where the tides take us

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27998307.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandoms: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs, 僕のヒーローアカデミ
ア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya
& Shinsou Hitoshi, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Shinsou Hitoshi
Characters: Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Shinsou Hitoshi, Nedzu (My Hero
Academia), Dabi (My Hero Academia), Toga Himiko, Class 1-A (My
Hero Academia)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, self indulgent in its entirety, Slow
Burn, i think, they just got a lot of shit to sort out, Dazai Being Dazai
(Bungou Stray Dogs), that means some jokes about suicide inevitably,
Alternate Universe - Future, Tired Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Tired Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Soukoku | Double Black
(Bungou Stray Dogs), Tags to be added as I go, cause honestly i have no
idea where i am going, Quirk Discrimination (My Hero Academia), hero
society is kinda wack, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, chuuya
emotionally bonding with everyone who has to deal with dazai's
insufferable ass, Smoking, Canon-Typical Violence, didn't expect it'd
come to this but, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Collections: Time Travel and World Travel, Behold the Sacred Texts, Mixed_Fics,
Lex's Favorite BNHA Fics ٩(●˙▿˙●)۶, Road to Nowhere Discord Recs,

✨ 😉
Ashes' Library, great reads, favorites, Hanya Fic yang Aku Sukai, saviors

✨
of aerois :>, Мои_любимые_работы , BSD collection,
recs_for_wifey, Other Fanfics , Quality Fics, utterly beautiful fics
im crying, I'm not Allowed to Make Comments on Ongoing Port Mafia
Record's Legal Disputes.. BUT, i bow before these fics, soldemjins
ultimate library of faves actually (real no clickbait), Lex's Favorite
BNHA Crossovers ~( ´ ▿ ` )~
Stats: Published: 2020-12-10 Updated: 2021-05-14 Words: 79,255 Chapters:
10/?
 where the tides take us
by kempine

Summary

Dazai seems to be back to his usual I-love-giving-Chuuya-a-headache self, and thus, loudly
and proudly declares: “I have two guesses as to where we have been transported!” he pauses
purely for the dramatics and just stares at Chuuya smugly, “wouldn’t you like to hear them,
chibi?”

Chuuya rubs the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes tightly, “Just spit it out, bastard.”

“So rude,” the mackerel whines at him, at which he can just groan desperately. However, the
gods smile at him from the skies above, through the tiny break of sunshine in the sea of
clouds, and Dazai finally gets to the point. “We have either travelled to the future, or we were
transported to an alternate universe. I am more inclined to believe the first one.”

Or: Chuuya and Dazai work out their relationship while being chased by a hero or two.

currently on hiatus

Notes

this is entirely self indulgent. this idea just wouldn't leave my head.

it will be hard to understand what's going on if you haven't seen/read either of the series. but i
mean, i won't discourage you from trying :)
i only have watched both of the anime, but the widely known aspects from the bnha manga
that often appear in fics might also appear here. honestly, i'm not even entirely sure what's
canon and what's not. definitely no spoilers for the bsd manga tho, being caught up with the
3rd season of the anime should be enough.

the crossover between both fandoms is pretty small so i don't expect a lot of people to read
this, but to those of you who belong to that tiny sliver of people, i hope you enjoy!
 Arrival

It had been going so smoothly.

The base of operations of the dingy organisation they were supposed to level with the ground
today was almost done with. The group’s most powerful and only actual weapon –a brawny
dude that could shoot missiles from his chest– was swiftly subdued with the help of Dazai’s
touch and a nice fist square to the jaw by yours truly. The brains behind the organization and
its more than illicit activities –a spindly blonde man with an ability to alter people’s physical
age– stupidly got caught in the crossfire of Chuuya’s ability. (Chuuya was merely trying to
get an opening for Dazai to get a hand on the rocket guy, but he’s also glad to have brought
down two birds with one slab of concrete.) The man was now lying unconscious under a
particularly large and heavy looking piece of debris and seemed to not be getting up anytime
soon. There were just a couple of their braver goons left to deal with, the poor test subjects
already rescued earlier by a somewhat covert group of the Agency’s employees.

It almost looked like the situation had sorted itself out in the best way possible. If not for the
evidence of human experimentation and research on artificial abilities buried in the rubble in
front of them, one could almost say that a meager criminal establishment like this one did
nothing to deserve the wrath of soukoku to be brought upon their heads. Hell, Chuuya didn’t
even have to use corruption to get the situation handled.

Oh, the sweet relief of realizing that he doesn’t have to put his life into those grubby hands of
Dazai, this time.

It was their second actual mission as a duo, after the bastard had decided to get off his ass and
go live in the light or something corny like that (no, him getting caught up in the mackerel’s
machinations in order to save him and the entirety of Yokohama’s ability users did not count,
no .) Chuuya is entirely ready to go home, write his report and curl up with a glass of wine
and a nice romance novel in his lap. He should’ve known that nothing ever goes smoothly
when Dazai is involved.

“ Chuu-ya !”

His shoulders twitch up to his ears in irritation almost on reflex. Even the four year break
wasn’t enough to rid him of the instinctive responses to this particular tone and inflection.
Chuuya turns on his heel from where was leaning over a body belonging to one of the
members of the organisation, to face the biggest headache of his existence. He pushes down
on the spark of concern at the sight of Dazai sprawled out on the ground, clutching one of his
legs in what looks like pain, but with him you can never be sure.

Chuuya stalks up to the bastard and crouches down in front of him, feeling his coattails
billow up behind him, before settling next to his sides. Dazai’s exaggerated pout looks even
stupider up close and the spark of concern grows stronger under the weight of his mental
willpower.
“How the fuck did you manage to get injured in a mission like this?”

Dazai’s affronted gasp grates at his eardrums and reverberates around his skull.

“You should know that not everyone is built like a brute, Chuuya! Being the brawn of this
operation makes you responsible for the physical condition of your brains!”

The whiny high notes of Dazai’s voice grind at his mind as much as his teeth grind against
each other in response. It’s not hard to give in to the impulse of bickering back, rising up to
the bait, just because that’s what he’s always done.

“Hah? So you’re saying that it’s my fault your leg got hurt?”

“Excellent, chibi! Still have a good grasp on human language!”

“If you could shut your runny mouth for once, I could maybe get a look at your leg, you
bastard!”

The pout on Dazai’s face melts into a smug little smile, and Chuuya knows that he just neatly
fell into the trap set out for him. It doesn’t matter, he saw it coming the moment Dazai
wrapped his palms around his own stupid leg. The fucker is probably going to ask him to be
carried on the way back or something.

“Chuuya! Your foul words wound my fragile heart! As an apology you are required to carry
me back home.”

See? He doesn’t even know why he lets himself get roped into these dumb acts of Dazai
anymore, it’s not like he has to. They’re not partners anymore. Sort of. The little ceasefire
between the Detective Agency and Port Mafia is kind of making that difficult but he isn’t
required to tolerate the bastard’s face anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.

“You can play Snow White with your Agency friends, I’ve still got business to attend to, and
it doesn’t involve catering to a shitty mackerel like--”

Dazai’s gaze sharpens and focuses on something behind him. His eyes do not widen, they
rarely do. The surprise Dazai shows is almost always fabricated and mostly just for
manipulation. Or at least it used to be like that. The fuck he knows about this goody-two-
shoes fucker.

Still, Chuuya can read him as well as he had in the past. And that split second is enough
warning for him to whip his head around, and meet eyes with an angry looking teenage girl,
peeking out from behind a boulder. Her eyebrows express outright fury and she’s got a mop
of hair the same shade as the leader of the organisation they had just taken down.

Chuuya is already halfway there, backed by gravity and flying over to retrieve the brat when
he catches the tail end of what she’s whispering:

“—ity: Hands of time.”

And isn’t that a fucking joy to hear. Chuuya bitterly regrets not picking up Dazai and
throwing the bastard at her, his injured leg be damned. The three of them get doused in
blinding light, wind picking up around them in gusts.

Chuuya barely gets to lay a hand on her shoulder before he’s tugged away to somewhere .

It’s a nauseating feeling, like his insides have been put in a blender and set to the highest
setting. His vision is full of white light and nothing else, there’s no ground beneath, or above
him. He’s out of touch with gravity , something he’s never ever felt in his entire existence,
and he has been partners with Dazai for years . The feeling is scary, disorienting and
sickening all at once.

How the fuck an ability like this is called ‘hands of time’? Is all he can think before the
answer slaps him right in the face.

The gravity comes back to him like a speeding truck and he lands on rough asphalt, twinges
of shock traveling up his tailbone from where he hit the ground. Dazai is somehow slumped
right next to him, on the same ground and leaning on his shoulder, despite being meters away
just a moment before. He has half a second to take this all in before the sounds of a busy
street slam into him, assaulting his hearing and vision.

Oh, and there’s also a giant white truck actually speeding at them. Tires squeaking, a terrified
driver behind the wheel, coming right at him and Dazai.

Somewhere over to his right he hears a dramatic gasp that can only be a civilian witnessing
whatever the hell this spectacle is. Awareness comes back to him just in time for him to push
off Dazai and instinctively tug at gravity to make the vehicle travelling at them top speed lift
off the ground, a faint red glow surrounding it.

The bottom of the truck grazes the top of his hat and ruffles Dazai’s brown mop while it’s at
it. But as Chuuya is still disoriented from whatever the fuck that’d been before and only has
parts of a second to comprehend everything that is happening, the truck doesn’t lose its
momentum, and starts falling in a nice arch. It lands roughly some feet away and crashes on
its side.

There are more gasps around him and even some panicked shouts but his head is hazy and
Dazai is still slumped over and hasn’t opened his eyes yet. Chuuya gives the truck a glance
and winces. The driver should be alive, as the truck is lying on the opposite side but there still
might be some lasting damage. He might be in Port Mafia but he’s always disliked involving
innocent people in stuff they had no hand in. He makes a mental note to leave the guy some
flowers and a wad of cash at the hospital.

He turns to Dazai who still seems to be out of it and shakes the bastard’s shoulder. If it’s a bit
gentle then that’s only just in case the dumbass got a concussion.

Dazai blinks a couple times, slow, methodical, and straightens up under his arm. He looks
around, surveys the situation, the people gathering around them on the sidewalk, the truck
lying over on its side behind them. Oh, the driver has climbed out of the vehicle and seems to
be standing up somewhat alright. That makes Chuuya feel a bit better, but not by that much,
because where the fuck are they?

“Chuuya?”

He turns to Dazai, who has lost both the pout and the smirk, in favor of a more blank
expression. That means he is puzzled by the situation, and as much as a rare occurrence that
is, Chuuya finds himself drawing no satisfaction from it.

Chuuya hums in response, indicating that he’s listening.

“Where is the girl?”

Oh, fuck. He looks around again, raking his eyes over his surroundings frantically, noting in
the back of his mind that the people staring at them from the sidewalk appear to look a bit…
peculiar. One woman has what seems to be deer antlers sprouting from her head, an older
looking man has a greenish tint to his skin, and is that a child with eyes on their arms ?

Chuuya is no stranger to abilities that come with more mutational aspects, the Agency’s jinko
being the first to come to mind, but this crowd… It’s almost like a solid half of it is made up
of people with abilities, and abilities that manifest themselves physically too, of all things.

Still, spotting the brat that sent them here is of priority, so he keeps looking around. And
around. And around.

Chuuya swears under his breath and turns back to Dazai, whose expression looks to be lightly
quizzical. That does not fool the gravity user in any way, because his past experiences of
being by Dazai’s side when they get themselves into some kind of a peril, are telling him that
the bastard is using his mind like a professionally sharpened knife. Cutting through the
evidence provided like it’s paper.

Well, not everyone is an ex demon prodigy, so Chuuya voices some questions to catch up to
Mr.Genius next to him.

“Do you think this is an ability space?”

That would be an easy answer that could explain away most peculiarities. As it is though,
life’s never that easy for Chuuya. Dazai cements this with a minute shake of his head that is
supported by the slender fingers curved under his chin.

“No, feels too authentic. Besides, most ability spaces do not work on me.” Dazai grins
blindingly, like he’s a special little nugget. It makes Chuuya’s stomach protest.

Yeah, Chuuya supposes that too, negates it. The fact that both of them are here together is
strange by itself.

“Most abilities do not affect you, period, though?” He still asks. He doesn’t know why, he’s
clearly being presented with the reality here.
Dazai simply shrugs his beige clad shoulders like he doesn’t have a dozen theories about that
in mind already, but Chuuya has to suppress the instinctive irritation rising up at his ex-
partner’s antics, in favor of the pandemonium around them.

They’re still sprawled on their asses in the middle of the road, civilians (?) are still gathered
around them and a row of cars is building in front of them, chorusing in their grating honks.
Someone yells out a name and then the gasps of the crowd turn to more excited than
horrified, echoing the name and separating like the red sea at Moses’ command. And through
the parted sea of strange looking people, comes an even stranger looking man, wearing what
seems to be a tacky skintight cerulean blue costume, with bone white spikes protruding from
the elbows.

One of the civilians that is closer to them, a snotty looking teen with actual light bulbs
sprouting from his shoulders, says:

“Rhinoceros? I haven’t heard of him, must be some kind of a rookie.”

“How have you not heard of him! He had taken down that villain literally in our
neighbourhood last week!” A young girl with gills yells back at him and Chuuya feels dizzy
but he’s next to Dazai, who’d hold it over him forever, so he sucks it up.

However, as the odd-looking spandex guy stops in the crowd to sign something ( a celebrity ,
registers at the back of his mind, and a vain one at that ), he looks back at Dazai to see the
bastard just as stupefied. Sure, the fucker can hide it all he wants, but his eyes are squinting
ever so slightly as he picks at the bandages of his left arm.

Chuuya swats at Dazais' idle fingers to stop him from unravelling himself in front of what
now seems to be over a hundred people. Stands up, carefully dusts off his hat and places it
back on his head. The crowd collectively wavers like a jostled bowl of water at his
movement. Chuuya momentarily freezes with his fingers at the rim of his hat, like a
pantomime in those old black and white films.

Dazai notices this reaction as well, eyes shooting from Chuuya to the crowd and then back to
Chuuya. His lips twitch in what Chuuya knows will be a full of shit grin that he will
absolutely despise. It’s good that Dazai doesn’t have any more time to verbally harass him
because the odd looking guy is approaching them in overconfident strides. His hands are
settled on his hips and his chin is almost touching the sky, feet clad in a white extension of
his spandex jumpsuit.

Chuuya can only raise an eyebrow at such a display of conceit, so he waits for the guy to strut
up to him, with his hands resting in the pockets of his slacks. Dazai stands up as well, dusting
off his own coat and white pants, which look a little grey at the knees. The ease he does that
with, does not escape Chuuya, who just scoffs. The guessing game of whether Dazai’s
actually injured or not is bound to happen in the near future, he can physically feel it.

Behind the self-absorbed blue rhino-whatever guy, two police officers are trudging, one of
them a woman, and another one a cat with a man’s body. Chuuya blinks at that and doesn’t
let himself gape, because he won’t look like a fool in front of that many people. The sight of
it, however, only confirms the fact that he and Dazai have been displaced. Now the only
question that’s left is to where.

The guy finally comes up to him and stops a few steps away. His lips are stretched into a
smile that’s maybe even more annoyingly blinding than Dazai’s can be, so much that his eyes
had turned into little slits. Inside of those slits, Chuuya can spy a pair of two attention-hungry
eyes. He has to contain himself from visibly recoiling, and thankfully the man turns away
from him to face the female officer, holding out a hand expectantly. He also waves to the
crowd as if this is some paparazzi event and not quite literally a car crash. That reminds
him…

Chuuya looks over to the truck still lying a bit further away and is relieved to see that an
ambulance car and some officers made their way there too. Quietly, he lets himself hope that
he didn’t injure anyone for life today. He then looks back to the scene unfolding in front of
him. And quite a scene it is.

While the spandex asshole is waving to the people who are mostly reluctantly waving back,
the female officer and the cat share what one could call a look. The cat officer sighs and nods,
and the female officer, who is probably the most normal looking person he’s seen since being
transported to wherever this is, takes out a pair of handcuffs. If they even could be called
handcuffs that is. They look to be ultramarine blue in color, and made out of some kind of
semi-opaque plastic, encased in metal wiring. The only thing indicating that they’re
handcuffs is the chain connecting them and a hole for a key.

The woman places two pairs of cuffs into the blue-guy’s hands, and the guy turns back
straight to Chuuya, still with the mildly unsettling grin plastered on his face.

Chuuya decides to cooperate, for now, even if his pride stings a little. It seems like the smart
thing to do, judging by the crowd’s somewhat negative reaction to him. After all, whatever
facility they are planning to put him in, if worst comes to worst, he can bring to the ground
quite easily. Therefore, he wordlessly holds out his hands to the man, feeling the officers’, the
man’s and even Dazai’s gazes on him intensify. Chuuya has to hold back from rolling his
eyes.

“You are being arrested for illegal quirk use.” The asshole says straight to his face, with the
same smile, just a little colder, almost as if special for him.

The fuck’s a quirk use, is the only thing he can think of before the cuffs snap around his wrists
and his eyes fly over to Dazai so swiftly, that the bastard raises his own eyebrow at him.
Chuuya looks the waste of bandages over from head to toe, to see if he somehow has a part of
his grubby body touching him. Yet almost a meter of empty space is separating them entirely.
Then why--?

Chuuya looks back at the strange looking cuffs and swears under his breath for what feels
like a hundredth time so far. The spandex guy is looking smug now, observing his reactions,
and he can feel Dazai doing so as well. Of course, the mackerel holds out his own wrists,
showing off his bandages that the officers eye with alarm. Great, now because of Dazai’s
unnatural fashion choices, they’ll think that he also abuses the fucker or something. The blue
rhino asshole doesn’t care though, he just shrugs and snaps a pair of cuffs around Dazai’s
wrists too. Dazai just looks delighted for some reason.

This is just miraculous, both of them with their abilities out of commission, being taken away
by the police, of all things.

They are led through the gossiping crowd, around a row of traffic that’s slowly being
redirected, up to a single police car parked on the sidewalk. Chuuya looks over to Dazai
when he spots the car and the two of them get to share a look of their own. The fucker has the
audacity to wink at him, which he can only scoff in response at.

It’s strange, feeling such a spark of camaraderie between them, even if it stems from old
memories. There have been far too many times of them riding cuffed at the back of a police
car together. Just enough that both of them already know how this is going to unfold, even if
this world is marginally different from their own.

It’s just business. It’s just them working together to get out of this situation that they’re in.
Nothing more. Chuuya has to remind himself that as they walk up to the vehicle.

“Do you need me to follow the car just in case?” the spandex asshole asks the female officer,
seemingly pointedly ignoring the cat-man.

“I think we can handle a couple of criminals, hero. ” the woman spits out. The cat places a
calming hand on her shoulder, but doesn’t reprimand her further.

The hero, apparently, raises his hands placatingly and takes a step back. Chuuya and Dazai
watch the exchange, practiced disinterested looks on their faces, when in actuality they are
soaking up every single detail.

“As you wish, officer.” the spandex hero nods her goodbye and goes back to begging for
attention from the crowd.

Because Dazai and Chuuya are cooperative, they do not get forcibly pushed into the car and
settle down on the back seats themselves. The officers seat themselves in the front, the female
officer in front of the wheel. They do not forget to lock the back doors. It does not matter
either way.

As soon as the car leaves its parking spot, the woman starts ranting to the cat officer about
how up and coming heroes these days just parade around looking pretty in their costumes and
cause unnecessary property damage while the police have to do all of the boring work of
actually apprehending the villains, without receiving any credit whatsoever, and--

It’s quite an interesting rant, even without much prior context to follow, if a bit repetitive.
Judging by the cat man’s tired agreeing grunts, it’s also not the first one and definitely not the
last one.

The officer tires herself out when they stop at a red light in a long row of cars. It seems like
the rush hour is unavoidable no matter what strange world you get transported to.
Dazai catches his eye, and Chuuya sighs, subtly holding out his cuffed wrists to the mackerel.
Dazai leans forward, his long nose, fitting of a perpetual liar, almost grazing the chain link
barrier between them and the officers.

“Officer, may I ask a question?” Dazai asks, cheerfully, yet respectfully, because at least he’s
smart enough to not be annoying when it matters. At the same time, a bobby pin slides out
from where it’s always tucked under the bandages on his arm and makes quick work of
Chuuya’s cuffs without the bastard even having to look at them.

The cat man sighs and the woman glances at them in the rearview mirror.

Gruffly, the cat talks for the first time since Chuuya had met him, “Yeah, sure, knock yourself
out.”

The female officer seems to want to object to this, but the cat just waves her off. Chuuya gets
the impression that he is her superior. Dazai, on the other hand, looks overjoyed, even if it’s
subdued just a little. Chuuya has to hold back on his own sigh.

“Where are you taking us?”

“Well, you,” he looks at Chuuya through the mirror, and Chuuya meets his eyes head on,
while Dazai deftly picks at the locks on his cuffs under the seat, “seem like a simple case of
accidental quirk use, maybe even in defense, and no one came out with life-threatening
injuries, so we’re just taking you to the precinct for questioning.” The officer looks at Dazai
then, who has the most casual hint of a pleasant smile on his face, that would be infuriating to
Chuuya if it was directed at him. As it is now though, Dazai’s fabricated gallery of
expressions is working in their favor. “You’re just an accessory case, though, I’m not even
sure why you’re in cuffs.”

Chuuya has to stifle a laugh at Dazai getting called an accessory, which he knows had to have
stung, even if the bastard’s all good now.

“Oh you know, I just always wanted to try out how they feel!” Dazai answers with a note of
glee in his voice, that the officers obviously are put off by. Ugh, the bastard always has to
ruin a normal conversation with his crazy.

“The quirk suppressant cuffs?” the cat officer asks, voice betraying confusion. The car finally
moves past the traffic light which they were standing at for a few cycles of red green red
green .

“Ah yes, the quirk suppressant cuffs!” Dazai parrots, clearly holding back a smirk. Ugh, and
of course the bastard always gets the answers he actually wants from people without them
realizing it.

The officers share a look that people usually share in the vicinity of Dazai, and as a
particularly noisy motorcycle overtakes them, Chuuya’s handcuffs finally click open, one
after the other. With the loop of plastic around his wrists broken, the suppressant part of the
cuffs does not seem to work anymore, as Chuuya feels the hum of gravity around him and
inside of him come back to life. Hiding his own smile and keeping his hands close together in
front of him for show, the gravity manipulator sits back and waits for the signal.

Dazai fiddles with his own cuffs then, not bothering to keep conversation anymore, but
pretending to be looking out the window. Hell, he’s probably not even pretending but actually
people watching like the creep he is. Of all people, it is Chuuya who knows best when he
says that Dazai has stalker tendencies. Even though they’re mostly to make other people fall
into his schemes or something treacherous like that.

Dazai’s cuffs are still looped around his wrists when he taps out a quick rhythm on his thigh.
Chuuya looks through the window on his right side. Huh, not the worst choice for an escape
route the mackerel has ever made. They have stopped at a red light, once again, and to their
right, is a wonderful narrow alley, too narrow for a car to fit.

Chuuya cracks his neck, shifts a bit, so that both of his feet are firmly planted on the door of
the car beside him. Both of the officers aren’t paying them any mind, but it’s not like they
have the manpower necessary to actually stop him. So he raises his legs, breathes in, and
cleanly busts the door of the car open with a gravity assisted kick.

He leaps out of the vehicle, dragging the shitty mackerel by the collar behind him. At least
this doesn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of dramatically snapping his fingers to get rid of
the cuffs. They just clatter to the sidewalk behind them.

They bolt for the alley, the two officers yelling out in alarm behind them, and Chuuya feels
just a teensy bit of sympathy towards them. They had just been doing their jobs, and even
seemed to be nice enough, but they couldn’t get taken in for questioning at a police station in
an unknown world. The earlier they manage to escape, the easier it will be.

The mackerel lugging behind him yelps in pain and Chuuya sighs, a tired tired man’s sigh,
and wordlessly heaves the fucker up on his back, ignoring his excited gasp.

“You’re not even hurt that bad, you walked on your own to the car,” he still complains, cause
that’s just what he’s ought to do.

“Chuuya!” The bastard whines in his ear, “No sympathy from a hat rack like you, as always!”

Chuuya grumbles out a vague protest in response as they approach a concrete wall looming at
about two stories high. He just speeds up and kicks off the ground, jumping up over the thing
with ease. He could easily propel himself up to the rooftops and escape through there, even
with a bandaged bastard on his back, but the words ‘illegal quirk use’ are still echoing in his
mind and so he attempts to keep it a little bit more lowkey. Though the fact that both of them
are glowing red probably hinders that a little.

Dazai makes a noise when they land and Chuuya suddenly remembers that the stupid man-
shaped sack on his back gets motion sickness.

“If you throw up on my coat, I will throw you at a wall.”

“So mean, chibi! A good service dog should learn some manners!”
Aaaaand Chuuya can’t help himself bristling at being called the bastard’s dog again. He never
liked that one, not that he ever liked any of the names Dazai had given him, but being called a
dog had actually felt a tiny bit demeaning, when they were standing at equal height as two
halves of a whole; as soukoku. Sure he had managed to reclaim it somewhat, the choker on
his neck the biggest testament of that, but hearing it after all those years feels… Well, it feels
like defeat.

He curses himself out in his head in every language he knows for even reacting like this to a
nickname from Dazai. Now the bastard will never let him live it down. He focuses that
frustration on pushing forward.

“Haah?! You are getting carried on my back and you dare to complain, ungrateful bastard!”

Surprisingly, Dazai does not reply, but that’s probably because a civilian steps into the alley
they’re crossing. They have to hide behind a large garbage container until the person passes
by.

By now the shouts of the officers behind them have been quieted by the distance, as Chuuya
can be incredibly fast when he needs to be. He most likely has cleared a fourth of whatever
city they’re in already, weaving through the alleys in order to lose their tail. He walks a little
further and finds a cleaner, yet a bit more secluded corner, settled in between two five-story
living complexes and another wall. He drops Dazai on the dusty ground, only somewhat
gently, just because the fucker deserves to suffer after being an insufferable passenger
himself.

He ignores Dazai’s dramatically affronted gasp and crouches down to look at that damned
ankle of his again. He looks over the whole alleyway first, of course, in order to not get a
repeat of the last time he had attempted to do this. Satisfied with the lack of inhabitants,
Chuuya gently pushes up the now mostly soiled hem of Dazai’s white slacks. Hah, that’s
what the bastard gets for being in the light.

He eases off Dazai’s stupid shoe and ignores the teasing he gets in response. Even with a
plain white sock on, it is obvious that the ankle is most likely sprained and swelling red. It
seems like the man wasn’t overdoing it by much while complaining about it earlier. And to
think that he also attempted to walk like that...

Chuuya tsks under his breath in disapproval as his fingers barely graze over the skin. This
complicates some things, one of them being running from this world’s law enforcement, but
it’s not like Dazai wasn’t a clumsy ass for as long as he had known him. Hell, he met the
fucker while he was in a cast and with an eyepatch, however, how much of those wrappings
were hiding actual injuries and weren’t just for show is still not clear to him, years later.
Without realizing what he’s doing, he reaches into an inside pocket of his coat for a roll of
bandages he keeps there out of habit. He knows Dazai will refuse to unwrap his arms or his
chest in favor of helping an actual injury, that’s how out of touch with a thing called common
sense he is, so Chuuya just cuts to the chase.

If Chuuya were to raise his gaze to Dazai’s face right at the moment he pulls out the tight roll
of fresh bandages, he would actually see some actual surprise there, even if fleeting. As it is
though, the gravity manipulator is wholly focused on his task, starting the wrapping from
closer to the toes going up. Gentle but methodical, going through the motions with the
assuredness of someone who has done this quite a few times. He feels Dazai’s sharp eyes on
him, but doesn’t comment on it, feeling as if breaking the crackling silence that has settled in
the alley and between them would be sort of a blasphemy.

He finishes wrapping up the ankle with a tight knot which he tucks in under the other
bandages and pushes up the sock to cover them up. He hands Dazai the shoe, leaving it up to
the bastard whether he wants it on or not, and the disoriented expression of the man on the
ground below him feels almost genuine. Though with Dazai, one can never be sure.

Dazai puts on his shoe, but stays sprawled on the rough asphalt, his beige coat fanning out
around him. Chuuya finally, finally gets to take out his phone since this mess has started.

Only to find that there’s no signal.

Dazai seems to be back to his usual I-love-giving-Chuuya-a-headache self, and thus, loudly
and proudly declares: “I have two guesses as to where we have been transported!” he pauses
purely for the dramatics and then just stares at Chuuya smugly, “wouldn’t you like to hear
them, chibikko?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes tightly, “Just spit it out, bastard.”

“So rude,” the mackerel whines at him, at which he can just groan desperately. However, the
gods smile at him from the skies above, through the tiny break of sunshine in the sea of
clouds, and Dazai finally gets to the point. “We have either travelled to the future, or we were
transported to an alternate universe. I am more inclined to believe the first one.”

Time travel huh? At least it’s obvious in which direction timewise they’ve gone in. Chuuya
remembers the girl and her vindictive mutter of the ability name.

“It is probably time travel, the brat’s ability is called ‘hands of time’.”

“Oh! We’re dealing with a vengeful sibling then!” Dazai claps his hands.

Chuuya furrows his brows and thinks on it a little. Yeah, that made sense. Of course it did.

“So you’re saying that the leader of the Sparrows had a little sister that managed to send us
forward in time?”

Dazai hums, “Not necessarily a little sister.”

Chuuya’s eyes widen. Right. The leader’s ability.

“So what’s the plan?”

Dazai looks up at him quizzically, on purpose. Chuuya groans.

“Don’t give me that! I know you have already worked out how to bust your own ass out of
this and also get me involved somehow.”
The bandage laden asshole gasps, “Chibi! I didn’t know you were so excited to work with me
again! I’m delighted to have the little hat rack by my side, just like the old times!”

His shoulder’s rise to his ears, stray strands of his hair fall into his eyes and it’s just so easy to
raise his voice at the provocation. After all, it’s the only meager release of the irritation
flooding him that he can let himself have, without leveling a city or two.

“Oi! I could easily just leave you here and locate the brat myself!”

“Ah, but Chuuya! What will you do when you find her?” Dazai sing-songs and wiggles his
stupidly long fingers.

Chuuya stomps and huffs, not giving a shit about how childish that looks. It’s hard to admit
that the bastard is right. Chuuya kind of needs his dumb ability in this situation.

“How can you guarantee that the brat came here with us and didn’t stay back?” Chuuya asks,
raising an eyebrow.

“She did, if she knows what’s good for her. She should know this world better than we do,
after all. And, well, if she had stayed in the past… Then our stay in the future will not be that
long.”

Yeah, Dazai doesn’t need to say any more. The girl really was safer from the wrath of two of
Yokohama’s most important organisations in another world. Or in the future. Well, they’re
bound to find her either way, anyway.

It’s just a matter of time.

 Encounters
Chapter Notes

hey! before you read, just wanted to apologize in advance if some things are inaccurate.
although i did my best with research in this and some later chapters, i am still a dumbass
art student with no actual knowledge of how finances or crime or the world in general
work

i also adjusted the title a bit, i think i like it better like this.

all of that said and done though, i hope you enjoy~

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Chuuya picks Dazai up by the lapels of his coat, and the brunet’s limbs flail around like he’s
a particularly heavy marionette. He heaves the bastard up on his back again, glad for the
increased physical strength he has been graced with, and makes for the open street, out of the
alley where they had made their stop. Dazai taps at his cheek with an open palm and Chuuya
has an inexplicable urge to bite his fingers off. Not willing to play into Dazai’s teasing of him
being a rabid animal, he pushes the urge away to deal with at another time.

“I wonder if chibikko is aware that he’s currently wanted by the future’s law enforcement?”
The sack on his back muses aloud in that annoying voice of his. Chuuya can clearly envision
his pointer finger tapping at his lips, mud-brown eyes angled upwards.

“Haah? Do you really think I’m that stupid? We’re obviously going to find another city to
hide in.”

“Woah, chibi! Have you learned to use your brain in my absence?”

Chuuya ducks his head to avoid being patted by Dazai’s grubby hands. There is no way in
hell they are coming anywhere near his hat.

“It’s been fairly easy without your loud mouth around to get in the way of thinking.”

“I’m glad the little hat rack has finally discovered himself!”

As they go back and forth in painfully familiar banter, Chuuya quickly ducks into another
narrow side street that thankfully isn’t a dead end. He methodically dives in between
apartment complexes and rackity buildings, orientating himself in relation to the sun
travelling the sky. He jumps and walks up the walls that get in his way, trying to keep a low
profile, all the while Dazai oohs and aahs on his back like a middle-aged white tourist on a
safari trip.

When the sun finally dips below the line of city buildings, Chuuya deems it safe to leap up to
a rooftop. Dazai keeps blissfully silent when he does so, but it’s not as enjoyable with the
knowledge that the bastard is probably trying not to hurl over his shoulder.

Perched on a higher ground, Chuuya determines the best direction to go in and tightens his
hold on Dazai’s legs, feeling the other’s arms tense up around him in response. At least the
fucker had half a mind to keep any bare skin from touching him the whole time.

Chuuya sighs, steeling himself for the show he’s going to get from the drama queen settled
on his back when they land and shoots off into the sky like a human shaped comet. Hopefully
that’s what the people of this time will take him for. It’s the most efficient way for them to
travel right now, but it’s not exactly subtle.

They are up in the air for what is probably around ten seconds before they land in an entirely
different city, on another rooftop. Without much hesitation, he throws Dazai off his back and
lets the bastard heave and cough his way back to life, while he steps up to the ledge to survey
their new location. It’s a significantly smaller town that they’re in now, the previous one
probably being a future version of Yokohama. They landed at the very outskirts of this one,
the district not among the wealthiest, and the buildings not reaching as high as they do a bit
further within.

He turns back to Dazai, “Finished? We need to keep moving in case someone comes to
check.”

Dazai wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, even if it seems like the bastard had it in
himself to not throw up. He then continues sitting on the ground and innocently blinking up
at Chuuya.

Remind him, why did he let himself get paired up with an actual child all these years ago? Oh
right, because the child was a manipulative bastard and a liar even back then.

He stomps up to Dazai, just because he finds it satisfying how the concrete dents and bends
under the bottoms of his shoes to accommodate him with each step he takes. He then picks up
one of Dazai’s noodle arms and throws him over his back again, revelling in the yelp that gets
out of the bastard.

They jump off the building and start heading towards the heart of the city, the state of the
buildings gradually shifting around them. The storefronts, buildings, modes of transportation
seem almost the same as they were in their time, which conflicts with images of advanced
civilization that Chuuya associates with a future after his lifetime. If it wasn’t for the people
themselves, he’d be inclined to think that they had landed ten years forward at most.

The only thing that is noticeably different, besides the people, it’s how much of everything
was focused around these colorful, suited personalities, each one with stranger abilities.
Earlier, they had passed a shop that had a whole window dedicated to a smug looking guy
with red wings, a bus full of kids drove by with a grinning blonde dude plastered on its side,
another building had a giant spray painting of a woman with horns, clad in another skintight
suit. These guys, ( heroes, his mind supplies, remembering the female police officer) really
do seem to like their skintight suits.

When the last rays of the sun disappear behind the horizon, the sky rapidly turning a deeper
shade of blue, Chuuya and Dazai walk out into the bigger, busier streets, the nuisance finally
off his back and slowly limping beside him. The bastard himself had demanded to be put
down, and well, if his leg gets worse then that’s not Chuuya’s problem.

(Of course it will be Chuuya’s problem, who is he kidding, this is Dazai he is talking about.)

“Which year do you think she brought us to?”

Dazai hums, takes a few steps forward and picks up a half torn magazine that's lying on the
ground next to a dumpster. The cover seems to boast another one of those heroes, this one
being a muscular looking woman with rabbit ears, clad in only a leotard, of all things. (How
the fuck this amount of exposed skin could be functional for fighting? Chuuya has a feeling
that these people were more about show than actual action. Parading around looking pretty ,
as the officer had put it.)

Chuuya’s mouth twists in disgust, because seriously, he knew that Dazai was a step away
from a mooching hobo, but picking up trash for entertainment was a bit too much.

The mackerel ignores his disdain, wipes off the grime from not so glossy anymore paper and
peers at it so closely, that the tip of his nose is almost touching the nasty thing. Then he oohs
in exaggerated surprise and pushes the pitiful thing into Chuuya’s face.

Chuuya, admittedly, doesn’t manage to hold back his squawk, and takes a few stumbling
steps backwards. If he has to call upon gravity to assist him in keeping his balance, no he
doesn’t.

“Here’s your answer!” Dazai exclaims cheerfully, still shoving the magazine into his face.

Chuuya focuses on the dirty paper, and sure enough, here in the top left he can see the
number of the issue, and below that is--

A two that he’s used to seeing, and another two that’s following it, which he’s not. There are
two other numbers after them, but they’re not as important. His eyes zero in on the first two.
He knows his mouth has fallen open, but at this point, he doesn’t care.

“Two hundred years?!”

“Well done chibi, you can still do basic subtractions.”

“Shut the fuck up, you stinky bastard, we’ve been transported two hundred years in the
future!”

“Yes, chibi, I can see that!” Dazai dangles the magazine in front of his face, holding it by a
corner between his thumb and pointer finger.
Chuuya wants to shake the bastard so badly, but they’re in public and he doesn’t want another
ride in the back of a police car. He breathes in deeply, feels his lungs expand and then deflate
as he breathes out. He gathers all of his resolve in order not to scream in frustration. He
succeeds. Somewhat.

“You know what the fuck that means?! All the money I have with me and all of my credit
cards are unusable!” He hisses out, instead of yelling in rage like he desperately wants to.
“We don’t have a single penny to our name! And that means no food! And no roof over our
heads!”

Dazai hums again, cheshire grin stretching his stupid face.

“Ne ne, Chuu-ya! You’re a Port Mafia executive. Surely you can think of some other ways to
get money.”

Chuuya bristles. “I’m not going to steal. Everything else takes time. And it’s dark already.”

The excuses seem weak even to himself and Dazai knows it as well, judging by the level of
smugness painted on his stupid mug.

“Huh? I didn’t know that selling off a watch in a pawnshop took a lot of time…” the
bandaged fucker taps a single finger to his chin, pursing up his lips.

Chuuya glances to his right wrist, where hidden under his glove is a Girard-Perregaux watch,
handmade in Switzerland, the only truly exorbitant piece of accessory that he wears. He
bought it for himself after he became an executive on an indulgent whim and has been
wearing it, albeit hidden, ever since. The fact that Dazai knows about it should be alarming,
but like he said, if anyone on this earth knows all about the mackerel’s stalkerish tendencies,
then it’s him.

“No.” He cuts off this conversation without hesitation.

“Hmm, whatever you say, Chuuya.”

“And I say no.”

The bastard waves him off with that bandaged arm of his and struts off ahead. Chuuya stalks
up behind him, grabs him by the collar and starts dragging him down the street, even if it’s in
the same direction. It’s the little pleasures in life that make it bearable and he will make use
of every single one of them, if it’s at expense of Dazai’s suffering.

They still visit a shop to see if the cash Chuuya has on him will be accepted, even if neither
of them believe it. It is not, and the teenage cashier looks at him as if he’s got two heads,
even though it’s her who has a forked tongue and a third eyelid. His credit cards are also
declined and he leaves the store empty handed, to meet Dazai lurking outside.

Dazai, the nuisance on society that he is, from what he can see through the glass door as he
approaches the exit, has found some poor woman with a headful of aquamarine hair to
bother. Probably doing his classic little song and dance of “commit double suicide with me”.
As Chuuya is stepping out, the woman is already walking off, waving over her shoulder
lightly at Dazai, who is winking back. The lady is wearing a pressed suit jacket and slacks
matching her hair and is being a stand in for a jewellery rack, so the moment she disappears
into the crowd, Chuuya snags Dazai by a lapel again (the only thing that stupid coat of his is
good for) and drags him around the corner.

“What did you swipe off her?” He asks, emphasizing each word with a shake, the people
outside the alley be damned.

Dazai looks up at him with big eyes, swaying with each motion like a human shaped bodysuit
hung up to dry in the wind.

“What are you saying Chuuya! I was just trying to convince a beautiful lady into forming a
suicide pact!”

Chuuya’s nose wrinkles at that, but Dazai will always be Dazai, there’s nothing more to
expect here.

“I know that you stole something from her, you can’t fool me, you bastard! I thought you
were all about ‘living in the light’ or some bullshit!” Chuuya shakes him a little harder, the
fool’s head bobbing like an irksome toy.

“Even if I had done such a thing, it would be a forgivable offence, as I have been transported
to a world where my funds are unattainable, chibi.” Dazai then raises an infuriating eyebrow
at him, “After all, it’s you who lives his daily life out of dirty money.”

Chuuya groans, “Don’t talk like you haven’t been leeching off of people half of your life!
And that’s different!” Okay, yeah, he can admit that it kind of isn’t. But still. “I’m not going
to pickpocket someone!”

“Oooh, is chibi scared to dirty his little gloves with crime that’s a bit more hands on?” The
bastard sing-songs and Chuuya is so close to snapping that he loses the tight grip on his
ability, just enough that pieces of trash lying in the alley tremble before glowing red and
rising into the air.

Dazai, the crazy fucker, doesn’t even look a smidge scared, nor startled, which only serves to
infuriate the redhead further. So he sends a few pieces of trash flying right at the bastard's
face, in what he knows will be another futile attempt.

Before an empty aluminium can, a brick and what looks to be half a rake can even get
halfway to their desired destination though, the crimson glow encasing them disappears and
they swiftly fall to the ground. Chuuya looks down at where he’s still grasping at the high
collar of Dazai’s stupid coat, and confirms that no, he’s not touching any skin. He looks up at
the mackerel himself, only to see, for the second time today, him staring up at something over
Chuuya’s shoulder, with the same narrowed eyes. Chuuya curses under his breath and turns
on his heel to face what he knows will give him a headache.

There’s a man perched on the edge of the sloping roof of the two-story building on their right.
He’s clad in all black and blending in with the deep tones of the sky, except for a bizarre
metallic scarf looped an infinite amount of times around his shoulders. Too strange to be
anything but a weapon. He’s also wearing a pair of yellow goggles, blocking any sight of his
eyes, and his hair is floating as if he’s a male adult incarnation of the Samara girl.

“ Interesting ,” Dazai mutters behind him in a voice that screams he’s thinking of things that
would give Chuuya an aneurysm.

Chuuya rubs his forehead with his palm, letting go of Dazai and leaving him to slump over
with a startled oomph.

“Great. Another Dazai in this world. Just what I needed.” he grumbles out and faces the guy,
who also must be some kind of hero, if the weird costume is an indicator.

“Unlicensed quirk use is illegal. Especially offensive quirk use.” the man drones on in a
gruff, blank voice, giving no inflection to go off on, except maybe a subtle note of
exhaustion. His posture however, although seemingly relaxed to an unpracticed eye, is
spelling out that the man is waiting for a sign to snap to action, to Chuuya.

Quirks, huh. So that’s the future’s name for abilities, then.

Wait. Offensive?

“Haah? The fuck are you on about? I could never hurt this bastard with my ability cause
that’s just simply impossible! All the fucker has to do is get a hand on me to stop me!”
Chuuya waves his hand in the vague direction of Dazai, who has now stood up and is
observing the exchange in a loose stance, with his hands tucked inside his coat.

The hero doesn’t move, but his hair abruptly drops on his shoulders and Chuuya can feel the
hum of gravity come back to him.

“ Interesting,” Dazai mutters again, and Chuuya feels his eyelid twitch.

“Are you sure about that?” The hero dares to ask and Chuuya just has to raise an eyebrow at
the black-clad figure of his. “Because the excessive bandages on this man and the fact that
he’s favoring his left leg tell me otherwise.” The deep voice now tells him of suspicion, and
Chuuya has to stop himself from grabbing the headache next to him and throwing him at the
man because that wouldn’t really help his case.

Dazai, the bastard, laughs at him in glee, “You hear that Chuuya! Someone finally
acknowledged your violent tendencies!”

Chuuya whips back to face the fucker, “Yeah and for all the wrong reasons, thanks to your
suicidal ones!” He turns back to face the man who’s still crouching down at the ledge of the
roof. “Look, I know you probably mean well, but let me tell you, the amount of times I had to
drag this fucker out of a river because he had found a new way to drown himself is a
testament to the fact that it’s not me that can be of actual harm to him. In fact, Dazai’s like a
cockroach,” he ignores the whine from beside him at the statement, “he could probably
survive an apocalypse and only come out with a broken arm or something. He wraps himself
up in bandages because that’s what his stupid head feels like doing.”
Chuuya has to catch his breath after that explanation, and then force the tips of his ears to
cool down as both members of his audience seem to have been rendered speechless.

After what feels like an entire long minute of silence between the three of them, the hero
says, “Doesn’t change the fact that you two still look like a case of domestic violence.”

Chuuya actually shrieks at that, harmonizing with the irritating tones of Dazai wheezing with
laughter. The bastard has the gait to find the situation funny, despite being the cause of it. At
least the laughter seems to put the hero off, as he shifts his weight back and forth just barely,
in concealed unease.

Dazai throws his gangly arms around him from the back, and it takes Chuuya all of his
willpower to not throw him off. The asshole knows this, of course. “Chuu-ya! Did you hear
that? You are being violent towards your significant other!”

Against his will, he can feel his face turning red, to the joy of the sack of human meat draped
over his back.

“Shut up! This is all your fault.” He hisses to Dazai, “I wrap up your stupid ankle, carry you
on my back for half a day and put up with your stupid face in general and this is all I get? An
accusation of abuse!”

Dazai cackles in his ear, “That’s what you get for being such an aggressive dog!”

The hero breaks his ready for combat stance in order to rub at his temple. Chuuya can
sympathize with that, except he’s just been accused of domestic violence against Dazai, of all
things, so he won’t.

The hero sighs, a tired tired thing, and maybe the guy has his own Dazai to deal with,
metaphorical or not. So Chuuya lets himself feel just that tiny twinge of empathy.

“Just. Don’t use your quirk in public again. The next time I’ll have to take you in.” And then
he’s off, swinging to another rooftop, assisted by that strange looking scarf of his. Definitely
a weapon.

Chuuya tracks his form and the shiny thread of his scarf, until it fully disappears into the
night, before turning back to look at Dazai. He lets himself whack the bastard atop his head,
which the brunet, of course, ducks away from.

“I should have given you away to that man, Chuuya, it seems like he had a point!”

“If there’s anyone who’s a victim between the two of us, then it’s me, cause I get to babysit
your ass in the worst situations possible!”

“You wound me, chibi. Anyone would give their soul away just to spend time in the future
with me!” Dazai wails with his hands to his chest.

“Yeah, anyone my ass. You’re a dramatic fuck, you’re probably just upset because you’re not
that special anymore.” He punches Dazai in the shoulder, albeit lightly. The fucker still
whines.
“I am and will always be special,” he winks. Chuuya’s temporal artery throbs. “The one and
only.”

“Sometimes I wonder how people can talk to you over the size of your ego.”

“Oh, Chuuya, I’m just stating the facts!”

Chuuya grumbles something agitated in response, he honestly doesn’t remember what, as his
mind is drifting to this world and a possible plan of action. Dazai, the special little nugget he
is, has most likely already figured out half the things they need to know about the future and
predicted Chuuya’s probable course of action. That didn’t mean Chuuya will let himself be
herded by the fucker like a meeble little sheep, though. That time has long passed. He needed
his own plan and he also needed to work out what was a no-go in the future and what would
the people give him a pass for.

And so he does a check of what he has so far. Public ability use was a big one, a definite
crime, from what he gathered out of his only two interactions with the people here. They
also, for some reason, call them quirks. The quirks also seem significantly more… ubiquitous
and can vary widely. The suited colorful ( and not, the image of the scarf guy whispers in his
head) heroes are a big and important part of the future too, important enough to assist police
and be able to arrest people independently.

“Hey, Dazai.”

The aforementioned blinks at him, as if not expecting to be addressed. They’re currently

walking the streets again, Chuuya idly looking for a place to eat and stay at, for when they
procure money, somehow. He’s still working on that one. Dazai is just being his creepy self.

“What do you think of these,” he waves his hand vaguely towards a food stand advertising
‘Endeavor Hot Wings’ with a face of a stony looking guy doused in flames, arms crossed
over his chest, “...heroes.”

Dazai’s expression turns into a smug one. “Can’t unravel the situation on your own, chibi?”

“You self-absorbed bastard, I was just asking for your opinion.”

“Of course I’ll share my wisdom with you! With your height all of the energy most likely
gets used up on catching up to people, so there’s nothing left for the brain.”

Chuuya has had a whole day of this already, so he just whacks at Dazai’s shoulder.

“You don’t need to say shit if you’re just going to be insufferable about it.”

Dazai pouts and rubs his shoulder, whining about chibi this, chibi that, so Chuuya just tunes
him out and continues looking around, not expecting the conversation to continue. Dazai
however, decides to surprise him.

“I think that it’s a glorified profession here, in the future.” Chuuya savors the pleasant shift in
the dynamic, as a Dazai who’s just talking in normal sentences is always better than a Dazai
who’s being annoying for the sake of it. “They’re celebrities but they’re also the law
enforcement, and everything in between as well. The future depends on them as public
figures to hold the society up, just as much as it revolves around them. And that,” the brunet
grins, but it’s wry and humorless, “is a surefire way to certify that it’s not going to last.”

Their steps echo in the silence that lingers after Dazai’s words, even if the world around them
is hardly quiet. Still, the taps of their shoes against the asphalt seem startlingly loud, almost
synchronized.

“I suppose I can see that.” He replies, the pensive gloom settling over his shoulders like a
blanket.

“Are you sure about that chibikko? I don’t think that dogs have such long foresight, do they?”

Aaand back to their scheduled program. Chuuya yells back at him half heartedly, they scuffle
around a little, he puts Dazai in a headlock and they arrive at what seems a moderately sized
square, smacked dab in the middle of a modest shopping district.

There’s a stone monument doubling as a fountain in the middle, for some hero, whose hair
looks similar to bunny ears. The pedestrian space is half packed with young families and
bashful teens posing as something or the other, all drowning in conversation and casual
chatter. So normal, yet something so foreign for both of them. It hits like a lash of a whip,
how even in the future civilians will be civilians, quirks or not. Living their unassuming lives,
having no clue about a second, darker world bubbling with life under the surface.

—Or maybe not under the surface exactly.

A cackling figure wrapped in dark magenta, riding something resembling a roman chariot
lead by two horses, busts out from a small side street leading up to the square. Just like that.
Chuuya could say it’s out of nowhere, but the manic laughter could be heard before any of
the magenta was in view.

Both the figure and their method of transportation are made from the same dark red-purple
cloth-like material, which is glowing just so slightly, enough to look like it’s attempting to
achieve terror, but the end result looks tacky at best. The rider dives into the middle of the
crowd of civilians, which parts in half neatly, like soft butter under a knife. People are
screaming and running around in a panic, falling over like dominoes. The manic intruder has
little regard for both them and the tiny shops lining the edges of the square, nestled inside the
ground floors of western-looking apartment buildings.

Dazai and Chuuya watch this spectacle from the other side of the square, unmoving. Neither
of them is scared of a casual villain or two, probably because the former used to be one and
the other still technically could qualify as one.

They’re watching the events unfolding like one would watch a film that they start in the
middle, somewhat amused, but ultimately uninvested. You could make the excuse that no one
has been seriously injured yet, but either of them could easily tell you that it’s not because of
that. Both of them, however, perk up as three costumed figures show up and start subduing
the cause of public disarray.
Chuuya notes how the manic rider didn’t seem to have a clear motive, nor has shown a desire
for something yet. Sure, the civilians are scattered, but so are the glass shards of the displays
of the higher-end looking storefronts. Maybe the villain simply takes pleasure in causing
property damage, or maybe this is a decoy. He glances at Dazai, who has his hands stuffed in
the pockets of his still dirty white slacks, an upturn quirk to the corner of his lips. Yep,
definitely a decoy. Chuuya feels himself relaxing into his stance even more. He’s looking
forward to seeing how this will play out.

“Not itching to join in on the action, Chuuya?” The quirked lips mutter, quietly, drowned out
by the enthusiasm of the civilians eager to witness the fight. Chuuya is right next to him
though, the voice doesn’t have to travel far. He still takes a second to respond, eyes lazily
following one of the heroes, who’s dressed like a pink highlighter. The sigh he lets out isn’t
the biggest one today, but it’s the most saturated, weary. Meaningful.

“A lot of things can change in four years, Dazai.”

There’s no response. Facing ahead, Chuuya briefly glances at where Dazai is standing on his
right. Both his expression and his pose hasn’t changed a bit. There’s no visible reaction.
Figures. Chuuya goes back to watching the magenta villain whack the tendrils of their ability
upon the heroes buzzing around them.

Most of the people have cleared the square and are observing the fight from the sidelines,
some even going as far as to cheer for the heroes. Despite that, there are still some stray
civilians milling about the middle, panic tying their limbs together, yet dumb curiousity
etched onto their faces regardless.

As one of the heroes who looks like he’s literally a human shaped tree with a face wraps up
the villain in branches and other growth, one of these strays, a figure of around the same
height as Dazai, runs straight into the bastard. Chuuya draws his eyes away from the fight to
see what poor soul has just been introduced to Dazai by the universe. He is met with a sight
of lilac colored singular tuft of hair. All of the— Chuuya eyes the school uniform and the still
youthful face— teenager’s hair is a one single tuft of purple, reminiscent of a doll that hasn’t
seen a hairbrush since rolling out of the factory.

The teenager sways like a particularly tall flagpole in a hurricane, eyes zeroed in on
something behind them. Conveniently (or the opposite for the kid), both of them are blocking
the path to the vandalised storefront the kid has his eyes on. Unless, of course, he wants to
run into the middle of the square, past the villain and the triad of heroes.

Dazai steadies the kid with a hand on his shoulder, and the purple haired fellow looks at him,
as if startled. His face wears the mask of boredom, helped by the bags under his eyes full of
stories of sleepless nights, but it’s thin and halfway to transparent, revealing something like
desperation and urgence underneath. Chuuya looks a bit more closely, at the set of the kid’s
shoulders, the furrow of his brows. Determination too.

The kid scrambles up a mask of concern. Huh.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see where I was going. Are you alright?” He asks Dazai, but the
inflection is all wobbly and the words sound too flat. In his urgence, it doesn’t seem like the
kid particularly cares.

“Oh, I’m all fine! I think it’s me who should be asking.” Dazai grins brightly and waves his
free hand around. The other stays firmly on the shoulder, a thumb just barely grazing the side
of the boy’s neck. Huh.

“Step aside and let me through,” the kid commands , eyes still fixed on one particular
storefront, muscles tensing, probably preparing to run for it.

A beat.

The purple haired teenager blinks once, slow, and his eyes widen past what fits that exhausted
appearance of his. The equally lilac pupils rapidly spell out surprise confusion fear one after
the other.

Dazai hums in that sly way of his, and smiles in that one particular fashion that Chuuya
knows feels infuriating to be on the receiving end of.

“And why should I do that?”

The kid stumbles back as if Dazai’s palm was on fire, shaking it off in one swift motion.
Dazai’s hand falls limply back under the coat hung over his shoulders. He’s still smiling at
the kid, but it’s sharper and colder. And it makes sense, Dazai is someone who utterly
despises being controlled and has a reputation of being a loose cannon in that aspect. Despite
all of this though, his expression is still nothing close to what the Port Mafia’s Demon
Prodigy could look like. Every stick has two ends, or something like that: seems that four
years can really change a person.

“Wh- why--” the kid stutters out and cuts himself off, as if he didn’t mean to vocalize his
puzzlement. He almost trips over his gangly legs in the haste of getting away from Dazai,
who is still smiling unsettlingly.

Again, Chuuya doesn’t know why he ends up feeling empathetic towards all of the people
that get to meet Dazai in some shape or form here. Okay, no, he knows. He should start a
support group for people suffering brain damage from having to deal with Dazai’s shitty ass.
God knows there’s enough of them to unionize. He should probably invite that partner of
Dazai’s in the Agency too.

The kid seems to snap out of his initial shock, and Chuuya can clearly see the moment fight
or flight kicks in. The flight seems to be what the kid goes with, choosing to bolt for his
target through the middle of the square, despite the villain, although almost subdued,
wreaking havoc out there. That was probably the best choice, Chuuya thinks, looking at the
kid’s bony limbs and the way he seems to run out of breath after mere seconds.

Chuuya’s eyes follow the purple shock of hair to its destination, which seems to be one of the
stores with a busted window. He can see two other dark figures in the shop, which the kid
yells at, then freezes, and then runs back to yell at one of the heroes. The hero rushes to the
shop and quickly stops the quite honestly pathetic heist in progress. Seriously, all of this
chaos and destruction for some cash? And that’s coming from him, of all things.
Quietly, mostly to himself, rather than the pile of bandages next to him, Chuuya murmurs: “A
mind control ability, huh…”

Dazai hums, cheerful, but the way Chuuya sees the set of umber eyes track the kid’s
movements in the distance, has him hoping the kid never runs into them again. Literally or
figuratively.

They stand there as the criminals get cuffed and apprehended and the crowd rounding the
square starts dissolving. Chuuya notices that the store the villains had attempted to steal from
is a jewellery boutique. A police car arrives at the scene and one of the young policemen
takes on the task of wrapping up the shattered facade in yellow tape.

And that’s their cue to leave.

The two of them start slowly making their way out of the square, into the night life of
whatever city this is. The sky is fully dark by now, illuminated by light that’s only artificial
and the families and teenagers exchange rotations with people out to drink and night
wanderers.

“Ah, Chuuya, you could’ve gone and grabbed us a jewel or two, where are we gonna sleep
tonight?” Dazai asks, doing his part in upkeeping the constant strain in Chuuya’s temples.

“You shitty mackerel, go and get them yourself if you want to be a thief that much!

But the mackerel has a point and it’s that point which plagues him as they wander through the
streets. He knows that if he doesn’t figure out anything, then they will have nowhere to stay
and nothing to eat. He can not rely on Dazai pulling his own weight because that’s something
the bastard has never done when there’s someone there to do it for him. Chuuya is painfully
aware that he will get manipulated into providing for both of them one way or another.

Besides, Dazai is one missed shower away from embodying an actual homeless man. Chuuya
knows that out of the two of them, unfortunately, it’s him who cares more about appearance
and keeping up the living standards, not the bastard.

Blissfully, Dazai mostly keeps quiet as Chuuya ruminates this, if whistling that stupid tune of
his about a double suicide counts as quiet. Maybe, just maybe, he has something to ponder on
himself, if the way he’s tugging at the bandages on his wrist is an indicator. The wrappings
are far from a stark white anymore, marked in grime and dirt by the events of the whole day.
Chuuya mentaly adds those to a list of things he’ll need to buy out of his so far non-existent
future funds.

They trudge through the city centre, being a bit more careful around the suited individuals
standing proud in the streets. Some of the heroes make a show of walking around, alerting
everyone of their presence, some of them even give out autographs. Dazai gets reprimanded
by one of them for his little song, though, so their low profile goes to shit pretty soon.

“Oh, but I’m not joking, Mr. Hero!” the dumbass sing-songs, hands behind his back and
leaning into the hero’s face. The hero has his hands crossed over his chest defensively, and
subconsciously leans back when Dazai gets into his face. “Or maybe you’re interested? I’m
sorry, I’d have to decline, I’m looking for a beautiful lady to end my life with and
unfortunately, Mr. Hero doesn’t fit into that category.”

The hero looks incredibly uncomfortable and clearly regrets ever saying a word to Dazai. His
helpless gaze flits to Chuuya, looking for an escape. Chuuya sighs heavily, irritated by this
disturbance of his thinking session, and makes a point to peer up at the foolish hero from
under the brim of his hat.

“You did this to yourself.” Chuuya points a finger at the hero’s yellow clad chest, picks up
Dazai by the collar and drags him away from the man, who visibly relaxes when they leave.
Tch. Pathetic.

And Dazai dares to say that Chuuya’s the dog. Well, look at the supposed genius now, getting
dragged down the street by a lapel of his coat. Chuuya ignores the stares of the people
around, the squawks of one waste of bandages and plows on.

He… really doesn’t want to resort to stealing. Shit, he probably won’t resort to stealing.
Dazai’s a sly fucker and has very likely lived on the street for at least a month of his life (not
that he hasn’t either, but that was an another time and a Chuuya he’d rather leave behind).
Dazai has already proved himself not above pickpocketing, and Chuuya… Chuuya doesn’t
think he can do that. Pickpocketing, mugging, robbing, whatever. His pride and admittedly,
his morals, of all things, won’t let him.

He’s fine with carrying out Mori’s orders, fine with overseeing drug deals and gang
eliminations, fine with taking out obstacles that get in Port Mafia’s way, in all definitions of
the word. He’s pledged loyalty to the organisation, and it has been his home for more than
half of the life he remembers.

It’s another thing when he has to do all of these things for his own sake.

He’s not sure why, and doesn’t want to give himself a migraine wondering. Maybe it’s
because when he was desperately trying to establish his place in this world as something
human, he overdid it a little. Maybe he’s just too weak. Doesn’t matter. Chuuya already
knows that he will not resort to becoming a thief.

Then how does one procure money quickly, legally, in a world which isn’t your own?

They are still roaming around the city centre, although the scenery is slowly morphing into a
glum residential area. The flashy storefronts are traded for faded windows of local businesses
and services, one of them being a faintly lit yellow sign atop a glass door. A pawnshop.

Chuuya can feel the swiss leather weighing his wrist down in the pocket of his pants. He
stops walking, ignores Dazai’s stumped little “oh”, tilts his head up to the starryless darkness
of the sky fighting the glare of the streetlights. Closes his eyes, breathes in.

That fucking manipulative bastard got into his head, before he realized it. Again.

The irritation burning in his veins is particularly difficult to reign in this time, so he takes a
half-hearted swing at Dazai. Dazai, of course, dodges it, catches sight of the pawnshop on the
other side of the road and Chuuya’s pained expression. The gasp that follows is so loud that
Chuuya wants to strangle him.

“Don’t fucking say anything. Just. Don’t.” Chuuya growls out lowly, fixing the bastard with a
venomous stare. The bastard mimes zipping up his lips and throwing the key over his
shoulder, eyes actually glittering with smug mirth. God , how punchable of a face that is.

In the pawnshop, standing behind a polished counter, the gray-haired man with golden eyes
seems to be shaking in his slippers over the sight of a 200 year old Girard-Perregaux Vintage
1945 watch in almost perfect condition. It’s an elegant, refined thing, with a black strap of
leather and a square Art Deco design, displaying both the time and the moon phases. Chuuya
bought it just because he could, and then had grown attached to it. A symbol of him on his
own, a symbol of his independence. He laid down 17000 euros for it in France, and will not
sell it for less than double that. They are in the future, antiquity has to count for something.

Dazai is on his left, rocking on his heels with his hands laced behind his back. He varies
between looking around the shop and making noises of a five year old, and peering over
Chuuya’s shoulder and making annoying sounds there.

The barterer tries to underprice it but Chuuya gives him a glare and makes the counter shake
a bit, for good measure. The elder man relents easily, clearly salivating at the gleam and shine
of stainless steel and alligator leather. They go back and forth like that, Chuuya not backing
down from his price and the barterer slowly rising up to meet it.

The whole spectacle goes on for fifteen minutes and twenty three seconds, his beloved watch
tells him, the dial glinting at him from the countertop. Irritated by a money-hungry man
before him, Chuuya rubs the bridge of his nose. The bright glare of the lights overhead in the
tiny interior of the shop is getting to him, along with the other events of the day, of course.

Busy fending off a migraine, Chuuya doesn’t notice Dazai leaning in over his left shoulder
and startles when the fucker hums in his ear. He doesn’t jump, but can’t keep a shiver down,
hair standing on end at the low vibrations of air so close to him.

“He can go for a bit more, don’t give in yet, Chuuya.” Dazai whispers right into his ear, oh so
quietly. The man behind the counter couldn’t make it out, that’s for sure, and Dazai’s
dramatic-ass mop of hair falls forward to cover his side profile, so it’s difficult to read his
lips.

“I know.” Chuuya hisses back, uncaring of their third party, and pushes a bit more, until the
price they agree on is passably satisfactory.

He knows that in an auction, especially here, in the future, he could sell this off for at least
twice as much, maybe even thrice, with some additional care and effort. But they don’t have
time, nor the resources for that, so Chuuya walks out of the shop with a bouncing Dazai in his
tow and 5 million future yen richer.

So he gave away the token of his freedom from Dazai for that much. And yet the choker
signifying the opposite is still wrapped around his neck. Call him sentimental or superstitious
 or whatever, but the irony of that matching with the fact that he’s stuck here, with Dazai as
his only means of escape, well…

That feels at least a tad symbolic.

Chapter End Notes

for the sake of this chapter and chuuya's sanity let's pretend that inflation doesn't exist
 An Introduction
Chapter Notes

i was supposed to post this at the end of this week, because i am trying to pace myself so
i don't run out of chapters to post....buuuut it's my birthday and this is my favorite
chapter so far, and i was really excited to share it. so there you go!

also how the fuck does this have over 200 kudos already woah i really did not expect
that many people to read this and also enjoy it

thank you so so much!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

A stream of sickly yellow light filters in through a single window, harshly cutting through the
darkness of a small living space. It’s not a bad space, per se. There’s a bed, albeit a small one,
a desk and a chair, a dresser full of clothes and even a fluffy black carpet. One could even
dare to call it cozy, but in actuality, the space is a bit too cramped to fit that description, walls
and the ceiling closing in uncomfortably upon anyone inside.

Right now, the room is dark, the small entirety of it shrouded in blackness of the night. The
streetlight and a fine crack under the off-white door are the only light sources in this room,
both warm yellow, yet contradictingly unwelcoming.

The window is old, a wooden frame with sharp corners smoothed out by human palms, and
squeaks jarringly when being pried open. The fingers coaxing it at the moment, however, are
deft and knowledgeable in the way this only window of the room talks and screeches. And
because these fingers want it to be so, the creaks are quiet, reach only one set of ears and
never leave the cramped room.

Plied open, the window lets frisky springtime air in and a lanky figure out. An equivalent
exchange. The figure lands on the ground lightly, skilled in acing this particular one and a
half story jump. Worn-down sneakers scuff the dry dirt underneath them, bony hands dust off
equally bony knees, and the same street light which is filtering inside, now illuminates the
face of one Shinsou Hitoshi.

Clad in an entirely black, loosely fitting outfit, a hood hiding his all too recognizable hair and
a mask covering up the lower half of his face, it’s really only the eyes that betray the
teenager’s identity. Not that anyone particularly cares about who he is, but the extra
cautiousness never hurts.
Sure that nobody in the house will look for him, or care where he has vanished off to at a
rather late hour, Hitoshi walks out into the street. The asphalt road ahead of him is splitting
rows and rows of equally grey and equally cold apartment buildings, as if copy and pasted by
a tired artist in the farthest point of the background in their cityscape.

Hitoshi’s steps are quiet and unnoticeable, not that they need to be at this moment, but more
that they don’t know how to be loud. His back is slouched, and his hands are stuffed into the
center pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing, but nevertheless, purple eyes glint with excitement
and a drive that’s not evident in much else of what’s visible of him. Hitoshi walks without a
fixed goal but the determination is just as prevalent as it would be if he had one. The strings
of his hoodie tap tap tap against his chest with each step he takes, and his heart knocks on his
ribcage excitedly in response.

Distinct sounds of a scuffle reach the teenager’s ears and his steps halt. He hasn’t made it out
of the residential area yet, but a scuffle is a scuffle no matter where one finds it. Slowly,
keeping his feet even lighter, Hitoshi approaches the corner where the sounds are coming
from. It’s a space between two perpendicular buildings, a spot perfect for smoking kids,
passionate couples, the homeless… or for a beating to take place.

His heart is pounding in his throat now, and the breaths he draws are quick as he sees a young
adult with shimmery skin get punched by a bald middle aged man. The man doesn’t look to
be exceptionally muscular or strong but he’s still snarling and growling all the same. The
shimmery guy is crumpled against the wall, clutching his nose, hot tears rolling down his
cheeks.

“Please—I don’t have it! I don’t have anything— stop!” the young man wails and Hitoshi’s
mind is made up even as his hands shake.

The boy’s eyes dart around for something he can use. There is a trash can, and respectively, a
ton of trash surrounding it, but all of it is practically useless. Well then. He breathes in
shakily, his anxiety spikes at the thought of what he’s about to do.

Still peering past a wall, Hitoshi sees the man gearing up for another punch. His feet round
the corner themselves.

Hitoshi runs up to the bald man from the back and kicks the back of his knee. His kick isn’t
strong and the man doesn’t fall, just swiftly turns around but that’s about what Hitoshi
expected and still is something he’s mentally prepared for. The countless youtube tutorials
he’s watched and articles he’s read flash through his mind as he attempts a stance and throws
a punch into the bald man’s face, hoping that he doesn’t break his fingers.

The impact hurts as it rolls from his knuckles to his wrist and throughout his forearm. Bone
crumbles and crunches under the force, luckily not Hitoshi’s, but it’s no less jarring and
sickening. He pushes away the feeling for a moment, and uses the very same moment to knee
his opponent in the crotch. He’s the most successful in this, as the man folds in half, and
fueled by the adrenaline, Hitoshi runs up to the shimmery guy and pulls him up from where
he’s slumped against the wall.
They bolt for the street, the young man lagging behind at first, but then the daze he’s in must
clear at least a little bit and he breaks into a sprint. They run until their lungs are empty of air
and then some. They reach the city centre in their mad dash, the bald man lost behind them a
long while ago. As the concentration of people out and about increases, their strides slow
down into a walk, then come to a stop as they bend over to catch their breaths.

After his pulse has calmed down to something more adequate, Hitoshi looks up and sees the
back of the shimmery man facing him as he runs off into the crowd.

A bit annoyed at his efforts going unappreciated, Hitoshi eyes the man until he disappears
behind a corner. He guesses that it’s understandable, somewhat, the man seemed panicked
and just received a couple punches. Yet Hitoshi himself just overcame something akin to fear
there, and gathered up the courage to save someone from an unfortunate situation.

But like everything else in Hitoshi’s life, the only praise he gets is the one he offers himself,
so he mentally gives his own shoulder a pat. His knuckles ache awfully in the pocket of his
hoodie, but as he curls and uncurls his fingers, nothing seems broken.

Walking down the street among other straggling individuals of the night, Hitoshi lets himself
a small small smile. The rush of adrenaline, and the satisfaction of helping out someone in
trouble, even if that someone is a bit ungrateful, is pleasant. Addictive.

He just punched someone. Holy shit.

The itch to use his quirk in situations like this one is overwhelming, knowing that it would
diffuse the whole thing in a matter of seconds, with minimal harm done to all of the parties
involved. The desire to prove it to himself and to everyone who has ever condemned him for
it is immense and overbearing to the point of snapping, but it is also something he has to get
over.

And so he keeps his mouth shut in these escapades of his. It only takes one person babbling
to the police about getting brainwashed by a teenager and then it’d take the barest of
moments for him to be looked up in the quirk registry. This was something he knew from the
beginning but the severity of it only dawned on him after that stupid thing he pulled earlier
today. Hitoshi isn’t naive enough to believe that he’d still have a shot at becoming a hero if
that happened.

So he does it the olden way.

It’s not like he has done this a lot. This being something bordering quirkless vigilantism.
Hitoshi scoffs to himself in his own stupid head. Vigilantism. He’s barely ever gotten in a
fight. Today actually was the first time. The rational side of his brain is still yelling at the rest
of the gray matter that seeking out criminal activities, even if it is to stop them, is a bad bad
idea. He’s aware, thank you very much.

It’s just. Cathartic. The discontent and the disappointment he had felt after the Sports Festival
had to go somewhere, didn’t it? Well, that’s where it went. Into peeking around corners of
people committing crimes, into throwing bottles in order to distract, so a victim can escape,
into quietly calling the police and hoping they get there in time, when he spots something a
bottle can’t solve. It’s not much. He barely does anything. He-- he just wants to be useful,
even without his quirk. He just wants to help people however he can.

And so, in this last month, to his traditional nightly walks around town, he added just a
sprinkle of intercepting some crimes. Just a teensy one. Almost unnoticeable.

Hitoshi slowly walks through town, keeping his head down out of habit. He reaches the
square in which Kamui Woods and some sidekicks took down a villain earlier today. He was
there. Got reprimanded for meddling, again , even though the heroes wouldn't have noticed
the other two thieves otherwise.

There was also that guy there, with bandaged arms and eyes that were miles more sharper
looking than his appearance let on. It was genuinely intimidating, and even as someone who
used his own tired face as a mask, Hitoshi was very put off by the man. The fact that for
some reason Hitoshi’s quirk didn’t work on him, well… All of it made a picture in that same
stupid head of his that screamed danger.

Hitoshi was a bit distracted by the robbers then, when he… let’s say attempted to take
control. He was desperate, too, hoping that the person won’t really realize that they’d been
brainwashed, as stupid as that sounds. Through the tunnel vision, zeroed in on a crime
happening and nothing being done to stop it, Hitoshi didn’t notice that at the response to his
question, no silver thread had appeared for him to tug on.

His cheeks color at the memory of how he actually commanded the man to step aside. Back
then he only felt fear and apprehension, content to just turn the other way around to avoid the
obstacle. The mortification he feels now is uncomfortable and sour, making him want to
squirm in his all-black getup.

He turns away from the square, heading away from the centre, away from the weak
resemblance of a nightlife Musutafu has, and admittedly, away from his own fear and
embarrassment. More patrolling heroes eye him warily the closer to the heart of the town he
is, so he takes the cue and ducks into a side street. The map of this city might as well be
plastered on the back of his eyelids at this point, he had spent most nights of his childhood
wandering its streets and exploring its alleys. No adult ever cared enough to stop him, so he
never did. It’s a miracle he got involved in fights just recently.

At some point, a hero jumps off a roof right in front of him and asks him what he is doing out
so late. The woman is dark haired and wearing loose pants, what looks like ballet shoes and a
short hooded cape, all of it in a dark dark blue. She isn’t a hero he recognizes immediately,
and he knows all of the local ones. Then she’s either new, or underground.

Hitoshi’s heart picks up in excitement at that particular speculation, and he has to reprimand
the traitorous muscle for that. He doesn’t like thinking of himself as a fanboy of the
underground pros, but that’s precisely what he is, under that aloof facade.

“I just stayed a bit late at a friend's house, I’m walking home now.” he tells the hero, startled
and a touch sheepish. He knows not to overdo it in a way that wouldn't match his natural
demeanor, not to gesture too much, but just enough.
The hero narrows her dark eyes at him, but nods anyway, tells him to be careful on the way
home, and jumps off into the night, soundlessly and gracefully. Wide-eyed, Hitoshi makes a
note to scour the already scarce underground forums for information about her.

To his credit, he does head in the direction of his home, even if loosely and slowly. He
doesn’t want to go back just yet. What will he do there, stare at the cracked ceiling until the
sun rises? What he wants is an opportunity to help someone out and the moral gratification
that follows the act.

It takes about an hour of aimless walking until he spots a man of small stature, with an old-
fashioned hat adorning his head, on the other side of the street. The man himself looks fine, if
a bit eccentric, from what Hitoshi can see. And, sure, his eyesight isn’t the best out there,
reading books with a flashlight under the covers as a child does that to you. But it’s the group
of four very suspicious looking men following the helpless guy that scream trouble.

Hitoshi’s breath gets stuck around a lump of panic in his throat. It’s like a ball of woolen
yarn, lodged in there, grating against the sensitive tissue, and the only way to get rid of it is to
either painfully swallow or slowly pull it out, bit by bit. Why the dramatic description, you
ask? Well.

There’s no way Hitoshi can take on four thugs by himself.

And the figure with a hat looks dainty, almost, even if their steps are big and confident,
unassuming.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye he can see the hatted man confidently stride into an
alley that Hitoshi knows for sure is a dead end. The boy’s heart, stomach, lungs, shit, count
all of his internal organs in, they all have dropped to his heels by now. That man is going to
get jumped. It’s not even guaranteed he’ll come out alive out of there. And all Hitoshi can do
now, is either walk away, or watch.

As the four burly men follow the guy into the backstreet, Hitoshi runs across the street and
clambers up the fire escape of one of the buildings forming the alley. He tries to keep as quiet
as he can, and luckily the building is only three stories high. That all leads to him ducking at
the edge of the roof, just the top of his hooded head peeking out, eyes peering at the scene
below.

The alley is pretty badly lit, but it’s enough that the four figures surrounding one smaller up
against the wall are clear. The man makes no sound, but his stature hasn’t lost the confidence,
nor the ignorance. One of the assailants is closer to the man than the others, three steps away
at most. His ugly laugh echoes in the alley, startling the fuck out of Hitoshi.

And Hitoshi, shit, Hitoshi is really hoping he’s not about to witness a murder. In hindsight, he
probably should’ve gone and ran to a hero, or called the police as it is their job to take care of
things like these. In his meager defense though, limelight heroes do not really patrol in these
parts of the town, and it’s not like he can go up and get an underground one. And the police…
well the police wouldn’t get here in time anyway. He swears he will call them when it all
turns to shit. He just needs to see.
“You’re a pretty dainty thing aren’t ya?” the Ugly Laugh drawls in an even uglier voice, and
it takes all of Hitoshi’s resolve to not yell an insult at the man and use his quirk on him. That
wouldn’t change much, as there are four other people in the alleyway, he tells himself. Sit
your ass down and be quiet.

Another man, this one also bald, the top of his head so shiny that it’s reflecting the street
light, steps forward as well. What’s up with poor bald people representation tonight? The
cornered Mr. Fancy Hat not even as much as flinches at the movement.

The bald man, although with a voice a smidge less disgusting than the Ugly Laugh’s, but still
slimy, says, “Look at his strange lil’ hat! I wonder if it fits me.”

Following the words, the Baldy reaches out a hand aiming to grab the hat, except it never
makes it there. Gloved fingers catch his wrist, and what he gets instead of a fancy hat, is a
very clean kick in the crotch. The bald man’s face is bashed in into the same knee, the
moment he folds over from the pain.

The other three start yelling incoherently in dismay, displaying the amount of their collective
brain power, and attempt to swing fists. The key word is attempt, because damn the short hat
man brutally and efficiently subdues every single one of them. He knocks the one closest to
him out with a quick punch to the temple, then kicks the other one in the kidneys, if Hitoshi’s
internet knowledge of fighting and anatomy is worth something. The last one meets the guy’s
boot head on, in the arch of a beautifully terrifying roundhouse kick. All the while keeping
his left hand in the pocket of his pants, the coat hanging on his shoulders fluttering with every
move.

All of it transpires in around half a minute and none of the four men even get to put a finger
on the hat man. The glint of the guy’s teeth is visible as his lips are most likely forming a
wild grin.

The scales of who has the upper hand flipped so suddenly that Hitoshi’s jaw simply hangs
open in disbelief… and probably awe. Hitoshi feels winded, more than the Hat Guy, who
actually had to fight, looks to be.

The man looks around the alley, at the four slumped figures lying around, and fixes the hat on
his head gently, as if it had ever gone out of place in the fight. He then puts his right hand in
the pocket of his slacks, a posture that couldn’t look more relaxed and self-assured if he tried,
and meets Hitoshi’s eyes straight on.

Hitoshi’s bones jump out of his body and run a lap around the roof, while they’re at it,
because the boy startles so badly, he falls out of his crouch and straight onto his butt.

He has no time whatsoever to collect himself. The hatted man is glowing red at the edges
now and floating in the air in front of him.

Hitoshi sputters, probably a step away from hyperventilating, realizes that the hood of his
sweater is down and hastily pulls it over his head again. The man, who can fucking levitate
on top of being a god at hand-to-hand, watches him with his head tilted to the side. Vibrant
copper strands of his hair curl over a pointed chin and fall across his face. His unsettlingly
blue eyes feel like industry-grade lasers cutting up poor Hitoshi into pieces.

“You- you just beat them all up. Like that.” Hitoshi hears himself say, the words rolling out of
his mouth before ever appearing in his mind. It’s rare that he’s actually rendered speechless.
Thoughtless. Whatever.

Mr. Fancy Hat looks back over his shoulder, at the bodies still slumped in the alley. Shrugs.

“They wanted to take my hat.” he says, tone level, as simple as that.

That’s fair, Hitoshi thinks. The cerulean colored lasers only intensify, however, and Hitoshi
soon gets his answer as to why. Nevertheless, this split moment has his alarmed mind
wondering if he’s also about to get his head kicked in, even if he hasn’t made an attempt for
the man’s hat.

His heart is akin to a hummingbird, beating so quickly that his vision gets fuzzy and his
hearing is muffled, so the next words that come out of the man’s mouth are a bit distant and
take a while to process.

“You’re that kid from earlier in the day.”

“I- What?” Hitoshi gasps out.

“You ran into me and Dazai, you know, the bandaged fool. There was a villain fight and some
heroes showed up. You were running around doing something.” The man pauses, the lasers
scan Hitoshi from head to toe. Hitoshi shivers. “What the fuck were you doing there and what
the fuck are you doing here, kid?”

A mental thread opens up for him to grasp and tug on, but Hitoshi is too deep into his panic
to attempt it, let alone want to do it. His mind is desperately flicking through the memories of
earlier in the day.

Hitoshi vaguely remembers there being a short man wearing a hat, next to the terrifyingly
perceptive guy who was immune to his quirk. It seems like the terrifying man has equally
terrifying friends. And Hitoshi thought that he was about to witness a murder, not five
minutes earlier.

“You’re seeking out fights or something, kid? No offense, but you look like a leaf blower
could pick you up.”

Hitoshi will take offense to that, thank you very much. It must show on his face somehow,
(and shit , he should be better than that at reigning in emotions), because the redhead throws
his head back and laughs.

Hitoshi’s shoulders twitch at the sudden sound, not exactly a flinch but close to one. The man
notices and raises an eyebrow.

“Huh? I’m not gonna beat you up, kid. Calm down.” the man says, not exactly reassuring.
“You have a mind control ability or something, right?”
Hitoshi’s blood freezes over. How..? Oh. It was unfortunate that some people could still put
two and two together.

“Well, unless you try it on me, I’ve got no reason to punch you.”

And that’s… also fair, even if the distrust stings a little. Yeah, yeah, the situation doesn’t
exactly call for trust here, but there’s no reason for Hitoshi to just up and brainwash someone
either. Yet the man also is still keen on keeping a conversation with him, which is a lot more
than most people had ever done after learning about his quirk.

Hitoshi gets his voice back and croaks out, “Wouldn’t really be able to punch me, while I am
in control.”

The eyebrow rises even further, if that’s possible. Then the man just. Waves a hand. “I’d find
a way.”

Hitoshi finds himself agreeing to that. After seeing what the man is capable of, he doesn’t
doubt that somehow, someway he could break out of Hitoshi’s mental hold with little effort.

The hatted man steps onto the ledge of the roof, then onto the roof itself, still glowing red.
Hitoshi stares up at him for a moment, and the man sighs and holds out his gloved hand.

Fuck it, it’s not like he has anything better to do, plagued by insomnia. The homework laid
out on his desk cries out at him, over the distance, but suddenly Hitoshi’s deaf. He grabs the
hand that pulls him up with unsurprising strength, and now he’s glowing red too.

“Uh?” He vaguely gestures at himself.

“C’mon,” the man drags him by the hand up to the ledge. Hitoshi, like anyone with common
sense, hesitates. “You’re gonna help me find a grocery store that has a decent selection of
wine.”

Hitoshi, like most teenagers, doesn’t know anything about wine, let alone selections of it,
plus he’s also being dragged off a rooftop. He weakly resists against the man’s firm hold. Mr.
Fancy Hat just rolls his eyes.

“It’s my… quirk. ” he says the word as if it tastes weird in his mouth. “I can manipulate
gravity. See?” The surely mad man says, steps off the ledge, and walks down the side of the
building.

It takes some willpower to not let his jaw drop again, but after checking if he’s still glowing
red (he is, it clashes with his natural violet coloring), he takes a hesitant step down the wall.
And another one. And one more, like that, until he reaches the grinning man on the ground.
Now, on equal ground with him, Hitoshi notices just how short the man is. He barely reaches
Hitoshi’s shoulder, and has to peer up at him from under the brim of his hat.

“You really couldn’t find a grocery store by yourself?” Hitoshi teases, because apparently he
has no survival instinct.
The man, surprisingly, just grumbles, irritated. “I’m obviously new in town. It’s the middle of
the night, and the whole day has been shit. I want a glass of wine.”

Hitoshi snorts in response before he can stop himself.

“What’s so funny, brat?” The man glares up at him, but it lacks heat. Or like stated earlier,
Hitoshi just doesn’t have any self preservation.

“Okay, okay. I’ll show you to a store.”

Hitoshi leads the man to a nearest convenience store that’s open overnight, their walk on the
way there transpiring in surprisingly comfortable silence. Barely a minute into it, Hitoshi
pulls down his face mask and later the hood of his sweater, no longer seeing the point in
having them up.

The man walks with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants, dripping confidence. The
coat hanging off his shoulders flaps in the midnight air, and his boots, Hitoshi glances down,
heeled , even if not that much, tap against the sidewalk loudly with each step. All of it paints
a pretty corny, and maybe a bit stuck up picture on its own. The self-assurance however,
brings it all together, and overall the man’s appearance seems sophisticated, and even dare
Hitoshi say, refined. Although the height aspect could still be improved on.

When they reach the glass door of the store, the man doesn’t hesitate to step forward and
throw it open. A bell jingles, alerting the cashier of their presence. Hitoshi shuffles around,
uncertain, flicking the edge of a plastic carpet laid out outside with the tip of his sneaker.

“What are you standing around for? Come in, kid.”

Wide-eyed, Hitoshi follows the man in and around the small store as he makes his way
towards the alcoholic drinks section and looks through every type of wine the store has. It’s a
konbini so it’s no surprise there’s only five. Hell, Hitoshi could bet that five’s a lot. The man
still seems to be dissatisfied by this and taps his foot on the floor in an expression of his
frustration as he picks up every bottle and reads the label.

It takes ten minutes for the hatted man to pick out a wine, which he takes three bottles of. He
then abruptly turns to face Hitoshi. The purple haired boy blinks slowly in response.

“Do you want anything?”

Another equally slow blink. “I don’t have any money.”

The man tsks. “Well, obviously, I’m paying. Just pick something out.”

Blink. A grin slowly spreads upon Hitoshi’s face. “Anything?”

“Yes, yes, anything. Just hurry up.”

Hitoshi doesn’t need to be told a second time. His caretakers not being ones to indulge, or
more like let him indulge, Hitoshi grew up a kid that never turns down free stuff. Especially
food. He makes a point to pick out the most expensive brand of chocolates and salty snacks
he can find, grabs a soda he’d usually just stare at, and even picks up some salmon onigiri.
He’s admittedly hungry, his last meal being something he’s thrown together after school
before his uncle got home.

He takes all of this to Mr. Fancy Hat, whose actual name he still doesn’t know. He can barely
hold all of it with his two hands and puts everything down on the counter in front of the
cashier as quickly as he can. Among the wine bottles already lined up there, Hitoshi spots a
few rolls of medical bandages. He briefly wonders if the man has been injured in the fight,
but then recalls the way no limb of the assailants’ had landed on the man even once.

The man raises an eyebrow at the amount of items piled before him. Hitoshi holds his stare
and even arches an eyebrow of his own. The man shrugs and gestures for the cashier to scan.

As the tired young woman slowly goes through all of their purchases, the man stares intently
at the humble display of cigarette packets, seemingly working through an internal debate.
When the cashier scans and bags the last item, the man finally makes up his mind and picks
one pack out, placing it on the counter to scan.

It is at that moment that it occurs to Hitoshi that he is possibly involving himself with
someone not on the best side of the law. He can never be sure, of course, but the ease which
the man took four people down with… that definitely was a sign for something. He’s not sure
why cigarettes of all things, made him realise it. Oh well. Too late now anyway. And the man
is buying Hitoshi food. That’s already better than the vast majority of the adults in Hitoshi’s
life. How bad can the man actually be?

They walk out of the store, the man carrying the plastic bag of all of their stuff. Hitoshi feels
a bit bad, because most of it is his, but well, the man did say anything.

The frisky late night air makes their huffing breaths visible, turning them into puffy white
clouds. Hitoshi has a childish urge to take exaggerated gulps of air just to see the clouds get
bigger and more opaque. He stamps it down, not really keen on looking like a fool. To the
man walking beside him, however, it serves as a reminder of the cancer sticks he just
purchased.

The man digs the paper pack out of the bag, peels off the plastic seal and takes one out,
putting it between his lips. Absently, with one hand, the handles of the bag looped around his
wrist, the man pats around his coat, while the other hand drops the packet back into the bag.
Hitoshi watches this pantomime and can’t help but think that the guy does look kind of cool,
in an eccentric Parisian artist kind of way, even if the hat is a bit cheesy. This impression
shatters like fragile glass the moment the man freezes in his ministrations.

Hitoshi bursts into snickers at the man’s stricken expression of grief. Half-heartedly, he tries
to stifle his laughter into a sleeve of his hoodie, but judging by the man’s disgruntled
expression, he mostly fails.

“Did- did you really forget that cigarettes have to be lit by something?”

With the paper stick still between his lips, the man grumbles out, “Shut up, I told you I had a
shitty day, didn’t I?” The man digs through all of his pockets one more time, frowns and
looks around them. A bit lost and still smiling unconsciously, Hitoshi looks around too but
only sees the empty street and the creepy silhouettes of budding trees. “I’ll think of
something.”

Well that’s not ominous at all, is it? If the man decides to commit arson, Hitoshi will hightail
it out of here, food be damned. He doesn’t know how that’d be possible without the proper
tools to make a fire, but who knows what “gravity manipulation” entails. Hitoshi sure
doesn’t, physics were never his strong suit.

They walk in no particular direction, Hitoshi not being the one to lead anymore. It’s the
hatted man, who seems to be studying the buildings around them intently, as if looking for
something. Hitoshi is just excited to have an eventful night for once.

The man stops in front of one fifteen-story apartment building, the clack of his heeled boots
halting at the front entrance.

“You live here? ” Hitoshi can’t help but ask, incredulous. There’s nothing wrong with the
apartment building itself, he just expected something more extravagant from the man.

The redhead draws his eyes away from where he was assessing the building and scoffs at
Hitoshi. “Of course not, who do you think I am?”

And then the man starts glowing red again, squinting at the top of the building. Oh no.
Hitoshi can guess where this is going.

“I don’t even know your name, let alone have formed an adequate opinion of what you’re
like.” Hitoshi points out in an even drawl. Then the boy furrows his brows and adds, “I just
saw you beat some guys up and then you bought me food.”

The man shrugs, “What else is there to know?”

The teenager notices that he’s begun glowing too. He blinks at the development, and that’s all
about what happens before the both of them start floating upwards.

The trip up to the roof honestly feels like taking an elevator, except a touch faster and there’s
nothing under his feet. Which is a bit freaky, to say the least, but Hitoshi gets over it pretty
quickly when he sees the view.

The building is one of the tallest in this particular district, so in front of them opens up a
pretty neat panorama made up of rectangular concrete stumps and a winding net of
illuminated roads, melting into the abyss of the night. It’s not anything particularly
spectacular, but it’s still worth a nice word or two.

They step over the ledge and then onto the roof itself, at which point Hitoshi stops glowing,
as does the man. The man gently places the bag by the ledge, throws one leg over, then the
other and sits down, feet dangling over the edge. Hitoshi receives an expectant look.

Throwing the caution out the window, Hitoshi walks over and does the same. After some
things he has gotten up to earlier in the evening, it’s a wonder that he still had at least a lick
 of it left.

Hitoshi reaches into the bag and takes out a pack of snacks he picked out, wasting no time in
tearing it open noisily. The man doesn’t seem to care, busy with looking around, the cigarette
having reappeared in the corner of his lips.

The man shortly finds what he was looking for, which appears to be a moderately sized sharp
rock that fits easily in his palm. Hitoshi watches owlishly as the man digs out a knife from his
shoe, a knife that looks nothing like a piece of kitchenware, mind you, and kind of resembles
a dagger. Hitoshi’s hand freezes in the air, where it was in the process of stuffing a snack into
his mouth.

The hatted man holds the knife by the blade, when there’s a perfectly good handle right there.
The rock is in his other hand, held out so there’s a flat edge facing the sharp edge of the knife.
Hitoshi realizes where this is heading and subtly inches away from the man. The redhead still
picks up on it and grins from ear to ear, teeth glinting in the night.

He strikes the blade against the rock in a swift blur of movement once, frowns, then does it
again. The manic grin becomes even larger, splitting the face like a stark white scythe.
Hitoshi can’t see what’s got him so victorious at first, but in a second a glowing red spark
rises up to the cigarette hanging from his lips and ignites it.

The literal mad hatter sitting beside him laughs, immensely pleased with himself and takes a
deep drag from the cigarette. The blissful expression that smoothes out all of the lines
littering the man’s face makes Hitoshi wonder what’s so special about the cancer sticks that
has such a significant effect. He stomps on that thought a second later, not particularly
wishing for blackened lungs they show to middle schoolers.

As the man turns away from Hitoshi to breathe out the plume of greyish smoke into the sky,
the purple haired teenager finds himself barely shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re fucking
strange.”

The man turns to him, smirks and holds out a gloved hand, “Nakahara Chuuya.”

Hitoshi looks at the hand, sighs, and shakes it. “Shinsou Hitoshi.”

Chapter End Notes

y'all the power i felt when i had to type in this tag manually
 Lessons
Chapter Notes

hi hello um a mandatory apology if i got some things wrong! especially about fighting
cause i know nothing and everything i've ever written is comprised of internet
knowledge. my ex girlfriend is a karate fighting champion but i forgot to ask her stuff
when we were together and i've been single for months so this is what you get. that one's
on me. i am really sorry

anyhow, here's the rest of chuuya and hitoshi's time together!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Nakahara-san takes a deep drag of his cigarette and lets the smoke spill out in small wisps out
of the corner of his mouth, head still subtly angled away from Hitoshi. The man then seems
to remember that he has three bottles of wine lying in a plastic bag behind his back, which
had been the main goal of this trip.

Suddenly there’s a half-burnt cigarette in Hitoshi’s hand, shoved between his fingers by the
man sitting beside him. Hitoshi grimaces at it and holds it away from his face, letting the ash
slowly gather on the tip. Nakahara-san takes out one of the bottles, looks at the wide blade of
the knife he’d used to light his cigarette contemplatively and then minutely shakes his head.
The copper colored strands of hair follow the movement dramatically, flopping from one side
of the face to another.

The red haired man reaches into the other boot and this time pulls out an actual dagger, the
pointed blade glinting threateningly in the dark. This one’s blade is narrow, engraved with
some sort of an intricate pattern, topped off with a graceful handle. As Nakahara-san stabs the
tip of the dagger into the cork of the wine bottle and twists, while his cigarette burns away
between Hitoshi’s pointer and middle fingers, the teenage boy realizes that he’s most likely
spending a school night with an actual criminal. The conclusion solidifies in his head as the
bottle pops open and the man guffaws, taking a swig without any stalling.

Hitoshi negotiates with himself about how to approach the situation as he wordlessly hands
back the still lit cigarette to the man. Nakahara-san, while proven dangerously capable in
fighting, and on top of that, who has been armed the whole time, also hasn’t as much as
touched a hair on Hitoshi’s head ( yet, the rationally paranoid part of the brain whispers to
him. He swats it away like an irritating fly.) The man has also bought him food, and isn’t
afraid of talking to him, despite knowing what his quirk is.
Not everything in the world is white and black, Hitoshi tells himself. It’s not just heroes and
villains, is it? There are grey spaces between those oppositions, grey spaces that house a
startling amount of individuals, among which, Hitoshi himself could fit, as much as he’d like
to deny it.

The conclusion his internal debate comes to is: stay with Nakahara-san. It will be good
research, of… criminal behaviour. Or something. For when he becomes a hero. Surely.

The redhead, in the meantime, enjoys his cheap wine and grumbles something about how he
“has been waiting for this moment since two hundred years ago”.

They sit in silence for a nice moment, letting the background noise do the work for them.
There’s the distant sounds of cars, a dog barking, some drunkard yelling down below. Hitoshi
was never someone who has minded lulls in conversation and is glad to see that his
companion doesn’t seem to either. In fact, Nakahara-san looks more content at this moment
than he had ever had, in the short time Hitoshi has known him. Perched on the edge of a roof,
occasional gusts of wind ruffling the hair spilling over his shoulders, taking periodic sips of
wine straight out of the bottle.

“So why are you seeking out fights, kid?” The older man asks him, lowly, a fifth of the way
into his wine bottle.

That’s a good question. So good that Hitoshi doesn’t really have an answer. He shrugs.

“I dunno,” the boy vocalises, studying the scuffed noses of his shoes as his legs swing
around. Something prickly, defensive, like a barbed-wire fence rises inside of him, to protect
everything that’s soft and vulnerable deep within. “Why are you carrying around two knives,
Nakahara-san?” he deflects.

The redhead, just like the first time Hitoshi saw him, throws back his head and laughs, loudly,
with no restraint.

“Four, actually,” he responds, a wicked curve to his lips. Then his expression changes, as if
he bit on an equivalent of a lemon somewhere in his headspace. “And none of that Nakahara-
san shit. Just call me Chuuya.”

Well if the man has asked, Hitoshi won’t pass up on an opportunity to be informal.

“Well then, Chuuya,” he drags out the name on purpose. The redhead winces, Hitoshi smirks.
No take backs. “Why do you carry four sharp weapons on your person?”

“That’s easy,” Chuuya says, takes a swig from the bottle and a drag from another cigarette he
had lit up a minute ago. “I carry them because I need ‘em.”

Hitoshi wrinkles his nose, “And why do you need them?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, kid?” Chuuya smirks, looks at him, and doesn’t offer anything
else.
Maybe Hitoshi is really better off not knowing. Still, it’s annoying being left hanging like
that. He huffs, the silence stretches. This time it’s not as comfortable, the expectation of him
to share the reasoning behind his irresponsible actions weighing down. Like a stone thrown
into the hood of his jumper. Something he itches to reach in and take out.

“It’s just—” the teenager huffs, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants. Chuuya
hums, a low, quiet thing, to indicate that he’s listening. “I want to be a hero, you know?”
Another hum. “I just want to help people and prove to them that I am capable of using my
quirk to do good things. That my quirk doesn’t make me a villain.” There’s no hum this time.
Hitoshi still continues. “Society is just hellbent on not letting me do that, though. So I just try
to help how I can.”

Chuuya hums again, the sound somehow reassuring. Non-judgemental.

“That’s fair.” the man responds, to Hitoshi’s surprise. He knows it shows because Chuuya
arches one copper colored eyebrow at him.

“You- you’re not gonna give me a slap on the wrist for meddling in heroes’ business?”

“Why would I do that? I’m not your parent or something like that. Besides,” Chuuya gestures
around with the wine bottle still in his hand, “That would be kind of hypocritical.”

Hitoshi’s eyes widen, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Chuuya only winks at him and finishes up his cigarette, stubbing it out on the ledge, next to
the previous one. “You gotta be more efficient though, if you want to be actually useful.
Weren’t doing a whole lot back there in the alley.”

Which is. True, but still. Ouch.

“I could do a lot more, if I could use my quirk. But people write me off as a villain in the
making the second they hear about it.” He mutters, quietly, and tops it off with a very
unconvincing shrug.

Chuuya’s expression screws up, and if previously it had been a mental lemon he bit into, then
this time it’s something more foul, like a rotten egg.

“That’s fucking stupid.” Hitoshi’s eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s a load
of bullshit these people are spitting at you, and you know it.”

Hitoshi does know it, but nobody else around him seems to. So forgive him if he’s surprised
in finding a kindred spirit. Even if that spirit is most probably a criminal.

Chuuya takes a particularly large swig and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. He stares
into the distance as if gathering the words he’s about to say. His previous ones have earned all
one hundred percent of Hitoshi’s attention, so purple eyes are zeroed in on that pointy face,
catching every single twitch of muscle.

“What makes a villain isn’t a quirk or any of their abilities.” Chuuya starts, and Hitoshi feels
himself stop breathing. “It’s the hands people fall into when they’re at their most vulnerable,
that decide it.”

Hitoshi inhales sharply. Chuuya doesn’t seem to notice.

“When people can’t think for themselves, when they’re stripped of everything they had
considered valuable or when they simply don’t know their place in the world. The side which
approaches them first and offers a solution, that’s what determines it.”

Another long swig from the bottle follows. Then Chuuya stops, looks at the bottle intently
and holds it out to Hitoshi. The purple haired one only blinks at the offer.

“Do you want some?” The man asks, and Hitoshi thinks, yes, he does.

He had only tried alcohol a few times before, never having had friends or loose-minded
adults around that could buy him some. He has never had wine, that’s for sure, only cheap
beer lying around in his old home that he barely remembers. Hitoshi has been curious about
what it’s like to be drunk, to get rid of inhibitions, to forget the troubles plaguing him.

But before he can accept, Chuuya hugs back the bottle, taking it out of reach. His eyes are
narrowed, assessing.

“Wait, how old are you?”

Hitoshi debates whether to lie. He probably does it for too long, because Chuuya shoots a
quick, “Don’t lie. I’ll know if you lie.”

And it feels bad to lie to someone who has been good to him, so he sighs, “I’m fifteen.”

The bottle stays where it’s pressed against Chuuya’s chest.

“Nah, I’m not giving you any. I only started drinking when I was sixteen, it’s only fair the
same applies to you. Come back when you’re a year older.”

Hitoshi gives him a look that is a visual representation of the word ‘seriously’. Chuuya meets
it straight on.

“Deal with it.”

Hitoshi’s pride won’t let him say that he sulks a bit, but that’s what he does for a second,
there. Chuuya, however, truly doesn’t give a shit.

“You can’t use your quirk to save people, which sure, sucks, but if you really want to help out
so bad, then work around it.”

Hitoshi’s brow creases, thrown off by the return to their topic and the content of Chuuya’s
words itself.

“That’s what I’m doing though.”

“Running about and looking at crimes being committed doesn’t count as ‘working around
it’.”

Hitoshi bristles, red reaching his cheeks, “That’s not all that I’m doing.”

“Is it? Kid, if you want to do this, you gotta learn how to fight. Do you even know how to
throw a punch?”

Hitoshi takes a breath to say… something. He doesn’t know what. That he does know how to
throw a punch? But the question is, does he? Chuuya gives him a sigh that makes him want
to look down in shame.

“There’s one thing to know in theory, and another to know in practice.” Hitoshi avoids
looking the man in the eyes. In his peripheral vision he can see Chuuya put down his bottle
for the first time since he opened it and stretch out his arms in front of himself. “C’mon.”

Hitoshi’s head snaps to the man. “What?”

“Get up, I’m gonna show you how to properly punch someone.”

Hitoshi is openly gaping at the man. What?

“If you pick it up fast enough, I might even show you how to do a round kick.”

The wild grin is back, which does send a few goosebumps travelling down his spine, but the
excitement building in his stomach wins over them. It’s the first time someone is actually
teaching him how to fight, no way in hell is he passing up on this opportunity.

Hitoshi scrambles to throw his legs back over onto the roof and stand up, Chuuya waiting for
him with his hands in his pockets. They move a bit towards the middle and the man stops a
few steps away, facing him.

“Show me your stance.”

Hitoshi clambers up everything he’s watched while trying to teach himself and slides into
something that he imagines should be a good stance. Chuuya looks him over.

“Could be worse. Keep your chin lower and feet a bit wider.”

Hitoshi adjusts his limbs and can’t keep a spark of gratification from lighting up in his chest
when Chuuya gives him a hum.

Chuuya then gives him a few tips and things to keep track of, has him try to move around
while keeping his stance. Hitoshi eagerly soaks up every word and follows as best as he can.
This is his chance .

“Your form still isn’t great, kid. Go running, get a gym membership or something, hell even a
round of push ups a day would do you some good.” Chuuya tells him and he takes it,
swallows down the embarrassment and the defensiveness, and nods curtly. The sign that his
teacher for the night is pleased is only evident in the slight upward quirk of his lips.
“Okay, show me a punch.”

Hitoshi does as told. Chuuya does not hum.

It’s then that Hitoshi notices the black and blue marks spanning across the knuckles of his
right hand. Chuuya does not indicate in any way that he has seen them, which means he
either hasn’t (very unlikely), or has spotted them before Hitoshi even did himself (probably
it).

“Hold out your hand.”

Hitoshi follows the instruction and Chuuya walks up to him, takes his hand with his gloved
ones and shows him how to curl it into a fist.

“You’re gonna be hitting with your middle and index finger knuckles. The knuckles, not the
fingers.”

Hitoshi knew that already, it being the first thing all of the tutorials point out. He must’ve still
not done it quite right in his demonstration, because when he forms the fist with Chuuya’s
help, the position of his fingers doesn’t feel exactly comfortable. And it still stings a bit. A bit
a lot. Hitoshi sucks it up.

Chuuya’s hands are stern and not exactly gentle when they fix his mistakes and Hitoshi
appreciates the fact that he’s not being coddled. The man delivers advice in a level, low tone,
straight to the point.

“You will be aiming for the jaw or the nose.” A crunch echoes through Hitoshi’s brain,
looping endlessly. His knuckles twinge in response and he shifts from foot to foot to dispel
the sensation. Chuuya looks at him like he knows exactly what’s going on in his head. “Go
for the skull and you’ll break your hand.”

When his teacher is satisfied with the amount of information he’s relayed about the punch,
Chuuya steps away, hands back in the pockets. “Show me how you’d do it now.”

Hitoshi does, making an effort to put his body into it.

“Chin down.”

Mistake corrected, Hitoshi does it again. He gets a hum.

“That’s a jab. A cross would give you more power and could do actual damage.”

Chuuya then proceeds to teach him how to do the cross punch, which Hitoshi struggles a bit
more with. His mentor for the night, although quite patient, also tells him candidly when he’s
slacking. When Hitoshi finally gets that one right, after what feels like half an hour later, and
receives another hum, Chuuya gets back in front of him, feet planted on the ground firmly.

“Punch me in the stomach.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Exactly what I said, brat. Punch me in the abdomen. I know for a fact I can take it.” Chuuya
then seems to realise something and wrinkles his nose. “You fucked up your hand today,
though, so it will hurt.”

The promise of pain does not deter the teenager, and so Hitoshi punches Chuuya in the
stomach. Like the man said, it hurts and it hurts quite badly, but not enough for him to quit.
Chuuya’s abs still feel like stone against his bruised knuckles, no matter how much resolve he
gathers up in his lanky body, so he can’t help but hiss when the pain hits.

Chuuya doesn’t offer much sympathy, but does tell him that he can cop out any time. The
abrupt shake of his head saying, no, he doesn’t want that, earns him a huffing laugh.

“Come on then, that didn’t even make me move an inch. Put more power behind it.”

That leads to Hitoshi punching Chuuya until he gets winded. Hitoshi, that is. Chuuya barely
has a hair out of place, smirking at him knowingly.

“Alright, I think you got it.”

And god, does that feel good. Sure, his hand aches and his arms feel like they’ll fall off, but
he’s finally feeling like he’s going somewhere. Not being able to get even a smidge of proper
training was killing both him and his desperate dream. And this, this feels like he’s catching
up.

“How about the kick?” Hitoshi asks, poorly masked impatience shining through.

Chuuya chuckles at him, “Would you say you picked those up quick?” Hitoshi breathes in
deeply and opens his mouth to argue. He’s cut off before he can even start. “Okay fine, just
rest for a minute and drink something.”

Hitoshi admittedly runs to the plastic bag lying by the ledge and digs out the expensive soda
he’d picked. Chuuya goes back to nursing his wine bottle.

After a few minutes pass, they’re back on their metaphorical training mat. Chuuya’s standing
before him, a few meters away, with a grin on his face that wasn’t there for the punches. Uh
oh.

“Kicks are a lot more fun than punches. Can be much more powerful if you know how to do
‘em.”

Then the man closes his eyes, still in a relaxed stance, gloved hands hiding in the pockets.
Hitoshi stares at him, confused and tense, thinking that this is a ruse for an attack or
something equally as devious. He slowly shifts into the stance he’d just learned from the very
same man before him and looks at him attentively, tracking every move.

Instead, a glowing red ball flies up to them and hovers around the height of the man’s
shoulders. It seems to be a volleyball, if the coloring his eyes make out is correct. Hitoshi
gawks, because what else is one ought to do.

“Where’d you get that from?”

“The street.” The manic grin is back. Hitoshi has a feeling that this particular lesson will be
different.

“...Why?”

“For demonstration purposes, of course.”

The ball, still glowing, floats a few meters away from the man, who shifts into a subtle stance
of his own. His hands are out of the pockets now, probably because of Hitoshi, as the boy
already knows he is more than capable of keeping his balance without them.

“Your body is a baseball bat.”

...What? Hitoshi stares. Chuuya plows on with his analogy. “And to hit something with a
baseball bat, you gotta swing it.”

The teenager blinks, yet Chuuya’s grin seems to grow even more unhinged.

“And you’re gonna hit with your shin.” Is what the man says before gearing up and swinging
his leg in the demonstration of a round kick. His shin meets the ball, a loud crack echoing
upon impact, and the toy flies into the night with a speed that Hitoshi can barely
comprehend.

The teenager’s jaw drops to the floor, eyes wider than the tired eyelids can manage to make
them be. Chuuya looks both smug at his reaction and his own action itself. The ball flies back
like a boomerang, still encased in red light and lands by Chuuya’s feet like an obedient dog.

“Like that.”

“You’re telling me you can teach me how to do that? ”

“The principle of it, sure. The amount of power you can put into it depends on you.”

Hitoshi picks up his jaw off the floor. Of course there was a catch. He sighs. “Let’s get to it,
then.”

And they do. Chuuya demonstrates the kick a couple more times, with the ball and without it,
telegraphing his movements and at full speed. Hitoshi mimics, gets corrected, attempts to
kick the floating ball himself. The man tells him the best places to target, what can happen if
his opponent is much more experienced and faster than him, how to recover if he loses his
balance.

When he’s panting and his legs are beginning to shake just so slightly, Chuuya decides to
wrap their little lesson up.

“I think you got this one too. It isn’t particularly useful without much practice, but at least
you know how.” The man shrugs and walks up to retrieve his wine bottle from where it was
dutifully waiting for him on the ground. Hitoshi then receives a meaningful blue-eyed stare,
to accompany the following words: “You really do need to find someone to train you, kid.
T’is a lot easier and faster than bumbling around blindly and risking your life.”
Hitoshi is painfully aware of that, he just doesn’t really have the resources. If he’d gotten into
the hero course it would’ve been taken care of. But we all know how that went.

The boy’s legs decide they’d given up on doing their job and give out under him, so he plops
down to sit in the middle of the coal tar coated rooftop. Chuuya settles down a step away
with his bottle and brings the bag with him. Grateful, Hitoshi starts rummaging through it for
his onigiri. His gaze catches on one of the rolls of bandages first. The image of the bandaged
man from earlier in the day flashes in Hitoshi’s mind like an ominous reminder.

“Are these for your friend?”

Chuuya heaves a sigh at the sight of the bandages. Takes a swig from the bottle. Hitoshi
drops the item back into the bag, continuing the search of his food, all the while patiently
waiting for a response.

“Friend’s a strong word.” Chuuya mutters, a bitter note to his voice. “I just can’t get rid of
him. Stuck with him here.” The bottle is thrown back once more.

“In Musutafu?” Hitoshi finally finds what he’s looking for and without waiting any more,
starts quelling the beast that his stomach has turned into.

“‘S that what this city is called?”

Hitoshi nods.

“Then yes. In Musutafu.”

Hitoshi finishes chewing a bite of rice with salmon filling and washes it down with a sip of
the soda. “Seems like a bit of an effort to go through for someone you’re forcibly stuck with.”

Chuuya looks up at Hitoshi. “What d’ya mean?”

Hitoshi gestures at the bag, “You’re buying bandages for him even though you don’t like
him.”

The man stares at the bag as if it were a giant ugly spider. Then snorts, “I guess that’s true.”

The boy takes another bite, chews on it as he thinks, and swallows when he makes up his
mind to find out more about the man immune to Hitoshi’s brainwashing.

“Is he injured? He wore a lot of them earlier today.”

Chuuya gives a louder snort at that. “Not where you can see it, no. He just wraps himself up
cause he wants to.” The man shrugs, then appears to remember something unpleasant. “The
fucker managed to mess up his ankle today, though.” He looks at the sky contemplatively,
“Or does that count as yesterday..? Eh, Whatever, point is, I had to carry the bastard. On my
actual back. And the fucker didn’t even give me as much as a thank you!”

Chuuya’s voice rises in irritation, unexpected, for the first time since Hitoshi had met him. It
looks like the two really aren’t on the best terms. And that other guy kind of sounds like an
ass. Feeling obligated to offer emotional support, after the man had done so for him earlier,
Hitoshi tells him so.

“He is! He gives me a fucking headache. If not for the fact that I need the bastard’s ability, I’d
drop him in a ditch and fly away.”

“You can fly?” Hitoshi doesn’t know why he asks this, the word just takes him off-guard.
Chuuya hums an affirmation. What the fuck is this man not capable of?

Shutting up, apparently. Hitoshi doesn’t really mind it though, every word leaving the man’s
mouth is too engrossing. Besides, it seems like there’s a lot of pent up frustration there, for
the redhead. Hitoshi knows how that feels.

“Sometimes I really do feel like a dog,” Chuuya mutters to himself, the cool facade crackling
and shattering right before Hitoshi’s eyes, and raises a hand to his neck where a black choker
is resting. Alarm bells distantly ring out in Hitoshi’s head for two separate reasons: one, it
seems like the alcohol has started hitting the man full force already, and two, Hitoshi’s really
bad at comforting distraught people without the help of his quirk.

“Fucker thinks he’s a special lil’ nugget, going ‘round erasing abilities and d- de-” Chuuya’s
brows pucker up as he tries pronouncing the word a few more times before giving up,
“figuring stuff out before anybody else. Like that gives him a right to be so annoying.
Fucker.”

Chuuya drinks from the bottle once again, already more than half-way done with it. Hitoshi
wonders if he should stop the man, but doesn’t think he can, with how tightly the bottle is
being hugged.

“He seems shitty.” Is what he offers, munching on another onigiri. Chuuya looks at him
intently, and for a long time. Confused, Hitoshi just chews. Drunk people are strange. Or
maybe it’s just this guy.

Erasing abilities huh? So the man has a quirk that can erase others? Like Eraserhead, an
amazing underground pro, who teaches those unappreciative silver spooned brats in 1-A.
That would make sense and would be less of a scary explanation than just immunity to
Hitoshi specifically.

“He is,” Chuuya says after like 3 minutes of just staring at Hitoshi. “It’s better if you don't go
near ‘im.” The redhead notes in a grim tone.

Not that Hitoshi was planning to, but the advice surprises him all the same. “Why?”

“Huh?” Chuuya looks up at him.

“Why shouldn’t I ‘go near’ your friend?”

“Dazai?” Hitoshi nods and repeats the name in his head a few times so he doesn’t forget.
Chuuya puts down his bottle, which the boy subtly pushes a bit further away from him, and
lies down on the ground, coat fanning out around him. Not before taking off his hat and
carefully placing it on the ground beside him, of course. “Dazai doesn’t like mind control.”
Chuuya’s forehead screws up. “Hates it, actually.”

Hitoshi lets out a quiet “oh”. So this Dazai is one of those people.

“There was this creepy kid he had to deal with… at work a while ago.”

Hitoshi feels a bit numb. He has heard a couple stories like these, when people had tried to
reason their hatred for him. He can understand it to some extent, but what other people do
doesn’t become his fault just because he has a similar quirk. He just didn’t expect it from
Chuuya, even if it’s not told on his own behalf.

“The kid could make people ha- hallucinate and do some fucked up shit. Only Dazai could
keep them in check.”

Chuuya exhales a whooshing breath, staring at the sky, hands crossed over his chest. Hitoshi
feels a little cold, the breeze suddenly seeming much chillier than it was before. The boy hugs
his long legs to his chest and props his chin up on them. He watches distantly as the older
man’s face twists into a grimace.

“That's no fair though. The kid never asked for that ability. They did some bad shit. Really
bad. But. They didn’t ask for it.” Chuuya rubs his wrist absently, closing his eyes. “None of
us did.”

Hitoshi blinks at the man before him, not sure how to process any of this. The understanding
layered in the gaps between Chuuya’s words is baffling. The man has a perfectly normal,
cool, powerful quirk. How does he--

Chuuya doesn’t care for Hitoshi’s internal questions, so he babbles on. “Don’t do bad shit
with your ability, okay?” Hitoshi’s hackles barely have any time to rise, as the redhead
continues. “Don’t let ‘em get to you. Do whatever feels right.”

The man tilts his head to look Hitoshi in the eye, which puts his chin in an unflattering angle.
There’s an attempt to fix the teenager with a look, but it mostly fails as the boy can’t help a
snort escaping his throat. Feeling like he went around on an emotional rollercoaster for a
couple laps, Hitoshi settles on a quiet warm feeling in his chest, thrumming with trust and
relief.

“I will.” He tells the drunk man lying spread out in front of him. The man hums approvingly.

Chuuya continues staring at the sky, whispering under his nose, something that doesn’t reach
Hitoshi’s ears. The purple eyed boy finishes up the last of his onigiri and saves the rest of the
snacks for tomorrow. They are going to be perfect paired with hastily finishing his homework
on the train ride to UA.

The drunk mumbles next to him become suspiciously similar to snores and Hitoshi suddenly
remembers that that’s his ride down the building.
A bit panicked, the teenager reaches out and shakes the man’s leg to wake him up. Chuuya
grumbles and cracks his eyes open.

“Wha--?”

“You’re my elevator and I have school tomorrow. Can’t let you fall asleep.”

Chuuya sits up and rubs at his eyes.

“School? You still have to go do tha’ shit?”

Hitoshi snorts, “Unfortunately.”

Chuuya stands up, accidentally stepping on his coat that is still lying on the ground, and
cursing when he notices. While the man sorts himself out, Hitoshi looks around them and
picks up all of their things, throwing them in the bag. He looks at the open bottle of wine and
the leftover liquid sitting at the bottom of it, and after a short debate with himself, puts it into
Chuuya’s gloved hands.

Chuuya, hugging the glass bottle to his chest absently, hat back on his head, is staring at the
noses of his shoes. Hitoshi decides it’s only fair he has to carry the plastic bag on their way
back. The boy stares at the man while he seems to gather himself. Or maybe not. Hitoshi
pokes him in the shoulder.

The man squeaks, there’s no other way to describe the sound, so different than anything else
Hitoshi has heard from him. Startled, the teenager blinks at the man, who is looking at him,
eyes wide, red in the face. Hitoshi really can’t help himself this time. He howls with laughter,
bending over from the force of it.

“Give me a warning next time, brat.” Chuuya grumbles under his breath, making Hitoshi
cackle even harder.

“A w-warning f-for what?” Hitoshi gasps out between the chuckles, “I just poked you in the
s-shoulder!”

The man grumbles some more and absently swats at his arm. Hitoshi likes being a little shit,
so he doesn’t make an effort to reign in his laughter. Both of them start glowing red shortly
after he calms down somewhat. Chuuya steps onto the empty air with confidence, bottle still
clutched to his chest, and Hitoshi follows tentatively.

The whole way down Hitoshi feels a bit tense, as there probably must be some rule that says
“don’t drink and manipulate gravity”. Fortunately, they make it to the ground in one piece,
although Chuuya is swaying dangerously now that his feet are touching a solid surface. The
purple haired boy eyes him carefully, wondering if he’ll need to support the guy, but he
appears to steady himself after a few seconds.

They start walking, Hitoshi generally leading in the direction of his own home, but then he
realizes that it’s probably better to drop Chuuya off at first, as the man seems to be just
following him blindly.
“Where are you staying at?”

Chuuya stares at him until the words register, “A Hotel.”

Hitoshi raises an eyebrow. Tables turned or something like that. “Which one?”

Chuuya stares some more, but this time at his bottle. Luckily for both of them, he recalls the
name after a minute, and it’s also one Hitoshi knows the location of.

It isn’t that far, barely a ten minute walk away, but with a drunk redhead to take care of it
turns into a 20 minute crawl. Chuuya’s mood seems to have mellowed out and now he’s
dragging his feet across the sidewalk, sighing once in a while.

Hitoshi understands a mood like this one pretty well, so he just lets the man be, occasionally
just looking back to see if he hasn’t tripped over anything.

They reach the entrance to the hotel, a couple people loitering outside, some of them chatting
among themselves. It’s not one of those five-star truly exorbitant ones, but it’s still quite
deluxe, western and nothing like Hitoshi has ever experienced. He’s kind of excited to step
into the building and see what it’s like.

An uncoordinated hand on his shoulder stops him.

“I can get inside by myself. Thanks, kid.”

Hitoshi tries to not let his disappointment show but he must be losing his touch because even
a drunk Chuuya can tell.

“Shitty Dazai’s up there,” The man gestures at the upper floors of the building. “If you step
inside the fucker’ll probably know. I’d rather not have that.”

“How--?”

Chuuya waves his free arm vaguely, “The bastard has his ways.”

Hitoshi shrugs in acceptance and picks out his snacks from the plastic bag. Some of them he
stuffs into his pocket, the others he hugs to his chest, mirroring the man. Then he hooks the
handle of the bag over Chuuya’s wrist, which is still waving in the air. The man grunts out
something that resembles a “thanks”.

Hitoshi kicks the ground with a tip of his shoe, crinkles the packaging of his food and mutters
out, “Thank you too, I guess.”

“Huh?”

Hitoshi’s ears turn red, “I said, try not to break a leg going up the stairs.”

“Brat, I have never tripped once in my entire life.”

Hitoshi snorts and says, reluctantly, “See you around, Mr. Fancy Hat.”
 Chuuya looks up at him in surprise, eyes widening, looking into the distance as if
remembering something. He shakes himself out of it, as Hitoshi watches, a bit lost.

“Bye, kid.” Chuuya tells him and offers him a smirk that is just a touch deranged.

The teenager waves one last time and turns away in the direction of his home. He makes his
way back in a bit of a daze, legs working on autopilot. His muscles ache and his knuckles
throb with pain but his heart feels light in his chest, excited by the motivation that has lit up
his body anew. When he’s carefully crawling back through his window, the morning sun
starts coloring the sky in lighter watercolors, signaling to him that he’ll need to be up in two
hours.

Despite the excitement, he falls asleep the moment his head touches the pillow, something
that hasn’t happened since his early childhood. He doesn’t dream, rouses with even bigger
bags under his eyes, and his whole body feels like a bruised plum. Yet when he rides the train
the next morning, math homework spread out over his lap, stuffing expensive chocolates into
his mouth, he feels better than he has in a month.

Catching sight of the purple bruising on his knuckles, memories of the night he had and the
things he’s learned flick through his mind like a tiny personal presentation. He lightly flexes
the hand curled around a ballpoint pen, feeling out the sting of it and thinks, I will .

Chapter End Notes

thanks for reading!

we're approaching the end of what i have written in advance, so from now on, i will
attempt to update once a week, but won't have that as a strict rule. i'll try my very best,
but i am sorry to say that i can't really guarantee it. thank you for your patience!
 Sightings
Chapter Notes

one last update before the year ends! i wish you all a happy next one :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Chuuya comes back to the land of the conscious the morning, no , the afternoon after
his midnight escapades, it’s to a beige colored ceiling, of all things. The same shade of the
cursed color that Dazai’s coat is. The sight of it sharpens the throbbing headache between his
temples and at the backs of his eyes, which he quickly shuts closed, hoping that the color will
somehow have disappeared by the time he has to open them again.

His mouth is dry and his tongue is made of sandpaper, leftover acidic taste of cheap wine still
lingering. If only having accelerated healing and regeneration came with an immunity to
hangovers.

Chuuya let’s himself dream about that for a moment, the silk bed sheet underneath him
wrinkling with the minute stretches of his limbs. His shoes are still on his feet, which is about
what he has expected, he still has his gloves and the damned choker on too. Chuuya cracks
open an eye, avoiding looking at the ceiling on purpose and instead surveying the room.

Thankfully, his plastered self had enough presence of mind to take off his hat and put it on
the bedside table. On the other hand, the mini-refrigerator containing chilled water bottles
and some strange brand of champagne is across the room and requires getting up to reach.
Briefly, Chuuya debates just using his ability to bring the fridge closer to him, and then
remembers that the thing has to be plugged into something in order to work. He lets himself
have a single exhausted groan, before he flops over and gets up to open it.

Except for him, the room is empty, the second bed unoccupied, only sign of life on it being a
slight indent on the covers where Dazai’s ass quite literally has been. Chuuya decided to pick
a single room, with two separate beds, not willing to burn through his limited funds that
quickly for two separate rooms, let alone a suite. Who knows how long they will be staying
here and he’s not planning on selling off anything else. He doesn’t doubt that he’ll come to
regret this decision in the future, however, when Dazai becomes actually unbearable.

Basking in the piece and quiet is quite difficult when a headache is splitting one’s head in two
but Chuuya has had a lot of practice in the past, so he does it purely out of spite. He drains a
water bottle from the fridge and then picks up another one to sip on, before finally taking off
his shoes and other items that had become uncomfortable over the night he had to sleep in
them.
Chuuya then realises that there’s probably a two hundred year-old layer of grime settled on
his skin and decides to take a shower. There, he carefully washes out his hair with the hotel
shampoo, mourning the softness of his curls that is sure to leave when they dry. When
finished, he wraps himself and his hair up in separate towels and sits down on the toilet seat
to think.

Dazai is nowhere to be seen, which should be concerning, but Chuuya has hope that the
bastard wouldn’t do anything too rash in this situation. It’s a coin toss between him having
gone to bother the people of this world for attention or him having gone to bother the people
of this world for information. The latter would be more beneficial, but which one it actually
is depends on the bandaged fucker himself.

It’s not like Chuuya himself has much right to talk in this case. He got drunk on a rooftop and
taught a purple haired kid how to throw a punch last night. Not that he regrets doing that,
especially not the last part. Could’ve just held back more on the bottle.

Absently, he unravels his hair from the towel and starts drying it. They need to get some
clothes, maybe something different from their usual get up, as the police force of this town
have probably been informed about him and Dazai by now. Although he’s a bit reluctant to
discard his aesthetic along with the Port Mafia coat and sadly, his hat, he also knows that it’s
necessary if they don’t want to make this harder for themselves.

Carefully scrunching up damp locks with the towel, going in the direction of his natural curls,
the redhead stares at his reflection in the mirror spanning across the wall. The mirrored
Chuuya is looking at him displeased, offended and even angry, as another thought crosses his
mind. Yeah, Chuuya thought so too. No way in hell is he doing anything to his hair, a cover
be damned.

After arranging the strands to finish drying so it’ll look satisfactory, Chuuya puts on his dress
shirt and slacks, forgoing everything else for comfort and convenience. He shouldn’t be
going out anywhere in the daylight or even in the evening, to utilise the night as another
cover of his identity, and so shouldn’t Dazai, but try telling him that. Gathering the rest of his
clothes that he decided to not wear and slipping on the fluffy white hotel slippers, Chuuya
pushes the door of the bathroom open.

...Only to be greeted by the sight of Dazai lounging on his bed, on his stomach, socked feet
swaying in the air (noticeably carefully) and a whole brand new laptop resting in front of
him.

“Oh! The little drunkard has awoken from his slumber!”

The unexpected presence of a nuisance reminds him of his headache, and he has to rub his
forehead in at least an attempt to relieve it somewhat. But just like Dazai, the headache is too
deep rooted to get rid of that easily, so he settles on just throwing his things on his bed and
then throwing himself onto it after.

He angles his face to look at Dazai, who besides a new device is also adorning a fresh set of
bandages, a different pair of pants and has discarded his coat somewhere too. The sight is too
grating on his nerves so he looks away, mushing his face into the soft comforter. The feeling
of cool silk fiber against his cheeks is soothing to his nerves that are being pulled taut by a
certain mackerel.

“How much did it cost?” he mutters into the fabric, listening to Dazai’s obnoxious tapping of
the keys.

“I do not speak the language of hungover chibis.”

Ugh.

“How much. Did it cost?” Chuuya repeats, clearly this time, tilting his head back to face
Dazai and accentuating every word.

“You should not concern yourself with material things, Chuuya. It’s bad for your soul.”

This time Chuuya outright groans into the duvet, grabbing a soft fistful of it. Dazai continues
tapping away and even starts whistling that stupid song again.

Still gripping the bedsheet Chuuya steadily counts to a hundred in his head, forcing his
shoulders to relax and his teeth to unclench. With his irritation under control, mostly, Chuuya
tunes out the noises of Dazai coming from his left and notices the faint sounds of what can
only be the television playing in the background, so quiet that it must be set on one or two
gradations of volume at most. He focuses on that, loosely following what appears to be some
kind of sports commentary, his vision still full of the silvery-grey coloring of the sheet.

He grows a bit more confused when the commentary mentions classes, children and quirks,
the energetic voice yelling out different names and how they’re performing. Chuuya sits up,
curiosity piqued and watches, even more intrigued, as high-schoolers participate in an
extreme looking obstacle race on the flat screen TV hanging off the wall of their hotel room.
The nature of the race itself is encouraging them to use both their abilities and their wits, or
just plain old simple brute force to get to the finish line as quickly as possible.

Chuuya scoots back so he’s up against the bed frame and crosses his leg over the other in a
reclining position. From what he’s gathered so far, the event is happening at some school that
produces heroes, and is quite popular, judging from the crowd shots. There’s also a tiny sign
in the corner indicating that the broadcast is a recording, although the whole thing is shot as a
live event. Idly, Chuuya floats the remote over to turn up the volume, as he watches a green
haired kid tumble past the finish line and two others chase after him.

The aggressive determination in their eyes is astounding, to almost incomprehensible levels.

Many of the others that cross the finish line after them have variations of the same expression
as well. It’s bafflingly strange.

“It’s nice to see that child soldiers are still in fashion two hundred years down the road, isn’t
it?” Dazai inquires lightly, like a feather.

The feather lands on Chuuya’s shoulder, the implication it’s carrying unfortunately being
something he’s not particularly keen on thinking about.
“They all seem so--” he starts, still not sure how to put it, but the word runs away from his
tongue and out of his mind at the sight of a familiar head of hair on the screen.

The TV is displaying the rankings of the race, and the picture is so small that if it were
anyone else, Chuuya probably wouldn’t have noticed. But that particular shade of purple had
been bouncing all around his vision last night, and it’s currently taking up about half of the
square the head is contained in, so his eyes zero in immediately. In 27th place, with those
tired eyes and poofy hair of his, sits the kid Chuuya had taught how to punch.

Shinsou Hitoshi, the leaderboard reads in a tiny white font. To be honest, Chuuya had already
forgotten his name, having dubbed him the “purple kid” or just “the kid” in his head. The kid
had complained about society hellbent on him failing to become a hero. Yet there he was,
competing among other hero students. What exactly had happened?

The scoreboard disappears from view and snaps him out of his thoughts, bringing the feeling
of Dazai’s assessing eyes on him to his awareness. Ah, fuck.

“Fixated?” Dazai murmurs the suggestion, tilting his head at Chuuya.

It takes a second to remember what he was in the process of telling the bastard. Hm, that
wasn’t exactly it.

“More like deadset. Like there’s nothing else they want more.”

Dazai hums at him. “Strange ones, aren’t they? Running to their early deaths.”

Chuuya just grunts in response and continues watching, keeping a look out for the purple
head of hair. It doesn’t show up that much, but it’s enough to put together a picture. As the
recording of the event continues and Chuuya catches some more context, the kid’s story
unravels before his eyes.

When the time for one-on-one battles comes and the purple kid is up against the overly-
determined green-haired one, Chuuya can already tell how it’s going to end. He has met the
teenager in the lingering aftermath of this, after all. Still, as the kid gets dragged out of
bounds, he absently asks Dazai, “Do you know when this was recorded?”

“Oh, see someone you recognize?” Dazai teases.

Chuuya turns to him slowly and levels him with a glare. The mackerel stares back, chin
propped up on the backs of his hands.

“And you don’t?” Chuuya shoots back after a minute, which gets him a sigh and even a slight
shake of his head from Dazai.

“Ah, Chuuya.” The bastard lets out and doesn’t elaborate, which is irritating, to say the least.
He’s not given a moment to express it, too. At least it’s because Dazai decides to be
informative, this time. “The UA Sports Festival. A chance for children to brawl for attention
of the eyes belonging to a cruel industry, sanctioned by a high-school. A fun event that
gathers families and hero fans alike every end of April, to assess the fresh meat and have a
game of guessing who will be the select few that make it.”

Dazai really didn’t need to make it sound like a synopsis of a dystopian novel, read in a
detached announcer tone. At least Chuuya got his answer. It was now the middle of May,
here, which meant that a little more than three weeks had passed since the purple haired kid
lost his chance in moving up to a heroics course. Three weeks of running around trying to
intercept crimes. At least the kid could do it a bit more efficiently now, something that
Chuuya still feels a tiny spark of pride at.

“That’s actually where we have our first lead, chibi.” Dazai says, cutting off the memory
highlight reel playing in Chuuya’s head.

“What do you mean?”

“UA, a school famous for the heroes it produces, but also for its utmost security.” Dazai
makes a pompous gesture to accompany his prefacing. “The school grounds are practically a
fortress. And our time traveler currently looks like a fifteen year old.”

Chuuya’s brows pucker up in thought. This seems like a shot in the dark.

“You know that she can’t just waltz into a school and declare that she’s going there, all of a
sudden?”

“Mhm. That’s why she’s either there, or on the streets. But, chibi,” Dazai stops swinging his
legs, and looks straight into Chuuya’a eyes, razor sharp, “if you were capable of traveling
through time your whole life, and also belonged to a criminal organisation, where would you
set up a backup plan and your hideout, for when everything falls apart?”

“In the future.” Chuuya murmurs, the ending fights of the festival playing in the background.
The purple kid wasn’t competing anymore, though, so Chuuya found himself uncaring. The
distant sound of explosions rang over the speakers, a background to his words. “That’s why
she was that particular age, wasn’t she?”

Dazai hums an affirmation and tacks on another point, “And a high-security school like this
one ensures protection in the day and that there would be people to look for her, if she
disappeared, in the night.”

The brunet closes his laptop and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, carefully. The fucker
can act nonchalant all he wants, but even with his mind occupied with the conundrum of their
return, Chuuya still can spot the way he’s mindful of his ankle.

“Then they were expecting to not hold their own, during the raid. The brother de-aged her so
she could escape to another time.” Chuuya continues vocalizing his thought process, even
though he knows that Dazai has already worked all of it out. It’s for him, not the bastard. “Or
maybe they planned to escape together?”

“Doesn't really matter what they planned. What happens is that our little time traveller sees
you kill her brother,” Dazai continues for him. Chuuya opens his mouth to protest, but is cut
off before he can even begin, “You might not have done that, but that’s what she saw. Her
brother’s body and two culprits standing nearby. She wants her revenge, she wants us to
suffer as much as she is suffering, at that moment. How does she do that without immediately
getting caught?”

Chuuya sighs. A shot in the dark but Dazai has always had perfect aim regardless.

“She takes us with her,” he finishes, looking down at his bare hands sitting in his lap, “She
can’t really cause physical harm to either of us so she just settles for upheaving our lives and
displacing us, while she sits safe in a school full of heroes.”

“That’s precisely it.” Dazai closes his eyes and leans back on the bed with his arms
supporting his weight, the dramatic bitch that he is. “Ah, families. Always so fierce but
calculated in their vengeance. I wonder if they were twins…” He mumbles into the air,
tapping a finger to his chin.

Ignoring Dazai’s musings, Chuuya turns to face the bastard, arching a perfect eyebrow at
him. “You know that this means she has contacts in this world? That documentation couldn’t
have appeared from thin air.”

“The girl has friends in the future criminal circles, that’s for sure.” Dazai’s eyes snap open,
peering at him with his chin still raised. “Something that we should acquire too.”

“Huh? What for? You said that the brat was in UA.”

“Chibi, some of us can’t force our way through relying on brute strength alone. I, for one,
would like a gun with more than a couple rounds left.”

Chuuya still doesn’t really get what the fucker is on about.

“Why the fuck would you need a gun in this situation? I just go in, get the brat, you slap her
on the wrist and we're home.”

Chuuya really couldn’t see how it would get more complicated than that. He literally was
right there, a gun was unnecessary.

“Chibi! I’m flattered that a short-stack like you is offering to defend me from my foes, but
what happens if you’re too tiny to reach whoever is attacking me?”

Scratch that, let the bastard get a gun, Chuuya ain’t doing nothing for him.

“You shitty waste of bandages, see if I do anything to stop the first hero that comes at you!”

Dazai’s stupid jab however, lets Chuuya understand somewhat, why the bastard is so insistent
on getting a gun, or at least some ammo for his current one. What if you’re not there? What if
you can’t get to me in time? Is what the fucker was trying to say, just in that dumb roundabout
way of his. Good thing that Chuuya is proficient in Dazai-speak.

He can get behind that. Besides, wasn’t Dazai weirdly attached to his gun in the past? Who
knows, maybe it’s just a safety thing for him. Maybe having a fully loaded gun by his hip is
what helps him sleep at night.

Dazai continues musing aloud, “We also could look into getting some documents, a bank
account would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“Did the worm eating away at your will to live finally get to the other parts of your brain?
Illegal documents are expensive . And are you planning to stay here for a holiday or
something, why would we need a bank account?” Chuuya hisses out, subconsciously leaning
forward. He didn’t even notice when he had moved to the other side of his bed, legs hanging
over the edge, maybe a meter at most from Dazai’s. He flinches when the bastard’s palm
swiftly and unexpectedly lands on top of his head and musses up his still drying hair.

That fucker. He clenches his teeth and makes a grab for the mackerel’s noodle wrist, but the
bastard retracts it before his fingers can wrap around it.

“Just something we should look into.” Dazai winks at him and folds up his legs in a criss-
cross position. His expression doesn’t change, but he does it slower than he usually would,
the sight of it testing Chuuya’s ability to not snap. “Not that someone with a tiny head like
yours can comprehend that, chibikko!”

Chuuya freezes in fixing his hair, anger simmering like a pot filled to the top sitting on the
burner. He hurls the TV remote at the bastard's head, which the brunet obviously dodges, but
the movement is followed by a minute wince. So small, that an untrained eye wouldn’t
notice.

The pot boils over and spills on the metaphorical countertop, filling Chuuya up with
frustration so immense that he hears himself growl. The remote clatters to the ground after
hitting a wall and probably leaving an indent.

Promptly, he grabs the bastard’s bad ankle and pulls it into his lap, over the gap between their
beds, all the while vocalising the mess his frustration made in his emotional kitchen. Dazai’s
owlish eyes sit on him in a way that prickles at his skin.

“You stupid bastard, you probably have aggravated the shit out of your ankle! You know
you’re supposed to sit your ass down when you’re injured, or is your big balloon head
incapable of understanding that? Where the fuck have you even been this morning?”

Chuuya hears the mackerel take a sharp breath as he starts unwrapping the new bandages the
dumbass swaddled the injury in. He decides that he doesn’t want to hear any of it.

“And you even wrapped it wrong, this isn’t your noodle arm, this is an actual injury! A
sprain!” His throat hurts and his temple throbs with the force of his yelling, the hangover
protesting at the emotional exertion. He tries to lower his voice a little when it turns hoarse,
but makes sure it sounds no less exasperated. “I bought some elastic bandages specifically for
this, figures that your stupid-ass wouldn’t know to use them.”

That shuts the bastard up, the clack of his jaw closing being a very satisfying sound that
unfortunately, Chuuya is too irritated to enjoy fully.
Dazai’s ankle evidently is swollen even worse than before, looking to be actually painful.
And although Chuuya doesn’t get injuries for long periods of time, doesn’t even get them that
often, still even he can see that the fucker is in quite severe pain right now.

“Tch, this needs to be iced and then compressed.” Chuuya gently puts the leg down and
stands up to walk to the tiny refrigerator, taking out two bottles of chilled water. “Hold them
to your ankle until I get some actual ice.”

He holds out the glass bottles to Dazai, whose face is carefully blank, if not for a subtle gap
between his lips, indicating… actual surprise? What, the bastard thought he could get away
with neglecting an injury?

Chuuya looks away, deciding to not waste his disbelief on something as bemusing as Dazai’s
antics. He calls up room service and asks for an ice bucket, informing the woman on the end
of the line that he will be paying in cash. The bucket arrives five minutes later, which the
redhead spends distractedly grumbling at Dazai under his breath. At which the bandaged
bastard, finally out of his stupor, replies in that annoying high voice of his.

When the ice is here and Chuuya has already handed the money to the waiter, the redhead
wastes no time in striding into the bathroom to grab a hand towel to put the cubes in. He
prepares the makeshift compress and pulls the damned leg back into his lap, not trusting
Dazai to keep it there himself.

Dazai actually sputters at that, an odd whooshing sound coming out of his throat, as if
something is squeezing his lungs empty of air. Distantly, in a tiny corner of his mind Chuuya
wonders if maybe the bastard has gotten better at expressing emotion. Matching a mask on
his face to something that’s actually going on inside. Or maybe the whole time travel
situation is simply affecting him more than he initially lets on. Yeah, that’s probably it.

“Chuuya! My personal little nurse.” Dazai taunts, although the tone of it is a little… odd. The
redhead doesn’t have time to consider why, as he has to duck out of another head pat.
“Although your bedside manner could use some work.”

“I will throw you out of the window if you continue being a headache.” Chuuya tells him,
level and accentuated with an eyebrow. Doesn’t matter if there’s a still damp strand of hair in
his vision, or that he has a lapful of Dazai’s leg and ice.

Dazai stares back at him for a tidbit too long, maybe a second at most, but it’s a second too
long for the bastard, who generally, as a rule, monitors even his most subconscious of
behaviours. It’s only after the brown set of eyes lifts off him, and lands to look somewhere
else in the room, that Chuuya realizes that it wasn’t exactly his face the bastard was staring
at. It was the stray lock of hair falling across it.

“Shouldn’t have drunk that much last night, chibi! Came in here all slobbering like an actual
dog, I was debating on not letting you sleep on a bed.”

Chuuya admittedly has to put effort into not turning red at Dazai’s mortifying proclamations.
He did get pretty drunk yesterday, but a whole bottle of wine will do that to you. Regardless
of what Dazai thinks of it though, he deserved that bottle.
“Hah?! I have my own bed that I paid for! In fact, I am paying for everything! I should be the
one kicking you out!”

“Yet you’re here tending to my wounds, chibi.” Dazai drags out, leaning back on his elbows,
cocky and so so full of himself. He’s facing the ceiling as if the ornate lampshade was an
appropriate stand in for sunlight to bask in. His one leg is stretched out and settled on
Chuuya’s thighs, the other bent at the knee and serving as support. The fabric of his shiny
new dark grey slacks stretches around the subtle hints of muscle.

Yeah, Chuuya supposes he is. Still, “You should at least be grateful then.” he hisses out
through his teeth, adjusting the towel full of ice so that it covers the swollen area well. Dazai
starts whistling an irritating tune instead.

Deciding to cut back on giving the nuisance attention, Chuuya turns back to the flat screen
TV, where the channel seems to be running ads. It is currently playing a perfume commercial,
still as dramatic and as sexualised as they come in their time, with the black and white filter
as well. Chuuya doesn’t think much of it until he notices that the personality selling it to the
pliable public is a winged hero who’s face he’s seen a couple times on their yesterday’s
ventures. The hero is quite young, and is crouching on a podium bare chested, toned set of
muscles on display, wings flared just so slightly.

As an overly sensual voice of the narrator tries to sell him a bottle of scented water through
sex appeal, Chuuya can feel himself scrunch up his nose lightly. Did those heroes really let
themselves be used to market useless stuff to the public? Like mere cogs in the capitalist
machine, keeping it running?

“Is chibi not liking the sight?” Dazai questions, again with analysing every single expression
that crosses Chuuya’s face and pointing it out to him, like a glorified bandaged mirror. This
too, used to drive him mad once, thinking that it was just to get a rise out of him. And
sometimes it truly is. Other times, he realised a long while ago, it was in a way, Dazai
checking with him if he had guessed Chuuya’s emotional state correctly. Seeking assurance
and letting Chuuya know that he knows. Whether that was to be interpreted as Dazai thinking
Chuuya has a right to know he’s been read, or a threatening reminder that nothing slips
through Dazai, well, it depends on the situation.

“This inane shit? Who do you take me for?” Chuuya gives Dazai a clear answer all the same,
no matter of his intentions.

“So chibi doesn’t want a big strong man to take care of him?” Dazai decides to tease,
dragging out the words through his smirk.

This really isn’t something that Chuuya can easily be teased with, though. Dazai should know
this, that’s why he receives a raised eyebrow again, under all of that half-dried fringe.

“Really? You know all well that I can take care of myself plenty enough. It’s you who is
useless at self-care.” Chuuya gestures at the leg currently resting on his thigh, a direct proof
of his point.
Dazai plainly ignores it, looking back at the last shots of the drawn out commercial. “His
chest is heavily edited,” he says instead, which catches Chuuya off guard, admittedly.

“What do you mean?” he asks, brow furrowed.

The brunet shrugs, and surprisingly, elaborates, “He’s part-bird. Wings like these require a
special set of well-developed chest muscles to operate adequately. His pectoral muscles are
bound to look inhuman.”

Chuuya feels himself grimace in distaste again, involuntarily, “So they made him look more
appealing to the general public for the sake of consumerism.”

Dazai smiles, full of teeth, “That they did.”

Chuuya looks away from the television, not wanting to think about the fabricated image that
this hero industry seemed to rely on. Just what did the kid see in this profession, to be worth
running around at night for? What were all of those children racing for the finish line hoping
to accomplish, with their resolute expressions and burning eyes?

Being not one to criticise the goals people decide to fixate on, Chuuya doesn’t condemn them
in his head. A desire is a desire, and if one felt the compulsion to chase it, then who was he to
tell them they couldn’t?

When the swelling has gone down at least a little bit and the towel has started dripping steady
droplets of water everywhere, Chuuya deems the sprain iced enough and wraps the bastard's
ankle with actual elastic bandages. Dazai goes back to his laptop and Chuuya decides to go
on another shopping trip, unfortunately, this time without a purple haired teenager as
company. The fresh air would also be good for his still lingering hangover, too.

Sure, he’s breaking one of the rules he set out for himself just this afternoon, but he doesn’t
think that he’ll find that many open clothing stores if he goes out in the middle of the night.
And if the virtually homeless man in the room with him can get himself new pants, then
Chuuya also deserves a change of clothes.

And so he heads out, leaving most of the accessories still scattered on his bed, only slipping
on his shoes and his gloves. The May weather was warm enough to ditch his coat and
hopefully make him less recognizable in the eyes of authorities. He debates locking Dazai in
and taking both of the keys with him, so that the dumbass doesn’t go out and exacerbate the
fuck out of his ankle again. The debate lasts half a second before he remembers the amount
of bobby pins stuffed into those bandages.

“Don’t even think of going out with that ankle of yours!” Chuuya points a gloved finger at
the mackerel rolling around on his own silk sheets, while deftly adjusting the collar of his
dress shirt. He walks up to the floor length mirror in the corridor and messes with his hair a
little, arranging the curls in a way that looks the least catastrophic. The hotel shampoo wasn’t
kind to him and the strands look even wilder and more disorganized than usual, something
he’s sure Kouyou would gripe about.
“Whatever my little nurse says!” Dazai calls out back to him, his shrill voice worming its
way into the closed-off hallway of their hotel room. Chuuya peers back out into the room
briefly to lug a clothing hanger at the bastard. If his throw is a bit off so the fucker has more
time to dodge it, no it isn’t.

The air that hits him when he steps out feels fresh and cool against his skin, which he,
uncomfortably, left a lot of exposed, compared to the layers he usually wears. At the same
time, though, it dispels the dizziness he didn’t realise he was feeling, and the bustle of the
city and its inhabitants pleasantly fills up his mind, letting him take a break from trying to fill
it up himself. It’s like he purges Dazai out of his system through his pores and his lungs,
which take in deeper breaths without him being conscious of it.

Operating alone, on the job and in other aspects of his life was something he had learned to
enjoy and surprisingly had managed to miss in the day and a half he had to suffer through in
Dazai’s proximity. Although the reasoning of this Dazai-exhaustion was clear – the bastard
was simply too infuriating to interact with for prolonged periods of time – Chuuya also found
that it was Dazai’s presence itself that was just taxing on him. Seeing him be his calculated
lunatic self, so much so suddenly after years of no contact until up to very recently, being met
with all of his old peculiarities and mannerisms, yet seeing so many new ones too… It all
culminated into this strangled, suffocating feeling inside of Chuuya. One he did not like
thinking about, but was glad to get a reprieve from, regardless.

He steps into one of the first stores he sees, something far from high-end but not a slum
market either, a western looking boutique. He picks out a navy blue suit jacket for himself
here, a pair of slacks and a few more dress shirts, amiably chatting up the lady at the counter,
looking to be well in her fifties. The lady looks plainly ordinary, as does the shop, tiny and
similar to ones he would frequent back home in it’s layout and atmosphere. Inside of the
store, fingers brushing against dyed fabrics and cold metal buttons, eyes lost in the color-
coordinated rows and shelves of garments, Chuuya can almost forget where ( when) he is.
But this serene island of normalcy is only that – an island, so after paying and receiving his
items all packed in a brown paper bag, he steps back into the mainland, where odd, quirked
people roam about.

He visits a few more individual shops, picking up the bare necessities and avoiding bigger or
more lavish storefronts, not even thinking about it when he comes across a mall.

He had awoken late in the afternoon, when the sun was already long past its peak, thus now,
early in the evening, it was already getting dark again, something that Chuuya welcomed
gladly. Although he was high up in the ranks, almost as high as one could go, being a part of
a mafia meant being largely nocturnal. It didn’t mean that he did not see the sun often, but he
did act under the night sky more often than he did not.

Twilight staining the horizon a transparent lilac, Chuuya stops in front of a costume store. Its
window display is cluttered in ruffles of nylon and cheap plastic props, yet the single crutch
pressed under the arm of the mannequin dressed as a mummy looks solid and sturdy.

Like a wraith, the image of fifteen year-old Dazai haunts his mind, the black and white of
oversized clothes and fresh bandages flickering in its eye. He stands there for who knows
how long, until the ring of windchimes and a headful of blue hair peek out through the open
door of the tiny costume shop cramped between two towering buildings.

“Um, do you need any assistance, sir?” the head asks, belonging to a petite girl dressed in a
frilled maid outfit. It takes a second to process that it must be the shop’s uniform for the
employees, as the girl has a decorated name tag tacked on above her heart.

Chuuya blinks away the ghosts of the past and quickly makes up his mind. Haunting or not,
the image of twenty-two year old Dazai clutching a crutch under his arm is admittedly
comical.

“Yes, please. Is the crutch on sale?” he responds, pointing at the metal support that he’s going
to make Dazai use if the bastard wants to go outside.

The girl, who couldn’t be older than sixteen, nods and wrestles with the mummy mannequin
for the item, rejecting Chuuya’s offers of help. After a solid five minutes of struggle the
crutch is free and paid for, the metal leg of it held loosely in Chuuya’s gloved hand.

With three bags in one hand and a crutch in the other, Chuuya turns back in the direction of
the hotel, being mindful to not whack any people in the face with a metal pole. The dusk has
fallen and the sky is turning a threatening blue-black, as he weaves leisurely through the
streets. He’s always had a good sense of direction, and is as far from defenseless as they
come, so he doesn’t hesitate to cut any corners, ducking between the concrete structures.

It is in one of these side streets that he feels the hair at the back of his neck prickle with
alarm. It looks like he caught himself a tail.

He doesn’t acknowledge it in any way, keeping up both the posture and the stride, except for
a slight change to his route. He has to lose it one way or another before coming back to the
hotel.

His tail is proficient in stealth and doesn’t make any sounds he can discern. The eyes track
him from the rooftops and the only reason Chuuya knows they’re there is years of training
and honed instinct. Were he any less experienced the tail would’ve gone unnoticed.

Not wanting to raise suspicion by roaming in circles, Chuuya walks into another store, his
steps as assured as ever, and reemerges fifteen minutes later with another bag in tow, to his
follower still there, just a building closer than they were before. Chuuya grows irritated.

Don’t get him wrong, being clever and patient is not reserved only to scheming bandage
laden mackerels. He’s an executive, for fucks sake, if he didn’t have enough resolve to keep
himself from making rash decisions in the field, he wouldn’t be worth the position.

But the goal of his tail is as clear as a day: to see where he’s residing, not to ambush him.
Chuuya had already given him ample opportunity to attack. The follower did not take the
chance.

And well, he couldn’t just let the tail get what it wants, could he?
His boots hit the sidewalk in satisfying clacks , the bags in his hand sway rhythmically in the
air, as does the flat end of the crutch. Head held high Chuuya steps deeper and into the net of
alleyways, finding a nice spacious spot, empty of people, closed off from the bustle. It’s a
small construction site, or maybe just was one once, and has been abandoned for some time.
It does not matter either way.

Chuuya’s not a coward, and prides himself in the fact that he has never backed down from a
fight. Waiting it out, therefore, is not an option.

He places down his shopping bags gently on the ground, props the crutch up on a wall, the
insistent prickling of threat threat threat still making his skin erupt in goosebumps. Chuuya
feels out his surroundings, the walls closing off paths, the large container filled to the brim
with construction debris pushed up against one of them. The plumbing pipes running
underneath him and a layer of soil... and a lone figure perched on a building behind him.

The grin that splits his face in half comes as naturally as breathing, when he, without turning
to face his stalker, launches a rapid shower of everything in their direction. Splintered bricks,
stones, plastic bottles and empty cans alight in red and whizz through the air, and then clatter
to the rooftop in parts of a second. The force of them meeting concrete makes it dent and chip
in loud, abrupt sounds, and the figure is forced to make noise in order to avoid them.

He couldn’t really let go and beat some structures into the ground the way he’d like to
without attracting unwanted attention. Or without having unnecessary casualties. But that
didn’t mean he couldn’t deal with his tail discreetly.

Chuuya’s grin grows wider, his cheeks starting to ache pleasantly, as his tail is forced to move
to another, lower roof, this time to his left. Another round of makeshift ammo clatters to the
ground without making its way to the target, stripped of their red glow. Chuuya identifies his
opponent.

He does not let that disturb him, fist already curled around a long metal pole and flings the
makeshift javelin at the faint black outline of a man. He does not need an ability to execute
the throw powerfully and accurately. As the hero dodges, gravity responds to him in the
briefest of moments, enough to kick off the ground in order to meet the fight on an equal
height.

Chuuya twists his body midair to avoid the metallic bands that shoot out to restrain him, and
lands on the roof in a nice arch, crouched and touching a single hand to the rough surface.

The hero’s eyes are not hidden by a pair of goggles this time, so Chuuya has a perfect view of
the gleaming red irises staring him down. He wastes no time staring back, instead leaping
forward to get close.

The hero is smart in his strategy and uses the strips and loops of his weapon (Chuuya knew it)
to keep the distance between them. Chuuya leaps and springs around in a way he hasn’t in a
while. That doesn’t mean he’s any worse at it, and slowly makes his way to the actual fight.

He jumps out the way of a slashing ribbon and aims a kick in the man’s guts. The hero
dodges, although barely. The eyes stay fixed and glowing, the silver tendrils still grab at his
limbs.

They dance like that for a minute, trading kicks and punches, a flurry of gleaming stripes
surround them. Chuuya never loses his grin, just waits for the opportunity he’ll inevitably
get.

“What did I do this time? I don’t see any possible domestic violence victims nearby.” Chuuya
comments with a smile, dodging a punch and a loop of the metal fabric, and throwing a kick
of his own.

His opponent stays silent, the set of his jaw speaking for him.

”Can’t let you follow me home, hero.” he mutters under his breath, more to himself, as his
opponent dodges another kick.

The hero blinks.

Chuuya springs off the edge of the building, silvery bands chasing him. Lands crouched on
the side of the wall, out of sight. The strips of the weapon fly above his head as he launches
pieces of rubble at the top of the roof unrelentingly. Concrete, bricks, metal, wood lift off the
ground below and pick up speed in that one blink of an eye. They promptly rain down on the
top of the roof in what could only be called a storm from hell.

He sees the dark figure jump off on the other side, assisted by the very same strips. Without
much thought he leaps after it, running down the side of the building. Can’t have the hero
calling for backup.

In the middle of his landing, his ability disappears on him once again, so he has to do it the
traditional way and break his fall with a roll. The tendrils of the weapon make their attempt at
him again, thrown out by the hero. Chuuya keeps on moving constantly, just like he did back
on the roof.

“What are you and your partner’s motives?” the hero hisses at him, eyes gleaming red, while
Chuuya starts to close in on him once again. “Why are you here?”

“Nothing personal,” Chuuya shoots back, as he twists out of another loop thrown at him.
Smirks, looking right back at those red points of light. “Promise to leave as soon as we can.”

The hero just narrows his eyes at that, but never closes them fully. The taut muscles and
beads of sweat gathering on skin, however, betray the exhaustion. He flings out more bands
of the weapon that Chuuya is getting tired of avoiding, and seems to gear up to fight again.

When the gravity manipulator gets to kicking distance, he launches a roundhouse kick into
the hero’s side, one not unlike the one he showed the kid last night. His opponent doesn’t
dodge in time and falls to one knee. Eyes are still firmly set.

At the same time, however, one of the bands slash at Chuuya’s forearm mid-kick. The fabric
of his shirt is butter and the ribbon-like weapon is a knife. A gash opens up, spurting blood.
Barely feeling the sting, Chuuya becomes annoyed.
The grin tightens, more bared teeth than a smile now, and in response to the hero standing
back up, he doubles down. His movements are faster than before, more serious than he has
been fighting in a while. More punches land and the hero is backed into a wall, his weapon
more of a hindrance than a help.

Chuuya forces the scales to tip over and to his favor and trading the last blows, high on
adrenaline and the thrill of a rewarding fight, he grits out, “A good dog leaves its tail
outside.”

The hero is knocked out with a kick to the head.

The redhead wastes no time going back to gather up his bags and the damned crutch, catching
his breath on the way. He has half a minute max before the hero wakes up.

It’s more than enough. He leaps through the rooftops until he sees a street he recognizes and
then switches to walking back on foot. He tries to put his hair back in place from where it got
tousled in all of the dodging, but he most probably has no luck, thanks to the hotel shampoo.
The slash on his forearm has already closed up, barely weeping blood.

The hero’s ability made it a more even fight than Chuuya has had in probably years. The
thrill, the ache of it is pleasant, making his bones and muscles hum in contentment. Although
he got his shirt ruined, the fact that the hero had managed to actually injure him was a
testament to his skill. Without him realizing, a small content smile graces his face. He
wonders if a lot of these heroes fight like this, ‘cause it would make the future a hell lot more
exciting.

He makes his way back to the hotel in under an hour, sky already looking like a black abyss
with a lone crescent moon hanging in the corner. Opens the door, revelling in the feeling of
aching muscles and kicks off his shoes in the corridor.

Dazai’s ringing voice floats into the hallway from the room, “Chuuya! UA’s database only
has the names of students and no pictures! You’ll have to find the girl the old-fashioned
way!”

Stepping into the room, Chuuya throws the crutch on Dazai’s bed, “You can go stalk children
yourself if you really want to, I’d probably get spotted in seconds. Use this so you don’t fuck
up your ankle worse.”

Dazai looks up at him, his mouth forming a small “o”. Huh, so this wasn’t what the bastard
expected.

“Got tailed on the way back,” Chuuya explains, peeling off his gloves and placing them
beside his hat on the night-stand. “Same hero we met yesterday.”

Across the room, peeking from the edge of a white plastic bag is the neck of one of the wine
bottles he has left from last night. It’s calling out to him like a siren’s song, and Chuuya has
no will left to cover his ears. It takes him half a minute to snatch it from the bag and pop it
open with his dagger. There are no wine glasses, but there are some good ol’ regular ones, so
he helps himself to one of them, the ruby red liquid splashing against the sides.
As he dances about getting himself a fix of his poison, Dazai’s eyes are zeroed in on the
bloody edges of the slash in the sleeve of his dress shirt. The wound itself is gone by now,
probably only a thin pale line left behind, barely even indicating the past existence of an
injury.

“He managed to get you?”

“Ah, that.” Chuuya leans against the half-table pushed up to the wall of their room, facing
Dazai. He absently looks at the spot where the hero had grazed him, while swirling the wine
around in the glass with tiny flicks of his wrist. It had probably slashed through the muscle,
but it’s all the same to him. “Yeah with that odd weapon of his. Guy can hold his own. Had to
tire him out the long way, ‘cause of that ability of his.”

He takes a sip of the wine and grimaces lightly. The cheap acidic taste stings at his taste buds,
reminiscent of vinegar. He really should get some actual good wine, for the sake of his sanity.

“If news of us got to this city so quickly and I got found so easily, I really should stay away
from a school, of all things. The surveillance there is probably sky high.” Chuuya tacks on,
more to his wine glass than to Dazai.

Dazai seems to not take the hint that it’s not him he’s talking to and hums, hands folded under
his chin. Then lightly, airily adds, “I guess this is a wrong time to say that the very same hero
had been following me this morning as well.”

It takes a lot of control to not spit out the wine he’s drinking.

“And you decide to mention it only now?! When was it?”

“Hm, let’s see, the sun was barely up and I was walking around town. I did not confront him
like you did, chibi. I walked him in circles until I lost him.” Dazai relays, tapping a finger to
his lips.

Chuuya slumps against the table, shoulders drooping with the weight of a suddenly ruined
mood and the implications of today’s events. He gulps down the last bit of the wine left in his
glass and places it back on the table a bit too forcefully.

“That means the heroes have basically rounded out our location already. And probably have
all been warned.” He rubs his forehead with his palm, not really caring about the hair falling
over it anymore. Dazai lays on his bed, head tilted, staring at Chuuya. “I don’t think it’ll be
easy to go outside anymore for either of us. Forget spying on a school.”

And the clothes he just bought as a disguise might as well be useless. At least that means he
can still wear his hat.

Dazai waves one of his hands in the air, bandages writhing like white snakes around his limb.
The snakes are tamed of course, but they’re still predators. The brunet’s lips get an upwards
curve to them, skewed in its smugness. It’s equal parts nonchalant and sharp.
 “Ah, Chuuya, did you really think we were about to just go look through all the students until
we found the right one? No, chibi, I’ve got something else planned for us.”

Chuuya heaves a sigh into his empty glass. That already sounded like something he didn’t
want to take any part in.

Chapter End Notes

dazai: *gets access to the internet*

chuuya: alright, give me the Exposition

dazai is a closeted nerd and i will Stand by that

 Thievery
Chapter Notes

cw: mentions and threats of inflicting injury (no actual violence happens)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The clang of melting ice against glass, the slam of clenched fists into creaking mahogany
tables, aggressive chatter and whispered threats, and the slow jazz music, uncaring, running
underneath it all. The dim lighting that leaves out secluded corners in this establishment, and
the backlit bar that casts spindly shadows of the stools lined up to it. Huddled in the corners,
people of all shades of criminal put up with each other and their egos for a deal, or just for the
sake of the bartender. All of it comprises a small bar tucked away under a building in a
dismal corner of Musutafu. No outright conflict is allowed under the low ceiling of this bar,
the quiet music being a constant reminder of the rule.

The heavy brown-red door leading to the establishment groans with every individual that
decides to push it open. The hardwood flooring feels both menacing and comforting with the
knowledge that no subject that lands foot on it can put their hands on another, while they’re
there. No one is either included nor excluded here. It’s a liminal space.

The ceaseless dull ache of old wounds and metal digging into them accompanies Dabi as he
steps over the threshold to this place for a hundredth time. Heads turn his way the moment
the hinges announce his presence and then all go back to their affairs when they register both
him and the blond menace at his tail.

Neither of them are an odd sight here. Dabi carved out his seat at the bar months ago, if not a
full year, now, savoring the state of limbo this place captured. Full of criminals but not
criminal in itself. The murderous child had tagged along just recently but the glint of a knife
and the tolerance from Dabi had opened up a space for her as well.

At the bar, there’s one perfect seat which overlooks the entire space. Sure, some booths are
simply out of sight regardless, but from that particular stool your back faces a wall and your
head - the exit. Dabi had won that seat for himself through sheer will and countless evenings
spent perched on it to burn his presence there into the eyelids of other regulars. It was his by
default now. He was used to it waiting for him every evening that he comes by, vacant.

But this night, when he takes the first two steps through the door, the rest of them he would
usually take to cross the room are halted. The patter of a second, lighter pair of feet from
behind him stops as well, and Toga’s face pops out past his shoulder, twin buns atop of her
head flopping to one side.
“Looks like someone has snatched your seat, Dabi!” she exclaims gleefully, a pair of golden
eyes glinting in the dim light.

She looks awfully excited for something to get a rise out of him, swaying on her heels, hands
behind her back, showing off her teeth in that crazy-tinged grin of hers. Without him
consciously noticing, his body temperature rises and the sleeves of his coat start smoking. He
only becomes aware of it when Toga starts pawing at the smoldering fabric, patting it down
with her palm and hissing at the sting.

Reigning in his slip up of emotions, Dabi looks a bit more attentively at the dense fuck
perched on his seat. A beige coat draped over shoulders and falling past the leather cushion,
brown mop of hair and a hand tucked under chin - of course it’s someone he’s never seen
here before. The mop of hair moves and a sly face turns to look at him. A wink.

Dabi’s fists clench by his sides.

He is nothing if not territorial over things that he has worked for. And that regular seat at the
bar took a lot of work. But the rules of the establishment are simple and echo in the music
and the creaking wood, so Dabi, for the first time in a while, has to pick out another seat.

He hears some voices whisper from the booths located on the sides, following and slithering
after him like snakes. They want to know what he’s going to do, they want to know how the
conflict will escalate, they want a fight . But while Dabi might be confrontational, he’s not
stupid. A fight would get him permanently kicked out.

He crosses the space in slow strides, the flap of his ripped coattails and the stinging pull of
the staples feeling more accentuated with the gradual pace. He ignores the whispers, ignores
the barely stifled high-pitched giggles from behind him and settles somewhere around the
middle of the bar.

“Dabi-dabi, are we relocating? And you’re not planning on singing up that beige coat at least
a little?”

He rolls his eyes at Toga’s taunting as he sits down at the bar. The stool he chooses creaks a
little under the weight, hinges squeaking when he spins on it. The seat is uncomfortable in the
slightest of ways, the leather feeling too worn, his back too exposed to the whispers of
booths. His boot taps lightly at the metal footrest, his skin aches as he flexes his fingers. He
leans on his elbows against the sleek wooden counter, distantly comprehending Toga settling
by his right side.

As he observes the reflective lacquered wood, he thinks, that’s right, someone took Toga’s
seat too. The crazy child has been steadily establishing her place right next to Dabi’s for the
past week or so. Against Dabi’s will, of course, but the nuisance just wouldn’t leave him
alone.

He tilts his head slightly, from where it’s resting on his palm, to look at the colonizers of their
seats again, just for the sake of Toga’s reputation. A brown set of eyes meets his once more,
as if expecting him to look. He lets his irritation burn just a bit, but not show outwardly and
then focuses on the back of the other figure.
Black coat, in a better shape than his, orange hair and a dusty hat. Dabi scoffs, because he
deems it appropriate to do so, at the garb. The figure turns to face him, dead on, and he gets
to meet a vivid blue set of eyes. He doesn’t look away cause he’s not a pussy, but the ginger-
haired man doesn’t back down either. Dabi’s own bored, yet challenging expression is
mirrored right back at him. Dabi scoffs again, lighter. At least he can respect that.

But he doesn’t respect thievery, not from him, not here. The stolen pack of cigarettes in his
pocket begs his pardon, but Dabi isn’t one to show mercy either. So he orders a drink, it
doesn’t matter what kind as long as he can pay for it and it’s alcoholic. It all tastes of dull
gritty ash and smoke anyway, his taste buds sacrificed to the fire long ago. And he plots.
Swirling his drink in the glass and taking slow sips of it, he thinks that there can be no
fighting inside, but as soon as that door closes behind him, that’s where the rules and the
music end. Dabi’s between the two thieves and the exit, he’s bound to notice when they
leave. And as his hurt self-respect and plain old villainous principle beg him to, he will
confront them there. Singe up the coattails a little, like Toga said. Hell, he’ll probably send
the hellspawn upon them. God knows the crazy child will be delighted to cut someone up.

A bit more contented thanks to the barebones of a plan he has laid out in his head, Dabi leans
back, sipping at his drink and half-heartedly tugging Toga away from where she’s leaning
over the bar to get a swipe at the bartender.

“You’re a bore, Dabi! Can’t I have some fun for once?” she whines at him, adjusting the
collar of her uniform, heels tapping against the metal leg of the stool.

“Your fun will get your ass kicked out, and by association mine too. Go pester someone that
doesn’t have the power to do that.” Dabi explains, in a bored drawl, like he does almost every
time Toga follows him here. The menace just mimes him talking with her hand, rolling her
eyes.

The bartender pays her no mind, everyone knows what happens if you lay a finger on them.
Toga does too, it being the first thing Dabi grunted out at her when she followed him here for
that very first time, after their meeting with Shigaraki. She was clinging like a leech,
obsessive and insistent, and Dabi gave up on trying to shake her off on the third day. The
crazy also infects her ability to use a thing called common sense, too, so it does land on Dabi
to pull her away from the figure running the establishment.

But he doesn’t pull her away from other patrons, no. That’s a bit too much effort. On top of
that, he gets some amusement out of it. Slinking around the corners riddled with criminals,
her knife out and glinting, she has come close to getting kicked out too many times. Dabi
doesn’t doubt that she will, someday, cross that line. He does not particularly care. It is not in
his jurisdiction to make sure the murder child makes sensible decisions.

So he drinks and sulks, like he always does when he comes here. It’s his safe space and he’ll
take no judgement for it. And Toga, as always, gets bored within ten minutes of their arrival.
She fidgets, sits on her hands, swings and hums a tune before jumping off her seat and
landing on the hardwood floor with an excited thump that makes heads turn.

Dabi, unbothered, listens to the background noise of Toga intruding on conversations in the
booths behind him and goes through his checklist of things to brood about. Some things in
the list have been there for years, and Dabi still stews over them out of sheer pettiness and
leftover frustration. Today’s menu consists of: the monstrous cost of fresh, sterile medical-
grade staples and the restaurant’s signature dish, the Flame Hero: Endeavor.

Other bullet points are more recent and haven’t been run to the ground from overthinking yet,
so he spends a bit more time on them. Most prominent of them being the little villain
grouping he decided to join a few weeks ago, and the self-absorbed flaky prince in the middle
of that thing.

Dabi’s not particularly fond of the edgelord or Toga, or any other characters gathered there,
but the League is a necessary stepping stone for him. He has his goal and all of his significant
decisions are made with that goal in consideration. It will, however, be interesting to see what
kind of havoc he’ll be able to take part in with them, aside from accomplishing his objective.

Toga’s uniform loafers roam around the space behind him as he contemplates all of it,
finishing his drink and ordering another. It seems like the crazy is feeling restless today, no
target satisfying enough to bother. So Dabi should’ve known that eventually she’d get to the
two figures tucked away in the furthest corner of the bar. His corner.

As it is, though, he only realises it when Toga’s already there. Well, too late to stop her then.
Metal tugs at the scorched flesh as a small smirk graces his face. This should be fun to
witness.

He doesn’t look, not keen on showing that he’s paying attention, but his ears strain to listen.
Toga’s light steps stop a few paces away from the two men that had stolen their seats this
evening. Despite only knowing the girl for a couple of weeks, it’s easy for Dabi to imagine
her leaning into the brunet’s personal space, her sharp canines glinting in the yellow light
emanating from the bar.

“I don’t smell any blood on you, even though you’re all wrapped up…” Dabi hears her say.
His smirk gets as big as it can without skin tearing. “Is someone hiding scars?” her thrilled
grin permeates every single word exciting her mouth and Dabi doesn’t have enough will to
put work into maintaining his blank front.

A pause. Then there’s a brief gasp, from Toga, and a sound of stumbling feet. Dabi looks.

The brunet man has the girl by the same collar that Dabi was tugging on not long ago,
leaning forward a bit, and laying out in a level voice what can only be a threat. It’s too low
for Dabi to make out over the distance, but the man makes eye contact with him when he lets
go, Toga stumbling back, her grin reduced to a pout. The eyes stare him down once more for
the nth time this evening, and Dabi, of course, stares back. However the gaze is calculating in
a way he doesn’t expect.

“That was a really mean thing to say,” Toga whines back, loud and petulant, as usual,
uncaring of everyone else around. Or rather, even wishing for everyone to hear.

It looks like the man has shaken Toga up quite a bit because it takes some time for that
unsettling grin of hers to reappear. Dabi, in the meanwhile, starts thinking that maybe their
seat thieves have a little more to them than just reckless stupidity. The prospect of danger
however, makes Toga even more excitable, so when the face-splitting grin returns, it returns
full force.

Dabi hears her flick open a knife and props his chin on his palm more comfortably, so he can
watch without needing to glance sideways.

The brunet man observes calmly, unflinching as the glinting blade approaches, staring Toga
down. The hatted man beside him is assuming a position similar to Dabi’s, watching
curiously, up until the tip of the blade is only a couple inches away from catching on skin.
Then the man’s expression changes, his brow furrows, his fingers twitch, but he has no time
to intercept. Toga backs away with a swift motion and a frustrated groan.

Dabi feels his eyebrows raise in incredulity. So it seems there’s some self-restraint left in that
crazy pested brain of hers. Color him impressed.

“Agh! I can’t!”

The brunet turns in his seat to face Toga fully, eyes wide and confusion painted over his face.
He tilts his head to look down at her, while she, a step away, wrestles with her own
bloodthirst.

“Hm. Why not?”

“‘Cause that bitch,” she points her knife at the bartender, who is polishing a glass behind the
counter, entirely unfazed, “will kick me out. And then I wouldn’t be able to annoy Dabi while
he’s here. And he’s here a lot.”

Great. This was amusing until he had to be brought into it. Of course Toga did it on purpose,
he can see it in the glint of her eyes when she turns to look back at him.

“Oh, is that so?” the brunet utters quizzically, his eyes, once again, landing on Dabi.

He can feel a lot of eyes on himself right now, some conversations quieting to see how this
will turn out. They feel analytical in a way that’s belittling, like he’s a microbe under a
microscope, and the urge to bristle is so so insistent. He’s vaguely aware that that’s probably
just his brain overreacting at the sudden attention while he’s in an unfavorable position. So he
pushes it down, raising the glass to his lips calmly and taking a sip of the ashy tasting liquid.

He’s hyper-aware of every single piece of metal shifting under his skin as he moves. It’s
grounding and he finds his footing enough to rediscover the desire to see this man’s coat
flaring in blue flames.

Toga however, continues spewing shit that digs under his skin, intentionally. It has to be. It’s
a two-birds-one-stone type of situation for her. She may be able to find someone to slice up
and irritate the shit out of Dabi.

“Yes! Dabi’s really fun to mess with, he starts steaming like a kettle.” She then fucking
giggles and Dabi has to really restrain himself. It does not exactly work.
“Toga,” he growls out, because fuck this, he can’t have a high-schooler tarnishing his
reputation. He lets a tiny flame dance around in his palm when she turns to look at him.
“You’re awfully fond of those buns of yours, aren’t you?”

The menace’s eyes briefly widen in fear for her precious hair, and Dabi realizes with
satisfaction that he struck a nerve. He isn’t very keen on threatening children, but Toga was
digging a metaphorical grave for him and his villain reputation here. And here especially, he
needed that shit intact.

Toga whips back to face the man, her hands now laced behind her back, the knife still
clutched tightly.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I can’t here, but the moment you step outside,” she leans in close,
and the man, who must be at least half as crazy as she is, from what Dabi is seeing, leans in
too, just a bit. “I can make you bleed. ”

The brunet leans back and turns to his companion, who up until now has just been silently
observing, occasionally raising a wineglass to his lips.

“That sounds interesting, don’t you think, Chuuya?”

And Dabi at that moment realizes what exactly had struck him as strange about the two of
them since the moment Toga opened her mouth in their vicinity. Neither of them were
particularly fazed at seeing a murderous, borderline psychopathic high-school girl waving a
knife at them. And sure, Dabi isn’t either, but he’s already familiar with her. And he can
admit to feeling unsettled when first meeting the thing that was Toga Himiko. Everyone was,
without much exception.

The redhead, Chuuya, puts down his glass, his back to the counter and elbows propped up on
it, quirking an eyebrow at the brunet, then looking down at Toga. A weary sigh escapes the
man’s throat.

“I’m not going to tend to your wounds again, bastard, but go ahead if you’re really feeling
that masochistic today.” the redhead replies, picking up his glass again and downing what
remains in it. So, not that friendly of a relationship, then. It’s at that moment that Dabi spots
the leg of a single crutch propped up against the wall behind the man, the wall that had
Dabi’s back for countless evenings he spent here.

Toga taps her feet excitedly, awaiting for the answer. The nutcase is probably overjoyed to
find a willing victim, which probably happens once in a blue moon. People usually don’t
have a death wish. Except for this fucker, apparently.

The man taps his lips and then shoots, “I’ll think about it.”

Toga huffs, stomps a bit, and then in a movement that you wouldn’t expect from her unless
you knew her, she slashes at the space between her and the man with her pocket knife. A
satisfying swish of air parting around the edge of the blade follows. The knife is half an inch
away from grazing skin. Dabi can’t say that he’s not impressed. The crazy brat is capable of
violence.
The pointed knife accentuates the words, “I’ll hold you to that.”

The blonde girl then hops back to Dabi, who is finishing his second drink. He might as well
order another one, even though usually two is enough to accompany his moping. He’s not
doing that much moping tonight, though, as he will probably be doing damage control for
Toga. Something is telling him that the two men occupying their seats will not let their tails
burn that easily.

But the brunet –the cocky, the crazy one, the one that had eyed him countless times, the one
who took Dabi’s seat – he’s injured. Incapacitated. Yet the face is still full of confidence and
sly knowledge and that kind of irks him. Pardon him for not being that fond of manipulative
faces. It makes it all the more tempting to just give the man a facefull of blue flames.

His new drink is placed before him, which he has to bat away Toga’s sneaky fingers from.
She’s clearly bored, sitting on her hands again, a blade pressed against the side of the seat.
Dabi doesn’t even get why she follows him here every time. He doesn’t do much else except
drink and let the hours slip past his fingers. It is better than to just have her wandering the
streets until some poor high-schooler gets jumped, he supposes. If only he didn’t need to
trade in his mental stability for it.

Now and then, he feels eyes land on him from the direction of the two men. He ignores them,
internally debating whether or not his seat is worth a confrontation with a person who could
keep up with Toga in crazy. The debate is slightly tinged with alcohol as it is the third drink
he’s making his way through.

Dabi’s instincts and the side that’s honed to read people as a survival tactic tell him that it
would be smart to back away from this. That people with little regard for their life are
unpredictable. And Dabi hates unpredictable, hates things that he isn’t emotionally prepared
for. They sneak under his ribs and stab through his ash filled lungs when he least expects it.

But.

The man took something of his. His. In addition to that, those calculating eyes of his feel
prickly and offending. It makes him want to retaliate, to lash out, to give in to the animalistic
impulse. Dabi’s life is his own life to live, his decisions his own to make, and if what he
wants is to fry someone, just a little, why shouldn’t he act on that desire?

In the end, he slides off his seat, digs into his coat pocket for the stolen cigarettes, and throws
the metaphorical coin up in the air. Whatever it lands on, it lands on it. Dabi will decide what
he’s going to do when the moment comes. If the thieves want to come to him, they’ll come.

Toga hops off her chair after him, even though his drink is still sitting on the counter, half-
finished and easy to get a hand on. She scurries across the space at his heels, like she’s half
her age. He hears her swipe at the air and giggle once more, when they’re at the door,
probably beckoning the two men.

Sighing, he pushes the door open and steps into the narrow stairway leading out of the bar.
When the two of them are outside, breathing in the fresh smell of garbage and car exhaust
from the street, Dabi leans against the brick wall of the building and lights up a cigarette with
a tiny blue flame dancing at the tip of his finger.

Toga is jumping around excitedly across the alley and over the slumped garbage bags, her
precious buns mimicking the motion on the top of her head. Dabi breathes out a plume of
smoke that tastes nothing different from usual. It’s the nicotine he’s swiping these off people
for.

While he does come out for a smoke break sometimes, when he’s here at the bar, this one had
been a test. Of waters, of whether or not that coat could go up in flames.

His foot can’t help but tap the cracked concrete beneath, light and soundless, mirroring
Toga’s impatient skipping. One half of the moon casts cold light straight into the alley they’re
in, undisturbed. The government doesn’t care enough about this part of town and its
population to light up the streets at night, savoring their precious budget for the business
district and downtown, where all of the heroes prance around. Where the structures taper off
into slums and outskirts, people are left to scurry around like rats.

Soon comes the time when the glowing orange approaches the filter of his cigarette and Toga
starts kicking around trash and grumbling under her breath. Disappointed at the anticlimactic
end to the amount of staring contests he had with the brunet man, Dabi stubs out the butt of
his cigarette at the brick wall and subsequently pushes off of it.

As soon as he’s upright, taps of two pairs of feet come from the direction of the staircase.
One is light but uneven, accompanied by a clang of metal hitting concrete, the other -
accentuated and self-assured.

Something in Dabi snaps, and he thinks, why the hell not? The coin lands.

The entire end of the alley spanning across from him goes up in blue flames, bursting
forward from his outstretched palm. The flames look cold and unforgiving, and while they
definitely are the latter, Dabi himself best knows that they’re not the former. He ignores the
burn and lets his mouth stretch into a smirk.

The inferno lasts all of three seconds, the flames retreating and disappearing at his command.
The humming satisfaction he feels makes up for the sting of new burns.

He can vaguely make out Toga shrieking from behind him, distraught but relatively
unharmed. The sound of steps resumes, as if nothing has happened, but Dabi’s satisfaction
doesn't waver. Dabi’s goal wasn’t to exactly cause damage, although that outcome would’ve
been welcome too.

The brunet man and his companion emerge from the entrance to the basement and stop a few
paces away. That beige coat is as pristine as it was minutes ago, at the bar.

Distantly, Dabi wonders if Toga’s crazy is infectious. He is making some rash decisions right
now without feeling much remorse. Or maybe that man is unknowingly pushing all the
buttons Dabi has left.
The brunet claps his hands together. “That was an entertaining little performance.”

Dabi dips his head lightly in a mock bow and holds out a reverent hand, “There’s more where
that came from, thief.”

The man's head tilts to one side, while the redhead watches with arms crossed over his chest.
Dabi makes note of the latter’s almost comical height. The short ones are usually the most
vindictive.

“That is a title that I treasure dearly, but I usually go by Dazai.”

The red haired man scoffs, blue eyes telling that this is how the man behaves quite often. So
it’s not a henchman-and-boss type of relationship either.

“Well, then, Dazai , what business do you have stealing from me?” Dabi asks, stuffing his
hands into the pockets of his coat, assuming a loose stance.

“Oh fuck all that, I don’t need introductions to carve your guts out!” Toga huffs out from
behind him and leaps forward towards the men. Dabi doesn’t make a move to stop her.

The brunet moves out of her way at the last second, making her stumble past him and stagger
around for a moment. That makes Toga grin even wider, and she makes a grab again, but is
intercepted by a hand catching her wrist in the air. Dazai’s lips quirk up slightly and he bats
away another hand of Toga’s that attempts to reach for him.

“Sorry, still thinking about it.”

Dabi has to stifle a laugh at the teenager being handled like a disobedient puppy. The Dazai
guy seems to have some quick reflexes. Maybe that’s the reason why his flames didn’t do any
damage.

Toga groans in frustration, making grabby hands at the empty air. One of her buns is coming
out of shape, a strand of hair falling across the side of her face, making her look especially
manic. Dazai looks at her as if she’s merely a painting on the wall.

“I want to make you bleed and then become you,” she growls out through her clenched teeth,
twisting her arms in their hold. Dazai looks thoughtful at the words that make Dabi want to
grimace.

“Chuuya, hold her down for me, hm?”

Chuuya sighs desperately, mutters something akin to “stupid mackerel can’t do shit without
me” and then the moment the brunet lets go of Toga, a subtle red glow outlines her whole
body. She barely has time to show confusion before she’s pinned onto a wall by an unseeable
force.

“That’s not very nice!” she whines, when she realizes that she can’t move an inch.

Dabi quirks an eyebrow at that, resisting the urge to step away from the two. He sees Toga
struggle against the force, unable to lift a limb. “I still need her intact, you know?”
Dazai waves that off, “It’s just some gravity, the little feral animal will be fine. I wanted to
get rid of the distractions.”

“Like the light show that much?”

“I think I’ll like what you can tell me more.”

Dabi quirks his lips, running through his mind of all the things the man could ask him about.
This has to be about the fucking league. He silently tries to remember why he decided that
joining was worthwhile. So far the only things he’s got from it have been significant
drawbacks.

Toga seems to be on the same mind track, because her little trainwreck of a mind decides to
babble about everything.

“Oh are you interested in the League? Do you agree with what Mr. Stain says? If you do, you
could join, like me and Dabi did! Your friend can come too!” She giggles madly at something
she thought of and Dabi has the urge to slap a hand across that big mouth of hers. “Hah,
Shiggy would really hate you! He despises everyone under him who can outsmart him. ”

Dabi is gonna smack a child tonight, fuck principle. Dazai turns to Toga with interest curled
around his face along with those brown strands of hair.

“The league, you say?”

“The League of Villains, silly! It’s a lame name because Shiggy is a nerd but we’re gonna kill
heroes and make life easier for people like us!” she announces, cheerful and childlike and one
might say naive, but Dabi knows that Toga is capable of keeping a twisted ulterior motive
under the stupid shit she does. He sees the Chuuya guy arching his eyebrow at the name and
holds back from getting defensive. Dabi won’t take shit from someone with a couple
centuries old looking hat.

“Everyone’s talking about it, how do you not know yet?” Toga tacks on thoughtfully.

Dazai hums, and Dabi finds himself thinking the same thing. Although not the most terror-
inspiring, the name has been everywhere in the underground circles. Everyone knew about
the League by now.

“Well, you see, me and Chuuya,” he gestures at the grumpy looking man beside him, “are
quite new to this city and are still familiarizing ourselves with everything, including
underground gossip.”

Dabi clears his ashen throat, bringing back the attention, and crosses his arms over his chest.
“So what do you need from me then?”

“Ah, nothing from you in particular.” Dazai smiles, pleasant and close-mouthed and Dabi
hears it for what it is. You’re not special, just happened to be the first one we annoyed
enough.
Dabi harbored a particular kind of hatred for people like this. He had found out everything on
his own when he had first stumbled into the underworld circles. Carved out his own place
independently, just like at the bar. People that go around asking are annoying .

The Chuuya guy, in all of his short stature, with the hat on top accounted for, gets fed up with
his partner’s skirting around the issue and heaves a weary sigh.

“Just tell us who can get us a gun and documentation promptly, without unnecessary hassle.
And we won’t bother you again.” The voice is low and telling of immense exasperation. Dabi
likes this guy more than the sly one, hat or not.

“Chuuya. No finesse whatsoever.”

“You call that finesse, you bastard? You’re just talking in circles and driving me mad!”

“It’s driving you mad because you’ve got the mental capacity of a hat rack!”

“I’ll let you know, Mr. Detective, that no one else but you enjoys hearing you stall for no
particular reason!”

The tone of voice between the two gets increasingly louder and more aggressive. Chuuya,
actually, is bordering on yelling.

“Just because you can not comprehend the reason, doesn’t mean that it does not exist, chibi!”

“Oh, will you get over yourself! Fucking Shitty Dazai, I had to lead actual negotiations and
let me tell you that this isn’t one!”

Dabi observes the argument unravelling in front of him like a cheap soap opera. Although out
of the blue, it’s amusing to no end, the two men on the other end of the alley now having
turned to each other, leaning towards one another. The shorter man looks furious, fists
clenched at his sides, looking up at the taller man, who’s pout is exaggerated and the flippant
mannerisms set up to grate at nerves.

Dabi looks over at Toga, who’s quietly watching the bickering pair like one would a ping-
pong match. The two of them keep half-yelling at each other, using strangely worded insults
and demeaning nicknames as their rackets for the ball. Their faces gradually keep getting
closer and closer. It's like the alley and Dabi and Toga don’t exist anymore for the two of
them.

So it’s that kind of relationship then . Dabi can’t help a smirk at the revelation unfolding in
front of his very eyes. That is some nice crackling tension between the two, which most
likely they’re oblivious to, judging by their posing. It’s practically begging to be fucked out.

Dabi snorts to himself, but the scene quickly gets boring and his presence has turned to
virtually nothing in the alley. Feeling the petty urge rise up again, he lazily lets out a nice
brief bout of blue flames at the two men. Who knows, maybe they’ll reach that beige coat
this time?
They do not. Without facing Dabi, the redhead stomps on the ground with one foot, and the
ground itself responds. A giant square chunk of concrete rips away from the alley floor and
rises up to shield the men from the flames. Glowing red, it drops back into place with a
deafening thump when the fire goes out.

The short man, clutching the brim of his silly hat with one hand, points a finger at Dabi with
the other and lowly, steadily, accompanied with a blue eyed stare that makes Dabi just a tad
uncomfortable says, “Do that again and I won’t hesitate to snap your neck.”

Dabi raises his hands placatingly, “Sorry to interrupt your quarrel, just felt like we were
getting side-tracked here.” The two men turn to him fully, not looking even a smidge abashed
at their public bickering. “Now, why would you need a gun when you can do that?” Dabi
asks, gesturing at the cracked edges of the concrete.

Chuuya looks very pointedly at Dazai, like this is something they had also argued over. Dazai
only smiles tellingly.

“Well, you could call me old fashioned. I’m quite fond of the process of putting a bullet in
between someone’s eyes.” Is what the brunet replies with.

Dabi suppresses a shiver because he’d rather die than show weakness to someone like those
two. Yep, at least as half as crazy as the teenager currently pinned to a wall.

His body aches from his whims and the aggravated burns they had caused and Toga probably
just blabbered about the incompetence of their leader to some powerful people. The faster he
gets this over with the sooner he can be sprawled on his naked mattress in his dreary
apartment.

“You can get documents and probably a handgun too from Giran. He’s usually here on
Thursday nights. Ask the bartender about him.”

The redhead grunts out a thanks at him and nods, while the brunet stays suspiciously quiet.

“Great. Now that that’s over, do not take my seat at the bar ever again. Or that coat of yours,”
he nods towards the garment hanging off Dazai’s shoulders and lets a tiny sapphire flame
dance in his palm. That should get the point across.

Dazai’s expression turns colder, a challenge appearing atop the arch of his eyebrow. He
laughs.

“We’ll see.”

Dabi narrows his eyes and keeps the flame there for a bit longer. There’s no way he’s
relocating permanently because of some arrogant newbie. But that’s for another day to deal
with.

He nods in the direction of Toga, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few
minutes, but still is adorning that creepy grin. Chuuya catches this and after a moment the
redness at the teenager’s edges lets up and she slides down the wall, unexpecting.
That doesn’t last long but Dabi snatches her by the collar mid-sprint and drags her towards
the mouth of the alleyway, in the direction of the street. There are no goodbyes, no
meaningful looks exchanged, nothing of the sort. They pass by the two men without any
trouble, and the feral child he’s dragging behind him doesn’t even struggle that much.

Dabi walks out into the dark street feeling glad that he’s finally done with whatever that was,
already thinking about the few loose staples in his palm and under his cheekbone that he’ll
have to change. However, in the further corner of his mind lurks a suspicion that the
manipulative pair of eyes that followed him this evening will not let up that easily.

A small hand clutches a metal handle belonging to a beloved pocket knife, the material warm
with body heat from how long it has been held. It’s a bit slippery because the hand is slightly
clammy, but that’s just because she’s a bit eager. Her fingers tremble from excitement, her
cheeks ache from the involuntary beaming smile gracing her face. Yet she waits, patiently.

Himiko had ditched Dabi somewhere halfway to his drab apartment, not even bothering to
make up an excuse for leaving. It’s not like Dabi had particularly cared anyway, relieved that
she didn’t want to follow him home tonight. And while that was fun sometimes, swinging
legs on his tiny kitchen counter and banging her heels into the pantry, nabbing from his stash
of alcohol and painkillers, she wasn’t really interested in that today.

No, tonight, she has found someone like her. Someone that enjoys the trickle of red, the
parting of skin and tendon against a blade, the pain and terror that paralyses warm warm
bodies under her touch.

The man did not explicitly say that, of course. Nobody ever really wants to go into detail
about the beauty of cutting someone open. Except Himiko, obviously. But the bandaged man
had that aura about him. The poise of someone possessing the same kind of morbid
fascination as she did. And that had felt glowingly exhilarating.

So she waits. Outside the same bar, sitting on the half-wall of the staircase leading down to
the basement. Her legs swing back and forth, her shoes creating a rhythm of muffled thumps
when they meet the concrete surface.

She knows they’re there, that they haven’t left yet, the bandaged man and his little
companion. She’s so sure of it that it makes her whole body thrum with anticipation. The man
had stayed a bit longer, so that she could come back. She knows that. His narrowed eyes had
told her everything.

The bandaged man’s companion is as tall as her and at first had looked like nothing special.
But the spiteful lean to him and the way he’d threatened Dabi made her appreciate the hatted
guy more. Maybe if the red-haired man wanted, she could slice him up as well. But he did
not share the appreciation for the morbid with his friend, so Himiko doubted that strongly.
 Himiko’s not sure how long she waits, and she’s not exactly interested in knowing. The
lasered focus on the swinging door melts away any other surroundings and the concept of
time. There had been a few times when the door opened and someone else stepped through,
not covered in white gauze, plain, ordinary. Groans of frustrated disappointment would leave
her mouth then, receiving confused and creeped out glances out of the corners of wide eyes.
But she persisted.

And finally finally, there’s beige, there’s brown hair and those knowing eyes meeting hers
dead on. The tiny quirk of lips tell her that she’s been expected.

She jumps off the wall and wastes no time leaping for the man with her knife. She’s stopped
effortlessly, like she’s been all of the previous times, but she doesn't care, because the swipe
of a blade is just a ritual by now.

Himiko tilts her head, flicks her tongue over one of her sharp canines subconsciously and
doesn’t even wince as the taste of her own blood wells up in her mouth.

“Well?” It’s impatient and eager and she can’t wait to see what this mysterious man has to
say to her.

The bandaged man smiles at her, and matches the tilt of her head.

“Toga, was it? I have an offer for you.”

Chapter End Notes

hehe :)
 Flight
Chapter Notes

hello! this chapter was a bit of a harder one to get out, so took me a little more time to
update, but it's here now! it's a bit more slow-paced but i still hope it's enjoyable
regardless

thank you to the wonderful onceafangirl_alwaysafangirl who beta read this chapter!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Ah, to be bright and young again!”

Chuuya watches the retreating figure bounce away in the distance, still facing them and
waving a tiny hand. The waving hand is clutching a knife, handle pressed to the palm, a
thumb curled around it. Whether it’s a sign of affection or a threat, Chuuya has no clue.
Besides the blade, a head of golden hair and equally golden eyes catch the moonlight,
gleaming coldly.

When the figure twirls on its heel and finally faces away from them, barely discernible in the
darkness of the street, Chuuya turns to face the sighing twenty-two-year-old beside him. A
single crutch in front of him, acting as support for his arms rather than his leg as it’s supposed
to be used, the said twenty-two-year-old is wearing a wistful expression of longing for his
professed youth.

“You were actually insufferable at her age,” is all Chuuya has to say to that, peering up at
Dazai through incredulously narrowed eyes and past the brim of his hat.

“I don’t recall going around waving a knife at people.” A thoughtful finger taps at Dazai’s
lower lip.

“You had a gun and an armed squad at your disposal.” Chuuya points out and then adds after
thinking for a second, “And a god complex. That’s infinitely worse.”

Dazai’s expression screws up, but in the way that it kind of doesn’t. His nose scrunches up
just slightly, his eyebrows furrow and attempt to meet each other in the middle, and his lips
gain a downwards turn. It’s like if you were trying to crumple a napkin, only to notice that it’s
a handkerchief.

“No, I didn't.”
“Yes, you did.” Chuuya hums, amused. It’s fun to be on the other side of the teasing, for
once.

“It’s not a god complex if it’s true.” Dazai shoots back, but Chuuya reads it for what it is:
whining denial.

“And is it true?”

It is true, at least mostly, Chuuya knows this. One of the few things that Dazai doesn’t fake
(can’t really fake) is his sharpness and intelligence, being a natural-born genius and all. But
Chuuya gets an opportunity like this once in a blue moon. If he can somehow make Dazai
doubt himself, the self-assured bastard, it would be cause for a celebration.

Dazai huffs and faces away from the redhead, and Chuuya revels in his own snort of
amusement. It feels deserved and cathartic. It’s also a bit weighted.

“You’re manipulating her into helping us out though,” he remarks when a couple of quiet
minutes have passed and they have started walking again. The sound of their steps and the
bottom of the crutch hitting the pavement rhythmically fills the quiet that settles in between
the pair, and then runs under Chuuya’s words when they are uttered.

“Am I?” Dazai questions, and Chuuya isn’t sure how to answer. “She isn’t as naive as she
appears to be, you should’ve caught on to that.”

He has, but… “Still.”

The brunet’s lips stretch into something smug, yet lacking malice. It’s not expected and a tad
startling.

“Chibi, you’re soft for children, aren’t you? Especially the ferocious ones.”

Chuuya feels the tips of his ears heat up, thankfully mostly covered by his hair and hat. It’s
nothing much to be embarrassed about, but it still feels like an exposed weakness when Dazai
puts it like that. He’s not given any time to retort.

“She does what she does because she wants to. And she’s going to help us because she wants
that too. All I did was give her an offer.”

That was true. Chuuya knew that perfectly, but it still felt like they were using her and her
fascination with Dazai.

Maybe it’s because he knows what getting caught up in Dazai’s plans feels like. Dancing like
a tiny marionette under the tugs of a cunning puppeteer. Maybe he doesn’t want to wish it
upon any other fifteen-year-olds, as dangerous and autonomous they might be. But the girl
had agreed on her own volition, and passing up an ability like hers would be idiotic. He’s
painfully aware.

In the end, all he can do for the situation and the sour feeling eating away at the muscle of his
heart is offer it a sigh. So he does just that, makes it a long, whooshing exhale of air
containing all of his feelings about using an admittedly murderous kid’s amiability towards a
certain bandaged bastard.

Walking around the slums and the part of the city that’s a little worse-off feels nice in its
anonymity. Sure, even in the late hour the street is littered with all sorts of characters
shuffling around, each one more suspicious-looking than the one before them. The buildings
are crooked and pushing up against one another, some tall and lean, giving the impression
that they’re one strong kick away from falling over, others tiny and barely tall enough to put
your hands up in. Chipping paint and air conditioning units on the verge of falling apart,
drying faded out jeans and shirts hung up like flags on wiry balcony railings. That’s where
they were, starkly contrasting with the glowing spotless gold atmosphere of their hotel. It
wasn’t exactly jarring, the difference merely something of curious observation. On top of all
that, Chuuya didn’t notice any patrolling heroes out here, nor security cameras in the
windows of dingy overnight stores, making it much safer for him and Dazai to roam around
on foot.

Yet deeply nested behind his ribcage, there was indifference. No matter what, Chuuya
couldn’t really be bothered to care that much about what was safe for them to keep their low
profile and what was not. It was a hassle, yes, but in the end, they can always escape. They
could break through any restraints and concrete walls people could think of putting the two of
them in, and barrel through the lines of defense they’re presented with. He tries not to give in
to that trust in himself, Dazai, and their circumstances, but it’s quite difficult to do when it
has never been proven false. That’s why his coat is still hanging off his shoulders and that’s
why his hat is still sitting atop of his head, no matter how signature to his person they are.

It takes them an hour to get out of the slums, Dazai’s slow crawl making their trek a hundred
times more sluggish. The bastard is probably taking smaller steps on purpose, that purpose
being to drive the redhead out of his mind. The subtle curl of his lips is plenty telling in and
of itself. Chuuya has to tug him away by the elbow from tripping over loose tiles and
stumbling into people that would most definitely be very aggravated, something that he
knows for sure Dazai is doing deliberately.

They even witness a mugging from across the street, a scrawny teenager running away with a
suspiciously lumpy looking hooded jacket and a fuming store clerk with highlighter green
hair chasing after him. Dazai gives Chuuya a look that the redhead elects to ignore and
watches as the teenager barrels into a towering man with arms bared and muscle on display in
a sweaty tee.

Chuuya quickly pulls the floaty mackerel into a side street and out of view when the growling
voice of the muscular man summons a familiar-looking black-suited hero. In the last glimpse
they catch of the scene, the hero is wrapping up both the thief and the angered passerby in the
strips of his silvery weapon.

As they stalk around looking for a new route, Chuuya can’t help but stomp his heels into the
concrete just so slightly, leaving tiny indents, like bird’s feet on snow.

“Why the fuck is he always around?” he grumbles into the stale air as they try to slip under
the radar of a hero that had managed to lay a loop of his strange weapon on Chuuya. “There
aren’t even any others out here.”
The only damned hero that seems to be able to keep up in a fight with him and he’s here
napping at their heels. Even amidst the people the city doesn’t seem to care for.

“Maybe it’s not only you who has a soft spot for ferocious children.” Dazai throws out,
curling up one corner of his lips. Then there’s a delighted gasp that Chuuya despises oh so
greatly. “Chibi! Maybe you’re so tiny that he mistook you for one!”

“Oh, shut up, you shitty bastard! If you moved faster then we wouldn’t even have to hide in
the first place!”

“How hypocritical of you Chuuya! Giving me a crutch and then expecting me to run.”

It’s already routine, the way he whacks at Dazai, and the way that the bastard deftly avoids
the limb flying at him, even with a crutch tucked under his arm. The fucker then snatches his
hat in retaliation and places it on his own slimy head. He wastes no time in strutting ahead
with the hat, taking it off and tipping it pompously every time he makes eye contact with a
woman.

They walked into another street, which looked as if the previous one they were in had been
copied and pasted into the layout of the city. Same tired storefronts, same tired people. It
takes a few long minutes for Chuuya to get his hat back.

Chuuya loses his patience completely when he spots a cab parked at the curb, its cold yellow
exterior calling out to him in a reassuring tone. Not really keen on hauling Dazai back to the
hotel on his back, nor crawling around the city until the sun rises, he answers the call and
stuffs the waste of bandages into the backseat.

The ride is quiet, be it due to the new pensive mood Dazai seems to be in, or Chuuya feeling
too drained to keep a conversation. Bubbly pop music hums from the radio, the
inconspicuous looking driver subtly nodding his head to the beat, paying them no mind.
Dazai’s crutch is clutched between his legs and angled to fit into the cramped interior of the
car, one of his hands wrapped around the metal rod. He took to using the crutch surprisingly
willingly, without much of the fuss that Chuuya had expected. It’s as if he actually wished to
be productive in these walks of theirs. Or maybe it was to make people underestimate him,
just like in his teenage years. If not for the beige color of his coat the sight beside Chuuya,
admittedly, would have been a lot more unsettling. The only time that coat is any good for.
(Even that scarred man seemed to harbor a special kind of hatred for Dazai’s damned coat,
and they only had the pleasure of interacting with him for barely more than twenty minutes.
How is Chuuya supposed to feel about it then?)

It takes them another hour to get back to the hotel, as the main street their driver was heading
towards had been blocked off due to another villain fight. Nevertheless their trip concludes
without any major hitches, and no encounters with loitering heroes. They take the elevator to
their room on the 5th floor and soon enough Chuuya is kicking off his shoes and hugging his
last bottle of wine to his chest as he sits on the bed.

It is a shame to ruin the aftertaste left behind by the quite enjoyable glass he had at the bar.
He does debate a little before popping this one open, but the desire to get at least a bit tipsy
wins over. He’s not sure why. Maybe Dazai’s strangely somber mood on the ride back is
getting to him too.

“Chibi, did you manage to develop an alcohol addiction while I was gone? A bottle a day is a
bit much, even for you,” comes from his left, where Dazai is getting comfortable on his own
bed, the blue glow of his laptop screen framing his face and softening the sharp features in
the otherwise dim room.

“I did not.” Chuuya retorts, pouring himself a glass. “But it’d be none of your business even
if I did.”

Dazai hums, light and carefree. “Whatever you say, chibi.”

His fingers clench around the glass, still gloved. The leather creaks against the sleek surface
and Chuuya focuses on that sensation for a bit. Did he develop an alcohol addiction? He
didn’t think so, but Dazai cherry-picks his remarks to be equal amounts both ridiculous and
on the mark.

He doesn’t recall drinking as much when he still existed in his own period, the dependency is
a quite recent development. It’s not a conscious one either, at least it hasn’t been by far. The
ritual of bringing a glass to his lips is simply… comforting. In its normalcy, in its
mundaneness, it’s a small part of his day that has been left unchanged, untouched by this
whole upheaval of his life. It’s a behaviour that he acknowledges little by little, letting
awareness slowly seep into him. He trickles that realization, that need for comfort in
something ordinary, straight into a bottle of its own and corks it right up. It’s stored away in
his mindspace for later inspection and consideration.

Small sips of wine, the sound of Dazai typing something out once in a while, the blinking
light of the television playing on mute invades his senses. His vision is unfocused, staring off
into the flickering wide-screen without seeing anything. It all eventually lulls him into a
fragile sense of peace, eyelids heavy and drooping.

Sluggish and intoxicated, he carefully places the empty glass on the nightstand beside him
and settles on top of the covers. He still has his coat on, even if it’s more just billowed out
beneath him than hanging off his shoulders. He should probably put it away so that it doesn’t
crease terribly. That thought lingers in his mind before getting dispersed by the weighing
exhaustion.

“I think,” he starts, low and mumbled, “we’ll have police at our door tomorrow. We’ve
moved around too much in the past few days.”

Dazai doesn’t stop typing and clicking at the words, just gives another wordless hum,
indicating that he’s aware of the fact. Chuuya stares at the ceiling which appears bone-white
in all the bluish lighting of the room. He slowly closes his eyes and runs through the day’s
events in his head.

“You should also ice your ankle again. Y’ did a lot of walking today.” Chuuya says at last,
barely coherent. The darkness feels warm and welcoming and sleeping in the same hotel
room as Dazai registers as nothing out of the ordinary in his bleary consciousness.
The typing stops briefly at that, distant and muffled in his sleep addled mind. A single sigh
follows, which most likely is accompanied by a subtle shake of the head. His hazy mind
pictures the tips of brown curls framing the jawline move and poke into the cheeks, just like
they do every time with a sigh like this. Chuuya flops over to his side and cracks one eye
open to see.

The cold lighting stings and overwhelms his bleary eyes, but in contrast, Dazai’s face appears
to be unusually soft and rounded in it. The hair falling into the face is poking into the cheeks
slightly just like he imagined, almost pitch black in the lighting, making the pale skin stand
out even more. The face is looking at him, with open eyes and a small upturn of the lips that
doesn’t feel like it's hiding anything baleful. The sight makes something small and vulnerable
within him ache.

“Just rest, chibi. You’ll be doing a lot of kicking tomorrow.”

The smooth voice assures him, and he can feel himself grumble something intelligible in
response. It’s easy to slip into unconsciousness after that. The darkness is comforting, the
bedsheet is soft, Dazai’s idle hums and taps are soothing to that tiny part of him that hates
feeling isolated and alone.

He wakes to a painful streak of sunlight falling across his closed eyelids and painting his
peaceful darkness in shades of red. There’s a hazy throbbing in his temple and when Chuuya
peels his eyes open he's temporarily blinded by the ray of sunshine escaping through a break
in the blinds.

When his vision focuses after a few seconds and he sits up, he’s greeted with the knowledge
that it was Dazai peeking through the gap in the curtains that woke him up. The bastard’s
head is hidden by the thick fabric, looking at whatever the hell he’s found so interesting that
it’s worth interrupting Chuuya’s blissful slumber. Chuuya’s about to point that out to him,
irritation interwoven with a complaint rising in his throat, but he’s interrupted by the sound of
rapping knuckles against wood.

Against the wood of the door to their hotel room, to be precise.

Dazai’s head pops out from beneath the crimson of their curtains, sporting a smug smile. He
draws them open in a smooth, single motion that is a bit dramatic, but gives Chuuya a view
of the outside when he straightens up properly.

“Looks like we have visitors.” Dazai says, as if Chuuya can’t see the two police cars parked
on the sidewalk next to the entrance of the hotel.

The knocking repeats, followed by, “Musutafu city police, open up!”

Chuuya gets up sluggishly, head spinning, and tiptoes over to his shoes, slipping them on one
after the other. He puts on his other accessories that he’d left on the bedside table the night
before and turns to Dazai, who still somehow found time to fiddle with his laptop.

“Go gather everything up, you shitty bastard. And don’t spend all of my money.” It’s hoarse
and hissed through clenched teeth.
 “Chibi can’t order me around with those sleep marks on his face.” Dazai murmurs back at
him with an infuriating chuckle.

He snaps his head to look at the corridor mirror and the frazzled looking reflection gets a
dusting of red across the cheeks. There’s a faint red mark slashing through the side of his
face, most likely left there by the collar of his coat that he had managed to fall asleep on,
instead of the perfectly good silk pillow. His hair is as good as a bird’s nest, curls sticking up
and facing all the wrong directions. He rubs at his cheekbone angrily and puts on his hat, as
Dazai stuffs their meager belongings into shopping bags.

The knocking returns, more insistent and aggressive, with a repeated announcement of just
who is at their door and a threat to kick it down if it isn’t opened immediately. Chuuya
swiftly whips over to face Dazai again, who is slinking off to the bathroom, and points a
single leather-clad finger at him.

“I’m serious. Don’t you dare spend all of my money. Meet me at the bar.”

Dazai just smiles that close-mouthed smile of his, eyes scrunching up, and doesn’t say
anything. When the door to the bathroom closes the redhead strides up to the door of their
hotel room, unlocks it, and throws it open.

One of the officers standing at the door puts a finger to her ear (Chuuya belatedly recognizes
her as the one from their very first day in the future), and mutters a quick, “it’s him” into her
earpiece.

Suddenly Chuuya is facing down the barrel of a gun.

He stares right back at it, as metallic and as shiny as they come, just like any other bore that
he had to face in his lifetime. Hands in the pockets of his pants, which unfortunately are a
little creased from him sleeping without changing, he slowly arches an eyebrow at the male
officer pointing the thing at him.

A quick scope of what he can see through the open door and he counts three officers, one
hulking figure vaguely resembling a bear and that hero who was subduing the villain fight in
the square on the first day. He sighs quietly, to himself. He didn’t miss being underestimated.

“You’re being charged for public quirk use, damaging police property and evading arrest. Get
on your knees and hands behind your back!” The officer bellows at him and then charges
through the door, along with the other two.

Chuuya evades them swiftly, kicks out the gun from the man’s hand, all the while taking
steps backwards, luring them in. A reflexive grin slowly spreads upon his face. “I’d rather
not.”

The other two figures hanging back get involved in the scuffle too, attempting to restrain him
or even get a hand on him. They don’t succeed, and with each swipe Chuuya gets closer and
closer to the window wall and the break in the curtains that Dazai has so kindly provided for
him.
He could pin them down to the floor with a single call upon gravity, but it’s more fun this
way. If he has to have an early morning, then let it be at least an enjoyable one.

Chuuya ducks out of another flying fist, takes one step, then another, and another one,
speeding up, backed by the force of gravity and--

A loud crash echoes as his back smashes into the double paned glass of the window. It
shatters upon impact and he flies.

The pain is nothing as the adrenaline and the god sealed inside of him promptly take care of
it. The few wounds and slashes that appear start stitching up immediately after opening up.
He revels in the wide eyes of his pursuers, rushing after him and halting at the edge of the
new gaping hole where a window was just seconds ago. The hero, the one that looks like a
tree, shoots out long branches to catch him midair but it’s too slow and too inefficient.

Chuuya evades it, hanging back and leaning on empty air, hands still in pockets. He sees
Dazai duck out of the bathroom quickly, behind all of the officers’ and heroes’ backs. The
bastard winks at him before disappearing from view. The policemen are too busy firing at
Chuuya to notice.

The redhead deflects the bullets and taunts his pursuers for a quick minute, just so Dazai has
enough time to escape and then shoots off quickly to land on a building.

He could’ve easily taken care of all of them and made his escape with Dazai, but it’s more
efficient and easier to separate temporarily. Chuuya can take all of the attention with him and
then lose it quickly. He doubts that anyone would be able to actually match him in speed,
even here.

Chuuya flies up, high high above the towering roofs, glowing red, a grin splitting his face. He
does a spiral up there, you could even call it a little twirl, enjoying the freeing feeling that
comes with a chase.

Has he missed this? The split missions, the more low profile executions, not ending the fight
with a flick of a finger or a bare demonstration of power? A mere appearance of his could
sometimes stop a rebellion from starting, although not often enough for his skill to dull. He
thought he didn’t miss it, he thought it was empowering, the stark difference in his work and
ethic then and now . And he did enjoy it – the power, the impact of his mere presence. But
why does leaping through rooftops, running , of all things, while Dazai sneaks off to another
part of the city, feels so freeing, then? Why does it make stupid, unruly elation bubble up in
his stomach, and why does it tickle up to his throat and threaten to escape as laughter?

Chuuya wants to brush it off as simple nostalgia and that is what he does, in a sense. He does
not like the idea of missing the time he spent under Dazai’s command, even if they were
supposedly equals then. He has carved a path for himself, is standing on his own two legs, no
longer worth only as much as the true nature of his ability. But the feeling still lingers. The
memory of acting in tandem with another, striking because someone’s there to make an
opening for him.
He hops like that through the town, jumbling up his traces. He’s bright red and gleaming, he
catches eyes easily, but it’s not as easy to pin him down if he keeps moving, faster than they
can get to him. Basking in the wind rushing through his ears, he rises especially high up once
again. The view is quite nice and if the loops he’s doing are a bit dramatic and unnecessary,
no one needs to know.

An abrupt sound of air parting and propelling another figure is all the warning he has before
he’s instinctively ducking out of the way of a— giant red bird?

There’s a quiet oomph as the other flying subject also swerves to the side to avoid collision.
When Chuuya rights himself from his mid-air spin, he realizes that it’s not a bird he’s almost
rammed into. It’s a man with wings. It’s a familiar looking man with wings.

Chuuya furrows his brows as the other flying man flaps his large (honestly, too large) wings
to keep his position of hovering in place. Out of sheer pettiness, Chuuya pulls at gravity to
make himself immovable to the strong gusts of air that ripple with the motion.

“And just what is someone like you doing up here?” a smooth voice inquires, honeyed and
pleasant in the way that Dazai is sometimes.

Blonde tuft of hair, weirdly lined eyes and a fur jacket hiding the chest Dazai was talking
about. There’s also a cocky upturn of the lips and a quirked eyebrow. Chuuya feels irked by
the mere sight.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The hero looks him over, starting with his hat and ending with the noses of his shoes. Is that
distaste that Chuuya can make out of his lax expression? Chuuya narrows his eyes at the
winged man and presses down on the urge to rub at his cheek to check if the sleep mark is
still there.

“Well, unless you’re a licensed hero, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come down.”

Chuuya squints at the hero before him, even catches himself leaning forward in disbelief.
“Wait, seriously? That’s fucking stupid.”

“Regardless what you think of it, it’s the law.” the hero shrugs, although his eyebrows furrow
briefly.

Well the law is bullshit then, Chuuya thinks, but does not verbalize. Almost every encounter
he’s had with a hero so far was due to some sort of complaint about how he uses his ability.
At first he was tempted to be compliant, if only to get them off his back, but this infringement
of his autonomy is really getting on his nerves. It really is a wonder how, with abilities being
this common, they can keep a tight grip on people to prevent them from using them however
they want.

“So? Are you willing to come down on your own, or are you giving me more work today?
Not that I’m complaining, it’s a joy to help out society as a hero, but that would make you a
villain.”
Tracking the bored pout and the nonchalant hand propping up the chin Chuuya thinks that,
no, they can’t. There is no tight grip, they’re barely scrambling to keep everything together.
That’s why they’ve got characters like these running around. Heroes keep the people in check
and the masses eat it up, just because they’re so marketable.

“I saw you on TV a few days ago.” Chuuya replies. It’s not an answer to the question, but he
isn’t feeling up to gracing it with a response. The hero makes his disapproval apparent with a
low chuckle.

“Oh, really? Was it an ad? Which one was it?” The hero smiles, laid-back and flashing teeth
as he overtakes the conversation. For the life of him, Chuuya cannot recall his name. “You
know, you shouldn’t have gotten all the way up here if all you wanted was an autograph. I
give those out on the ground too.”

The man winks at him, a lopsided smirk in place. It’s overconfident and so reminiscent of
Dazai at his most irritating that the sight is enough to make him visibly shiver.

“What would I need your autograph for? And it was the perfume one. A bit over the top, I’d
say.”

The winged hero laughs at that, one arm behind his head, feathers quivering in place. Chuuya
makes a note to keep an eye on them, especially the sharp looking edges.

“That one’s not for everyone. Not really a fan, I take it.”

Chuuya can only raise an eyebrow at that, “You’ve got fans?”

The offended expression on the man is the most authentic one he’s given out so far. Chuuya
snorts at the audacity.

“Hey! I’m the number three hero, it’d be weird for me to not have any fans!” The offense is
laughed off, light and rolling off the hero’s back like water off a duck.

See, the stark difference is that Dazai is much harder to get a rise out of. Even though the
hero has an even mask of nonchalance stretched across his face, the sharpness of his eyes and
the fact that Chuuya has been assessed three times over by them already betray apprehension.
The law-enforcement bird doesn’t know what to make of him.

“Not very heroic to indulge in fan-service, is it?” Chuuya taunts just for the sake of it. He
does not care whether the bird panders to his hoards of fangirls or not, as long as he can hold
his own in a fight.

The smirk falls off, “So you’re one of those, huh.” the hero sighs, runs a hand through his
blonde hair. “It makes people happy and me more recognizable in emergencies. Not every
media appearance of mine is out of vanity, you know.”

Chuuya stares at him for a long second, letting him know just how defensive that sounded.
The hero turns a bit sheepish, a bit uncomfortable, even if he tries to play it off with another
chuckle and yep. Definitely not like Dazai. Dazai has not looked embarrassed once in his
entire life.

“Anyway! That’s a neat quirk you got there. Mind telling me what it is?” the smile morphs
into something pleasant, lazy and seemingly uncaring. Playing off the question.

Chuuya leans back, empty air being all the support he needs. “And why should I do that?”

“Ah, just asking out of curiosity.” The teeth glint at him again, strangely lined eyes
narrowing.

Chuuya gets fed up with all the dancing around and talking in platitudes right then and there.
He fixes the hero with a look.

“Yeah, that’s bullshit. You’re gonna chase me or not?”

“Oh?” The hero looks a touch surprised at this, eyes widening briefly. He crosses his arms
over his chest. “Depends. Is there a reason you should be running away from me?”

Chuuya doesn’t need to answer that, as the hero’s gaze suddenly sharpens and he subtly tilts
his chin to the right. The redhead eyes the headphones resting on the bird’s head warily.

“Consider it done.” quiet and level, not for him, coupled with a smirk. Chuuya mirrors the
smile with his own, knowing.

“So, should I start running?”

“You’re welcome to try.”

A challenge, huh?

Chuuya’s world slows down as a pair of sharp red feathers detach themselves from the wings
and wizz through the air straight at him. He can’t do anything to them while they’re in the air.
But that lasts barely a part of a second. As soon as they make contact with the sleeves of his
coat, they alight red, brighter and warmer and even more eye-catching than the plumage
itself, and come to a halt.

Chuuya makes sure to keep his eyes on the hero’s gold ones as the feathers launch right back
at him. He revels in the way they widen in surprise, the way the hero has to twist away from
his own weapons, his limbs, turned on him.

The hero’s quirk of the lips turns downwards and forms a tense, strained line. He flips his
visor down. That’s enough of an answer. Chuuya can’t help but let a laugh bubble out of his
throat.

Air whooshes past his ears and his hair as Chuuya plummets back down towards the ground
like a comet from hell, coattails flailing. If this hero thinks he can take him in for flying, of all
things, then he’s about to eat a shiny leather boot. He lands on a taller rooftop, a bit hasty and
rough in the heat of the moment, creating a small crater in the cement, and watches as the
hero chases down after him.
A few more feathers come for Chuuya, sharp and pointed. They, of course, meet the same
fate as their precursors and glow in his red. The hero comes after them, landing on the roof.
Annoyingly enough, he disturbs the air again in his descent, so Chuuya makes a point of
turning his garments immovable.

He lines up the five feathers in his possession, turned back on the hero with their sharp tips.

“Are these important? I don’t know that much about birds.”

The slight, uncontrolled jolt the blond gives him tells everything that’s necessary. Grinning
from ear to ear, feeling a touch manic even, Chuuya crushes all five of the feathers without
touching them. It strikes a short chord of satisfaction within him.

This jolt is bigger and even pained, if the brief twisted grimace he receives in an indicator. So
the bird can feel his detached feathers. The eyes narrow impossibly, almost hiding away the
twin gold irises.

“You made it personal, not me.” Chuuya is told, in an accusing voice and a pointed finger not
even masked as playful this time. He’s given no time to scoff.

The hero lunges at him after that little remark, fury accentuating the set of his jaw. Gone is
the lax pose and expression, instead there’s lasered focus and a hand in the pocket of a fur-
lined jacket, reaching for something.

The only thing Chuuya can think of to be in that pocket are those damned ultramarine blue
handcuffs he had the pleasure of trying on on the first day. And nope, that’s not happening.
Therefore, the proclaimed number three hero alights with red too, and is pinned to the wall of
the building’s electrical room. Wings and all.

The crimson feathers quiver and push against the invisible weight, a display in notable
strength. But Chuuya doubles down, stomping his foot into the ground, and they have no
choice but to lay flat against the cold wall. The strained face of the hero strains even more, if
possible, breathing in heavy, quick gasps and the gravity user lets up just a tiny bit.
Sometimes he forgets that people’s rib cages can be fragile. He imagines that also applies to
birds.

Chuuya walks up to the hero, who for all his poise and lazy grace beforehand, is now
clenching his teeth in quiet frustration. It’s just a tad pitiful. Chuuya sighs wearily.

“Look, sorry for destroying your feathers earlier just now. But you would’ve just sent more if
I didn’t give you a demonstration.”

He receives a glare and nothing else. It is a bit funny. Seeing someone so confident get
humbled is satisfying in a deep rooted way. Chuuya has to remind himself that this is not
Dazai and that the guy is just doing his job. As void as it might be.

Although he still lets out a snort.

“You are fast, though. I’ll give you that.”

Chuuya flashes a glinting grin, making sure that’s the last thing the hero sees before he’s
knocked out, still pressed against the wall.

Agh, these heroes. Flashy and dolled up to the bone, laden in confidence that they can’t
prove. Chuuya quickly disappears from the rooftop, hopping onto another one, and then
another and so on. It all blurs together as he gets lost in thought.

The distance soon stretches the connection between the hero’s seized frame and Chuuya’s
ability taut, so he drops it. He imagines the way the unconscious body slumps over, and
hopes that the hero doesn’t bang his head onto something while falling. Walking away from
the scuffle and mind clearing up, Chuuya winces, thinking that maybe he overdid it a little.
The hero was just a bit too similar to Dazai in his cadence and the tone of voice that it was
quite easy to not go easy. It doesn’t help that he went on about some license too.

Somewhere at the edge of town, up above the gray rooftops of abandoned facilities, in his
peripheral vision, Chuuya notices a splash of red clinging to the inside of his billowing coat.
He stops his ascent into another leap deeper into the city and investigates. It’s a feather.
Smaller, rounded and much less sharper than the ones that were flying at him just earlier now.
But still, it’s the same crimson shade, tapering off to a warmer vermillion at the bottom.

Chuuya plucks the small thing off from where it’s clinging to the fabric, meeting little
resistance. He runs his thumb over the edge, soft barbs separating under pressure. The plume
quivers just slightly, reminding the redhead that this tiny unassuming object is controlled by
an individual. An individual with a possible newly acquired grudge against him.

He does not crush this one and lets the feather fall down from where he’s hanging in the air
above the city. It descends slowly, akin to a snowflake dancing in a storm, easily caught by
the smallest gusts of wind, twirling and swinging on empty air, not unlike him. Chuuya
carries on with his journey.

Soon after the encounter with the number three hero Chuuya lands in an alley somewhere in
the slums they wandered yesterday. From what he saw up there, it was a bit of a walk to get
to the bar, but he still shouldn’t be there later than a bastard with a sprained ankle.

On foot, he weaves through side streets and gaps between buildings at a leisurely pace, a bit
more confident in this part of town. He still carefully feels out his surroundings to make sure
he isn’t being followed, and that no heroes or the police had managed to chase him here.

Late in the afternoon he reaches the bar, or at least the unassuming entrance to it. The alley
it’s located in is vacant, its only population being trash bags and the jagged slab of concrete
that Chuuya didn’t put back correctly yesterday.

Even though Dazai could very well be inside the bar, Chuuya leans against one of the walls
and deems it prime time for a smoke break. He still has more than half a pack left, tucked
away in one of the small inside pockets of his coat. There’s a brand new lighter tucked away
in one of them too, a purchase from his shopping trip, so that he wouldn’t need to look for
rocks again.
He fishes out the lighter from its delegated pocket, but before he can properly use it, his eye
catches on the crimson design etched into the plastic body of it. Chuuya thought nothing of it
when he bought it, grabbing the nearest one off the display. But now, with the latest
encounter with a hero fresh in his memory, the simple graphic of a pointed red feather gains
new meaning.

Chuuya audibly groans in irritation at the realization that he indirectly handed over his money
to the very same hero that thought he wanted an autograph from him. At least it can be an
apology for the probable head injury, even if delivered ahead of time.

He lights up the paper stick and presses his shoulder blades to the brick wall, hoping that it’s
not as dirty as the ground under the soles of his boots. Absently, he picks up the misaligned
slab with the help of his ability and tries to fit it back into the hole, like an oversized puzzle
piece.

He’s not sure how Dazai had found the bar, but it probably has to do with how much of the
time he spends on that laptop he bought with Chuuya’s money. Dazai with internet access
was a Dazai up to no good, but it’s not like they can find information anywhere else, so he
isn’t exactly complaining. He didn’t appreciate being dragged out to walk across the city only
to steal a seat from some local criminals. However, all’s well that ends well, but this hasn’t
exactly ended yet, considering that Dazai decided to take in a stray child.

The puzzle piece finally pops into place, the echoing thump a satisfying sound he has no time
to enjoy. The syncopated rhythm of Dazai taking a step and his crutch following appears at
the end of the alley and grows closer and closer until it stops a few paces away.

“Death by lung cancer isn’t one I long for.”

“Nobody asked.”

“You’re being inconsiderate, chibi. Secondhand smoke is harmful and you’re an awful citizen
for exposing vulnerable nonsmoking adults to it.”

Chuuya scoffs as he takes his last drag and breathes out the smoke facing away from the
supposedly healthy bastard. Dazai had always despised the smell of cigarette smoke for some
reason, and always made a point to antagonize Chuuya when he switched to this particular
kind of poison.

“Those lungs of yours are already full of ash from lying all the time.” Chuuya stubs out the
butt onto a loose brick in the wall and rises from it with a single smooth kick. “How much
did you spend?”

“Chuuya. Do you not trust me with handling finances? How would a chibikko like you know
how to manage money?”

“Oh, just spit it out already!”

“Given that what I spent went towards getting us a new place to stay, you should at least
make an effort to appear more grateful. Or maybe chibi wants to try sleeping out on the
streets?”

Chuuya just stalks forward, snatching Dazai by the elbow and dragging him out of the
alleyway. They stop at the mouth of it, leading into the tiny street. It looks marginally
different and busier in the daylight, people of all statures and colors passing by.

He hisses at Dazai to lead the fucking way and they start a trek of a pace similar to one they
adopted yesterday. At least the brunet is actually somewhat cooperative and actually does
lead the way, even if it’s at a snail’s pace.

They weave the same streets they did not even a day before, people roaming about and
scurrying to their designated activities. The streets are much more cramped under the light of
the sun, shop vendors yelling out prices and dirty children running out into the road. Car
exhaust and beeping horns add to the cacophony, knocking into his eardrums and tugging at
his nerves.

Dazai seems unbothered, but they do have to pay attention in order not to bump into anyone
rushing past. It’s the weekend, everyone freed from their responsibilities of the day bursting
outside. Children chase and scream after one another, angered elderly men thwacking at them
with walking sticks and tired waitresses on smoke breaks ducking out of the way. Even the
worst parts of the city are bursting with life and making their way through the thick of people
proves to be quite an effort. When they get through the worst of it, Chuuya feels like wiping
non-existent sweat off his brow, not really keen on spending his time among crowds. Dazai,
however, appears to be unaffected, and only pulls out a shiny new device.

It looks like a phone, and probably is one, just from the future, judging by the familiar
looking touch screen. The bastard seems to be reading something, and then typing who-
knows-what in response.

Chuuya makes a grab for the thing, which Dazai obviously maneuvers out of. He feels his
fists clench and shoulders rise to the ears, the eternal pot of irritation bubbling up with
poison.

“Who the fuck are you messaging? No, scratch that. Why the fuck do you have a phone?”

“I wonder, chibi, why do people have phones?”

Chuuya has to force back a literal growl.

“That. Is a brand new phone. Why did you think that it was necessary to buy a phone when
there’s literally no one in the future that you know well enough to keep in contact with?”

Dazai curls up one corner of his lips at him and brushes out the lock of hair falling into his
eyes. To have clear view of the fucking wink he gives Chuuya.

“That’s what you think, chibi.”

“What the fuck does that--”

 Now. Let it be known that Chuuya does not trip over things. That he has never fallen over in
his life, thanks to being in touch with the very essence of gravity every day of the week,
every minute of his life.

And the way he has to stop himself from splaying over the dirty street tile with the help of his
ability when his foot catches on something, does not count as tripping. The culprit of that,
however, was soft and fleshy and unmistakably human. Chuuya is already miffed at Dazai, so
the poor soul that almost managed to trip him over is about to face the heat of his ire.

Chuuya rights himself and glances down. The figure is clad in a black hoodie, facing away,
crouched by the entrance of a konbini. They were holding out a handful of treats to a scrawny
tabby, which are now scattered on the tile before them.

The figure starts picking up the fish-shaped treats off the ground before the cat pounces on
them, and at the same time as their shoulders rise in annoyance, Chuuya finds himself about
to bite right back.

“Watch where the fuck you’re--”

“Don’t feed your fucking cat on--”

That voice registers as familiar in the back of his mind at the same time that the figure starts
to turn towards him, revealing their face and their identity.

Chuuya takes in the eyes weighed with exhaustion and the purple tuft of hair peeking out of
the hoodie and the retort dies in his throat. Dazai perks up from his phone behind him and
Chuuya can physically feel the razor-sharp focus that scans the hunched teenager before
them. Fucking hell.

“Kid?”

Chapter End Notes

oh noo another vulnerable yet powerful child appeared! i wonder what will dazai do?
 Friends
Chapter Notes

hello hello! i am very late to update, but hopefully the fact that this is double the length
of my usual chapters can make up for it. uni work has been biting me in the ass lately, so
i have significantly less time to write but i promise to try my best to manage it

thank you onceafangirl_alwaysafangirl for beta reading this chapter and encouraging me
to include a silly little detail

cw: mentions of child neglect

See the end of the chapter for more notes

One step, two steps, heel to toe, worn-down rubber soles of old greying sneakers scuff
against the sidewalk at a sluggish pace. A soft and high-pitched mewl interrupts their rhythm,
clearly not for the first time, as the pace does not slow. Just a quiet sigh is heard from the one
plodding on forward.

“No more treats.”

Another answering yowl, this time longer and more insistent.

“I don’t have any more left. See?”

Hitoshi turns to glare at the gaudy stray cat quite literally nipping at his heels and holds out
his empty palms to emphasize his point. He gets another pitiful mew that slips through his
ribcage to tug at his heartstrings. He attempts to gather his resolve.

“Yes, I get that you’re hungry, you’re not special.”

Hitoshi’s own stomach growls, loudly, as if it has ears of its own and a desire to express its
opinion. He crouches down to stroke the fur of the persistent stray that has been following
him around for days. The cat backs away from the approaching hand and lets out another
mewl, this one more indignant.

“If you demand me to feed you, the least you could do is let me pet you, you know?”

The feline stares at him, clearly expressing what she thinks of that.

“That’s how these things work. I feed you. You provide me with the necessary affection I
didn’t receive from my non-existent parents.”
That earns him an alarmed look from a young mother walking past him with a stumbling
toddler clutching her hand. It also does not seem to convince the duchess of the street, spoiled
so far by Hitoshi bringing her treats every single day. Hitoshi stares at the slitted green eyes
looking at him demandingly and desperately tries to get his point across.

“I have 200 yen.” He clutches the two coins tumbling around in the center pocket of his
hoodie, feeling out their jagged edges. The metal steadily warms from the heat of his palm.
“It’s either you or me.”

The stare holds, wide emerald eyes piercing right through the center of his soul. The
salaryman passing by them coughs meaningfully. Hitoshi peacefully ignores it. They’re in too
good of a district for anyone to bark at him to get the fuck up from the sidewalk and move,
therefore, there’s nothing to fear.

Under the thorns and layers of tired Hitoshi is unbearably soft, so he loses the staring match
with an acknowledging blink and an amused huff.

“You’re lucky that I like you. Just try and find yourself another human willing to starve for a
cat. You won’t.”

He attempts to scratch the cat’s unkempt fur once again, and this time earns a bristle and a
hiss. Shaking his head, he dusts off his knees and stands up, wincing at the groans and aches
of well-worked muscles.

Hitoshi continues walking, this time a little more purposeful and faster. The stores on this
side of the city are a bit too big for him and his measly 200 yen, so he has to cross quite a lot
of distance to get to more affordable treats. The street princess trudges along beside him,
appeased at the promise of food. How she reacts to the overbearing sounds of traffic and
people is the reason Hitoshi knows she’s truly a street cat and not an unlucky household
tabby. All of it doesn’t really phase her, her scrawny body following after him in confident
strides, weaving through the legs of passerby. Hitoshi has found another kindred spirit.

The sun is still up and shining, a lot of people basking in the warmth and enjoying the
promise of summer to come. Hitoshi usually isn’t out and about when it’s still light outside,
especially on weekends, he much more prefers the starless abyss of the night to the painfully
sunny days. But his grumbling stomach and the two dusty 100 yen coins he found at the
bottom of his backpack herded him out of his room, even when there’s a whole English essay
he still has to write.

His aunt and uncle have guests over. Some work acquaintances or old college friends, he’s
not sure, does not particularly care either. It just means that his aunt’s shrill laughter is
filtering in through the crack beneath his door, there’s the clink of bottles and plates, his
uncle’s voice bellowing deeply when he’s feeling hot-headed about some issue brought up. It
means that he can’t step foot into the kitchen.

It’s not that he’s not allowed, it’s not an explicit rule, no. Usually, he would just walk in, find
himself something to eat, and scurry back to his room, all the while being pointedly ignored
by the people he lives with. However, guests meant that Hitoshi can’t show his mug around,
can’t even give the visitors a suggestion that he exists and occupies space in the house. Or
else he’ll feel the wordless grudge for weeks in the decrease of the amount of pocket money
he receives.

He had been lazy, really, stupid in letting himself sleep in today, even when he was told
yesterday evening to expect guests. It usually is never a problem for him, sleep evades him
like a wild, skittish animal, most nights. But yesterday he came back exhausted, muscles
giving up on him after thorough exercise. And that carelessness of his had cost him breakfast,
not even thinking about lunch. So now he’s here, wandering the streets with a stray cat at his
tail, a gaping hole for a stomach, and a walnut for a brain.

But despite the growling stomach and the aching muscles– actually, no, because of the aching
muscles and the satisfaction that comes with them, Hitoshi feels light. Airy. Blissful. It
threatens to burst through his aloof façade in the form of an actual, unironical smile.

Yesterday’s events play over and over in his head, only feeding that floaty, bubbly feeling in
his chest. It’s like at the start of the week Chuuya had cast a spell on him with his words and
worked his mad hatter magic. “You really do need to find someone to train you, kid.”

And the incantation worked, bringing all the stars or the moon or the stones it needed to
happen, (Hitoshi doesn’t know how that occult stuff works), but it doesn’t matter. Point is,
merely two days ago, seconds after the bell rang at the end of his Classic Literature class, he
had been whisked off to the teachers’ lounge, terrified out of his mind, convinced that he
somehow messed up and got himself kicked out of UA. What he faced instead, was the
fatigued stare of a giant yellow caterpillar curled up in a corner of the room, which turned out
to be Eraserhead himself.

The exact words have slipped his mind, something he’s mentally kicking himself for,
although he shouldn’t have expected much from his stupid brain in a haze like that one. The
gist of it was that Eraserhead saw his performance in the sport’s festival, thought that the
entrance exam was unfair, and wanted to train him to have him transfer to the hero course. It
was short and abrupt and straight to the point, his childhood hero surveying him from head to
toe with those austere eyes. Hitoshi stood there, barely comprehending what was being said
to him, on the threshold of the teacher’s lounge in his loose-fitting jacket and dress shirt of
the General Studies uniform.

Eraserhead had asked a single question, his explanation having gone on for an entirety of
thirty seconds, leaving Hitoshi’s poor walnut brain spinning. He asked, “ would you be
interested in that?”, low and gruff and toneless, but it might as well have been gospel to
Hitoshi’s ears, who just gasped out a “ yes” and staggered back out to his classroom when
told to meet his new teacher the next day.

The entirety of Hitoshi wants to scream out in joy, shout it out from the rooftops that his
actual favorite hero that he’s been gushing about from the tender age of seven had
acknowledged him. He can’t really do that of course, and it doesn’t really fit the image he’s
constructed for himself, but it’s there, and he’s thrumming with elation inside. Even with an
empty stomach and cramping legs.

Speaking of that, their first training session rendered Hitoshi’s limbs into useless jelly, his
abdomen muscles screaming at him in agony when he had to get out of bed today. It was
nothing more than the basics and repeated drills but it was progress. It was oxygen for the
tiny flame of aspiration still burning inside of him. And Eraserhead, no, “ it’s Aizawa-sensei
to you, Shinsou”, told him that he takes to things quickly and has a chance to transfer if he
puts in enough work. The validation is sweet and reinvigorating to his parched well of hope
that had been running remarkably dry lately.

Hitoshi is bursting at the very seams with this dizzy feeling because of this new development
in his life, desperately aching for someone to share it with. It’s threatening to escape his
controlled expressions and standoffish front and assault the first person that’s going to ask
about it.

But there’s no one, really. Aunt and uncle don’t want to know about it unless it affects their
picture-perfect “normal” life, his classmates would turn jealous or hostile, and his newly
acquired teacher himself is the person he wants to gush about. There’s only one other
individual Hitoshi can think of, one he’d like to believe would be excited for him at least a
little. Hitoshi can easily imagine Chuuya’s pleased grin and affirmative hum if he told him,
despite the fact that he had spent only one evening in his company. But there’s one tiny
problem with that.

He has no idea how to contact him.

Hitoshi has been coming back to the same building every night since then, a change to his
usual route just so he can pass by and check, silently hoping to see a flaring coat and an old-
fashioned hat peeking out at the top or strolling around on the ground. But no matter how
much time he spent scuffing the pavement and sitting on the curb at ungodly hours of the
night, waiting for them to appear, he had no such luck.

He has thought of going to the hotel to visit Chuuya, but he doesn’t really know how to go
about that, other than just lurking around the building. He doesn’t think that walking in and
asking the receptionist is a good idea, and loitering around the entrance of the hotel waiting
for him to show up doesn’t sound like a great one either. Especially with Chuuya’s warning
about his not-exactly-friend Dazai still echoing and bouncing around his skull.

On the upside, these nightly escapades of his were how he acquired his current companion
and the newest hole in his pocket. And he really doesn’t mind the tabby’s company, evident
in the copious amount of treats he feeds to her, but he just wishes he could talk to Chuuya
once again. Tell him about how he got himself a hero to train him, one of the best heroes out
there.

But Chuuya has not shown up and Hitoshi doubts that he’ll ever see the man again. He has no
way of contacting the redhead, the only tangible connection between them being that one
fifteen-story apartment building.

Hitoshi finally starts seeing more comprehensible stores around as he emerges from the
memories of the past few days, but he knows there are cheaper ones to be found the further
away from the center of the district he’s walking around. His tiny companion sometimes
wanders off, but always makes a point of finding Hitoshi not even a couple of minutes later.
The one time she disappears for a little longer and then reappears, tail swishing and ears
flickering, Hitoshi can’t help but snort at the frightfully human glare he receives.
“I’m not running off anywhere, don’t worry. Still gonna buy the treats.”

The tabby narrows her slitted eyes approvingly and settles into a stroll not that far away from
Hitoshi’s own sneakers.

“In exchange for the food, you’ll have to let me name you. It’s only fair.”

The cat doesn’t react to the words, continuing her prancing pace. Hitoshi takes that as a sign
of assent.

At some point in his walk, he takes out his phone to stave off the monotonous boredom. He’s
usually fine with long walks, he wouldn’t wander around at night if he wasn’t, but the hazy
sunlight strips away the intrigue from the buildings stretching out into the distance, so the
scratched up screen of his old phone, it is. He doesn’t have the money for one of those new
ones, optimized for users with various mutative or emitter quirks and practically
indestructible, so he guards it, one of his few prized possessions, very carefully.

Hitoshi has no people to talk to and no interest in social media to aimlessly scroll on. But he
has the countless tabs of hero forums open in his browser app, pilling up and slowing down
the already dying phone. Some of them are famous and densely populated, boasting pictures
of heroes high-up in the ranks on their homepages. Others, the ones that Hitoshi spends most
of his time on, however, are hard to find, usually grey in their color-scheme, and focus on the
heroes that operate underground.

His favorite, embarrassingly enough, is a forum focused on Eraserhead and his jobs, although
if asked, Hitoshi would insist that he’s not the only hero discussed here. Being one of the
earliest members of the forum and having witnessed its growth firsthand, Hitoshi has the
whole information section of the website practically memorized, even if he’d rather chop off
his tongue than admit it verbally. But it’s not these scraps of information about the elusive
hero he still lurks around the site for. Well, maybe a little. However, the main reason for
having it open on his phone is the chatroom.

The user interface of the website kind of falls apart on mobile, the already simplistic graphics
unadjusted for a small screen and text appearing awfully unbalanced, but it works fine and is
legible and that’s all that matters to him. It’s not like he can use it on a laptop while walking,
and he wouldn’t dare visit the site on a school-issued device anyway. If he dared to open up
the forum on the computer UA had provided him with at the start of the year, he’s sure the
site would be taken down in minutes.

He knows almost all of the regulars there and the regulars know him, greeting him warmly
every time he types something. It’s a small comfort and a tiny island of acceptance in his life,
so he spends quite a lot of time there.

When he opens it now while still freely maneuvering around, skilled in walking while being
on his phone, he finds that there’s a few new messages that have popped up in the chatbox.
He scrolls past the ones he has already seen – the newbie asking around about Eraserhead,
some basic stuff that can be found in the wiki section, but the bored chatters reply regardless.
He stops when he comes across the first few messages he hasn’t already read.
slave4rumi : no lol he’s underground which means his patrol route is very inconsistent. it’s
on purpose to make it hard to pin him down

slave4rumi : a significant amount of his sightings are on the southwest side of the city but
that’s like a huge chunk of the city still

S.australasicus : Thank you. Isn’t that where the UA High School is located?

slave4rumi : what are u getting at?

S.australasicus : I just think that UA is bound to have at least one underground hero teaching
there.

S.australasicus : You know, to diversify the curriculum.

Hitoshi’s heart drops to his heels at the incredibly accurate speculations made by the user
S.australasicus. Eraserhead’s civilian identity, that Hitoshi was now privy to, was a guarded
secret that had helped him remain untraceable and evade personal attacks from vengeful
villains. Now this user, who, Hitoshi recalls, had joined the forum merely three days ago, has
made a guess so accurate it has the teenager’s hands trembling around his phone.

The responsibility to shoot down or misguide the person who is close to figuring it out is
weighing down Hitoshi’s shoulders. He is the only one in the chatroom who knows that the
correlation is actually there, real and tangible, and knows that it would be really really bad for
Aizawa-sensei if someone with the wrong intentions found out. He scrambles to find
something to say to dissuade the person from making the connection. The chat moves before
he can even attempt to do so.

slave4rumi : i see ur point

Hitoshi swears he’s about to lose his ability to breathe. It hitches in his throat, and he actually
has to stop walking to collect himself. There’s a curious meowl directed at him from his side,
and there’s also someone cursing at him for holding up space on the sidewalk. He ignores all
of this, frantically typing out a response. There’s no need, as the other chatter comes to the
rescue before he can hit send.

slave4rumi : but u gotta remember that there’s literally hundreds of heroes in musutafu alone
and each one has an area they usually operate in

slave4rumi : lots of heroes patrol on the southwest side and don’t work at ua

Hitoshi exhales loudly, the tension built up in his muscles evaporating at those mere two
sentences. He picks up the pace again, deleting his old response and deciding to add on to his
savior’s, slave4rumi, words. He’ll make sure to send them pictures of Miruko kicking villains
into walls sometime later to express his gratitude.

mind_blank : yea and there’s no one matching his appearance on the staff listings too

Hitoshi knows because he checked. On the very first day at UA, he spotted someone who
looked eerily similar to those two old blurry images of Eraserhead, down to the dark jumpsuit
and the capture weapon, herding the damned class 1-A. He checked right then and there,
scrolled through the pictures of every single teacher’s profiles, only to find nothing akin to
his childhood hero. It was only later in the day that it occurred to him that it was probably on
purpose.

slave4rumi: oh hi blank!

S.australasicus : I’m just throwing it out there. I suppose it is a bit of a shot in the dark.

S.australasicus : Hello

slave4rumi : it’s alright lol not the wildest theory abt eraserhead that i ever heard

Hitoshi’s lips involuntarily quirk upwards, feeling welcomed regardless of the conversation.
He steps out of the way of a sweaty runner sprinting on the left side of the sidewalk, thumbs
flying across the screen.

mind_blank : lmao right i think the one about him being the ghost of someone’s grandpa
haunting musutafu during full moon takes the cake

slave4rumi : i was thinking exactly abt that one!! tho the vampire one was gold too

S.australasicus : Anyway. What kind of gift do you recommend buying for someone you
detest?

Hitoshi glances up quickly and looks around to gauge how much distance he still needs to
cross, catching sight of his desired shop right down the street. It’s small and cheap with sun-
bleached signs hanging crooked above the windows, but it’s reliable. In the meantime, the
chat fills with suggestions.

slave4rumi : one of those flowers that smell rly bad

slave4rumi : or endeavor merch

Broccoli_brain : a vote for endeavor merch but i’m pretty sure they sell actual shit online

Broccoli_brain : like packaged and stuff

S.australasicus : Tempting but no. Something more subtle.

mind_blank : what are they like?

Hitoshi glances up in order to see if he hadn’t accidentally missed his targeted store. It’s still
a few buildings away so he has some more attention to spare to the conversation unfolding in
the chatroom.

S.australasicus : Short. Angry. Yells a lot.

mind_blank : get them a self help book about anger management or something then
slave4rumi : lmao that’s brutal

S.australasicus : Oh that’s perfect. Thank you.

mind_blank : glad to help haha

He reaches the entrance to the store, putting away his phone and stopping to look down at the
cat, who is glaring at him meaningfully.

“Patience is a virtue that you ought to exercise more. I gotta think of a name for your
demanding ass.”

There are a few swirling around Hitoshi’s mind, but none of them feel like they stick well
enough. The sidewalk is narrow and a lot of people are out, so he ducks into the store. He
doesn’t really want to get yelled at. He left the well-off part of the town quite a while ago,
and almost everyone here that he could bump into is capable of cursing him to the lowest
circles of hell.

The ceiling of the store is low, so most people with big mutative quirks don’t bother coming
in, meaning that it’s usually less busy than others, even at peak times. Hitoshi heads straight
to the one shelf of pet supplies they have there, picking up a dark blue pack of fish-shaped
off-brand cat treats. There aren't that many of them in the packet and the coloring is definitely
synthetic but it’s the cheapest kind they have. Besides, his friend doesn’t seem to be picky so
far, so it’ll have to do.

Hitoshi waits in the short line by the cashier, as it is the weekend after all, and pays for the
treats. They cost 190 yen, leaving him with a mere 10 yen coin to his name. There’s nothing
he can really do with it, so he just drops it into the pocket of his sweatpants, for future him to
find.

He steps out of the store, wind chimes ringing after him and immediately his little companion
is there, eyeing the plastic packaging in his hand expectantly.

“Okay okay, I’m opening it,” Hitoshi laughs quietly, under the sound of conversations, car
engines, and crackling plastic. He fishes out a palmful of treats and crouches by the shop
window to give them to the impatient tabby.

She eagerly digs into them, the dry artificial biscuits making cracking sounds under her
pointed teeth. The snacks themselves look a bit funny, bloated, with gaping mouths and big
eyes, miming a fish swallowing down water. Hitoshi looks at the feline ravaging upon these
apparently salmon flavored fishies and has an epiphany.

“Goldfish,” he murmurs. The cat in question pays him no mind. “That’s your name now.”

Newly christened, Goldfish yawns at him and licks the side of her mouth, then demands
more. Hitoshi takes out another handful of treats, but before he can hold out his arm someone
rams into his side with unexpected force. He has to put out another hand to steady himself in
his crouch.
Unfortunately, this results in his arm jostling and the treats in his palm spilling everywhere.
Goldfish takes this as a challenge and leaps to the nearest one that skids to a stop next to her,
ancient big cat instincts awakening at the sight of a moving target.

Hitoshi, on the other hand, starts picking up the ones he can reach, an irked frown pulling his
face down. That was the last of his money scattered on the filthy sidewalk there, he’s bound
to be offended. He feels the eyes of whoever was stupid enough to trip over an entire human
being on his back and thinks, if they’re dumb enough to linger then they are deserving
enough to get an earful.

Still picking up the last of the treats, he slowly turns to face them, words pushed through
clenched teeth, “Watch where the fuck you’re–”

At the same time, he hears a gruff voice bark out, “Don’t feed your fucking cat on–”

His voice dies in his throat as does the culprit’s. Silly hat, dark coat, red hair, and a sneer that
falls off at the same time that his words stutter to a stop.

“Kid?”

It’s Chuuya, staring down at him in all of his short glory, arms crossed across his chest.
Hitoshi’s mouth falls open just slightly before he can gather himself.

Hitoshi’s eyes flit over to the side, where he sees Chuuya’s infamous bandaged friend
standing with arms crossed over his chest. The man notices him looking and lifts one of them
in a brief wave. Hitoshi carefully nods back, unsure. His gaze drifts back to the hatted man in
front of him.

“Chuuya? What are you doing here?”

Although Hitoshi is feeling jarred by the sudden appearance, his heart stutters in excitement
at the prospect of talking to Chuuya more, telling him about everything that happened, and
maybe even receiving more lessons. He then registers the small set of nails insistently
scratching at his closed fist. He turns back to see Goldfish clawing at the palmful of treats
he’s still holding and unfurls it so that he doesn’t get more red welts from a street cat. He
feels two pairs of eyes follow his actions closely.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Chuuya replies after a pause, jerking his chin towards
Hitoshi’s crouching form.

“Oh, you know, just taking care of fellow stragglers. Feeding the hungry strays.” Hitoshi
drawls in an even tone, but one corner of his lips still pulls up to indicate the teasing and hints
at just how glad he is to see the man again.

“Very funny.” Chuuya deadpans. In his peripheral, Hitoshi notices the intimidating Dazai
snicker behind one of his hands. Hitoshi’s eyes, the absolute traitors, dart to see it fully by
themselves. The moment they land on him, Dazai’s shoulders straighten out and the slitted
half-moons open to reveal a sharp and hyper-focused pair of irises staring right back. Hitoshi
scrambles to look away.
He hears Chuuya sigh, then mutter something suspiciously reminiscent of fucking hell and he
feels the sparking excitement of seeing Chuuya again dwindle. Maybe the feeling was not so
mutual, after all. Hitoshi did cut into Chuuya’s money and time the very first and last time
they met. Maybe he was a bit of a burden on those shoulders that already served their duty as
a coat hanger.

The train of his thoughts is interrupted by none other than the coat hanger himself, “C’mon,
kid, get up. I can guarantee that the next person to bump into you won’t be so polite.”

“You call that polite? I’m pretty sure there was a ‘fucking’ somewhere in there.” Hitoshi
shoots back, but feeds the last of what he has in his palm to Goldfish, who actually does look
a bit like her namesake when she’s staring up at him asking for more.

“Like you can talk. You’re like twelve, if anything, that shouldn’t be in your vocabulary.”
Chuuya grumbles back, gradually lifting his head to look Hitoshi in the eyes as he stands up.

Hitoshi rolls his eyes and shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and facing
away. He barely twists out of the way of a dashing dog, leash flying like a tantalizing ribbon
for a child who’s chasing after it. Goldfish jumps back and hisses after them.

His joy has almost completed its transformation into apprehension by now, and he wonders if
Chuuya is wishing for him to pull up an excuse to leave. If he’s even thinking of one himself,
during this slightly too long of a lull in the conversation. Faintly, Hitoshi hears the lull break
at the third person’s insistence.

“But, Chuuya, you yourself look like you’re twelve, yet have a mouth filthier than a hardened
sailor.”

“How the fuck do I look like I am twelve?!”

“Hm, let’s see, well, first of all, there’s the obvious height issue, then there’s the temper…”

Hitoshi follows the bickering with his attention split between it and his doubts about Chuuya.
The man did warn him to be careful and not run into this bandaged man who is currently
successfully driving Chuuya up the wall by just speaking a few sentences. And Hitoshi did
the complete opposite. It isn’t his fault, he’s perfectly aware of the fact, but Chuuya might be
discontented with it regardless.

Goldfish meows at him, communicating her insatiable appetite and paws at his pant leg. One
of her nails catches on the fabric and Hitoshi has to crouch down to untangle it. As he stands
back up his stomach decides to voice its own protests, and does it loudly .

Chuuya cuts himself off from making his way through a string of insults and turns to him so
swiftly that Hitoshi worries his neck will snap. Then the teenager slightly hunches in on
himself in embarrassment, tugging on one of the strings of the hoodie and facing the noses of
his shoes. His damned stomach rumbled so loudly that the other two heard it over the bustle
of the crowd. It’s humiliating.
There’s a few painful seconds of silence that is not silent at all. Another man rams his
shoulder into him as he passes by, shouting out a swear. Hitoshi is internally too reminiscent
of a fresh-boiled lobster to respond. Externally, only his shrunken posture and avoidant gaze
can betray what’s going on inside.

“Did you seriously just buy food for a cat, while starving yourself?” Chuuya asks him, the
pitch of his query rising in disbelief.

Hitoshi shuffles in place.

“Kid. Look at me. No, the sidewalk is not me. Kid.”

Purple eyes hesitantly lift off the ground. This is mortifying in the worst possible way. He’s
about to get scolded by the one person that he probably couldn’t mentally handle a scolding
from. Even Aizawa-sensei would be better than Chuuya. And for something as trivial as this.
This is nightmare material, and the kind that Hitoshi is sure will haunt him for years to come.

His gaze gets up as high as the collar of Chuuya’s dress-shirt, which is not that much if he’s
being honest. But it’s the most he can do. Another sigh escapes Chuuya’s lips and Hitoshi
has to put in a herculean effort into keeping himself from folding up and hiding under the
hood of his hoodie like a tortoise in danger. At this point, it’s only spite and years of enduring
public humiliation that is holding him up.

“Kid. Do you want to eat or not.”

It doesn’t sound like a question, but it still has the implication and the grammatical structure
of one, so Hitoshi shrugs, after a few moments.

“What is it to you?” he grumbles out in response and regrets it immediately.

It’s a good thing that Chuuya isn’t sensitive to stupid remarks made by even stupider
ungrateful teenagers and only arches an eyebrow at him. The eyebrow still manages to make
Hitoshi keep up the boiled lobster feeling. Hitoshi doesn’t even think of looking at Dazai
because he’s sure he’d start visibly shaking.

Chuuya, however, seems to come to a personal decision, whatever it is, and steps, no, stomps
forward with an assured boot, arms crossed over chest. Hitoshi makes an effort not to step
back.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m buying you food.”

Hitoshi startles at the words, accidentally looking up into Chuuya’s laser beam eyes. Then
he’s suddenly being clapped on the shoulder and steered forward, pulled along on the
sidewalk. There’s a fuckin’ finally coming somewhere from the other pedestrians behind him
and he resists the urge to flip the culprit off. Chuuya does it for him.

It doesn’t actually happen that fast, it just seems like it to Hitoshi, who is too lost on the
meaning behind any of it and can barely process anything that’s happening. That’s why it
feels like a blink between Chuuya taking hold of his shoulder (he later switches to the elbow)
and the chime of a bell that’s hanging over the door of a ramen shop. The only thing he can
recall from the journey is the mischievous stare he got from Dazai.

The interior is dark despite the sun filtering in through the windows, and they sit down at one
of the three tables available, forgoing the seats at the bar. Both Chuuya and Dazai sit down in
front of him and the situation only registers in Hitoshi’s consciousness after Chuuya has
ordered a bowl of ramen and a plating of gyoza for him already. He stares at the man slumped
in the chair with his arms crossed over his chest and waits until the two wolves fighting over
a toy in his mind space decide how to feel about this.

Frankly, having Chuuya sighing every few minutes and Dazai looking at him, head tilted
subtly, is terrifying. Terror-inspiring enough that the desire to stand up and bolt from here is
real and tangible in his mind. On the other hand, hot food is on the way. And Hitoshi may be
prideful, he may boast of having gone a whole day without eating multiple times in his life,
but he’s learned to take what’s given to him. And this is Chuuya. As scary as he might be,
Hitoshi doesn’t think Chuuya would do anything bad to him. He doesn’t know why he’s so
sure that a man he spent merely one evening with won’t turn on him, but he guesses that not
having anyone in his life to teach him about stranger danger probably has to do something
with it.

Having made up his mind, Hitoshi relaxes slightly in his seat. That, however, brings up a new
issue of the uncomfortable silence settled upon the table. Thankfully, it's not an issue that
lingers for a long while.

Dazai leans on his elbow and props up his chin in his palm, breathes in, and opens his mouth
to say something. He is promptly cut off by Chuuya before a sound can escape from his
throat.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Dazai’s brow furrows, “But–”

“No.”

“Chuuya.”

“I don’t want to hear your annoying-ass voice.”

Hitoshi’s eyes dart quickly from one man to the other, perplexed by Chuuya’s sudden
curtness.

“I didn’t intend to talk to you.”

“Don’t care.”

“Chibi,” Dazai drawls, and Chuuya’s shoulders rise. Hitoshi finds himself with his eyes
blown wide at the nickname and the level of agitation the gravity-user is displaying. “Your
overprotectiveness is showing. I am not gonna do anything to your little stray.”
Oh, so that’s what is unfolding in front of him currently. Chuuya did let him know that Dazai
was someone who disliked mental quirks and was probably trying to protect him, even if it’s
in a weird, roundabout way. Hitoshi appreciates the gesture, but he has been dealing with
people like that since he was four. He could handle a little quirk discrimination, Chuuya
didn’t need to worry that much.

“It’s alright, you don’t need to do that,” Hitoshi assures, cutting off the argument brewing on
the other side of the table. “I’m pretty sure I can handle a conversation just fine,” he adds,
rolling his eyes subtly, but still quirking up his lips in the tiniest hint of a smile. Chuuya just
sighs heavily in response, shoulders drooping down.

“See? You’re overreacting chibi. I’m great with kids.”

Okay, that one felt a little patronizing. When Chuuya called him a kid, it didn’t seem this
demeaning.

“Not a kid.” Hitoshi snaps back.

“Oh, really?” Dazai replies.

Hitoshi’s attention is taken away by Chuuya looking straight at him, that eyebrow of his
arched again, arms crossed over his chest.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, kid,” Chuuya grumbles to him.

This confuses Hitoshi a bit, because he expected harsh words and some taunting, but not
whatever this grim tone of Chuuya’s is carrying. It seems like it’s too late already anyway,
because Dazai leans forward, eyes sparkling with something that leaves his stomach
churning.

“I just wanted to get to know the kid that chibi is so fond of.” Hitoshi refuses to react to that
sentence. Refuses. Doesn’t even twitch a muscle. Dazai continues smiling. “You go to UA,
don’t you, Shinsou?”

Hitoshi freezes. He is an ice statue, his heart is cold frozen water, immobile. He did not think
that Chuuya was the type of person to warn him about someone dangerous and then proceed
to spill about Hitoshi to that said someone. Seems like he was wrong. Chuuya looks up at
him from where he was examining his nails and takes one look at his face. The blue eyes that
bore into Hitoshi are uncomfortably disappointed.

“I didn’t tell him, we watched the sports festival. You were on national television, kid, your
name isn’t exactly a secret.”

He comes back to life, although his fingertips are still tingling from numbness. He flexes
them out a few times to get rid of the feeling. Of course. He kind of forgot about that.

“Then you don’t need to ask if I go to UA.” he responds, keeping his tone even and tired,
looking back at the bandaged man sitting to the right in front of him.
“Just a conversation starter, don’t worry about it.” Dazai waves one hand in a vague gesture.
“It’s still admirable what you did at the event, however. I’m sure keeping a hold on not only
one but a few consciousnesses simultaneously is a difficult feat.”

The tone of voice Dazai uses to lay it out is pleasant but Hitoshi doesn’t let himself be fooled
by it. It’s as much of an accusation as it is a compliment. The man thinks that him using his
quirk and brainwashing people into teaming with him counts as cheating. Good thing that he
isn’t the first one of this opinion that Hitoshi has encountered. It’s been a month since the
sports festival, after all.

“I used my quirk to win. That wasn’t against the rules,” he answers, trepidation morphing
into righteous anger. It gives courage to his words and makes them sound more level, which
he’s grateful for.

“Oh, but I didn’t say it was.”

Chuuya twitches in his seat and suddenly shoots out one arm to– hit the back of Dazai’s
head? It happens so quickly, and without even looking, Dazai ducks down, so it flies
overhead without meeting the target. Then the brunet straightens out and gets back to leaning
forward, chin propped up in his hand as if nothing had happened. Hitoshi can admit to feeling
a bit stumped.

“Stop that.” Chuuya hisses at Dazai, who is adjusting the collar of his shirt, a picture of
innocence.

“Stop what, Chuuya? We’re having a conversation, aren’t we, Shinsou?” Dazai looks at him
expectantly, tilting his head. Hitoshi does not respond, unsure as to how to go about this. He
doesn’t want to nod and betray Chuuya like this, but they were, technically, having a
conversation.

“Stop antagonizing the kid!” Chuuya almost-yells, barely keeping it down, so that their table
does not draw eyes. The fist he slams into the surface is not as subtle, however.

Hitoshi clears his throat, “Well, I am here, and I am not feeling like I’m being antagonized.”

“That’s what you think,” Chuuya tells him, and Hitoshi sputters.

“Isn’t that like, the point?” he says, not comprehending why Chuuya is so worked up about
this.

“Chibi, I think you’re projecting.” Dazai sing-songs, eyes closed. Hitoshi can’t believe it
himself, but he thinks so too. He may have not appreciated the remark that implied that using
his quirk had been wrong, but he is not feeling that upset about it. Definitely not as much as
Chuuya is.

“Shut up.” he growls out to Dazai and then nods toward Hitoshi, “Your food is here.”

And true to Chuuya’s words, soon enough there’s a bowl of ramen before him and Hitoshi
can’t help but dig in, barely containing himself. The broth and the noodles are divine on his
tongue, and his starved stomach is singing those old opera songs from the pre-quirk era that
he has heard in history movies.

He probably isn’t that good at masking his hunger and gets halfway through the bowl far too
quickly, so it’s not that much of a surprise when Chuuya calls him out on it.

“Do your parents not feed you, kid? This is the second time I’m buying you food and I’ve
only met you twice.”

Dazai stage-whispers to Chuuya, a hand to the side of his mouth, “Soft.”

The table rattles abruptly and a chair screeches, wooden legs dragging across the floor.
Although neither Chuuya’s nor Dazai’s expressions change, Hitoshi doesn’t need to see to
know that someone just received a kick in the shin.

“They can’t,” Hitoshi replies, choosing to ignore the things happening under the table, in
between bites of pork.

“And why the fuck not?”

“Cause they’re dead,” he replies, after slurping up some noodles and washing them down
with the broth. Regardless of what will come of this meeting, at least he has a chance to get
in a full meal today.

His curt reply doesn’t seem to phase Chuuya much, as he barely rolls his eyes. Actually,
neither of the two men sitting in front of him react to that, at least not like people usually do.

“Then do your guardians not feed you? Or do they let underage kids just run around with no
supervision, nowadays?”

This is one of the reasons why Hitoshi found it so easy to trust Chuuya. He just doesn’t blow
stuff out of proportion, takes it as it is. Things are very simple and straightforward with him.

“They don’t care enough, I guess.” Hitoshi shrugs, having long learned not to agonize over it.
It’s why he’s so eager to become a legal adult and finally not have to rely on someone else's
goodwill to have the things he needs. “It’s fine though, I get by.”

“By having strangers feed you?” He gets another raised eyebrow.

“Can’t say it hasn’t worked out so far,” Hitoshi smirks at Chuuya briefly but quickly goes
back to finishing his bowl.

Chuuya just snorts in response and Hitoshi gets sight of the bottom of the ceramic dish. He
finishes everything to the last drop, places the empty bowl down, and only then notices that
he was the only one eating, this whole time.

“You didn’t get anything for yourself?”

Chuuya waves him off, “Not hungry, I’ll get something when we get back to the hotel.”
Dazai seems to be observing Chuuya closely, now, and Hitoshi feels like he’s out of the loop
about something. He doesn’t question it much, as the pair have known each other longer than
Hitoshi has either of them, but he notices how Dazai does not answer the question, even if
Hitoshi has directed it at both of them.

“It is pretty far from your hotel here, though,” Hitoshi notes, finishing up the last of the
dumplings too, dipping them into the sauce and talking between each one. The food at UA is
good, but Hitoshi hasn’t eaten out in a long while, so he savors every bite.

Dazai perks up at that, “Oh, we went sightseeing!”

The chopsticks stop halfway to his mouth. Sauce drips on the table. “Sightseeing.”

The sound of a screeching child and a street vendor yelling after them filters in through one
of the open windows in the restaurant, as if to accentuate Hitoshi’s disbelief. He pointedly
glances outside and back at the man before him.

“Yep. Haven’t visited a town if you haven’t seen all sides of it!” Dazai exclaims, a self-
assured smile playing on his lips.

“Fair enough,” Hitoshi shrugs again. He can see the logic in a philosophy like that. The way
Chuuya pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers indicates that he doesn’t agree. “You
won’t find many heroes patrolling here, though. The tourists usually flock downtown for
that.”

An intriguing grimace crosses Chuuya’s face, that Hitoshi can’t help but ponder the meaning
of. He doesn’t have to ponder for long. The man scoffs and slumps even further in his seat,
legs, and arms crossed.

“No, thank you, had enough of that.”

Hitoshi stops to consider what Chuuya is implying. It did occur to him that night of their
meeting that the man possibly has been involved in some criminal activities but it kind of left
his head in the wake of recent events.

“Did you get in trouble today, chibi?” Dazai asks before Hitoshi can, looking at Chuuya
through narrowed eyes.

“Just met one idiot with wings. Told me off for flying .” Chuuya’s face twists in disdain, and
he’s examining his nail beds again, looking almost as miffed as he was at Dazai when they
first sat down. Then the sentence registers in Hitoshi’s awareness.

“Wait. With wings? Which hero was it?” Hitoshi doesn’t really believe that it’s possible, most
likely Chuuya ran into some local no-name and not the only winged hero high enough in the
charts for Hitoshi to know. He just needs Chuuya to confirm this. He barely notices Dazai’s
intrigued stare.

“I dunno? Am I supposed to know what his name is? He was almost as annoying as this
bastard,” Chuuya points a thumb at Dazai, who gasps dramatically, hands folded demurely
over his chest. “He did blabber something about being the number three hero, though.”

There’s a sudden urge in him to bang his head onto the wood of the table, neatly right
between the two plates before him. He reigns it in, barely, yet still can’t help but stare at the
nonchalant man before him, subtly shaking his head in disbelief. It did make sense that
Chuuya was that kind of man who didn’t care much for heroes but to be so flippant about
encountering Hawks and because of flying, of all things… well. That’s a whole new level of
not giving a shit that Hitoshi himself feels envious of.

“You met Hawks because you broke a quirk law and escaped.”

Chuuya looks at him, eyebrows furrowed, “Yea, and? Is that shit notable or something? I was
just flying, not beating up people.”

Hitoshi finishes chewing, slow, methodical, thinking through his words. It was strange how
surprised Chuuya seemed at the hero’s behavior. He briefly glances to the side, where Dazai
is sitting, chin still propped up and leaning forward.

“A lot of heroes are lenient when it comes to small quirk mishaps they spot in public, if
they’re not harmful, you’re right. But flying is a pretty big one. Especially if you caught
Hawks’ attention.” Hitoshi pauses, takes another bite, and realizes another important thing.
“He doesn’t even operate in this city. Either it was a coincidence or he’s after you.”

There’s a brief break in the conversation, in which Hitoshi stops again, stares off into space
somewhere outside the window. Then slowly, disbelief coloring his tone he repeats it, more to
himself than anyone else, “You’ve got Hawks, the Number Three hero on your ass.”

Chuuya shrugs, “He didn’t arrest me or anything so I guess I’m fine.”

Hitoshi has to admit that Chuuya has a point and also shrugs in response, even if the sheer
awe at the redhead’s demeanor about all of it is still lingering in his mind. Dazai is staying
silent, although the subtle twist to his lips is very unsettling. It soon turns into an omen of a
catastrophe about to happen.

The sly brunet man that Hitoshi can’t get a read on taps a finger to his lips and looks up, the
motion almost childish, in a way that can’t not be on purpose.

“I liked the other one we ran into better.” the man says, pensive.

Hitoshi feels his brows draw together before he can even comprehend what that sentence
means. “The other..?”

Dazai hums wordlessly, nodding at Chuuya, who is staring at him, unimpressed.

“Use your words instead of acting all ominous and shit. You mean the only one who actually
seemed competent even though he looks like a wraith?”

“Ah, Chuuya, you’ve always been viscerally descriptive. Exactly that one. With the strange
scarf and goggles.”
Hitoshi’s mind stutters to a halt for the hundredth time today. He’s sure at this point he’s
bound to have developed some heart condition from the irregular rise and fall of his stress
levels. Outwardly, his expression barely changes, his gaze stays tired and vacant, his mouth
keeps its subtle downwards curve. Only his fingers twitch around the chopsticks
momentarily, a small tell he doesn’t quite manage to catch.

Goodness, if Aizawa-sensei found out that Hitoshi had been on the brink of accidentally
revealing his identity to some sketchy people twice today already, Hitoshi would surely be on
his way out of UA, bag packed. As it is though, the teenager manages to compose himself,
even with his heart growing hummingbird wings in his chest.

Chuuya shrugs flippantly, “Don’t know that one’s name either.”

“Me too, it seems like there’s nothing about him online. Have you heard of someone like that,
Shinsou?” Dazai asks, the tilt of his head suspiciously innocent.

Hitoshi pats his mouth with a napkin, puts down his chopsticks, puckers his brow just so
slightly as if thinking a little. He knows how he’s supposed to look when he’s drawing a
blank. It’s a well-practiced expression, due to the amount of petty misbehavings that had been
blamed on him since elementary school.

“Nope, no one comes to mind. Maybe he was a really low-ranking one.” His voice does not
waver, keeping its low, disinterested tone. It’s thanks to the years of practice convincing
distrustful adults and having a vocal quirk that requires him to use language to his advantage.
“I only know the high-ranking ones well enough.”

He even gives himself a brief second to pat himself on the back mentally. Dazai seems to be a
particularly sharp person, but so far Hitoshi hasn’t encountered an adult he couldn’t fool at
least partially.

Dazai hums again, “Ah maybe. That’s a shame then. He seemed to be quite competent like
chibi said.”

Chuuya grunts in response and Hitoshi pauses to ponder what “competent” could entail.
Eraserhead is competent, even more than that. But so is Hawks, even if Hitoshi does not
particularly favor his pandering to the fans. He can admit that the man is efficient.

Hitoshi shakes off the thought and concentrates on the lull in conversation that feels
uncomfortably blank after Hitoshi’s little lie. He has an urge to fill it in with something, so
that the conversation vanishes from everyone’s minds, so that they don’t have time to
ruminate his mannerisms and the tone of his voice, so that they don’t have any fresh details to
spot. Desperately grasping at straws on the inside, while blinking slowly on the outside,
Hitoshi remembers just why he was so desperate to meet Chuuya again.

But… Could he? This was a bit too close, too sensitive of a piece of information to share
after the other two were a skip away from finding out about Aizawa-sensei just minutes ago.
And this was vulnerable, this was him exposing a piece of his dream, a piece of his life. He
did entrust it to Chuuya that evening, but this Dazai person was a different issue entirely.
He debates it a little more before he decides that fuck it, it should be fine if he doesn’t
mention the specifics and Dazai can go fuck himself if he thinks Hitoshi can’t dream of being
a hero. He’s feeling happy for once, and he’s going to claim his right to share it.

Hitoshi stuffs his hands back into the pocket of the hoodie, looks out the window they’re sat
by.

“Thank you for the food,” he pushes out because he has manners. And because it’s hard to
immediately make himself say what he wants to say.

He hears Chuuya snort before answering, “You’re welcome, brat. Someone had to do it cause
you sure as hell wouldn’t have fed yourself.”

Hitoshi smirks, “Wouldn’t be hero material if I put myself before others, would I?”

“That was a street cat,” the redhead retorts, deadpan. Hitoshi’s smirk widens and the man just
shakes his head, incredulous. “How is that going for you, though?”

Chuuya’s expression is open, even with all of the stray locks of hair falling over it, genuine
interest is evident in his eyes. And so Hitoshi takes the opportunity and opens up the drawer
where he had stuffed all of his unruly joy.

“I’ve got someone to train me.”

Red eyebrows shoot up and disappear into the hair. “Really?” Chuuya straightens up, just a
little. “Are they any good?”

Hitoshi can’t help the tiny, authentic grin that stretches his face and tugs at the muscles of his
cheeks. “The best.”

Chuuya chuckles and grins right back, all teeth, “Congrats, kid.”

Hitoshi takes it all in, just as he imagined. He lets that sweet sweet validation wash over him,
enjoy the feeling of someone else being happy for him. He doesn’t beam, he’s not one of
those . But it’s almost the equivalent of that for the expressionless, like him, the curve of his
lips, and the slight crinkle to his eyes. The urge to reign it in is there, whispering at him in the
form of a pair of brown eyes zeroed-in on him in his peripheral vision. But for once he
doesn’t give in.

“Who is it?” Chuuya enquires after a glowing, warm moment has passed but Hitoshi is
already prepared for that.

“A hero teacher from my school. They said that I might even be able to transfer to the hero
course.”

Hitoshi tries to keep his tone as indifferent and monotonous as always, but the twinkle in
Chuuya’s eye tells him that he doesn’t do that good of a job. The man has this knowing and
even proud look on his face that has Hitoshi feeling incredibly off-balance.
That’s why he blames Chuuya for the way he startles when the third person at the table opens
his mouth to say something.

“Does that happen often?”

Hitoshi’s neck snaps to face the speaker, meeting sharp eyes and pursed lips.

“Huh?”

“Do people often transfer from other courses to the hero course at UA?”

Dazai is looking at him not intensely, exactly, but unsettlingly, in a very peculiar way. Hitoshi
can’t find what’s so unsettling about him, because the quizzical eyebrows, the easy expectant
look and the nonchalant hand propping up the man’s head seem relatively harmless by
themselves. It’s just the entirety of it that feels.. off. And that mystery factor only adds to it.

Hitoshi is hellbent on not showing it though, so he gathers himself and explains it as casually
as he can.

“Not really. It’s actually pretty rare, but if you catch the attention of the right people and
manage to prove yourself, it’s possible.”

A raised eyebrow, “And you accomplished that?”

Hitoshi raises an eyebrow right back, “I’m in the process of it.”

Dazai’s challenging demeanor rubs him the wrong way and he has an inexplicable itch to
explain himself. He spots that urge, acknowledges how desperate acting on it would come
across as, but his resolve is too weak to fight it.

He looks down at the table, the blue and white pattern of the plates, and picks the chopsticks
back up if only to have something to do with his hand. He taps them against one of the dishes
idly and lets the stupid words tumble out of his mouth.

“Everyone knows the heroics’ entrance exam is biased towards physical, flashy quirks.
Candidates with other quirks who are equally as capable don’t get a chance only because of
the stupid nature of it.”

One of the taps is a bit too forceful and makes a loud ringing sound that echoes after his
words. Hitoshi kind of hates that he’s still strung up about this, that it’s hard for him to keep
composure when thinking about the unfairness of it all. He despises how it all comes out
whiny and desperate when the hurt and ache of injustice feels like an open wound still
weeping blood. Too late to lament it though, already spilled half of it, so might as well finish.

“We all get placed in Gen-Ed as if it’s some consolation. A participation award.” Goodness,
does he sound bitter.

“Well, that’s fucking stupid.” Chuuya cuts through his resentment with ease, as if his
sonorous voice were one of those daggers he carries. His forehead is puckered, eyebrows
drawing so close to the middle that they might just meet.
It sobers Hitoshi up, not enough to feel very embarrassed about his outburst but enough to
make him smile dryly. “Thanks.”

“No, really. The quirk doesn’t make everything. It’s just plain stupid to discard someone with
a drive and who’s willing to learn.”

“Did I hear that right? Did chibi just admit that the brain is more valuable than the brawn?”
Dazai puts a hand to his ear as if waiting to hear more. It slowly dawns on Hitoshi that this
man is determined to deliberately push buttons.

“That brain of yours can do nothing if it’s kicked in.” Chuuya threatens, pretty convincingly
actually, but Dazai doesn’t even bat an eye. Well, at least not seriously.

“Such violent proclamations go against your point, Chuuya.” Then he turns to Hitoshi again,
“Unfortunately, here you can see the living example of what happens when so much brute
force has to be contained in such a small vessel. There’s no space left for complex thought.”

Chuuya seems to be seething at the words, shoulders high, teeth clenched, and eyes narrowed
to slits, while Dazai just seems mildly amused. The dynamic there is astonishingly bizarre.
How Chuuya puts up with the man, Hitoshi has no clue.

Hitoshi has enough common sense left that he does not poke the bear and lets the scene in
front of him play out without his interference.

“At least I can fucking defend myself from pests like you.” Chuuya bites back, teeth bared,
and turns to face Hitoshi too. It seems like both of them are set on dragging him into the
argument in some way. “Be smart but also know how to kick their teeth out. Sly bastards
can’t be sly when they can’t talk.”

“Oh, really?” Dazai gasps and shows off his full set of teeth, perfectly intact. Hitoshi is pretty
sure that another kicking match happens under the table. He suddenly gets an unabating
thought that he might be the most mature one out of the three of them.

Hitoshi blinks slowly at the advice being thrown at him and lets out a casual, “Sure.”

It flies over the pair’s heads undetected, as they are engaged in an odd staring contest.
Chuuya seems to be bubbling with rage while Dazai is observing him, looking lightly
entertained. The entertainment doesn’t last long, and the man soon directs his attention to
Hitoshi again. At least it’s less unsettling this time.

“It’s interesting how roundabout they are with the transfer process. Illogical, even.”

Hitoshi shrugs when he recalls what their conversation had been about before the staredown.
It’s not like he had any say in it.

“Is the quirk discrimination as blatant in other courses too?” Dazai asks, eliciting a surprised
frown from Chuuya. Hitoshi admires the man, really, but how unaware about the world can
one be, to be surprised by quirk discrimination, of all things.
To this, Hitoshi at least has a certain answer, “No, I’d even say UA is an exemplar in that
regard. They make a point of being a school that is against all of that. Every other department
is full of kids with a variety of quirks and they’ve got a bunch of policies to make sure that no
bullying happens. I’ve even got a quirkless girl in my class and she’s doing fine, which might
be a lot different in other schools, I imagine.”

Hitoshi pauses, follows the rings of the wood with his eyes, looping and stretching over the
planks that make up the table. “It’s just the exam that doesn’t make any sense. It’s fucking
hypocritical.”

Finished with his mini venting session, Hitoshi glances back and is met with Dazai who has
both of his hands under his chin, fingers laced, eyes glinting with something devious and
pleased. Like a bird of prey that has just spotted its target.

“ Interesting,” is the only thing he murmurs into the air, which in consequence makes
Chuuya peer at him through suspiciously narrowed eyelids.

The whole exchange is strange, but what isn’t, with the two of them. Hitoshi has barely spent
an hour with them but that’s one of the conclusions he can draw with full conviction.

Chuuya gets fed up with all of it right then and there and slams an open palm on the table.
Dazai eyes it with unmasked disdain.

“Still as into the dramatics as always, Chuuya.”

“Like you can talk,” Chuuya sneers back and pointedly slaps the surface again. “The money
.”

Hitoshi blinks owlishly and watches the pair bicker, tugging the metaphorical rope back and
forth. It finally ends with Dazai handing Chuuya over a wad of cash bigger than Hitoshi has
ever had the pleasure of witnessing. He unconsciously tracks it with his eyes as it disappears
into the inside of Chuuya’s coat, which the man undoubtedly notices.

Chuuya pays, and they step out into the bustle again, people swirling about, the crowd as
thick as oatmeal. The three of them step into the flow, new oats in the bowl, and start
weaving their way through. Hitoshi just heads in the vague direction of his home, fully
expectant to be separated from the pair at some fork in the road.

Barely a minute after they step into the street, a gentle brush of fur against his pant leg makes
itself known. Hitoshi looks down to find Goldfish staring up at him, as demanding as ever.
The quiet snort of laughter he lets out at her catches the attention of the pair.

“Clever little companion you’ve got,” Dazai notes, peering over both Chuuya and Hitoshi at
the scrawny feline. The cat answers him with a stare that Hitoshi can swear is distrustful,
paired with a swish of the tail.

“If stalking me around and using me for food counts as clever, then sure she is.”
The stare is now directed at him, as if telling him, well, you know what to do. Hitoshi takes
out a couple of left-over treats and feeds them to her one by one, without stopping their walk.

“That’s exactly what clever constitutes,” Dazai answers.

“Yeah, figures that you of all people would think that,” Chuuya grumbles out from beside
him.

They walk for a short bit, until Chuuya suddenly stops, making Hitoshi stagger to a stop too,
sneakers skidding across dusty concrete. The teenager follows Chuuya’s eye line to the front
of another convenience store, this one slightly bigger than the one before. Hitoshi looks at the
man quizzically, but Chuuya just walks towards the door and motions for Hitoshi to follow.

Hitoshi does follow, albeit a bit hesitant, unsure why Chuuya would need him for shopping.
He dares to hope a little for a repeat of the first night, but not too much. They were, after all,
not alone.

Before stepping through the open glass door, this one much wider and taller than the previous
one, Hitoshi looks back at Dazai, only to find him… not there. The man has vanished into the
crowd, not even a hint of beige in sight. Only Goldfish stares at him from a couple of steps
away, already stationed by the wall of the building, clearly expecting to be rewarded upon his
comeback.

Hitoshi opens his mouth to ask Chuuya about the other man but is waved off with a
nonchalant hand.

“Don’t sweat it, the bastard will find us either way.”

Then the hatted man grabs one of the tiny plastic baskets pilled at the front and shoves it into
Hitoshi’s arms, without even looking at him.

“Have I been unknowingly denoted as your personal assistant?” Hitoshi asks the back of
Chuuya’s coat, as the man is confidently striding deeper into the store, starting with the row
of non-perishables.

“Consider this a form of weight lifting. So it’s training.” Chuuya shoots back over his
shoulder, smirk climbing up the side of his face.

Hitoshi lifts the empty basket up and down with only his index finger, to make a point.
Chuuya snorts again and subtly shakes his head.

“Well, then start loading.” the man replies to his tiny pantomime, catching him off-guard.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else do you see here?” Chuuya pointedly looks around and Hitoshi follows,
spotting an elderly man a few shelves down and a pack of teenagers huddled over at the
carbonated drinks section. Chuuya sighs, “Kid, we're shopping for you. Just grab anything
you want.”
Hitoshi blinks slowly, a feeling not unlike deja vu falling over his shoulders, “You know I
can’t pay you back, right?”

“Do I look like an idiot to you? I swear, that fucker Dazai is a horrible influence on anyone
he encounters. Of course, I know. Somebody has to make sure you eat, anyway.”

Hitoshi narrows his eyes, staring at the mystery of a man before him. Who the fuck finds a
child and decides to buy them groceries, anyway? Apparently red-haired, hat-wearing, short,
and extremely powerful maybe-criminals.

“You will pay for everything.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, one gloved hand propped up on his hip, and says, “I am not a filthy
liar, kid. Go ahead.”

Hitoshi blinks once more, faces the shelf, and starts picking out everything his heart desires.
His stomach might be full of ramen now, but he thinks of the many days ahead that it won’t
be, and piles the tiny basket to the brim. It’s mostly snacks that don’t need to be refrigerated,
as he doesn’t want to make his aunt and uncle think he started shoplifting, but he also adds a
few fruits and a couple of cans of sodas in there. Instant ramen and some candy also make
their way into the basket, as do packets of some more cat treats, just the more expensive kind,
followed by a chuckle from Chuuya. Goldfish might get even more spoiled and start
expecting better snacks from him, but he’s not about to go stingy on her.

Chuuya trudges along with him, dropping tiny comments about the food he picks, but he
doesn’t police anything, just scrunches his nose at the least of the least healthy items he
chooses. Hitoshi pays it no mind.

At some point, Chuuya eyes a packet of crab flavored chips, seemingly engrossed in an
internal debate about whether or not to take them. Hitoshi notices and decides to help the
man out.

“Crab, huh? Just take them, it’s not like you gotta save or something.”

“They’re not for me,” Chuuya grumbles under his nose, but still grabs the bag off the shelf.

Hitoshi does a double-take. “For Dazai-san?”

Chuuya lets out a strange sound through his teeth, somewhat reminiscent of a steaming kettle.
It’s like he’d rather become an object than admit it.

“...Why?” Hitoshi can only ask because forgive him, but he’s a bit stupefied that Chuuya
would buy food for someone who seems like he’s hellbent on driving the man insane.

Chuuya stares at the bright pink cartoon crab drawn on the plastic of the packaging as if it
had insulted him and his entire lineage. Then he sighs, lowers the hand holding the packet to
his side, and says, “The bastard loves crab, that’s why.”

The teenager gives the man a look expressing just how ridiculous that reasoning seems. The
relationship between those two is something that he finds too difficult to try and untangle.
Chuuya avoids his eyes and moves on forward, but doesn’t put the packaging back on the
shelf.

Soon enough the basket is full and Hitoshi has passed all of the shelves cramped in the tiny
store. Besides the chips, Chuuya has also picked up a couple of bento boxes and more
medical bandages. Hitoshi doesn’t bother to ask who the items are for this time, because he’s
sure the reasoning would make his head hurt. The two of them line up to the cashier at the
end of a small queue, their desired items in their arms.

“Did you involve yourself in any more trouble over the week?” Chuuya asks, and Hitoshi
draws his eyes away from an outdated issue of Hero Pulse boasting Miruko on the cover, still
resting on the magazine rack.

“It’s not trouble if I make it out unscathed,” Hitoshi replies and gets himself a roll of the eyes.

“Yeah yeah, sure. But did you get up to anything else?”

Hitoshi’s brows pucker up in thought as he considers the question. His nightly walks went on
as usual, just containing more loitering around a certain building, but he didn’t get up to that
much vigilantism. Except for one small instance, really.

“There was one petty mugging a few days back.”

“Oh? Did you knock them out?” Chuuya asks with that skewed yet benevolent smirk of his
that makes him so easy to spill everything to.

Hitoshi snorts because as much as he wishes he could, he doubts he can knock someone out
yet, untrained as he is. It’s still nice to see that Chuuya believes in him that much.

“Not really? I did swing a trash bag at them, though.”

Chuuya bursts out into shocks of loud laughter, the kind that draws eyes. The man doesn’t
seem to care, bent over with the force of it, clutching his items to his chest. Hitoshi finds
himself smiling back involuntarily, but doesn’t bother to stop himself.

When Chuuya’s bout of laughter concludes and he wipes a single finger to his eye to catch
the invisible tear, he straightens up, the grin wider than ever.

“That is still smart thinking, kid, using the environment to your advantage. Keep it up.”

A giddy, glad feeling rises up in him, making it particularly difficult to think of a witty
response. He still manages, but he does have to resist the urge to smile widely this time. It
just wouldn’t be the same.

“I’ll make sure to utilize the trash bags more while dealing with criminals in the future then.
Thank you for your wisdom, sensei. ” Hitoshi dips his head down for full dramatic effect too.

“Oh shut up, brat. Just take the praise.”

Hitoshi chuckles right back and then it’s finally their turn to have their items scanned and
paid for. The cashier casts the two of them disgruntled looks that they blissfully ignore and
goes through their things with jerky, irritated movements. Hitoshi was never the type to be
loud or draw attention, rather the opposite was true, but Chuuya didn’t care, so he couldn’t
find himself being able to either.

They walk out the door, Hitoshi with two and Chuuya with one bag in tow, back into the
noisy street. There, crouching next to the wall of the store building is Dazai, holding out a
dried sardine to Goldfish. The cat herself looks overjoyed to be nibbling on actual fish for
once and Hitoshi’s good mood curdles into something more sour.

“Traitor,” he whispers to her when he approaches and she barely spares him a look.

Dazai looks up at him and smiles, gives the rest of the sardine to the cat, then stands up.

“Done with the shopping-spree yet?” he asks, directing the question to Hitoshi, rather than
Chuuya.

“Apparently not, if someone will be too spoiled to eat the commoners’ food now,” Hitoshi
answers, pointedly looking at Goldfish, who has the tail of the poor sardine poking out of her
mouth, looking entirely unbothered with human conversation.

“Did you have to steal the kid’s cat?” Chuuya asks, sounding very exhausted all of a sudden.
Hitoshi, on the other hand, feels like he’s five and one of the mean big kids has snatched his
favorite toy.

The big meanie flashes a brilliant grin and fishes out a bag of something out of one of his
coat pockets.

“Fret not, chibi.”

Dazai hands the mystery bag over to Hitoshi, who takes it hesitantly and looks inside. There,
he finds a few more dried sardines just like the one that Goldfish is finishing up right now.
Hitoshi blinks up, perplexed.

“Here you go, no more shopping to complete now.” the man adds, the curve to his mouth
seemingly lacking any malicious intent.

Hitoshi nods minutely, admittedly lost on how to respond to the gesture. He drops the small
bag into one of the bigger ones he’s carrying and glances at Chuuya, who seems to be at least
as half as confused as he is.

Dazai decides to be the one to break the sudden silence that he himself is the culprit of and
hands behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet, says, “I’m afraid that chibi and I have
to go now.”

It’s not unkind and just a touch apologetic but Hitoshi knows a dismissal when he encounters
one. So he nods again and gives a tiny wave with his free hand.
 “Have fun sightseeing,” he says, to which Chuuya snorts and Dazai quirks up his lips once
more.

“Oh, I’m sure we will! Good luck with your training.” Dazai replies and grabs Chuuya by his
bicep to drag him off, which the redhead shakes off, sputtering. Dazai pouts, exaggerated,
and dramatically walks off without the other man. Chuuya pays it no mind.

“See you around, kid,” he says instead, in that warm voice of his and Hitoshi lets himself
smile once more.

“Thank you,” Hitoshi murmurs again, vaguely gesturing at himself and the bags hanging off
his forearm.

“It’s nothing, I’d rather lose some money than have you starve.”

“Go give Dazai-san his crab chips instead of being a sap.” Hitoshi teases in response because
he knows that Chuuya will take it in the best way possible.

“Ungrateful brat.” Chuuya bites back, but a grin is still splitting his face in two.

Hitoshi waves his hand in a “just go” type of gesture and soon enough Chuuya too vanishes
from his sight, swallowed by the crowd.

Slowly, to him comes a realization that he still has no way to contact Chuuya, to make it
possible to see him again. He sighs at his own airheadedness and looks down at Goldfish,
who strangely enough, is sitting obediently a few steps away. She notices him looking and
stares right back, her tail twitching.

“You’ll have to help me find them next time too,” he mutters to her.

He gets a single yawn in response, showing off rows of pointed teeth.

“Hey, it’s not like nothing’s in it for you,” he says, lifting the bags full of food, including the
kind targeted towards felines.

At this, she springs to her feet and trudges up closer, meowing again, probably for more of
those sardines.

“Alright, alright, I know what you keep me around for.”

His arms do ache even more when he makes it back home that evening, but the bags full of
food and the contented feeling settled in his stomach might just be worth it.

Chapter End Notes

i made hitoshi haul grocery bags across the city knowing damn well how much it sucks
hahaha

anyway, s.australasicus or scomber australasicus, is the scientific name for the blue
mackerel :)
 Lull
Chapter Notes

hello hello i'm back with more of these two idiots dancing around each other. god they're
so stupid i love writing them

thank you onceafangirl_alwaysafangirl for beta reading this chapter!

cw: description of mild injury and blood

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Mindfulness for Anger Management: Transformative Skills for Overcoming Anger and
Managing Powerful Emotions

That’s the title of the hardback that tumbles into his lap from somewhere above him on his
right, where a bandaged slimy mackerel is hovering, arms crossed over his chest. Chuuya
blinks at the white and turquoise of the cover once. Twice. The first time is to help him take
in the tacky font and lackluster composition. The second, however, is to keep his eyelid from
twitching from the exasperation that overtakes him. Seeing his facial muscles spasm
sporadically would only be something the bastard takes joy in, and in this case, is waiting
for.

Instead, he chucks the thing right back at Dazai’s head.

Dazai of course twists to the side and avoids the makeshift projectile, because he’s slimy like
that, but Chuuya delights in the way one corner of the book grazes the brunet’s cheek. It’s the
small joys in life that matter, after all.

The book lands face down, gracelessly, but thankfully quietly on Dazai’s bed, which is still
unmade. Chuuya sneers up at the man, ready to point it out, but changes his mind midway
knowing that any reprimand given to that man is basically futile. The dramatic pout painted
over Dazai’s face is clear evidence as to why.

“Chibi,” it’s whiny, dragged out, and everything he despises. “You’re being ungrateful.”

“Me?! I’m the one who’s ungrateful? This is an insult!”

“Chuuya, maybe I genuinely care about your well-being.” Dazai prods a finger at Chuuya’s
temple, which he swats away immediately. “See, this vein in particular looks like it’s about to
pop. That cannot be healthy.”
Chuuya has to clench the bedsheet really tightly in order not to level the inn they’re staying
at, as well as the neighboring buildings and the ground. He can’t believe that he bought the
bastard crab chips and he’s repaid for his thoughtfulness with this ?

Dazai must sense that the amount of fury emanating from him is marginally larger than
normal, and steps back, although his expression is still unbearably smug. The mischievous
glint in his dark eyes is apparent even with that stupid fake pout of his and Chuuya thinks
maybe he can, no, he definitely can believe this. He can easily believe that Dazai would do
something as stupid as buying an entire self-help book just to get a reaction out of him. That’s
what Dazai’s always done after all. It’s just been a while.

Chuuya closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. Dazai’s socked feet shuffle a little
further, softly scuffing over the hardwood flooring, followed by the sound of pages being
flipped.

“It was quite hard to find, so you have to at least acknowledge my efforts. They don’t have
that many physical books left here.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Here, chibi, I can read it to you, if it’s a little too difficult for your reading level. Psychology
is, after all, a complex science. ‘Anger is a natural component of our emotional experiences,
but it can also--’”

The rubberband of his patience and self-restraint snaps, and it does so audibly, as he grabs the
nightstand lamp and throws it at Dazai’s stupid head. The thing doesn’t glow red as he does it
the fool-proof human way: throwing all of his body weight into it. It crashes into the wall, the
plastic casing breaking into two clean pieces and the lightbulb shattering. Dazai of course
pops out from behind his bed completely unscathed, except for a few pieces of glass
glimmering in his hair, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the window.

Dazai tuts, looking over at the mess behind him, shards littering half of their tiny new room.
“Chuuya, at this point you’re just proving--”

“Just, shut up. Please.” Chuuya cuts him off, gritting the words out through his teeth. He rubs
the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched shut so tightly there are small yellow glow-worms
dancing in the darkness of his vision.

Dazai surprisingly does as asked, lending him a few blissful seconds of complete silence. He
drinks them in and counts his breaths.

“Thank you,” he mutters out and blinks his eyes open. Without sparing a glance at the other
man, he stands up to walk out of the room. A few shards that had flown over to his side of the
cramped space crunch under his heels on the way out. He can’t help the tired sigh that
escapes his throat. “Don’t cut yourself on the glass, I’ll clean it up.”

The door shuts behind him and he takes a few steps down the small corridor before leaning
against the wall. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his pants, tense and itching for
something, anything, to do. They feel particularly naked right now, even if he isn’t
technically out and around anyone, so there’s no reason for them to be covered.

Yesterday evening everything had seemed so mellow, pleasant even. Now that Chuuya thinks
back on it, maybe unusually so. Dazai was unapologetically cryptic and nosy as always but
he also was… amicable. He expressed his own unexpected brand of kindness to the kid and
even the cat, and after they made it to the inn, was nice enough to not spout too much
nonsense.

But Dazai will always be Dazai and Chuuya should stop expecting anything else from him.
Half of the stuff that comes out of the mackerel's mouth in Chuuya’s proximity is aimed to
get a rise out of him. That’s how it always has been. In the light of that, Chuuya’s reaction
does seem a bit too strong.

Although, a self-help book? Seriously? The vast majority of Chuuya’s current anger
problems stem from the fact that a certain bandaged asshole is always there to induce them.
Out of everyone on this entire earth, in the present or future, Dazai is the only one able to
make him lose sight of any rationale whatsoever.

Chuuya is in the middle of another set of breathing exercises that he was forced to learn at the
tender age of fifteen when he hears a set of feet climbing up the steps at the end of the
hallway. He composes himself, as much as he can in the mere seconds he has, before a
headful of graying pink hair comes into view.

It’s the inn-keeper, a kind lady that let herself be charmed by Dazai into giving them a week’s
stay in one of the rooms. She has gentle features with caring written all over them, and it’s a
wonder how Dazai had managed to find her and her tiny establishment in the slums. Guilt
knocks on his ribcage as Chuuya realizes he has been destroying this woman’s property.

“Is everything alright, dear? I thought I heard a crash.”

Chuuya’s hand comes up to rest awkwardly at the back of his neck by itself, as if tugged by
an invisible puppeteer. Maybe he really did overreact a little.

“Everything’s fine, there’s just been a bit of an accident and the nightstand lamp broke. If you
could give me the cost, I will pay for the replacement immediately.”

The woman waves her hand around, shaking her head, cementing the idea of just leaving her
a sizable wad of cash at the end of their stay in Chuuya’s head. Housing him and Dazai must
be a pain, so it’s all responsible spending.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about that, dear. Are there a lot of shards? I hope neither of
you got injured.”

Chuuya then spends the following minutes convincing the woman that they don’t need any
help cleaning up, and she only backs down when he lets it slip that he can do it very quickly
and efficiently with the help of his ability. The lady then launches into a story about her niece
that apparently has a similar one and he nods and hums politely to flush out the remnants of
guilt in his chest.
Dazai, the bastard, is probably listening to the conversation through the paper-thin walls of
the inn, getting his kicks out of hearing Chuuya apologize to an elderly woman about losing
his temper. They are the only ones actually staying in one of the few rooms on the second
floor of the tiny building, most of the income flowing in the form of people coming over to
the bar on the ground floor. It’s a perfect, low-profile option for them right now, even if the
scope of their possible exploration of the city has been reduced to the alleys and side streets
of the worse-off districts.

Eventually, the woman lets him go with a wave of a small hand and an additional garbage
bag and Chuuya braves himself for going back inside of his and Dazai’s room. There, Dazai
seems to be on his newly acquired phone, although Chuuya can feel eyes on the back of his
neck as he floats pieces of glass over to himself and straight into the bag. It’s hard to keep his
shoulders from rising defensively, even though not yet a word has been said. He manages
somehow.

The silence lingers until he finishes cleaning up, even though there had been plenty of ample
opportunities for Dazai to ridicule him. Chuuya deposits the bag outside the door and goes to
wash his hands, despite the fact that he hadn’t actually touched anything. The atmosphere in
the room is stifling so he grabs his coat, his hat, and his gloves, and heads out the door a
second time. All the while he acutely feels a pair of eyes follow him, up until the door closes
behind him.

Downstairs, the bar is mostly empty in the daylight, except for a single patron at the front,
chatting up the pink-haired lady. He walks out the back door meant for staff after sending a
nod to the owner and getting one in response. The balmy air of the alleyway hits him right in
the face, accompanied by the unrelenting rays of sunlight that steadily warm the dusty
concrete walls.

Chuuya deposits the trash bag in one of the containers further away and goes back to rest
against the wall next to the door. His hands are still itching with an unknown urge despite
being covered by his gloves now, and after some internal fighting, he digs out his cigarettes
once again. Without paying much attention to it, Chuuya lights one up and takes a drag that
he exhales right in front of himself, a screen to cover his vision. The alley is pretty much a
closed space so it takes a bit longer for the smoke to dissipate, but when it does, the man
notices the very top of a crown belonging to a plum tree. It’s peeking over the top of the back
wall, spilling over in rich pinks and reds, much too late to be flowering at this time. But this
is not Chuuya’s world, this is a different time with a different ruleset and different periods for
plum trees to flower.

Dazai’s stupid pranks and gifts had become something that he had the liberty of not sparing a
thought to, over the last four years. And possibly, being forced to do so again now is causing
a sort of whiplash for him. It’s not only that, but it’s also the fact that Dazai broke the meta
with this particular stupid joke, by referring to the fact that Chuuya often loses his temper
with the man around. It tips the scales of their back and forth and puts him in a vulnerable
position. It steps over the boundary he didn’t even know was there until today, and seemingly
Dazai didn’t either. It’s all just a bit too much, and his cigarette is already running short.
He flicks off the ash and takes the last few draws, keeping them in his lungs for a blissful
second and then blowing them out into the stale air.

Chuuya always despised the fact that it was Dazai who knew how to push him to the end of
his patience, and that he didn’t hesitate to do it for his own amusement. It made him feel like
he’s lost his autonomy without noticing, that his trust is being laughed at. He kept on falling
into traps set out for him each time it happened, rising up to the bait, all the while being
completely aware of it. It’s how he is, how he always was, it’s etched into his core, the trust,
and loyalty. It didn’t mean that it didn’t sting.

Chuuya takes out another cigarette, leaving two twin ones rattling around in the carton, and
lights it up too. As he withdraws it from his lips, the door creaks open and Dazai’s brown
mop pops out, followed by beige shoulders.

“Let’s go eat, chibi. Nomura-san has lunch prepared for us.”

Chuuya inhales the smoke, orange spark at the end of the cigarette flaring up briefly before
dimming down. Dazai quietly shuts the door closed and moves to stand beside Chuuya,
where he’s leaning against the wall.

Chuuya raises an eyebrow at Dazai and exhales the smoke right in front of them both,
making no effort to redirect it. Dazai scrunches up his nose slightly but doesn't say anything.
At least not for a bit.

“Is chibi mad?” comes when Chuuya is already halfway through this cigarette, perfectly
content with ignoring Dazai’s presence.

“What’s it look like?”

Dazai blinks and answers in that same curious tone, “It seems like you’re a little ashamed and
frustrated. Conflicted.”

“Well, obviously.” Chuuya rolls his eyes so hard that the glow-worms show up again. “As
much as you claim to be able to see through almost everything, you sure do seem blind as a
bat right now.”

Dazai turns to look at him just slightly, Chuuya can see it in his peripheral vision, and tilts his
head even more subtly. It’s a gesture that is especially infuriating when directed at him. It’s a
wordless question, and call him petty, but he doesn’t feel like gracing Dazai with wordless
understanding right at this moment.

After Chuuya doesn’t answer for a while, Dazai phrases his unworded question.

“And what am I blind to, Chuuya?”

“Emotions. Plain human emotions and what they stem from. You spot them, identify them,
include them in your stupid plans but you don’t see them.”

Chuuya doesn’t hurry to finish this one, savoring it, despite the blanket of quiet that settles
over them. He doesn’t expect Dazai to reply. Eventually, though, he finds himself surprised.
“I’ve been learning.”

Chuuya snorts, a bitter and reflexive laugh, as he flicks off the ash, tapping on the filter with
his thumb. Then he looks up at Dazai and the pair of eyes as black as the abyss itself. Those
eyes were the ones that dragged him into the mafia and pulled him away from the brink of
oblivion numerous times. Those were the eyes that had vanished from his life four years ago,
only to reappear on the other side of the barricade.

Huh. Maybe he actually has.

He finishes his second smoke, for some reason weirdly annoyed at this revelation. Lets the
butt fall from between his fingers onto the ground, and crushes it under his shoe. Then sighs,
puts his hands back into his pockets, and says, “Let’s just go eat.”

They eat and pick up their back and forth between plates, Chuuya slowly letting go of the
petty hurt of the morning. It’s a little easier to do so after Dazai’s weirdly worded and
roundabout, as always, apology. It’s a big feat to get Dazai to admit to vulnerability and
lacking something, so even if a part of Chuuya wants to kick in his heels and refuse him,
gradually over the course of their meal he softens up and bickers back at Dazai’s stupid jabs.

None of what Dazai says during their time eating is actually serious enough to sting though,
which is unexpected and makes him slightly suspicious. Dazai… Dazai doesn’t show
restraint for others’ sake. He uses people to make his plans work and everything else outside
of that is just for the sake of his own entertainment. But the coat hanging off the bastard’s
shoulders is an awful beige, and not mafia black anymore. Maybe that detail carries more
weight than he had anticipated.

Chuuya kicks Dazai’s shin under the table just because. The mackerel needs to stop usurping
his mind like this. Not a single thought unrelated to the bastard in some way has crossed his
mind in hours.

The kick lands, mainly because it’s not anticipated, and earns him a dramatic wail. Chuuya
smirks until that wail reaches just a touch too loud and threatens to make the other diners’
heads turn. Then he slams a hand over the top of Dazai’s head just to make him shut up
again. The brunet is too busy clutching his leg for dramatic effect to dodge, so Chuuya’s palm
lands squarely on that brown mop.

“Chuuya! I thought Ane-san was supposed to teach you manners! You don’t raise a hand
before a man down.”

Chuuya flops back in his seat and takes a sip of the wine that the owner so kindly dug out for
him. “You and I both know that Ane-san wouldn’t give a shit if a man is down or not. You, as
a matter of fact, wouldn’t either.”

Dazai ignores this and mutters something about slugs and vulgar language, still holding onto
his stupid leg. The sight is growing to be increasingly irritating.

“Oh come on, you’re not even holding the right leg, you bastard.”
Dazai looks down as if only having just realized it himself. “It’s an expression of pain, either
way, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that. Remind me to rewrap your ankle when we get back to
the room.”

“Aw, chibi cares!” Dazai croons out, placing his chin in his hands and leaning forward.
Chuuya lurches backward and away from him out of reflex and stares back, unimpressed.

“It’s either that or carrying you everywhere.”

Dazai, of course, delights in the possibility of a repeat of their first days here and that’s a
whole another ordeal that also ends with some kicks in the shins traded.

It’s a day of waiting and lounging around that they let trickle through their fingers like sand.
Bastard or not, Chuuya trusts Dazai with his plan to take them back home. And if there’s
nothing to do but wait for an opening, then Chuuya believes Dazai that it’s true.

Dazai keeps fiddling with his devices, Chuuya chats up the lady and thanks her for her
efforts. It’s only the evening of the following day that Dazai lets him know that the
preparations are slowly rolling into motion. It’s just that he does it, as usual, in a way that one
has to decipher.

The dusk is starting to fall and the bar beneath them is slowly filling up with customers ready
to drink their thoughts away. This room does not have a television, but Dazai has his laptop
that is glowing blue in the dim light, working just as well as additional illumination. Chuuya
borrowed a few books from the small shelf pushed up against one of the walls and has been
going through them in the past couple of hours. Fantasy novels weren’t exactly his favorite
genre but anything works to distract him from Dazai’s stupid singing.

But the singing stops, the laptop closes and Dazai says, “I think it’s time to visit a certain
friend.”

Chuuya puts down his novel that has been dragging on for a little too long, quietly grateful to
have something to do. Then he realizes who Dazai is talking about.

A groan escapes his throat, something that the bastard seems annoyingly smug at.

“Now, now, chibi. It’s almost like you don’t want to pay a visit to our precious friend.”

“She’s too captivated by you to be in any way tolerable.”

“But Chuuya! I am a wonder to be around.”

Chuuya answers the bandaged bastard with an unimpressed look while pulling on his shoes
and grabbing his coat. After weaving through alleys and backstreets for a long hour, Dazai’s
crutch thumping rhythmically against the ground, they end up back at the dim-lit bar.

They situate themselves at the counter, different seats from the last time, because their
previous ones are already occupied by someone more scar-tissue and spite than human flesh.
The icy blue eyes bore into them, daring to approach, something that Chuuya can scoff at
over the top of his glass. But soon enough, their “friend” shows themself too. A dainty figure
pops out from one of the booths behind them, all glinting eyes and knives.

The girl looks gleeful to see them, swaying on the balls of her feet and showing off her
incisors. Dazai smiles that smile that means doom to children like this, but Chuuya had him
run this part through with him on the way here, so it all should go relatively fine. Chuuya’s
not sure why, but he just doesn’t want more children to have their lives and brains scrambled
by Dazai’s hands. Having to see Akutagawa at his most desperate is enough for him.

“Is it time?” the girl asks, now perched on a stool beside them, swinging her legs and leaning
forward eagerly.

The corner of Dazai’s lips twitches in amusement. The ice in his glass tinkles, making contact
with the walls as he takes a steady sip.

“Soon. You will know when it’s time.”

The girl furrows her brows, flicks out a knife, and slashes at Dazai. Dazai catches it easily
and carries on as if nothing had happened.

“I was thinking of having a trial run today, however,” he says, and Chuuya observes, with
almost morbid fascination, how the kid’s eyes light up at the words.

The girl clutches her knife to her chest and smiles a blinding smile that makes Chuuya think
that she will grow into someone seriously dangerous one day. The wine he’d been drinking
sits on his tongue, rich and a touch bitter, and Chuuya figures that even if there’s no Port
Mafia in the future, the darkness will still make its grab at children anyway.

The girl doesn’t show much discontentment after that and seems to be in a mood to run her
mouth. Some of it’s useless to his ears, but some of it catches his attention, which means that
Dazai is cataloging it all in the corners of his mind.

“They’re making me this new thing so I can steal people’s blood more easily and then store
it! I am going to be able to sneak around all kinds of places, can you imagine?” She gives a
chuckle that could rival some of the darkest laughs Chuuya has heard and stares off into the
distance, as if seeing something worthy of that wistfulness there. “All sorts of places…”

Then, not unlike a bird, she tilts her head and looks at Dazai, seemingly thoughtful. Dazai
doesn’t react in any way, just continues to drink casually. The bastard fully understands that
this kind of behavior will only make her want to spill whatever it is she knows more.

It only takes a moment, really.

“Shigaraki did say ‘to keep my creepy mouth shut about this’,” she mimes the quotation
marks with her fingers, puffing out her cheeks, “but he’s mean to me all the time, and that
means he doesn’t get to boss me around. So,”
She swings her legs, a motion that only adds to the unsettling aesthetic she’s got going for
her, smiles widely, and tells them all about the training camp that the UA baby heroes are
going to next week.

“Me, Dabi,” she throws back a thumb at the man brooding in the corner, “and some others are
planning to crash their little party and take some home!” She smiles into the sleeve of her
sweatshirt, looks Dazai in the eye, and says, “Do with that what you will.”

Dazai’s hint of a smile is less of a hint and more of an expression of a satisfied cat, almost
mirroring hers, just a lot more subdued. The girl knows what she’s doing, handing over
information to him, it’s clear as day.

“I’ll do my best to live up to the expectations, then,” Dazai replies, and Chuuya has to hold
back from smacking him over the head for looking so smug.

They finish up their chit-chat, Dazai retrieves his shiny new gun from the bartender, along
with a few rounds of ammo that disappear inside of his coat. Chuuya does smack him over
the head when he replies “change of plans” to a question about what happened to getting
documentation. And then the three of them walk outside for that trial run of Dazai’s.

They find a more closed-off space and the feral child jumps Dazai once again, slashing at his
cheek. This time, Dazai backs away just enough to let it graze. Chuuya rolls his eyes at the
dramatics and is already planning another visit to the convenience store in his head for some
bandaids and a change of bandages. The cut still seems deep enough to not stop bleeding for
a while, and Dazai will be annoying about it when it doesn’t.

The girl retracts her arm in a flash of movement and puts the blade to her lips immediately.
Dazai watches it with vague interest and Chuuya just waits for what’s inevitably going to
happen.

The kid’s eyebrows pucker up first, then away goes the smile.

“It doesn’t work. Why doesn’t it work? Let me try again.” And she’s reaching out again, but
Dazai, the infuriating fucker, is just standing there, not even bothering to offer an
explanation.

Chuuya sighs and steps in, catching the wrist aiming for Dazai’s jugular this time.

“It’s not going to work if you try again, the fucker’s annoying like that,” he explains, and
watches confusion morph into frustration on her face. Dammit, why can’t the bastard ever do
shit himself? “It’s his quirk , it nullifies others.” The stupid word still tastes wrong in his
mouth, he’s bound to slip up sometime.

The frustration doesn’t clear, but at least there’s understanding there now, dawning rapidly.
The arm under his hold slackens, muscles giving up on their goal and Chuuya promptly lets
go and steps back.

Dazai hums and finally decides to pick up his own slack, “Chuuya is right, seems like your
quirk doesn’t work with my blood due to mine.”
The girl scrunches up her nose in disdain, “That’s a boring quirk then.”

Chuuya can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him and the side-eye Dazai gives him
makes it even sweeter.

“What’s in it for me now?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, knife still clutched in
one of them.

Dazai shrugs, unbothered, “Not that much, really. But there wasn’t much to begin with, and
you knew that. You can turn around and walk away.”

Seeing Dazai giving people imaginary options when there are none is a bit surreal from an
outsider’s perspective. Chuuya mostly remembers these types of conversations with him as
the one being talked into things, not as an observer. The kid throws her head back and groans,
frustrated. Yeah, Chuuya can feel that one.

“That’s boring...” she drags out, facing the sky, arms hanging at her sides. Then, she swiftly
whips her head down, the twin buns atop of her head bobbing slightly with the movement.
She squints at Dazai, looking him over. “I wanna see what you’re going to do.”

Dazai lets the silence speak for him. Chuuya can almost see the moment the girl makes a
decision.

“I still get to be him, right?” she points a finger at Chuuya, who would be a bit offended at
any other circumstance, but she just got conned by Dazai of all people, so he can cut her
some slack.

Dazai gives a single nod and that’s all she needs to lunge for Chuuya’s neck this time.
Chuuya catches her hand once again, as he does with another one that was going for his liver.
He twists that wrist to make her drop the weapon and while she’s distracted with it, he plucks
the other knife right out of her grip.

Chuuya uses the moment of puzzlement to glare at a very smug-looking Dazai, before
focusing his attention back on the child before him. At least she has a bit of dignity left and
steps away from him distrustfully, clutching her wrist. Chuuya knows that it’s just going to
bruise slightly at most, so he doesn’t worry about it. Seems like she’s just as into the
dramatics as Dazai is, it just still works in her favor at that age.

Chuuya weighs the knife in his hand and throws it up in the air to get a feel for it. It’s a
pocket knife, so one does not expect much from it right from the get-go, but it’s well
balanced and taken care of. As he catches it by the handle and rolls up one sleeve of his
undercoat, he briefly glances at Dazai questioningly.

“Toga,” Ah, that’s what her name is, “Can you use the person’s quirk when you’ve turned
into them, too?” Dazai inquires.

Toga nods absently, still carefully eyeing the way Chuuya is handling her knife. “I have to
have extensive knowledge of it, though.”
Chuuya can’t help but freeze in his movements, eyes magnetically drawn back to Dazai to
catch the minute shifts in his expression. There isn’t any, just a finger tapping to his lips, and
that one has always been for show.

Toga herself seems to realize the implications of what she’s being asked about. She looks
away from Chuuya’s hands and grins in what feels like the first time in quite a bit.

“Oh. Oh. Will I get to use the fancy guy’s quirk?”

Both of them seem to be hanging on to Dazai’s every word right now. Chuuya has some valid
reasons to be doing so. If Dazai is thinking of spilling shit about his ability to a child then
he’s got a storm and a half coming.

Dazai smiles pleasantly and so fakely Chuuya could throw up in his face. “We’ll see about
that.”

Chuuya gives him one last warning look that Dazai cannot see because he’s busy squinting
through his fake smile. Toga, on the other hand, still seems to be up in spirits.

“That’s not a no,” she notes, smug, and Chuuya’s dregs of empathy towards her run out. As if
sensing this, she turns back to glare at him. “Will you give me my knife back?”

“I’d prefer to do this part myself. So, not yet,” he replies and slashes his forearm.

Blood wells up quickly, coating the blade and running down his arm to drip onto the ground.
As soon as the first drop falls, the wound begins healing, getting shallower and shallower
until the edges stitch together and any trace of it disappears, only leaving a bloody knife
behind.

“Oh? Your quirk can do that?”

Chuuya looks up to see Toga watching him with eyes as big as saucers, hungrily eyeing the
knife. He decides to just hand it over to her without thinking much about it. She brushes one
side of the blade with her thumb in a skilled motion, gathering up some of it, and then pops
the finger in her mouth.

What follows is an experience that admittedly throws him off-kilter. Childish features melt
away and shortly, he’s looking at a perfect copy of himself, down to the clothing and
accessories, although he can see hints of Toga’s uniform and sweater poking out of the
disguise. Not-Toga smirks in an eerily familiar way, which has his fists clenching
involuntarily.

“Fascinating,” comes from his right, where Dazai seems to be not even slightly put off by the
sight. The cut on his cheek is steadily weeping blood, as he has probably forgotten to swipe it
away again.

Then his own face melts away, leaving a teenage girl in its place, as if the past minute was a
wine-induced hallucination. His muscles are taut and he desperately wants to shudder.
However, he still has some self-respect left, so he just settles for rolling his shoulders.
“The more blood I drink, the longer I can keep the appearance up,” she says, hands laced
behind her back.

Dazai claps his hands together, “It’s great that Chuuya has more than enough of it, then.”

Right then and there, Chuuya gets fed up with just about everything, and steps closer to Dazai
only to jab an elbow into his ribs. The brunet slips away from the jab but gets snatched by
one of the lapels of his coat anyway.

“He,” Chuuya points at the bandaged bastard, even digs in the finger into his side on purpose,
“Will let you know when you’re needed. We will be going now.”

And that’s how their goodbyes go, the kid waving a hand while clutching a bloody knife, not
that different from last time, disappearing into the dark.

Chuuya drags them into one of the stores that doesn’t seem to have security cameras and gets
Dazai some bandaids and disinfectant. Dazai spouts some bullshit and whines at the sting, but
lets him stick it on anyway. Time passes, and another weekend comes, bringing busier
evenings to the tiny inn and its keeper. Chuuya makes an assumption that they will be using
the days of the hero kids’ training camp to make their move. In reality, it’s closer to a logical
conclusion, logical enough that he doesn’t need to ask Dazai about it. It means that there will
be fewer resources to stop them inside of the school, a bit less resistance overall.

So Chuuya goes through his novels, and Dazai scours the internet and occasionally tries to
persuade him into playing chess. Chuuya is not an idiot and knows he would lose before even
starting but the bastard keeps on being annoying.

“Chibi, chibikko, tiny short slug!” Dazai keeps prodding at his back with his crutch over the
gap between their beds and Chuuya is too comfortable in his reading position to give him a
reaction. “Short-stack, glorified hat-rack, petit mafia , my loyal do–”

Chuuya flips on his other side and catches the crutch with one hand. He throws his pillow at
Dazai’s face with the other, just to make him shut up for a second. The small beds of the inn,
sadly, only have one pillow each, which means that he just gave up his to Dazai, in exchange
for seeing it hit him squarely in the mug.

“I told you, I don’t want to play chess with your scheming ass!”

“Is chibi scared of losing? Chibi knows that he will lose to me so he refuses to even try!”

“That is precisely why I do not want to play with you. Getting shown up by a demon is not
my type of fun and it wouldn’t be anyone’s with half a brain.”

Dazai huffs, suddenly possessed by a spirit of a five-year-old, and crosses his arms over his
chest. That doesn’t last long, however, and soon the bastard gasps as a new idea comes to his
mind that is bound to make Chuuya suffer.

“If you go play chess with me, I’ll tell you what I have figured out.”
Chuuya arches an unimpressed eyebrow at the man before him and rubs his forehead
desperately when it invokes no reaction except for the same cheshire grin.

“You do know that you have to tell me what the plan is anyway?”

Dazai only keeps blinking at him.

Chuuya sighs heavily and sits up, reaching for his gloves and hat on the nightstand. Dazai
gasps in delight and claps his hands together. Fucking insufferable.

Five minutes later sees them situated at one of the two-seat tables at the inn, the one with the
chessboard etched into the surface of it. It’s old and littered with scuff marks, but it’s clean
because Nomura-san takes good care of everything that she has.

They’re arranging the pieces on the board, Dazai chewing on the candy Nomura-san provided
with the chess pieces, when a group of people step through the front door. It’s a man, a
woman, and a teenage girl, undoubtedly a family. It’s still quite early in the morning, even if
it is Sunday, and there’s no one else but them sitting at the tables or the bar. The newcomers
alert Nomura-san with their steps and she comes hurrying from the back.

Dazai and Chuuya watch curiously as the girl runs to hug the innkeeper, who is holding her
arms out, already waiting.

“Ochako-chan! You’ve grown so tall!”

“Auntie, you saw me like a month ago, it really hasn’t been that long!” the girl says through
her laughter but still keeps hugging tightly. It must be the niece that the innkeeper was talking
about that time.

Chuuya looks away awkwardly, feeling as if he’s intruding on a private moment. Dazai
doesn’t have such qualms and only looks away to finish placing his darker wooden pawns in
place.

He’s happy to state that he was holding his own pretty well up until halfway through the
game. Then, Nomura-san came up to introduce her sister, the husband, and her beloved niece
to them, breaking Chuuya’s concentration.

“Ochako, these are my current guests, they’re staying in the second room upstairs, Dazai and
Chuuya. Dazai, Chuuya, this is Uraraka Ochako and she’s studying to be the best hero the
world is about to see!”

They nod their hellos to the poor girl, who’s turned red from embarrassment, and Dazai runs
his mouth, charming both of the older women into swooning over him. When the visitors
walk deeper into the inn, Chuuya looks back at the board and finds himself inevitably losing.

“Checkmate,” Dazai says. Chuuya steps on his good foot because this was exactly what he
meant. This isn’t fun, it’s a form of torture.

They’re arranging the pieces on the board again when Chuuya runs out of patience. He steps
on Dazai’s foot a second time.
“Tell me about what you have figured out, you mummy.”

Dazai looks at him in disdain before answering, “You should stop being so coarse if you want
people to talk to you.”

“And you should stop being so annoying if you want me to stay and keep losing to you.”

“How kind of you, Chuuya! Offering your dignity up as a sacrifice for my entertainment.
That’s a noble cause.”

“Spill.”

Dazai places his queen into place, and motions for Chuuya to open. Chuuya does not
overthink it and does so right away just so that Dazai finally speaks.

“Your little stray helped me find our time traveler.”

Chuuya’s head snaps up from the board. “What.”

“Honestly, Chuuya, your mother hen instincts never fail to astonish me.”

He can feel his face heat up, hopefully not in the way that’s visible, but definitely in the way
that is irritating.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I thought you wanted me to talk? Your move.”

Chuuya moves a pawn, at this point not even caring whether he’s just giving it away to Dazai
or not.

“Don’t act fucking stupid. Explain.”

He does give it away to Dazai. The brunet picks it up and puts it to the side in a dramatic arch
that Chuuya ends up unconsciously tracking with his eyes.

“Your kid just gave me an idea of where to look, don’t look so stricken, chibi.”

“And what did you find out?” Although his muscles relax a little, his tone is still noticeably
tight and clipped.

“Quirkless.”

“Huh? That’s what they call normal people right? People without abilities.”

By now, the majority of the pieces piled away from the board are light, and the darker ones
are only the ones Dazai let him have. Chuuya adds another one to the pile.

Dazai hums, popping in another sweet into his mouth and rolling the wrapper between his
thumb and forefinger. “What does normal mean when normal is a minority?”
Chuuya’s brow furrows, both at the board and Dazai’s stupid riddle.

“Ugh, so slow, chibi. ‘The Quirkless’ are marginalized here. Abilities are so widespread that
people who do not have them automatically stand out.”

“Okay, and how does that relate to the brat that brought us here?”

Dazai hums, moving his queen to Chuuya’s side of the board. Chuuya’s head has been out of
the game for a while so he just makes a move to make one.

“You see, the importance they place on their quirks here is so immense that one has it
registered everywhere. Especially school systems.”

Goodness, couldn’t Dazai just start with that? Why lead him by the nose?

“So you decided to look into only those ‘quirkless’ kids, then?”

That would make sense. If one’s ability really is registered everywhere, then the only option
for their time traveler was to put hers down as nothing. Faking an ability would be too
difficult, and registering her real one would practically be begging for her to get found out.

Dazai nods, one hand curled up under his chin, the other picking up his piece on the board.
“Check.”

Chuuya blinks, looks down at the board, and moves his king out of the way.

“Did you find anything?”

Dazai hums and draws out the pause on purpose just to mess with Chuuya.

And then, “I found her.”

“You did?!”

“Hm. I did. Imagine my surprise when she was the ‘quirkless’ classmate your stray was
talking about.”

Chuuya’s eyes briefly widen, and he lets out an emphatic curse. “How do you know for
sure?”

At this, Dazai’s brows furrow. He’s still looking at the board, so one might think that he’s
puzzled about the game, but Chuuya is completely sure that every possible outcome of this
game has already been mapped out in his head.

“UA is really careless with how they broadcast their students’ faces. Once I knew where to
look, finding her in those sports’ festival recordings has been a piece of cake.”

“Wow, you really had your work cut out for you then.”
“Chibi, unappreciative.” Dazai whines and moves his rook across the board, vindictive.
“Checkmate again.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever,” Chuuya says absently, staring off into the wall behind Dazai,
thinking. It’s at that moment that his eye catches on something. Something small and black
and obscured by Dazai’s hair, but nonetheless, still resting in his ear.

The reaction that draws out of him is nothing short of visceral. He lunges over the table to
grab Dazai’s collar to pull him closer. He doesn’t even notice that he’s knocked over some of
the chess pieces. His eyes are zeroed in on the device in Dazai’s right ear, unmistakably
identifiable as an earpiece.

“Wow, Chuuya, I thought you were aware you were losing.”

Chuuya ignores him and throws a quick glance to see if there are people around. There’s no
one in sight but he can hear muffled voices from behind the wall, so he still hisses out his
next words, instead of yelling them out like he wants to.

“You fucking bastard! Did you bug Nomura-san?!”

He lets Dazai go and slumps back in his seat, not even needing an answer at this point, as all
of the pieces start falling into place. He scrubs one hand over his face, accidentally knocking
his hat out of place and musing up his fringe. The chuckle he lets out is saturated with
disbelief, even if this is still completely in the realm of possibilities of what Dazai is capable
of doing.

“You–, fuck, her niece is one of those UA hero students, isn’t she? And you knew that all this
time.” he stares at the board wide-eyed and unseeing. “Shit, that’s why you chose this inn,
wasn’t it? Oh gods, I fucking hate you.”

Dazai adjusts his collar and puts the knocked-over pieces back into their places on the board.
“Nice to see chibi finally getting caught up with the program. I wasn’t banking on the herolet
actually coming to visit, it was just in case someone let something slip. If that makes it
better.”

“Not at all, thanks.” Chuuya buries his face in his gloved hands, thinking back to how kind
the woman was to him and Dazai, and how she is oblivious to the fact that the mackerel has
been spying on her.

“There, there, chibi.” Dazai reaches over to pat his shoulder smugly, and just this time,
Chuuya’s too preoccupied with his sulking to bat him away. “Now, if you clean up your mess
and behave, I might just let you listen in.”

Chuuya looks up to see Dazai dangling another earpiece, identical to the one in the bastard’s
ear. It’s then that he realizes Dazai has planned this too, dragging Chuuya out to “play chess”
as a ruse for listening in on private conversations.

He squints at the bastard suspiciously until the outline of his face becomes blurry. “I hope
that you didn’t bug her actual living spaces.”
Dazai looks actually disturbed by that thought, which is a small comfort. “You can rest easy,
Chuuya. Only the bar counter and the next room over.” He nods over to the wall behind
Chuuya, which is, coincidentally, where sounds of muffled conversation are coming from.

Chuuya groans and grabs the device out of Dazai’s hands. The conversation turns out to be
nothing noteworthy, just personal family affairs, something that Chuuya easily tunes out in
favor of gathering up his pieces and arranging them for a third game. He ditches the hints of
remorse at listening in on something private, because that’s how spying usually goes. They
play a few more like this, trading remarks while letting the conversation roll in the
background, making something almost nostalgic rise in Chuuya’s chest.

A lot of the joint overseas missions they’d get in the past would usually go like this, with
them lounging around in some cafe passing time while listening in on their target, waiting for
that slip, the sign of something off. Dazai would always insist on some game to play, be it
cards, a board game, or something as simple as I Spy. Chuuya would lose more often than
not, and throw up his arms, frustrated because neither of them were having much fun with the
scales so unbalanced. But Dazai would still insist, for some strange reason. And Chuuya
would still humor him, just like he is doing now, losing a fifth chess game in the span of an
hour.

“Would it kill you to just give me a win for once?” Chuuya mutters, in the aftermath of his
fifth consecutive loss.

“That wouldn’t be fair, Chuuya. And you’d dislike that even more than losing honestly.”

The bastard is right, as always, but it doesn’t mean he wants to hear it.

“How are you doing in school, Ochako, are they taking good care of you there?” Crackles
over the earpiece, something that has Chuuya looking at Dazai, just in time to catch the
stupid wink being sent his way.

“It’s… exciting but exhausting, honestly. Probably should've expected that from one of the
best hero school’s in Japan. But I had my exam a few days ago!”

As the girl recounts her examination to her aunt, Chuuya decides to finally switch pieces with
Dazai for the game. Dazai almost always plays black, so Chuuya hears a noise of protest as
he rearranges the pieces differently. He steps on the good foot to quiet him down.

“That’s great! I’m glad that you’re working towards your dream. But after what happened at
the beginning of the year, are you sure you still don't want to transfer to another school?
There are plenty other great schools that offer a hero track–”

“Auntie, no! I get that you’re worried, but I’m doing completely fine, that was a one-off
thing! Besides, I’ve already found friends there, actual ones.”

It then dawns on Chuuya that he knows for a fact that whatever it is the incident that they’re
discussing, this teenager is about to be attacked at the camp next week and is completely
unaware of it. Dazai catches his eye, most likely sensing what he is thinking of, and shakes
his head just so slightly. The girl continues trying to convince Nomura-san of her safety.
“And UA is full of heroes who are the best at what they do. Aizawa-sensei may be strict and a
bit of a hardass–, oh oops! Sorry, auntie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, that slipped out!”

Chuuya snorts out a laugh, listening to Nomura-san’s startled snickers filtering in through the
small speaker.

“Well at least that’s one good thing that UA did to you, you’re definitely a lot more
straightforward.”

“Right, um. Where was I? Aizawa-sensei might be a strict teacher but he genuinely cares
about us, you know? Seeing him holding back so many villains at the USJ for us really was
like something out of a hero film.”

“Hmm, Aizawa? I don’t think I’ve heard about him, he is a hero right?”

“Oh, um. Oops. I can’t really talk about that.”

“Huh, why not? Wait. Oh…”

There’s a couple of seconds of quiet shuffling and then the conversation picks up again, far
from something relevant to them. Chuuya looks at Dazai to see if he has any clue what that
was about, only to find him on his phone, tapping away.

Knowing that Dazai wouldn’t abandon a chess game that he had to rope Chuuya into unless it
meant receiving important information, he just waits until Dazai gets what he’s looking for.
In less than a minute the tapping stops.

“Looks like this wasn’t entirely fruitless,” is what the bastard says, tapping on the plastic
casing of his earpiece.

“Explain.”

“The famed Aizawa-sensei, or Aizawa Shouta. A member of UA staff, apparently a teacher,

neither a picture nor an ability listed.”

“And according to this kid, he fought off a hoard of villains for them. So he’s a hero?”

Dazai hums. “That would make the most sense, wouldn’t it?”

“Alright, what’s the catch?”

“No patience whatsoever, chibi,” Dazai says and remembers his game. Chuuya wants to press
him to reply, so he doesn’t make a move. “I have reason to believe that Aizawa Shouta is the
underground hero, alias Eraserhead.” Chuuya raises an eyebrow at him. “He’s the one that, as
you so eloquently had put, ‘looks like a wraith’.”

Oh. Yeah, that does make things much more interesting.

“So if he isn’t there when we go through with your plan, then that’s good for us,” Chuuya
says, watching Dazai to check if this assumption is true.
 “Oh, it’s surely good news. Especially to you, chibi. His ability is one of the very few trump
cards that UA has in stopping you. If he’s away, then the whole ordeal becomes so much
easier.” Dazai explains, motioning for Chuuya to make his move.

Chuuya doesn’t do that just yet, there’s something else that Dazai isn’t saying that might be
significant. He indicates this by nudging his leg with a boot under the table. Dazai sighs
heavily, shoulders deflating and head drooping, as if sharing a piece of his mind is the hardest
thing he’s ever had to do.

“We just have to hold out and not run into him again up until then.”

He can’t help the incredulous eyebrow that rises at the unusual ominous note that Dazai’s
tone is carrying. “Seriously? That’s it?”

Dazai just shrugs as if it isn’t his own thought that he just shared and motions again,
impatient. Chuuya grumbles but looks back at the board to see where he needs to defend this
time, and that’s why he doesn’t catch Dazai’s expression as the man says his next words.
Having plenty of previous material though, Chuuya can easily picture it, just by the musing
tone of his voice. It’s probably a touch contemplative, slitted eyes looking off into the
distance, the back of his hand propping up his chin.

“It’s a small world, after all.”

Chapter End Notes

wow it's almost like aizawa is actually a wraith haunting them

nomura-san is the innkeeper and an oc aunt of uraraka's, from her mother's side, if that
was a little confusing.

also i dislike the way toga and her ability are sexualized in the original material, so i
tried to remove it as much as possible, while still keeping the "murder child" aspect of
her character, both in this and in the previous chapters. i hope it still reads as her, though

anyway this was a bit more of a chill chapter but i hope you still enjoyed it! i started
reading the bsd manga not long ago and holy shit does it make dazai's character seem a
lot more complex. it's almost scary because i know i won't be able to do it justice but i'll
try my best anyway. i promise though that there won't be any manga spoilers here, it's
just not the kind of fic to be very canon compliant

thank you for reading and coming back for updates to this thing idk how the hell it
already has 1k kudos thank you thank you
 Pursuit
Chapter Notes

hi hellooo i am so sorry for the long wait, i had to finish my semester and i am really
bad at managing a big workload

but! that's all done now, so here you go!

beta read by onceafangirl_alwaysafangirl

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The first time he meets them he doesn’t dwell on it, because frankly, there isn’t much to
dwell on. If you could even call that occasion a meeting, that is. He has encountered so many
odd characters with peculiar relationship dynamics on the job, what are a couple more?

It is an ordinary weekday of him dealing with the hell class, made special only by the fact
that he brings home a painfully thick and heavy stack of papers to grade. He does not wish to
have them in his sight, their mere presence making the backs of his eyes ache persistently.
Reading through the tangled musings and explanations of Hero Law that a bunch of
overeager fifteen year-olds came up with is a different kind of anguish, and it’s not one he’s
in the mood for.

So he does what he does best, procrastinates on one of his specialties by overexerting himself
with another; he throws the stack somewhere out of sight and goes on patrol.

His neck aches and the dusk strains his eyes, but Aizawa Shouta has long learned to tune out
the groans and protests of his body. It comes with the profession.

He takes to the rooftops, only making use of his capture weapon once in a while. Admittedly,
he’s a touch desperate in the way he looks for something to occupy himself with, if only to
reason away neglecting his other work and combat the half-baked lesson plans swirling
around in his mind. This time Shouta wanders out into areas that he doesn’t frequent that
often too, keeping vigilant for signs of a scuffle or any other type of crime to stop.

Loitering around like this without a set goal feels as freeing as it does stupid, to Shouta. It’s a
relatively effective way to distract himself from the crushing responsibility of having
children’s lives depend on him, providing temporary reassurance that he is still capable of
doing his job well. It also feels a tad too conspicuous and showy for his brand of heroics.
Quite meaningless, if he’s being honest with himself.
Being an underground hero didn’t just mean patrolling at night. It meant being the main force
behind long-term stealth missions and covert operations, it meant doing the dirty work and
involving himself in stuff that the limelight heroes give a good berth for the sake of
maintaining image. So that fateful evening is an exception, something actually more self-
indulgent than it appears from the outside.

Shouta moves almost soundlessly, out of habit and principle, although the still lingering light
violet tint of the sky doesn’t provide as perfect of a cover as it could be. Even if there doesn’t
seem to be a need to do so, he stays as quiet as physically possible, something that he also
attempts to drill into those airheaded young brains too. There’s a lot of useful things to
overhear for a hero. He just really didn’t expect to be proven right this specific night.

He hears the raised, pronounced voices from quite far away. Shouta stops to listen, at first.
Crouched on some ledge a building or two away, supporting himself with a hand touched to
the cold concrete, he hears something that resembles a personal argument between two
individuals rather than a conflict he ought to resolve with restraining measures. He pulls up
the goggles hanging off his neck up to his face and decides to take a passing look anyway,
just in case he needs to intervene.

Soon enough, two figures and a moderately cramped alley come in sight as he looks over the
top of a sloping roof and downwards. The pair is involved in a heated argument and seem to
be at least a bit familiar with each other from what the body language is telling him. The
argument in itself is something that makes Shouta’s brow twitch, about pickpocketing and
crime it seems. But talking about doing something doesn’t immediately make the speaker
guilty, a mindset he gets to exercise every single day spent working with overpowered
teenagers.

Therefore, he just watches for now, waiting for the situation to either fizzle out or escalate,
with a tired kind of disinterest.

It’s not a tall building he’s perched on, barely raising him above an average line of sight,
making it easy for a keen eye to spot him. But people are prone to overlooking things they’re
unaware of, so Shouta quietly observes with confidence in his cover.

He can barely settle in it, though, as the shorter and clearly more agitated figure of the two
suddenly makes all sorts of trash float in the alley and have them hurtling full speed at the
other man. Shouta heaves a weary, well-practiced sigh at the same time that he activates his
quirk.

He despises these cases of assault between closely involved individuals even more than he
does most of the others, simply because of how complicated and convoluted they can be.
This pair only serves to validate this viewpoint when they happen to spot him.

Shouta recites the fucking law to them tonelessly, with the numbness of a man that had to do
so at least a couple hundred times in his lifetime. Most of those times he’s painfully aware
how the words fail to register and he really only tries to sound convincing when he sees a
spark of comprehension following them.
This time it’s not exactly comprehension as it is understanding followed by dismissal. Shouta
has to listen for the assailant having a whole fit when being faced with the facts.

Like he said earlier, convoluted and so unnecessarily complicated, these cases are. The only
interesting thing that he notes from that whole tirade is that the man that was being threatened
a mere minute ago also had some sort of erasing quirk too.

“Chuu-ya! Did you hear that? You are being violent towards your significant other!” The
voice cuts through his skull, stabbing right into brain. If he didn’t know better, Shouta would
say it belonged in a high-school classroom.

Shouta sits there and listens to the back and forth between the two, suddenly wishing that he
had just left those distant voices alone. Too grating to tune out, both of them. Yet he tries
anyway, hopelessly. The situation clearly wasn’t even worth the headache, and from what he
sees of the frankly disgusting display of a dysfunctional relationship dynamic, no one is
really in danger here.

At this point he just wants to leave this mess in the alleyway for these people to sort through
without his lingering presence, so he gives them a brief warning on public quirk use and
ditches. Swinging back into the night is a welcome relief, and it’s finally dark enough too, so
he's just grateful to not have to deal with that anymore.

It’s a serene and routine patrol otherwise, even more so than usual as he combs through the
districts that have a distinctly lower crime rate before returning to his turf. He stops a robbery
and busts an ordinary drug deal but that’s about it, and quietly he dares to hope for several
hours of uninterrupted sleep before he has to face another day of loud and reckless
hellspawns.

Considering all of this logically, around four in the morning when he’s done dragging the
dealer into the nearby precinct, nothing notable should have happened.

But Shouta should have learned to just not hope. Not hope for anything, really, by now.

He’s basically walking out the door of the station, one reinforced boot on the other side of the
threshold, when he hears a familiar “Eraser!”

Begrudgingly, Shouta looks over his shoulder to see Tsukauchi down the corridor, waving at
him with a stack of papers in hand. His tie crooked and his coat lost somewhere else in the
building, most likely the chairs lining the hallway to his office. The purplish shadows under
the detective’s eyes tell Shouta all he needs to know about the possibility of those precious
hours of sleep still happening.

His shoulders slump, his sigh drowned out by the sounds of three ongoing investigations
somewhere to his right. Tsukauchi approaches, his lips forming a pleasant but thin smile that
Shouta has long learned to read as desperate.

“What is it this time?”

Tsukauchi laughs warmly but briefly, more of a startled wheeze escaping his lungs than an
actual chuckle.

“Was there even a hope that I was just saying hi to an old friend?” The detective asks, already
aware of the answer.

Shouta gives him an unimpressed stare that the man laughs off sheepishly, running a hand
through his dark hair, clearly not for the first time that night.

“Look, it’s nothing big.”

Yeah, right. If Tsukauchi is approaching him with this, then it’s already big enough.

The detective raises a placating hand that comes across more as something defensive, than
anything. “I promise, it isn’t. Really. You know how Sansa has been stationed in Yokohama
for the past year?”

He nods. Tamakawa Sansa is a simple, no-nonsense guy in the police force that Shouta holds
a mutual respect for. Despite having a giant head of a cat, the man is more clear headed than
most of the other officers Shouta had ever come into contact with. Him and Tsukauchi are
among the few in the force that Shouta has a smidge of trust left in.

“Yeah, well he asks me for help sometimes, just to track some information about certain
people, you know how it goes.”

Shouta raises an eyebrow that he’s aware isn’t quite visible under his hair, but Tsukauchi
should be able to read him after almost a decade of working together. It’s just that the
detective chooses to ignore it.

“Earlier today, around noon, he had an arrest but the two culprits had escaped from the
vehicle and haven’t turned up since.” The man rushes through his explanation to get to the
point, having learned long ago that Shouta appreciates the terseness. “They’ve got some shots
of them from the camera in the car and Sansa asked me to look into them independently,
because their station is a bit slow on that.”

“Tamakawa isn’t that careless to let someone who he’s already detained escape.” Shouta
notes immediately, brow furrowed, because the cat officer really isn’t. Despite being able to
keep up with Shouta in being a bitter sarcastic ass, the man does take his job seriously.

“That’s the thing, the culprits didn’t even do much. From what they got out of the passerby,
they suddenly appeared on the street, right in front of a truck. One of the two used his quirk
to lift up the vehicle off the ground to avoid the crash, there were no casualties and no notable
damage so they were literally just being taken in for questioning.”

“What did you find on them, then?”

Tsukauchi heaves a sigh, runs a hand through his hair again and waves the stack of paper in
his hand around, all in the span of two seconds. Shouta’s temple throbs, like it usually does
before he learns something that is going to give him grief for weeks.
“Nothing.” Is what leaves the detective’s mouth in a short breath of air.

“Nothing.” Shouta repeats.

“Yes, nothing.”

“Did you look everywhere?” he pointedly asks, because in this day and age, there’s
information on just about everyone. There is varying amounts of it, but data is being
collected on nearly every single citizen of Japan. It just depends on who has the clearance to
access it.

“I used the freaking commision secured facial recognition, Eraser!” Tsukauchi hisses, and it’s
such an unusual sight to have the man lose his composure like this, Shouta’s eyes widen
briefly before narrowing.

The thing is, Tsukauchi basically has all of the clearance, he just sometimes dislikes using it
for ‘unnecessary’ cases, being one to avoid even thinking about disobeying the law. But the
man is both a highly regarded and a trusted detective, Shouta’s also aware of his involvement
with All Might, so he should be able to have access to the information on anyone.

“Are they having someone search for them?”

“They are, but it’s slow going and nobody’s really taking it seriously. They haven’t really
done much. They’re thinking the culprits could possibly be out of Yokohama by now, and
should be sending the information out to other stations in the morning. But those people just
do not exist on any of the records!”

The detective looks affected, to say the least, so Shouta says his last goodbyes to a good
night’s rest and asks, “What else have you got on them from Tamakawa?”

“Not much. Both male, look around 20, no visible mutative quirks. One plainer, a dark
brunet, seemed to have bandaged arms and neck.”

Barest hints of recollection spark in Shouta’s mind, which is a bit sluggish at the hour, to be
fair. It’s the next words however, that are the kindling to that spark.

“The other shorter, orange hair, hat, with a quirk that lifted up the truck. Both wore overcoats,
one black, the other beige.”

It feels like a punch to the gut, really. The only night he ventures out into a different area for
patrol he comes into contact with wanted fugitives before finding out that they’re wanted.
Figures that preposterous shit like this would happen to him, of all people.

He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his middle finger, hissing out an
emphatic curse. There aren’t a lot of instances when he’s overcome with the impact of his
own oversight. The hell class has certainly added to this number in the past few months by
being a walking villain magnet, but outside of that, there haven’t been many occasions.

He hears Tsukauchi call out to him, confusion and blissful denial evident in his voice. Shouta
knows he’s about to shatter it completely, so he rips it off like a bandaid.
“I saw them on patrol today.”

Tsukauchi gapes like a fish, which is understandable, but makes it harder to deal with the
chagrin.

“You- you did? Here? In Musutafu? When? Where? ”

He rattles off the details that Tsukauchi scrambles to jot down on one of his files with a pen
he snatches off the front desk. He recalls as many specifics from the encounter as he can
manage, which is not that many embarrassingly enough, but Tsukauchi looks overjoyed to
hear them regardless.

“One of them –the shorter one– I think his name is Chuuya, at least that’s what the other one
called him. Quirk must be some sort of gravity manipulation, he made a bunch of things
float. The other has some sort of erasing quirk, from what I gathered, but I’m not that certain
of it.”

Only the scratch of a pen is heard from Tsukauchi as Shouta scrapes and scoops at the insides
of his skull to recall anything else.

“If he could lift up a truck and also multiple things at once, his quirk must be quite powerful
and he likely has good control of it.”

That’s all he comes up with, while simultaneously berating himself on not sniffing out the
fact that those two were suspicious. Tsukauchi stops scribbling and swiftly looks up at him.

“Could you keep an eye out for them on patrol? I will be sending out the information to all of
the other stations and the others underground, but still. Please?”

“I always bring wanted criminals in when I am aware they are wanted. That is my job.” He
replies, eyebrow arched, letting Tsukauchi know how pointless that request was.

The man looks unfazed, eyes lit up with a manic sort of vigor that’s telling of the fact that he
will be running on caffeine and caffeine only for the rest of the oncoming day. “Great! Then
just do your job.”

Tsukauchi pats him on the shoulder, clearly barely paying any attention to what he’s doing,
lost in his own head and the possibilities of doing something with the information that Shouta
has just provided. They split without much of a goodbye, both aware of the fact that they’ll
soon be seeing each other again over a case. He has a feeling that it will be this specific one.

The new awareness of the fact that he had a hand in enabling a pair of fugitives to roam this
city freely makes him restless, to say the least. It’s an uneasy tangle of emotions that he has
no wish to contemplate, but is forced to sit with. The guilt swirling around his chest cavity is
illogical, but it also transforms into a feeling that he is somehow, somewhat liable for it.

One thing is certain: he doesn’t want to deal with all of it, not now or ever. So he takes to the
rooftops once again, back turned to his apartment building, facing the endless rows of grey
concrete lined by yellow lights.
There’s no point in going home now, there’s no way he’s going to sleep. Staring at the backs
of his eyelids seems meaningless when he can spend all of that time being productive. So his
patrol stretches into the early hours of the morning, strategically centered around less
populated shopping districts that are open to the stragglers wandering in the dead of night.

Shouta’s working off of a hunch here, a simple and most likely disrespectful assumption he
has made. But that’s the thing about hunches, more often than not they’re true, especially
when checked and backed by logic.

The pair of runaways seemed to be the type to avoid settling for less, especially the gravity
manipulator. The state of their clothing and the garments itself, while certainly eccentric,
seemed to be in too good shape for them to immediately opt to hide in a place that was more
run down.

On top of all that, if they were to settle in Musutafu, which was likely, because they were
traveling through it on foot, supplies are essential. Therefore, not even a half an hour later
Shouta is making rounds around a cluster of malls and lit up streets.

He scopes out the area, makes a running start from a rooftop, throws the capture weapon
around a balcony railing, lands on another roof, and scopes out the street again. Rinse and
repeat until it doesn’t require conscious awareness and there’s space in his head to ruminate
the situation over and over.

It’s not exactly smart or healthy, but there are no students around to set an example to, so he
can overwork and overthink as much as he sees fit. If he caught any of them being this
reckless, he’d expel them faster than they could process what the hell they were doing. But if
he’s sharing wisdom with the street and the glowing window displays tonight, then another
lesson he had to learn and internalize during his career is that being a teacher meant being a
hypocrite when it mattered.

Life proves to him time and time again that being a pessimistic ass is just a more practical
approach to anything in general, so right off the bat he doesn’t expect to gain anything from
this little expedition of his. Except maybe to make peace with the fact that he was too
careless for his own standards today and at least have a restful sleep tomorrow.

And so, he grabs a splintering ledge and pushes up to his feet, casting a brief glance to the
street. Like an automated scan, the data his eyes gather registers in his brain: obnoxious
clothing stores, a drunk man in remnants of a three-piece suit, a brunet in a beige coat.

Shouta is too professional for double takes but he can admit to feeling surprised. He’s quick
to carefully reassess the location, mentally marking it on the map of the city and crouching
down, just in case. He is about four stories high, so it should be fine.

He tracks the man along the street, determining around a minute in, that this is the exact same
man he encountered earlier in the alleyway. The target is alone, which either means the pair
has split up for different objectives, or that they have already settled somewhere. Shouta does
not hope, but it would be easier to locate them both if the latter was the case.
Banking on it, he decides to follow the fugitive all the way to wherever his final destination
is. The targets are no birds and he doesn’t carry stones, but the outcome of this hunch turning
out to be correct would be the most beneficial.

Hindsight is annoying and he doesn’t enjoy being plagued by his own mistakes, but a while
later into the investigation Shouta will pinpoint this exact moment as the one that started the
chain of him feeling over-confident and underestimating the enemy. It’s a special kind of self-
reproach he hasn’t felt since his formative years as a rookie hero.

But in this timeframe, the man clad in a trenchcoat and peacefully swinging a couple of
shopping bags doesn’t show any change in behavior, let alone any awareness of being
followed. There’s no notable shift in his walk, no abrupt movement or frantic looks. So
Shouta quietly trails along on the high ground, as they walk closer and closer to the centre.

Despite the mildly extravagant garb and the wrappings, the man does seem quite ordinary
compared to the colorful variations among the population. There are no other identifying
factors of note, except maybe for hints of a playful and relaxed demeanor, that shows itself in
the body language.

Wider streets taper off into walkways and the buildings gradually get smaller, adorning lower
and steeper roofs. His muscles strain to soften his falls and grabs to not draw attention, his
elbow throbs with a reminder of a not-so-old injury. It takes him an embarrassing amount of
time to realize that the terrain he is roaming is becoming less and less fit for him to traverse.
It is a painful suspicion that this might be on purpose.

It rapidly comes to a point that he has to sacrifice his high ground in order to continue
following the target. He scans his surroundings, makes a decision and leaps down into an
ornate open balcony and from it, down into a sidestreet. It’s barely ten seconds of him losing
sight of the fugitive, all the while also mapping his probable trajectory on top of it. It proves
to be enough.

There’s no sight of the man, it’s like he never existed, merely a hallucination induced by
exhaustion.

Shouta quite desperately climbs back up to look over the surrounding area again, but it is
completely and utterly fruitless, just like the following two hours that he spends searching for
his lost lead.

With bitter shame he shoots off a brief text explaining the situation to Tsukauchi, who doesn’t
hold it against him, which makes it even worse. They both draw the conclusion that the
runaway criminals aren’t that stupid, along with the intricate deduction that they noticed it
way later than they should have.

The sun rises, an obnoxious reminder that he’s about to teach a class full of hero hopefuls and
demand the very best from them when he himself just failed a straightforward stealth
mission. He comes back home only to shower and head out again, picked up by Nemuri in
her terrible purple lamborghini. She talks his ear off and he pretends to nap, replaying those
fateful seconds when he had lost the man in a practically empty, well-lit area.
Nobody really notices if he’s acting more off than usual as he spends almost all of his breaks
and half of homeroom catching up on sleep. Late patrol nights are not out of ordinary for him
either, so none of the other staff members question that too.

Despite there being no shift in his usual bone-weary appearance, the conflicted irritation with
his target and himself is simmering throughout the whole day, making use of the limbic
system of his brain in a way that it hasn’t in a while. He tries to bat it away, tries not thinking
about it, even resorts to subtle meditation techniques he looked up after his first few days of
working in a high school, but his mind feels worn and spent and the memories are intrusive
and insistent. Shouta doesn’t let it affect his teaching performance, but it’s a close thing.

It is a decidedly humiliating experience altogether, both his recent failure and his emotional
reaction to it. The only thing that successfully distracts him from his inner turmoil during
classes is Midoriya sustaining another injury while training, and that’s not exactly a positive
diversion from mulling over his own mistakes.

And although Shouta is generally known as someone who uses every single free minute of
his life to sleep, on the job he strongly prefers going straight into action than focusing on
introspection. That’s probably why having to think about the situation makes him feel so
restless.

All of this culminates into a decision that’s mostly backed and driven by a scarily strong urge
to fix it. To compensate for his oversight, catch the two fugitives and continue living with a
calm mind and undisrupted conscience. When that decision happens, when it clicks not
unlike a switch, his brain calms down considerably, but it feels more like he lost a fight than
won it.

After he sits Midoriya down on the bench for the rest of the training period, fingers wrapped
and securely splinted, he watches the kid still furiously scribble notes with his non-dominant
hand with a practiced sort of exasperation. It’s at that moment that a faint thought in a deep
dark corner of his mind occurs, comparing and matching Midoriya’s drive to become the best
version of a hero he can imagine to his own drive to go and fix his mistake. It’s a terrifying
comparison, one that he pushes away immediately. He will come back to it later though,
cursing himself for rejecting a grain of self-awareness he had left in that moment.

Shouta finishes his day-job feeling too similar to how he did in high-school, tracking the
hands of the clock and waiting for them to spell out “freedom”. At home, he neglects the
same stack of essays once again, refusing to look at them and gives into the quite frankly
egotistical and utterly illogical urge.

The sun is still peeking out over the tops of the lowest buildings, but he’s out patrolling
again. He’s quick with any offenses he intercepts, even more so than usual. His movements
are tight and snappy, his muscles are tense, unrelenting to his meager attempts to relax. It’s a
quite pathetic display of emotional vulnerability. It’s also unexpected, but it seems like this
particular pair of criminals stabbed him through a small, unnoticeable crack in his shell,
whether intentionally or not.

Looking back on it, it’s a miracle he got lucky a second time, because Musutafu is a city too
big to cover on foot even for a dozen heroes. But among the evening crowd a couple hours
into this desperate excuse of a patrol his dry, yet hyper-focused eyes spot a black hat sitting
atop a headful of orange hair. His brain matches the image to a memory from yesterday (
Chuuya – he recalls) and his body responds, getting him to the best vantage point. He blinks
forcefully a couple times to keep his vision in focus, and follows the man along the rooftops.

The man is honestly not that difficult to make out in a crowd, his way of carrying himself
with an unwavering air of confidence only helping him stand out. He walks in big strides,
unconsciously parting the mass of people around him without lifting a finger. And even
though this half of the pair of fugitives doesn’t show any suspicion in being followed either,
Shouta is marginally more careful than he was yesterday, mindful of the tiniest of details, as
well as the terrain.

When the black coattails flap dramatically and disappear into a clothing store, he shoots a
quick text to Tsukauchi, describing his current situation. He proposes a plan, one in which he
could possibly stake out their hiding place if the situation continues going as well as it’s
currently going. Tsukauchi agrees, because the bandaged half of the pair seemed to be too
difficult to find on its own, especially if alerted to danger by the absence of this Chuuya.
However, the detective also insists on having nearby heroes on alert and prepared to intercept
if anything happens. Shouta begrudgingly agrees and pockets his phone for good this time.

He doesn’t use in-ear comms when he’s not on a joint underground mission and that has
worked out for him so far. He’s an underground hero that mostly operates on his own, he’s
not affiliated with any sort of agency and a lot of the time that’s a positive thing. It’s also a
logical decision that he made fresh out of UA, one that he still believes was a good one.
Being tied down to organizations and having to work around others is a hassle and a
complete opposite of what he is best at.

But with this particular case, his lone nature seemed to only work as an obstacle. This point
gets driven home when Chuuya re-emerges from the store, demeanor unchanged, but quickly
leads him to a secluded, lifeless area.

Shouta doesn’t get a chance to call for backup, instead he gets thrown straight into one of the
most taxing one-on-one fights in his life, running on dregs of sleep and spite.

Trash and rubble rain down on him, then do the punches, and his eyes strain and ache to keep
it limited to only the physical attacks. The red haired man is an extremely skilled hand-to-
hand fighter which is a rarity among villains as self-assured as this one.

Shouta levels the playing field with his own quirk, that’s his whole shtick, but the other man
only needs a split second of it deactivated and Eraserhead finds himself losing.

Each minute of the fight makes it clearer and clearer that he’s not winning this. He attempts
to draw the fight closer to where there would be more people, to get backup, but that doesn’t
work in the slightest. He makes an attempt to question Chuuya. The answer is an ominous
“promise to leave”. He attempts to run, because there also comes a point where it’s the most
logical solution. That option comes to be null and void too.

All the while his opponent wears this grin, this manic stretch to his mouth that catches light
occasionally and glints dangerously. It grates at Shouta’s nerves, the absence of humility or
respect. But he supposes that line of thinking is also hypocritical in a way.

Beads of sweat rolling down his temple and gathering at his jaw, at the last moments of the
fight his own capture weapon becomes a disadvantage and it comes to him, in full clarity: for
the past 24 hours he’s been a self-centered fuck who has now fallen to his own hubris. It goes
against his own principles to give in to emotion-driven compulsions like this, and he has just
done exactly that twice in not even a day.

Chuuya knocks him out cleanly and efficiently. When Shouta comes to, he’s fully aware that
he could’ve been killed lest his opponent had less of a good streak. He reports to Tsukauchi,
shamefully, who sends out heroes on standby looking, but by then it’s all pointless. Their
targets escaped twice from under their noses.

“Eraser, this is quite bad.”

Shouta wipes the cooling sweat with the sleeve of his jumpsuit and pushes the few strands of
hair that had fallen into his face to the side. He breathes in deeply and very dryly replies,
“Thanks.”

“No, no, I don’t mean this as a thing to blame on you!”

Shouta is too tired to care about holding back a snort of bitter laughter at the mental image of
Tsukauchi waving his hands around to desperately deny insinuating that he had done a bad
job.

“I definitely was too fucking negligent in tracking down both of them, Tsukauchi. You can
say it, you won’t hurt my feelings.”

“No!”

He sighs heavily, which, surprisingly, only strengthens the detective’s resolve.

“No! That’s not the point I’m trying to make!”

Shouta grunts as he presses the phone to his shoulder with his cheek and starts climbing back
up to the top of one of the buildings overlooking the site. Tsukauchi takes it as
encouragement to continue.

“My point is that neither of them are on record, when searching by name or quirk registration
and both of them managed to evade you .”

Shouta clambers up to the rooftop, only then noting the sorry state of his ribs. He sighs again,
making it long and accentuated, something he usually only reserves for ignorant teenagers.

“Tsukauchi, I am far from the pinnacle of heroics and I just failed two consecutive missions.
Escaping me is not as big of a feat as you seem to think it is.”

“Don’t give me that, Eraser. You are the best one at stalk-and-ambush type of missions that I
know of. Sure, you’re no All Might to knock down hundreds in one hit, but these types of
things where a single person needs to be tracked down and captured? They’re your
specialty!”

Tsukauchi spouts all of that with a special kind of fervor reserved for complicated cases
giving him grief way past office hours. There’s a distant sound of papers flapping,
accentuating the words. To take it all in, Shouta has to briefly stop walking and shut his eyes
tightly. A spoonful of salt to the wound, that’s what all of it is, but he’s done with that self-
centered shit so he doesn’t say it out loud. Tsukauchi, unfortunately, reads the silence for
what it is.

“What I mean is, if they managed to get into your head,” the detective’s voice rises in pitch,
cranking up the dramatics, “into your head, then they could be an extreme danger to anyone,
if they wished to be!”

A beat of silence. He’s not exactly stunned… but it’s a close thing. The whiplash between the
impact of a double defeat and learning that Tsukauchi holds him in that high of a regard is a
bit too much.

“If only the higher-ups listened to me on this,” Tsukauchi tacks on after a little while.

Shouta’s brows gain a furrow that doesn’t disappear immediately, but there isn’t anything he
can do about it, that’s Tsukauchi’s battle to fight. Instead, he helps draw all of the conclusions
and recounts all of the details once again.

At the end of the call, he sighs into the speaker of his indestructible burner phone and resigns
himself from the case.

There is no contract and he didn’t sign anything, but Shouta officially tells the detective that
he won’t be participating in this specific investigation any more. Two instances are enough to
notice a pattern and it’s clear that he’s incapable of making logical, informed decisions
regarding this case, so it’d be better for everyone if he withdrew.

“Are you completely certain?” Is all Tsukauchi asks.

“It’s clear as day, Tsukauchi. You did mention yourself that they got into my head.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“Good luck with the rest of it.”

Tsukauchi doesn’t press or insist any further, as he’s witnessing one of the few times Shouta
verbally expresses the emotional impact something has had on him.

The call ends and so he slowly, muscles groaning and bones creaking, walks his bruised ribs
off as well as he can. He finishes his patrol a bit later, inching back to the districts he usually
operates around, where there’s less limelight heroes and more people that need help.

At least his mind feels calm. Not exactly resigned, but the terrifying compulsion is gone and
his ego is back in place. He doesn’t sleep much that night, or more specifically during what’s
left of the night when he limps back. Instead, he picks up the stack of essays from behind the
couch and starts untangling Ashido’s convoluted points that don’t exactly lead to any sort of
thesis statement.

Over the rest of the week Hizashi and Nemuri, along with some of the other staff,
sympathetically tut at his black eye and the matching bruise along his jaw. He limps around
the UA grounds more than he does on rooftops, and most importantly, he finally
accomplishes something he had in the plans for almost a month.

Shinsou Hitoshi is a kid that seems lazy and disinterested in anything and everything at first
glance, but Shouta reads him like a book. Shoulders hunched and eyes darting to gauge every
single reaction in the room, yet standing tall when defending himself and his goal, the kid is a
bottle filled to the top with potential. He’s also a spitting image of Shouta himself at fifteen,
even if the man loathes to admit it. The only thing the kid lacks is formal combat training and
Shouta is willing to sacrifice a few hours in his day in order to provide it.

Their first training session is nothing complex, but it’s refreshing, and Shouta finds himself
looking forward to more of them. Shinsou is eager to learn and very responsive, except he’s
not overflowing with that reckless energy Shouta’s class seems to be bubbling with. That’s an
immeasurable relief because the hell class’s hyperactivity is insufferable.

Yet the desire to prove himself that shines through every single thing the kid says to Shouta is
painfully blinding. It stirs something old and forgotten inside of him, that scrappy way of
living and thinking that Shinsou has adopted is something oh so achingly familiar.

It’s also clear how the kid holds him in very high regard and is still the furthest from relaxed
around him. Shouta suspects that Shinsou may have known about him beforehand but he
doesn’t mention it, to avoid embarrassing the kid. But the training arrangement is still
obviously something both of them appreciate so they schedule some more for every school
day after classes.

The scales tip and he’s now throwing himself into the schoolwork and lesson plans, and the
logistics of upcoming exams. He still patrols at night, he wouldn’t let himself neglect that,
but he doesn’t seek out anything, instead sticking to his routine. He even goes back to some
of his other cases that are the furthest thing from some ominous runaways.

The day after the first training session with Shinsou is a Saturday, but that doesn’t mean
much when you’re a teacher at UA, so the entirety of the faculty for the hero course has
gathered to discuss the upcoming first-year examinations. They only wrap up late in the
afternoon, after which Shouta checks his phone out of reflex, only to find three missed calls
from Tsukauchi. All three of them are separated by a span of an hour. Shouta has a suspicion
about what their subject matter was supposed to be.

The bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Shouta dials back. It only
takes a single monotone ring for the detective to pick up.

“Look, Eraser, I know you have said that you don’t want to be involved in–”

“Just tell me what happened and I will decide after.”

That conversation is what leads him to a rooftop across town, staring at an actual crater in the
cement of the building, around a few feet wide. Villain chases aren’t uncommon and the
habitants of the top floor most likely have already been placated, but it’s still an odd sight.

A couple steps away two officers are inspecting a wall of the electrical room and a bit further
to the right Tsukauchi is giving a lecture to another. The detective isn’t the type to raise his
voice, let alone at other people, but from what Shouta can hear, it doesn’t sound good for the
recipient.

Having had enough of staring at the cracked bits of concrete, Shouta walks over to the pair,
despite Tsukauchi still giving the other man a piece of his mind. The detective is wearing the
uniform for his own profession too, this time, clad in a trenchcoat and a matching hat.

“I promise I will not report you, just tell me who gave you the order to go into that hotel and
make the arrest so underprepared.”

The policeman being told off –a plain young man looking to be barely in his twenties–
squirms uncomfortably and responds, “I was just following the orders of the commanding
officer of my department, sir.”

“This loose criminal just beat up Hawks in under five minutes. I need you to grasp the
magnitude of this case, for me, okay? It would be appreciated if you could give me names.
Who was it?”

Shouta watches Tsukauchi guilt the officer into talking, as he reflects on the situation.
Logically, he knew that what the detective had said to him that night was true, that the pair of
criminals really were deceptive and too powerful to contain using a simple arrest process. It
only really sinks in at this moment, though. This moment, when he sees not one, but two
instances of others also failing to catch them simply due to negligence and overconfidence,
not unlike him a few days ago.

Tsukauchi wraps up his teachings, the officer scurries off, and then the detective turns to
Shouta to say hi. Shouta doesn’t really do hellos when there’s other things to be discussed, so
he cuts the man off before he can make a sound.

“Hawks already ditched?”

The detective sighs, probably questioning why he even tries, but still answers the question.

“You know that guy doesn’t stay for long after the action is over.”

“Did he even let himself be questioned?”

“Of course, Eraser, why wouldn’t he?”

Shouta gives one of his unimpressed stares to the man, before plowing on. “What did he tell
you then?”

“That without any sort of quirk cancellation, this gravity manipulator guy is basically
unbeatable. That means you’ve come the closest.“
Tsukauchi’s expression is grim, very fitting of his detective garb, only an old-school pipe
missing. Shouta scoffs in response, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jumpsuit, leaning
back.

“That’s just a fact. He also noted that the guy was really surprised about the quirk use laws
and was ‘either feeling gracious this particular day or has a very strange set of morals’.”
Tsukauchi pulls out his hands out of the coat pockets only to mime the air-quotations.

“So Hawks basically was at his mercy and could’ve been easily executed, if that was what
Chuuya had wanted to accomplish?”

Tsukauchi nods, but not before furrowing his brows politely, “You say his name like you
know him personally, Eraser. It’s quite unsettling, to say the least.”

“He beat my ass into the ground in under ten minutes, Tsukauchi, I might as well do.”

The detective still seems a bit put off by Shouta’s response, but that’s the least of his
concerns.

“The two of them could easily rack up huge numbers in casualties and property damage if
they wished to.” Tsukauchi mutters out, staring out into the distance.

“Yet they don’t.”

“Yet they dont.” the detective repeats, all solemn and miserable. It is a pretty sad sight.

“Why?” Shouta decides to torment him a bit further.

“That’s my job to find out.”

It’s so resigned and even pained, that he briefly feels a pang of sympathy, but it fizzles out
relatively quickly.

“You’re still against assisting me on this?” It’s so hopeful and desperate. Good thing that
Shouta has a whole mental reservoir of resolve for instances like this.

“I am going to let you know if I come across them, but I will not actively look for them, no.”

It’s Tsukauchi that heaves a tired sigh this time, even putting his shoulders into it, but Shouta
doesn’t fall for it.

“I guess that works too.”

Shouta says his farewell to the man and goes back to living his not very ordinary or calm, but
pleasantly undisturbed life. The exams pass and go, he continues training Shinsou and starts
preparing for another headache in the timeline of him leading the hell class to becoming
adequate heroes. On the other side of his job one of the investigations that he was involved in
finally moves along too, nicely rounding out his days to have basically no time for rest.
It’s a common occurrence in his life and is exactly what he expected to happen when he took
up a second job. That’s what the sleeping bag is for. In a weird sense, Shouta also appreciates
the lack of free spaces in his schedule, how there’s no way to slow down, just rotating
between different occupations. It’s a path that leads to eventual burnout, he’s aware, but it’s
also not the first time he’s treading that path, so there’s still a long way to a crash, for now.

So in the spaces between classes and preparing the training camp for a bunch of feral
children, he fits in an investigation into an underground quirk-enhancing drug ring. Those
pop up once in a while in different corners of the city, there’s always a market for them and
there’s always someone trying to take advantage of it.

Shouta has been tracking down the deals themselves for the past week or so, to listen in and
gather information mainly, but getting his hands on the drug itself would be a perfect way to
speed the official investigation up.

Until now, he has only heard about the deals after they were done and over with and the
rampages that happen in their aftermath. But the universe decides to be somewhat sufferable
that night and he manages to get the location of one down just before it happens.

He’s perched up on a balcony railing, merely a couple floors above what looks to be a small
wannabe biker gang converging in an alley. There’s four of them, along with four identical
old-school motorcycles propped up against the wall further away. They make a lot of noise,
especially in the middle of the night, but this is not a district where people file noise
complaints. Because of this, nobody reacts or complains at the boisterous laughs they let out,
gathered in a tight circle, looking upon something small and apparently very entertaining.

Small and very entertaining and also the reason Shouta kicks off the railing and lands amidst
them and immediately incapacitates the nearest one, startling the others. It’s a tiny syringe
full of the newest iteration of Trigger, a drug providing temporary quirk enhancements,
something this group seemed to have purchased just for fun.

Despite being three on one, it’s not an unfair fight, as the gang is clumsy and uncoordinated
and only has one member they can rely on for brute strength. They clearly didn’t expect their
endeavor to be interrupted, let alone cut short, which is not smart, but it’s only better for
Shouta.

He immobilizes the second one with his capture weapon and swiftly knocks them out. The
complication arises in the gang’s muscle mountain grabbing the syringe from where it has
fallen on the ground and stabbing it into his own shoulder. At the same moment that occurs,
Shouta also hears not-so distant unrestrained laughter, followed by angered yelling, maybe a
building or so away.

It’s a cloudy, warm, suffocating night. It hasn’t rained in a while, so a thick smog is hanging
over the city, painting the sky a dark dark grey. While the street certainly isn’t quiet, with
sounds bleeding through thin walls and stray figures limping around, there shouldn’t have
been a problem.

Even though civilians witnessing the fight isn’t the worst that could happen, it would be
better if they didn’t, as having to balance fighting and protecting would only complicate
things.

With his attention split between that thought and one of the other members pulling a knife on
him, he doesn’t see the giant mass of muscle barreling into his side.

Okay, so maybe the fight wasn’t that easy because of the loose factor of the enhancement.
But he’s not about to spiral into a second bout of over-confidence, so he pulls himself
together.

Shouta recovers from the hit and uses the combination of his quirk and capture weapon to
deal with the muscle mountain that just destroyed his sample of the drug.

Slightly miffed at the work he put into locating the deal going down the drain, with only
another blood sample to bring back from the aftermath, he quickly disarms the only thug that
is still conscious. The knife clatters to the ground, and its owner slumps next to it soon after.

Shouta takes a deep breath, briefly assesses his side that got slammed into and goes to pick
up the used syringe. Just in case there’s enough left in the needle to send into the lab. He
takes out a plastic ziploc bag tucked away in one of his jumpsuit pockets, for occasions like
this one, carefully transferring the container inside of it.

He is crouched down, back to one of the men, facing the other three. It’s a logically better
position to be in, but sometimes when working alone, luck decides to fuck off and leave you
in the dust.

A gunshot rings out. It’s a reflex for him to start to pivot to the side to protect his vitals, but at
this point he can’t avoid a bullet.

Shouta lands his roll neatly, somehow not bleeding, at least not anymore than he already
was.

He whips around, his hair following the motion and thwacking against his cheek. Shouta’s
eyes flicker across the space, quickly assessing the situation.

The knocked out man that was directly behind him isn’t really knocked out anymore and is
instead holding a handgun, trembling finger still resting on the trigger. His eyes are wide and
full of complete disbelief. Shouta knocks out the gun out of his hand in a single smooth
motion.

Following the shooter’s line of sight there’s a single gleaming bullet, encased in a red halo.
It’s floating mere inches from where Shouta’s shoulder was seconds before.

At the mouth of the alleyway crouched next to one of the bikes is Chuuya, one hand tinkering
with the vehicle.

And standing in the very same balcony that Shouta jumped down from is his bandaged
companion. Upon spotting him up there, significantly less illuminated than the rest of the
alley, Shouta can still see him wave. The gesture is almost amicable, but the context of it
feels incredibly mocking.
Feeling Shouta’s eyes back on himself, Chuuya, the man that had beaten him into the ground
a couple weeks ago, glances to the side and smirks. The floating bullet drops to the ground,
as ordinary as ever.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” he says, nonchalant, while standing up and dusting off his
pants.

In his peripheral vision Shouta sees the one in the balcony move, hopping on the railing and
aiming to jump down on a container beneath it. He throws out his capture weapon chasing
after the man, aiming to keep from escaping.

The capture weapon lights up in red and is no longer at his mercy, sinking to the ground like
a stone dropped in a river. Shouta’s gaze snaps to the gravity manipulator of the two,
cancelling the quirk, but by then it’s too late. Beige coattails flutter as the man lands on the
ground and runs the short distance separating him and the stolen bike Chuuya’s now perched
on.

Shouta barely starts chasing, keeping his quirk activated, and his weapon wound around his
arm too, but by then there’s no point in it, he’s missed his window. The taunting fugitives are
escaping on a stolen bike, revving it up and swerving out of the alley.

Last ditch effort, he throws his own knife at the back tire. The brunet man’s eyes glint when
he looks over his shoulder and back at Shouta, not unlike a mischievous child. The bike veers
sharply. His knife clatters on the asphalt of the street and the pair drives off at full speed.

Tsukauchi has long been set to speed dial; it takes two rings for the man to pick up.

“Black motorbike headed from the northeast of the low-end, towards the centre. Chuuya and
the other one.”

“Notifying the heroes on standby.”

As Tsukauchi contacts the others and does his thing, Shouta ties up the man that tried to shoot
him. There’s little resistance, the guy is looking pretty resigned. That kind of forbearance is
only beneficial for Shouta as the man must have some kind of physical endurance quirk.
There is no other way he would’ve woken up that quickly.

It’s a bit surreal to think that his life was possibly just saved by a wanted criminal. Shouta
doesn’t hope, but he wouldn’t want to become indebted to someone on the other side of the
law. Criminals can get all sorts of delusions stuck in their heads and it wouldn’t turn out great
if Chuuya thought that Shouta owed him something.

“They have been spotted and we have a team chasing the vehicle. How is it on your end,
Eraser?” Tsukauchi’s voice crackles through the line after a couple minutes.

“I have four mostly unconscious gang members with me, one of them doped up on Trigger. It
would be greatly appreciated if you sent a car to clean them up.”

“You know I’m not a dispatcher, right?”

“Do you want me to hang up?”

“Touché. I’ll get that done for you right now.”

Shouta sighs into the receiver and stands back in the very same alley, shoulders slumped.
Noticing that the conscious, bound guy is eyeing the dropped knife, he kicks the blade far
away from where any hands could reach it. Tsukauchi comes back on the line in the
meantime.

“How come it’s you always getting involved with them?” he dares to ask, voice irritatingly
cheerful and inquisitive.

“This is only the second time I’ve encountered either of them unintentionally.”

“Eraser, that’s still marginally more than anyone–”

Tsukauchi withdraws his phone from his ear, distant exclamations and vague yelling filtering
into the microphone. Shouta can guess why. He doesn’t want to, and he’d rather his guess
wasn’t correct, but it’s quite obvious what happened.

“Dammit! How?!”

Shouta sighs and rubs one of his eyes, keeping the other one open to keep track of his
surroundings.

“You said it yourself. They’re simply too skilled to be caught in a traffic chase, Tsukauchi.
Did you really think you could catch them on their terms?”

The detective on the other end of the line stays mostly silent, only murmuring something
intelligible once in a while. During Tsukauchi’s pensive silence, the car he sent out arrives,
and Shouta helps the couple of officers pack all of the offenders into the van.

When all of that is done and over with, the car quietly leaves the neighbourhood. Tsukauchi
is still there, in the form of the muted sounds of computer keys.

“They’re out there taunting us, because they know they cannot be caught. They make sure of
it before leaving wherever they’re hiding.” Tsukauchi grumbles, an intriguing irked note to
his tone, one that is very rarely heard. Although having gone through this same exact crisis
weeks ago, Shouta doesn’t feel much sympathy.

“I told you the same thing minutes ago. You won’t catch them if you keep chasing them.”

Tsukauchi stays quiet, but that doesn’t deter him.

“You know what is the most logical thing to do in this situation. Go public.”

The detective sucks in a sharp breath, “They don’t want the departments’ incompetence
exposed, they definitely won’t want to give me the go ahead.”

“Well it's either that or chasing until they disappear forever. Or worse.”
 “Or worse.” the man repeats, helplessly agreeing with the facts presented. “Will you help
with the operation then?”

“I am going to be gone for a week in two days’ time. So most likely, no.”

“The whole thing is going to be such a mess. Why does it have to be such a mess, Eraser?”

Shouta shrugs, leaning against an exposed brick wall of one of the buildings. Tsukauchi can’t
see it, but the hero is certain that the man can imagine it. “It’s the only way to get the jump on
them and you know it.”

“You’re right. I hate it when you’re right.”

Shouta scoffs, “Well then get on it. You need to convince the chief of police to publicly
declare one of their biggest mistakes of this year as wanted, with a ransom on their heads.
Not the easiest job.”

“Does there have to be a ransom? Can’t the good natured citizens of Japan report them out of
the inherent sense of duty?”

“Well, it’s you who knows best. I always found that people just work better with an
incentive.”

Tsukauchi radiates remarkable misery and resignation through the phone despite his lack of
physical presence. The detective is also the one doing all of the sighing this time, some of the
exhausted expressions heavy enough to compete with Shouta on a bad day.

“God, I hope you’re right, Eraser. I hope that we’ll manage to catch them soon. Who knows
what kind of stuff they had been up to all this time.”

Shouta would hope for that too, but as mentioned and enforced before, it’s better not to.

Chapter End Notes

hehe :)

i'm sorry if got any of the details about the inner workings of a police department or
something else of the sort wrong, let me know and i'll fix it right away! all of my
knowledge is surface level and based on purely internet research so there's high chance
of something being inaccurate

anyway i hope you enjoyed this and see you in the next chapter of "dazai and chuuya
fucking around and leading everyone by their noses"
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!