashi, but he waves that thought away. The lights aren’t that bad. And he’s only wading through the hallways after the bell mostly because he’s letting his new class simmer. He does the same thing every year: test their reaction time, see how long it takes the students to notice him. Of course, he tested them the day before classes, just before their little apprehension test. Thirteen seconds, an abysmal record. Some of the worst he’s ever seen. The Rabbit notices him in five. Now, though, he’s almost excited; will they beat their record today? If not, he might as well just expel them all, for the second year in a row. They’re not too promising, anyway, even the recommended students. Their stats during the apprehension test were subpar, and he’s sure they won’t make any fast improvements. They’re not a very focused class, anyway.
And maybe he’s too lost in thought about it, about all these stupid kids, particularly the explosive, angry one with barely any voice, because when he turns the corner towards his classroom—
—he bumps straight into someone. Poor kid, and he thinks kid because they’re so short, and when they separate he sees dark, almost-black curls and tan skin. His voice comes out stuttery, high-pitched, sort of scared. “Oh—I’m so sorry,” he says, like he’s used to it.
Shota blinks. Something about this strikes him, a chord strung clean and loud. He’s not sure if it’s the voice, or maybe the look the kid gives him when they make eye contact—his eyes meeting wild forest green—but something reverberates as if familiar. He feels as if he’s meant to be meeting his eyes, as if they’ve done this a thousand times. Maybe during the welcoming ceremony, perhaps? Before he dragged his worthless class to the open field for the test? He’s not sure.
But now the kid’s struck him with this look, as if in recognition, as if in fear. Shota’s not unused to it in the field, since he’s dressed in dark and speaks in that low, serious voice, but in UA? When they’re surrounded by daylight and there’s nothing but heroes? What’s this kid got to be scared of?
Shota scoffs. Not his business, anyway, since the kid’s got the uniform of a gen-ed student. Who is he to prolong the discomfort the kid’s so obviously experiencing? “Get to class, kid,” he says, and steps out of the way in case the student is half-paralyzed in whatever fear he’s feeling. He thinks he hears the kid mumble something when he starts walking down the hall, but when Shota looks back the kid is gone. Hm.
—
He gets put on lunch monitor duty the first day, because God hates him and so does Nezu. His class is still amazingly subpar: 14.3 seconds until they noticed him, which is worse than yesterday, and half of them aren’t even very mentally present during the actual academic classes. He’s got a pack of idiots in there, and he can’t wait to expel them once they inevitably fuck up during the basic training heroics class. Maybe he’ll go easier on them this year and only expel them for the week, just to scare them into shape a bit. Hizashi gave him hell last year for expelling them any longer, and for some reason it still makes Shota wince thinking about Hizashi being mad at him.
It’s sort of weighing him down, the fact that Hizashi isn't also on lunch duty. Shota peers around the room, waiting for a shriek of sound or reverberating laughter, but only sees a sea of other students and Lunch Rush. They don’t talk anymore, so he doesn’t know why this thought comes to him. It’s always a weird kind of comforting seeing a head of bright yellow wherever he is, though. It brings him the same comfort he had when he was fifteen, a thought that feels awkward and disjointed, given that the last time Hizashi texted him was three months ago. You’re late for the staff meeting. And then, Want me to get your coffee ready? I still know how you like it.
Shota hadn’t replied. It doesn’t matter.
He hates lunch duty. He’s used to it being a great time for his afternoon naps, and usually Nezu understands, but he supposes this year will be different. Perhaps it’s punishment for something, but he can’t figure out for what. Nezu understands how hard he has to be on the students, doesn’t he? It’s life or death in this world, especially without All Might. It’s only logical to cut the weakest links out before the villains cut them for him. But it doesn’t matter now, he supposes, since he’s stuck in this noisy cafeteria, the smell of food nauseating him almost to death. He hates this so much. He’d preferred if they all ate in silence, quiet and proper, thinking like real heroes. And fuck, that Aspirin never even works, he’s still got a migraine.
It all adds up eventually, and Shota’s halfway toward suicide when he sees that kid again. He’s scanning the gen-ed tables in the middle of dragging a disgusting trash can to the middle of the cafeteria, and he sees him.
Head down and turned to the side, almost asleep—Shota would think he was if his eyes weren’t peering just slightly open—and looking half beaten down, half blank. What an apocalyptic little look for a fifteen year old. He feels a pang of something, maybe pity but surely not empathy. Like seeing a wet cat in the rain. When he squints, he can see a sharp bruise grazing the edge of the kid’s jaw, which he must have missed earlier in the morning. The gen-ed uniform is pulled taut around him, as if he’s trying to soak in the warmth, but it’s a bit loose against his body.
For a moment he’s just staring, trying to place the kid’s face again, because something about it strikes achingly familiar just like it did this morning; he finds it even stranger that the kid doesn’t even seem to notice. Maybe he’s spaced out. But he seems to be just staring past Shota, and when Shota follows his gaze he only finds the table his own class is sitting at. 1-A.
He’s probably jealous, Shota figures. Most gen-ed kids only apply as a backup for failing the hero course entrance exam, so most of them tend to carry some envy. For a second Shota feels disappointed, though he can’t figure out why. He turns away and continues to drag the trash can.
—
The Rabbit doesn’t eat much at the restaurant anymore, and maybe Shota’s ruined it for him. He figures he’s ruined a lot of things for the kid, but he doesn’t know if he can fix that, or if he even wants to.
He ignores it, like the host of other things they like to avoid talking about, and when they get their black coffees that Tuesday morning they drink it in silence. He’s broken the news about the new case, and now there’s really nothing to speak about, now that most things are back to business. Shota tries not to pry, but maybe it comes off as neglectful. Maybe it comes off as uncaring. Maybe that’s what it really is. He wraps his hand around the fresh mug, keeps it there even though it’s so hot it burns.
“You remember that boy you saved?” He asks, without thinking. So rare of him.
“I save a lot of people.” Not necessarily untrue, but there’s an uncaring edge that he’s unfamiliar with. Shota licks his teeth, almost uncomfortable if he didn’t know any better.
“You know the one. He was a victim to that sludge villain? He had an explosive Quirk.”
The kid stills. He’s not drinking his coffee, but his gloved hands are clasped together on the table, so Shota can see the way they twitch. There’s recognition in the furrow of his brow, but for some reason he doesn’t say anything. Shota can’t conceive as to why; there was nothing special about that fight. Nothing special about the way Shota had chewed him out after it happened, either. So what’s the issue?
“Well, he’s in my class this year. He had an episode during our hero basic training exercise today, and I had to pull him from the lesson.”
There’s a hollow sense of emptiness between them for a beat; and then the kid leans forward, suddenly interested, suddenly transfixed. Shota hadn’t missed the way he’d been broiling in anxiety for all of their last conversation, and he’s thankful for the change. He finds it in himself to ignore the bruises appearing when the kid’s collar is pulled down with the force of his movement. “What do you mean?”
”Our training exercise today was for combat training. We had the class split up into teams, half hero, half villain. We went to Grounds B, the training area with the buildings—it mimics a city. Well, two hero students were to go up against two villain students. The student got assigned to play the role of the villain, and he ended up having a… Meltdown.”
Meltdown is a kinder word for what happened. Attacking your own classmate—the one on his team, that is—is thoroughly inexcusable. And for once, Shota isn’t sure how to go about it. He’d considered expelling the kid right there and then, but what would Nezu think of that, since he’s already trying to teach him a lesson about last year’s attempts? What would Hizashi say?
He shakes his head. Why does he care what Hizashi would think? He barely even cares what his boss would say, and Nezu is the one who’s paying him.
“A meltdown?” The kid repeats, but there’s a lilt at the end of his tone that makes Shota think there’s more to it. Probably concern: his priority tends to be other people, no matter how reckless he is. No matter how many bruises and scars start to appear on his torso, his arms, his legs, his head. No matter what. Shota ducks his head in an effort to not be privy to something, because suddenly it feels as if they’re edging on another conversation. If he closes his eyes, he won’t have to be a receiver of uncomfortable secrets. He doesn’t have to hold on to anything dark.
“I let it slide this time, but I can’t excuse that kind of behavior for long,” Shota says. “If you’re not mentally stable, you’re not clear to be in the field, period.”
There’s an audible wince. Shota looks up from his coffee, finds what he thinks are the shadows of the kid’s eyes behind the black beetle-glimmer of his shades. He’s probably struck a nerve, though the kid won’t tell him. He feels something like guilt but brushes it down. Sure, he hadn’t meant it that way, but it’s just the truth. What’s the statistics about bulimics? How many die choking on their own vomit?
Shota’s always been an objective man. He’s not going to stop just because his partner has a certain vice.
—
They meet again Tuesday night. The rain is scattered in sudden dark breaths, coming and going, pulsating like a heart and beating against the roof loud enough to hear. Shota’s comforted by it. The kid isn’t.
He’s rattling on the floor in front of the toilet, and his breath comes in quick gasps like the rainfall. The vomiting is harsher than usual, too hurried to be on purpose, and Shota feels something like a memory worm his brain—didn’t something like this happen in the summer? He rummages around in his head, realizes he can’t quite recall. His hand is on the kid’s back, and under the cold of the jacket over his hoodie he can feel the way the muscles under his shoulders flex, as if moving on their own accord to account for the new mass that’s spilling its way out of his stomach.
“I’m fine, just so you know,” the kid says. He gags, vomits again. The stuff comes up black like night.
“I know.”
Shota takes a breath, adjusts. He’s kneeling with one knee on the floor. The pressure of bone against tile is starting to send slight shooting pains up his leg, but it’s nothing to him. He averts his eyes to the worst of it, mostly to avoid looking at the vomit and partly to avoid looking at the kid’s exposed skin. He already knows about the freckles, what more is there to see?
There’s an empty sigh. “I think I’ve just been… I think I just need to be on my feet more, not relying on this Quirk too much.”
“You’re not going to do that.”
There’s the sound of movement, and the kid turns toward him—paper mask back on, sunglasses darkened against the yellow light from above—but for some reason Shota thinks he might be smiling. There’s a sound from the back of his throat like he’s been caught. The kid rests his back against the cool shield of the stall wall, and Shota does the same. It’s a bit uncomfortable facing each other, the tips of their shoes meeting when the kid brings his knees up to his chest. Like always, there’s not enough space for them to exist without having to cut a hole through each other. “Yeah,” the kid agrees, “I guess I don’t mind when it hurts.”
“Do you not mind it or do you like it?”
There’s a beat of silence. Immediately Shota regrets it. But there’s something he can’t deny when all the bruises pile up, when the self sacrifice turns into reckless self endangerment, when for a second the kid doesn’t fight back. Because there are moments, tiny little sequences, of brushing off the wounds and disregarding the damages, that Shota can’t continue to ignore. A year ago, Shota had considered it coldly, an integral flaw showing a particular weakness. An unworthiness. Heroes don’t get to be unnecessarily self-sacrificial—not since All Might, at least. And he’d brushed it off, disregarded it as he had everything else about the Rabbit, because if you do it wrong one time, where’s the hope that you can ever do it right? Because if you do it wrong one time, people die. Because if you do it wrong one time, someone’s someone dies. Someone’s Oboro dies.
But maybe if Shota looks at it, really looks at it, maybe there’s some leeway. Some invisible space between them now and where they can be. Where the kid can be. Because, well, he hasn’t killed anyone yet. Least of all himself, though it kind of seems like he’s been trying.
Shota swallows at the sudden thought. It comes as a surprising weight in the back of his head, something heavy and hard—a secret he has no business carrying. A secret he was trying to avoid being privy to. A secret he’d done everything to deny. But maybe that’s what he needs to do, in order to understand; maybe he needs to realize they’re both punishing themselves for something there doesn’t need to be repentance for.
He refocuses his eyes and sees that bruising again below the collar, ugly and swelling and dark. “I don’t like anything I don’t deserve,” the kid says. The words send a morbid, retched feeling all the way down Shota’s gut.
There’s a buzzing in his back pocket. Shota pulls out his phone with a certain quickness—desperate to escape whatever this is. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want it to be. He’s heard enough secrets for today.
“There’s a situation downtown. It’s serious,” he says, though he doesn’t know the exact details. He’s just parroting what Tsukauchi had said in the text. “We should start heading there now.”
There is, for once, no discernable emotion behind the Rabbit’s paper mask.
—
They’re standing in the dark pouring rain, drops of ice-cold water cascading down on them soft as rose petals. When the white shine of the swinging flashlights illuminate the outlines of the kid’s body, Shota can see the droplets sliding off his exposed curls. He watches as the kid shudders and raises his hood.
Shota turns back. It’s early Wednesday morning by the time they get there, and the scene is already adorned with yellow tape, neon like it’s something to be excited about. The burnt body—charred beyond belief, Shota guesses, as all the other ones were—is lying there on the street, an amalgamation of black flesh and ash. When he swallows, it smells almost like barbecue wafting in the air; if he were a lesser man he’d be nauseous. Thinking about this, he looks towards his own lesser man.
“Another hero?” Shota asks the kid, though they both know.
“Probably. All the rest were,” the Rabbit says, in that far-off way he does when there’s something going on in his head, another secret that Shota isn’t letting himself be privy to. The kid’s black boots are slickened with mud, rain sliding down the shields of his sunglasses like fast tears. People swerve around them, police officers and forensic specialists and detectives, but the kid is unmoving. He side-steps to let a police officer pass, but leans more towards Shota again as another officer begins to throw up just out of the scene’s boundaries. Probably out of comfort more than anything else; if there’s anything the Rabbit is familiar with, it’s vomit.
“Gross,” he mutters, just loud enough for Shota to hear over the rain as the officer to their right gags. “Anyway,” the kid says, unmoving now to watch the flicker of police officers searching the scene, white flashlights scattering around like beacons along brick walls and slick streets. “This isn’t… This isn’t that guy, right? The, um, the—“
”The Dragon? No. At least I don’t think so. He never killed heroes directly with his Quirk, just took down buildings.” To his ears, the kid’s voice comes out almost anxious and wavering, and instinctively Shota tries to calm him.
“But he did, right?” There’s a certain quiver again.
“What?”
“Kill heroes.”
For some reason, Shota hesitates to answer. “Yes,” he says, because it’s the truth, though his instinct is to lie.