Chapter Text
ORESTES:⠀ ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏where have i seen you before?
MOIRA:⠀ ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏in a dream.
ORESTES:⠀ ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏͏͏͏͏ ͏͏a thousand years ago.
幼稚な無実 JUPITER'S STORM 。
The Fates have spun a thousand stories, but there is one they like to tell so well:
The hero undone by the human’s hand.
The mortal’s word for love.
***
Somewhere across the sea of time, you sit alone at your desk. The stars glow like pearls against the night sky. Rain falls against the window. The tea is cold in its mug. You twirl you favorite pen between your fingers and the world here is softer around the edges. The paper on your desk bleeds ink and poetry. Pages and pens are scattered around you like a starburst. And here you can just breathe.
Here the stars feel close enough to touch.
It’s been so long since you’ve been like this—since you’ve been allowed to be like this. To be free.
And it cost so much.
Here, alone at your desk with the lights burning low—it makes you remember.
And it makes you wonder,
What if it went differently?
It seems like the stories come to life, rising up from the page, outlined against the stars:
What happens after Cain kills Abel? What does Eve say to her son? What can she say? Was she angry, did she lunge at him? Or was it more soft, more sad, a mother and her son: Cain, honey, what have you done?
(Blood under his fingernails that Eden’s waters can’t scrub away.)
Eve’s face, contorting with horror. She smells betrayal and feels tears and hears pain. And she knows somehow, the way that a mother knows.
Did she ever know she would lose both sons?
What if Cain never killed Abel? What if Adam and Eve never ate the apple—would life be easier, or would humans still find something to complain about? Something to mess up again? Something to hurt?
There is always something to hurt.
A crack.
One crack is not a break. One drop is not an ocean. One tree is not a forest. But it takes flowers to make a garden. Words to make a story. You are porcelain and made of doll parts, but still you do not break. You are drowning in all your unshed tears. You are a writer and an artist and everything that comes in between, but sometimes your chest is a hollow place home only to butterflies and birds. Other times it is a vast cosmos: sprawling with stars and nebulae and galactic anomalies.
Breathe.
One crack does not make a break. But some things are made to be broken.
Your eyes focus on the open book spread out before you; stories framed in words, myths carried on old tongues and sung to the skies: Achilles’ divine rage, the armies he crushed under his feet. The soldiers caught at the other end of his spear. A boy born of the sea, and yet he was closest to the waves when Patroclus’ heart beat against him. Some would call him a monster—but close enough—he was a hero. And he lost the one that taught him love. He could have been a god, but he was only human. Mortal. Bloody. Patroclus . His cries shook the ocean floors. The sea flowed down his face.
Another myth as well: Circe’s eyes lowered, seeking Father’s approval, bristling at Mother’s voice. The tragedy of her earlier days. The anomaly of her birth. The thorned path she walked alone. The spells that ribboned forth from her fingertips, like threads on a loom, like strings she pulled. A different kind of love that bloomed in her hollow chest. A little boy cradled close. Son , she calls him. The name for the magic—for the music under her skin.
And Icarus, golden Icarus with wax wings and a heart too big for his body, reaching for a home he never knew. Reaching for something so far away. Reaching through the mist. Reaching for the sun.
Too close.
So far.
He falls.
You close the book.
This story is yours, but maybe it is already over, the echo scraping the stars.
This is what happens when the story ends, when the curtains fall, when you’re still hanging off the words. This is what happens when the pages turn and there is nothing left. This is what happens when the theatre goes dark.
This is the lines between the silence.
***
A chorus.
A melody. Poetry painted on air.
Stars spilling from silent lips. Flowers sewn into gums. Verses of poetry you remember, but don’t understand.
Stained glass windows, glowing rainbow-soft. Hands reaching for you through the mist. The smell of ash and smoke. The stars.
It feels like a dream.
A storm brewing on the horizon. The ocean rushing out to greet you. Coral braided in your hair. Music under your skin.
Drowning.
***
Somewhere across the sea of time, the magic in your veins has hummed to quiet.
But that comes later—now we must go back to long ago.
* * *
Limbs flushed with that soft, childish glow, cheeks swollen, a gap where your front teeth are supposed to be because you were only seven when it all went wrong.
And you remember. A choking, stabbing pain in your chest. And you remember this—and suddenly you’re there again: pressed against the alley’s stone cold walls, showered with moonlight, the magic streaking like fire over your head.
The world spacing in and out around you, all the noise funneling into your ears, and something warm and wet on your face and when you pressed your fingertips to it came back sticky with blood . Red blood. Your blood. And you were only seven, when it all went wrong.
A slow haze of indigo rims your vision, and the world blinks with black. The stone blocks of the alleyway turn to fuzzy grey shapes, until you can no longer make out the moss picked between the cracks. Something roars, but it sounds distant, faraway, like it could be from another time.
You see the alley’s stone ground. Moss and mud and dirt. Blink . Then suddenly something places a paw placed forward, white fur and— Blink. Groan. —rainbow stripes. Another roar, closer and louder and echoing in your ears.
You think you must be dreaming, but this is not a dream.
Someone is shouting spells, spells you never learnt, spells you never had time to learn.
Time. You used to have so little of it. Now there’s too much.
All you can breathe is magic, thick and hanging in the air like lilac powder, like smoke. And it burns—but suddenly it quiets like a candlelight. It smells familiar, like magic you have always known. Like magic you can come home to.
Home.
Little dots spot over your vision.
The dark takes over.
.
.
.
.
.
* * *
Something.
Moving. Something. Breaking through the surface.
White ceiling. Bright fluorescents. The sharp smell of antiseptic. The whirring of machines.
You snap to alert.
Sit up—back straight eyes open and then closed suddenly against the brightness.
A voice speaks through the haze: “You’re awake?”
A man. He’s there when you come to. When the fluorescents flash brightly, when you notice the IV in your arm. When the haze in your brain clears just enough to recognize this is a hospital room—when the panic carves a home into your bones and strikes lightning up your neck.
He sits and the bed dips towards him. A man, with messy black hair hanging at his shoulders; dark eyes heavy-lidded, creased with eyebags. A thin grey scarf wrapped around his neck.
He looks… homeless. How is he pulling off the scarf and the yellow goggles?
He says, “You okay little puff?”
This was the beginning.
***
He takes you to his place and says this is where you’ll stay for now until “it’s all over”. You stare him dead in the eyes as you lick the cheeseball dust off your fingers. He introduces himself, Eraserhead, a hero . The word is familiar, through the haze, and you reach for it.
You come up empty.
He opens the door to his house and you breathe with anticipation—
It's… disappointing.
White and grey and black, very simple and impersonal, no pictures hung on the wall or anything… Everything looks in its place, nothing out of touch… except for the fuzzy My Little Pony blanket on the couch.
“Explore.” He says, and you do.
* * *
“HEY KID! I’M PRESENT MIC!!!!!!!!!” The blonde guy standing in the middle of the living room screams and the particles of your being wobble like laminate paper. “HEY ERASER! YER’ HOUSE IS LOOKING A LITTLE DULL NOW THAT YA’ GOT A KID!!”
“HM! I AGREE!” The second blonde guy in the middle of the living says. You wonder why there are two men in the living room, why they’re both blonde and loud and why Eraserhead knows them at all.
“WE SHOULD SWITCH IT UP A BIT!!” Blonde #1 says.
“GIVE IT A TOUCH OF HOME!” Hunk Blonde says.
“What.”
“AND WE’LL HELP!!”
“You're ruining my Tuesday afternoon…”
***
Eraserhead takes you back to the hospital every now and then, for the doctors to ‘check up’ on you. And you’re back again. You have one assigned to you now, a woman with dark curls and tanned skin. She seems like smoke: mist and gossamer and corporeal like that. She presses her fingertips to the inner crook of your elbow and hums. Her eyes are closed as she does, but then she opens them suddenly and you are lost in the endless warm brown.
“Steady pulse, healthy magic flow—albeit overpowering.” She smiles. “How’s your hearing?”
You look to Eraserhead.
“The same.” He answers for you. “We still need to project for [Name] to hear.”
She hums. This close she smells like chocolate, like cookies fresh from the oven.
The smell follows you in the car and all the way to the house.
***
“HEY THERE [NAME]!!”
Stepping into the living room is like stepping into a whole new world. It doesn’t look the same. It doesn’t even feel the same. The couches are a deep, dark blue; pillows in soft, washed-out colors; a pale knit throw tossed over one armrest. Tall houseplants sit in the corner. There’s a shelf on the wall now, filled with trinkets and a small ceramic figure of Totoro from the movie you and Present Mic watched the other day.
And Present Mic is… smiling, Hunk Blonde stands behind him and they both look self-satisfied.
You run into the kitchen, glowing with excitement. There’s a round table now, with four plush chairs, pushed in the corner. And other things too: mason jars of apples and peaches on the shelves, a bottle of honey lit up with sunlight from the window that’s now covered with light blue-grey curtains. A crystal windchime hangs just above the window, catching the light and washing the room clean in broken fractures of gold.
“Whaddya’ think?!” Mic grins and you whirl to face all three of them.
Your breath gets caught in your throat. You are only seven and already some feelings are too big to frame in words.
Hunk Blonde carries you on his shoulders all through the day.
This time he lets you call him Uncle Toshinori.
* * *
“HEY THERE [NAME]!!”
It is eight in the morning and you can feel every capillary in your eyes.
“Hi.”
“This morning’s kinda chilly, ain’t it!”
You’re starting to wonder if Mic just spawns outside Eraserhead’s door at precisely the same time every morning just for the hell of it. Maybe he’s the crazy kind who wakes up smiling. You conclude he is insane. (Your evidence is his hair.)
“Where’s Eraserhead?” You ask instead.
“Out taking care of things heroically!” Present Mic invites himself into the house, which fair enough , he did help redecorate so you won’t go insane living in it. “You’ve eaten, right?”
It’s eight in the morning. It’s the tail end of July. You are seven years old. It is eight in the morning.
“No.”
He gasps. “I'll make breakfast!” He goes on to rant about how Eraserhead should be tried for neglect, then proceeds to mess up the pancakes so badly you resort to eating freezer-burnt cookie dough.
“Y’know,” he starts to say when you’re both seated at the table and you groan internally because when Mic says that it comes with a tidal wave of something you did not , in fact, want to know. “I think Eraser’s starting to rub off on you.”
You stare.
“Exactly! Now you’re all grumpy and quiet! Like you’re always judging my hair!”
You move your gaze away from his hair.
“And you need to eat up, young’un! We’re going to the park today!”
You fix your gaze on his hair.
* * *
“[NAAAAME]!!! DON’T GO TOO FAR!”
You have taken three steps away from the sandbox. You wanted to try the monkey bars.
“Hey, [Name], do you know!! Eraser’s coming to meet us here!!”
You pretend not to know the lunatic sitting in the park bench, waving at you. Mic keeps smiling even though people are staring. “[Naaame]!! Did ya’ hear?”
“…”
It takes a while for Eraserhead to show up. When he does there’s a snot bubble in your left nostril.
“I’m cold.”
He drops his scarf over your shoulders. “You should have brought a sweater.”
You stick your tongue out at him.
“Mic, why didn’t you bring [Name] a sweater?”
“Ehh, they were totally fine before! Didn’t have any qualms eating that freezer-burnt—” He stops himself and coughs suddenly.
But Eraserhead has already picked up on it. “Freezer-burnt…”
“Nothing!”
“Cookie dough.” You supply. Helpfully.
“Mic…”
“It was totally delicious!”
“...Let’s just go.”
Your laughter follows you all the way back.
The take you to the house and you call it home.
* * *
It's so cold this night.
You wish Eraser sweet dreams and take long, pointy steps over the floorboards. Your mattress is blissfully soft when you sink in. A cold breeze blows the pale curtains, so they seem ghostly in the moonlight.
You fall sleep to the soft pace of your breath.
.
.
.
.
.
The dream fractures into darkness.
Pinpricks of moonlight stream behind your lids. And then suddenly your eyes flash open and the moonlight washes over your skin like silk. It spills from a hole in the endless black sky: silver caught on the arch of your shoulder, the childish flush of your limbs, pooling around your feet like melted bits of moon that is cool to the touch.
Something cold swells under your chest. Your mouth tastes like smoke.
You're seven. You've never smoked a cig in your life.
When you look around a vast darkness greets your eyes. You squint but all there is to see is shadows. The moonlight is a spotlight and this is a stage.
That is when the real panic sets in.
Your scalp prickles as the cold swells in your lungs, breathing frost over your fingertips. The darkness comes alive, soft around the edges with moonlight. The air here is pendant; waiting. Fear branches into your chest. Confusion flickers dully behind your brow.
And the scene twists around you, the cold press of an alleyway, the smell of blood, the burn of magic. Screaming, crying, blood.
But this,
This is not—
The dream shifts and spasms and you return to the waking world.
.
.
.
.
.
The air is so cold it burns.
Spiderwebs of moonlight branch over your vision again, but this time they are real.
And you're back in your room, with the pale curtains and plush bed. Here, limbs sprawled across the sheets, the salt of sweat in the night air. You can feel every brush of air against your skin.
The dream presses against the walls of your skull, weaves a spectacular tapestry. The air is thick and crackling purple. The magic comes from everywhere, a force burning from within, like a cigarette burn eating a piece of paper.
You press your nails into the arch of your wrist and leave bloody half-moon marks. The scream climbs its fingers up your throat.
The whole room is full of shadows, and you tell them your story.
And he's there suddenly, Eraser seated at the edge of your bed: his scarf thrown around his throat, paired with those insufferably ugly goggles that are literally mustard yellow so it sharpens the pain in your head. His brows are drawn in concern.
There is a familiarity in the lines of his face, in the pull of his shoulders. Thank you , you want to say.
(You also want to say, either the goggles go, or you do .)
Your mouth tastes like smoke.
Something buzzes in your ears, you see his mouth moving—you can barely hear him.
You point at your ears and at once he understands.
That was the first night Eraser ever hugged you.
A dream.
It was only a dream.
.
.
.
.
.
Maybe it was more than a dream.
It waits for you the next night, and the night after that. You stand there in the dark alone, haloed in moonlight, crowned by it.
The darkness kisses your eyelids like home. The cold brushes your skin. Wind whistles past the shell of your ears.
You feel like you are waiting. You do not know what for.
.
.
.
.
.
The darkness comes rushing all the days after that, sitting on the dome of your lungs—choking every breath. Eraser brings you a nightlight: a purple cloud that flares with lightning and brings a soft glow to the room. Here , he guides your hand to the switch and flicks it on, like this.
It was not enough.
The dream kept coming back.
He brings a small net, a lacework of silver and crystal with small wind chimes. A dreamcatcher , he explains. You lean forward, face haloed by the purple nightlight. The light curves across his jaw.
Thank you.
It did not work.
The dream still comes, relentless and restless and a mesh of shadows. You come to expect it. Those cold dark hours, the half-screams that scrape your throat as you swallow them back, the tears that never fall, the fear you bottle up—all of it. You could've talked about all of it to him. He would listen. He listens.
You let the silence speak for you.
(Those shuddering, flickering moments after waking up—the times your stomach drops and your breath catches.
Those moments are the only part of your day you feel anything at all.)
.
.
.
.
.
There’s no point fighting it.
The darkness opens up again, yawning before your eyes. And then the cold, reaching under your skin, crawling fingers over your face. The smell of ash, like cinders blown by the wind. The smell of magic overused. You breathe in and sample the twilight in your lungs.
“Hello?”
Your voice echoes back a thousand thousand times. Overlapping. Becoming one. It is the most jarring thing to hear yourself lose yourself.
(You almost wish he was here. Even if he wore those goggles. Just so you won't feel alone.)
You look up at the dark. This is the starting point of your memory. Just whispers. A broken flashback on replay. Here you are mist and gossamer and memory. Here the darkness feels like home.
.
.
.
.
.
But this time—
This time.
The sky in the dream unveils itself; patterns dancing above. Your open void opens wider: to whorls of nebulae, to a tapestry of constellations, to swatches of stars. The ground glows where you step, bringing the universe with you: a small whirlpool of stars under your feet. The darkness echoes, with voices that float at the edge of your memory.
Awesome.
Your heart is in your throat. You walk, unsure in which direction—but,
But then,
The edge of your peripheral brightens and you see it—and oh, it's glorious . The false moonlight shimmering over water—dark stygian waters but still, it looks like a lake and it's better than the endless dark.
And you run to it.
Something like hope knots in your throat.
Your feet swallow up the steps. The ground feels like blackened soil. But you run . Darkness and the stink of ash but this . This is something new . You run as fast as you can, heels flashing pink against the black soil. You do not remember the stumbles, all the falls it took to get here—but you remember collapsing by the bank. You remember reaching for the black water. You watch it ripple back to dark glass.
You remember breathing.
And it feels so good.
The black sand of the bank scrapes against your skin. Your reflection is ghostly and haloed by starlight. The dream is always empty, but for once there is this. This , your mouth is full of the word. This and this and this . The pond is large, a black pool that opens as if it would drink you in, swallow you whole. The surface is still, holding its breath.
Until—
An image blooms, spreading in the water. At first it looks like a giant paint splatter, but then it forms twists and swirls into a large cat, head bowed, blue eyes on yours. An animal like a tiger—but with gleaming white fur and glowing rainbow stripes. Its coat shines impossibly bright, as though it drinks light from the moon. Against the darkness it looks out of place, like a flower growing from ash.
A feeling comes—like falling from a cloud into ocean depths. Your heart beats in your ears. I know it , you think with certainty. It knows me .
The image vanishes.
You wake up to the boom of thunder.
You gasp and the cold air rushes down your throat and it burns. And everything burns. It's magic. A cloud of it, purple and crackling and settling over your skin, coloring the tips of your finger electric.
It's magic, and it's not yours.
Your limbs lock with fear. Your body refuses to listen to you.
No.
No.
No—it was, just a dream.
Just a dream.
The shadows on your bedroom take form, clumping into something rotten carved into the walls. A feeling comes. Reaching into your bones. Wrapping cold fingers over your face. Something taking over your lungs.
Drowning .
And now it hurts.
Help me. You want to scream. Your body seizes with terror. Your eyes open wide. Something clamps down on your chest. Help me. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts so much . Like fire raging under your skin, creeping up your neck, knocking on the door of your brain. It hurts. This feeling. This wanting. This aching. All this confusion. The tears bottle up in your chest. Help me! HELP! HELP. PLEASE.
Help me,
When you say a word long enough, it loses meaning.
Your eyes droop closed. The feeling crawls off your chest.
Please .
There’s a knock at your door and a shadow falls into the room, and suddenly he’s by your side. “[Name]?” He presses a cool wrist to your forehead. “Woah there, little puff.” The man again, lowering a glass of water to your lips.
The door creaks. One of the house cats wanders in, jumping beside you on the bed and snuggling under your arm. “Toroto.” You whisper his name under your breath because it is half-familiar. Something taut catches in your shoulder. It is your scar: a starburst of white gleaming at your collarbone. It itches a little.
“I’m calling a doctor. You’re fine with going to the hospital now?” He’s already standing up.
Your eyes open in panic. “Stay,”
He sits back down on the floor.
It takes a moment to form your next words. “Aizawa-san. . .”
“I’m right here.”
He's here. Right here. He's here and real and—
And you think you could pretend it doesn't hurt as much.
He stays.
You rest your head on the pillow. “I’m tired.”
“Same here, little puff.” His brows are knotted and his eyes are creased with worry. “Rest up, kid.” His voice is rasp and low. But beyond his shaggy appearance, his words are soft and punctuated with something foreign— because this is all new to him too.
He pats your head stiffly, draws you into a slow hug and heaps the blankets on your gangly child legs. You're grateful for the warmth. Slowly, his fingers undo the tangles in your hair, and he whispers to you that it's all right. It's okay.
It’s okay.
But when you look back on that day, you wish you could believe him.
(The dark water from your dream still churns. So little time. And now there's too much.)
“Aizawa-san. . .”
“I’m right here.”
He's here. Right here. He's here and real and—
“Aizawa-san, thank you.”
(An unneeded warning: stories are made to end.)
* * *
"Hey, kiddo—whatever you do don't let this woman brainwash you—"
A woman with spiky, dark hair pushes Mic out of the way. She flashes a sweet smile and shows off her red-painted nails. "I'm Midnight! Outside heroics I'm Nemuri Kayama. But you can call me Aunt Nemuri, dear."
"I wasn't done talking!" Mic shoots her a glare, jumping forward again. "Kiddo, you should totally start calling me Uncle Hizashi—"
"[Name], dear, you can call me Aunt Muri!"
“ Really , you two can be so immature.” A cane swats Aunt Muri and Uncle Hizashi to the side. It belongs to a short elderly woman wearing a lab coat over a knitted sweater, her grey hair tied in a netted bun. “I am Recovery Girl, but here I am just Chiyo.” She smiles sweetly. It brings a comforting nostalgia, a warm feeling blooming in your chest.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Chiyo asks.
And your wide smile grows even wider.
* * *
If you thought you hated Aizawa's goggles, then you hate the bright color of Uncle Hizashi's hair even more.
It's made a thousand times worse by the fact that he insists on those bright red glasses that make you scrunch up your nose.
“There's board games. I'll get them.”
“Oh! A game? I love games!” Aunt Muri claps excitedly as Aizawa disappears out the living room door.
“A board game, huh? Didn’t know you had those lying around, Eraser!”
Chiyo has her hands folded in her lap. The four of you sit on the plush rug, gathered around the center table in the living room. You keep glaring at Hizashi's glasses (he thinks you're admiring the frames).
Aizawa comes back. He drops something on the table, a colorful piece of cardboard, little squares pressed side by side. ‘Monopoly’ it reads.
Your shoulders tense as he splays out the play pieces.
“Choose,” Aizawa says.
And your breath catches, pieces blurring to fuzzy silver shapes in your eyes. Choose? But you have never been a chooser. You are only chosen.
You cross your arms. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay [Name],” Aunt Muri prompts gently, her dark hair braided over her shoulder. “You can choose anything you like.”
You have never been a chooser.
“I don’t know.”
There’s silence for a moment, until Hizashi nudges a piece to you: the racecar, silvered and glinting under the lights. It is believed that players who use this piece will pave their gilded paths to glory—and follow it with style.
“This.” Hizashi says. He says it so simply.
You accept, uncrossing your arms.
When Chiyo passes you your stack of paper money, she smiles sweetly. When Nemuri and Hizashi explain the game—waving their arms and hollering—their voices collect that cold feeling from your chest, warmth stealing through. When Aizawa places the dice in your hands, his eyes are a cooler shade of soft.
“This,” Uncle Hizashi points. “This is jail. You go here when you’ve done wrong. Like evil timeout.”
( “Like for your glasses?”
“Hey!”
“I love this kid!” )
“And this,” Aunt Muri says. “This is a chance. It’s a surprise gift.”
This and this and this. Their faces crowding forward, their smiles glowing soft, their hands always moving. Reaching for the dice. Reaching for their piece. Reaching for opportunity.
Reaching for you.
Nemuri’s hands braiding your hair. Hizashi patting your head. Chiyo (the most obvious choice for the banker) tracing patterns on your arm as she tries to explain the concept of a ‘mortgage’ to a seven-year-old. (You don't even know what rent is.) Aizawa watching it all, the faintest touch of a smile on his lips.
“This,” You laugh, pointing at one of the squares on the board.
You are not a chooser.
“This! And this! This too!”
But just for now, you are allowed to want.
Drowning .
But this kind of drowning is different.
The water is calmer.
It feels, almost, like drowning in a hug.
(And then they actually drown you in a hug, all arms and laughter and bright eyes.
It's nice.)
* * *
It wouldn’t have been so bad, you think, if not for the nightmares.
Aizawa tells you he and Nezu (you don't know who he is, just a shadowy figure in the background of your mind) found you in an alleyway, bloody and bruised and unconscious. And something else too: a white, striped cat by your side, prowling and baring its fangs and yet soft when it came to you.
This is what your nightmares are most about:
Hands around you, warm with magic and yet they burn like ice. They’re exhausted. And you’re crying. The magic’s falling apart in your hands and each spell that leaves your lips is a broken prayer of please .
A whirlwind of magic grows near your ears and then it’s launched forward and explodes in fragments of brilliant bright light but you don’t see it. All you can hear is wind and screams and something quieter, something humming, the soft buzz of magic. There was something wet on your face. You think it was blood.
Someone was screaming, hoarse and raw and fearful.
Some other person was holding you, with shaking, magic hands.
And someone else was crying—you think it may have been you.
But it doesn’t matter, you tell yourself when you wake up breathless and gasping with sweat soaked through your shirt, they’re just dreams.
But dreams are magic come alive.
星に隠れた｡ [ CHAPTER SECRETS ]
───────────────────
・Although I didn't write a scene for it, sometimes Midnight stays over to use her quirk so you can fall asleep peacefully.
*
teach me that music
that flows
beneath
your skin.
── THE DARK BETWEEN STARS / atticus