Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tomura was sure All For One was going to kill him.

He sighed, leaning his head back. He wished he could move his hands, fingers itching to scratch his neck.

"Tomura Shigaraki?"

Oh, of course.

He groaned, brow pinching, but reluctantly opened his eyes.

Dark, tired ones stared back at him from behind the glass that kept him contained.

Of course Eraserhead was the one to talk to him.

"Shota Aizawa." He mocked.

The hero seemed unbothered.

"So I doubt you're just going to give up anything useful."

“I’ll tell you where the League’s hideout is.” Tomura said casually. Eraserhead raised an eyebrow. “What? You don’t remember your own mom’s address?”

"Hilarious." The hero answered flatly, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you have anything important you feel like sharing? I don't really want to waste my time here."

Tomura regarded him coldly, his expression carefully crafted into one of disinterest and apathy.

“You really are so cool.” He said, unable to hide his glee at seeing Eraserhead in action. He recalled the warmth he felt seeing the hero save people on television, and the white hot jealousy that followed.

“You save a lot of people, don’t you?” Tomura asked instead of answering. Eraserhead didn’t move, staring at him blankly, brow creased slightly in irritation. When he didn’t respond, Tomura continued. “That’s what a hero is supposed to do. Save people and not give a damn about the attention and credit.” He leaned forward as best he could in his restraints and saw the way the pro tensed minutely. “That’s why I like you, Eraserhead. You’re a real hero.”

You save so many people. Shame you weren’t around back then, eh?

He smiled wryly at his own thoughts.

“I think we’re done here.” Eraserhead stepped back from the glass and Tomura spoke without thinking.

“Too fucking bad you couldn’t save me. ” He hissed under his breath, pausing as soon as the words left his mouth. He shook his head and leaned back, looking up at the white ceiling as his hair fell messily into his eyes. He needed a shower.

His skin itched.

“When did you need to be saved?”

He flinched, gaze skittering back down to the glass several feet in front of him. Eraser was still here? And he'd heard him?

He scowled.

“You said you were done here.” Shigaraki really needed to learn how to hold his tongue for once.

Eraserhead tilted his head, ever so slightly, and Tomura swore up and down that he could see right through him to whatever soul he had left.

"Yeah." The hero finally relented, turning and trudging out of the room.

-

Shota returned to talk to Shigaraki again two days after the first discussion (if you could call it that.) Honestly, he probably would've sooner if he hadn't had classes. 

He peered curiously at the villain from behind the glass, unbothered by the red eyes glaring back at him.

He couldn't have been that much older than the third years at UA.

"Hm."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?" Shigaraki complained, scarlet eyes rolling in irritation before finding interest in the ceiling.

Shota merely hummed again, taking a seat in the white chair provided for him and leaning back in it.

"How old are you?"

Those same eyes, full of a scorching sort of anger, dragged themselves back to his face, narrowing in suspicion, or confusion, or both. 

"I'm not telling you that." He answered, voice dripping in venom.

“Too fucking bad you couldn’t save me.” He muttered, and Shota recognized the look in his eyes, the look of anger, of betrayal, of pain, and an uncomfortable guilt settled in his chest. He'd seen enough civilians and villains alike jaded by an unfortunate situation they hadn't been 'saved' from to last a lifetime. It never got any easier to deal with, though.

He arched an eyebrow.

"Why not? What could I possibly do with that information?" He questioned, scratching absently at his beard.

Shigaraki's eyes narrowed further, though there was an air of uncertainty about him now.

"..." His mouth twisted further down into a frown, pulling at the dry skin there. "Twenty."

Shota waited a moment, expecting another number, then twitched a bit when nothing else was said.

Twenty? Only twenty? The leader of the most dangerous group in Japan at the moment was twenty?

“Okay.” He said simply. That was…it was fine . He was a very dangerous , very cruel twenty year old. His elbow ached a bit almost as a reminder of that.

“You really are so cool.” The villain breathed, a morbid sense of excitement in his tone like some child in a candy store, a vibrant red glimpsed from between the grayed fingers of the hand on his face.

Shota shook off the memory, focusing on the way Shigaraki seemed to follow his every little movement with his eyes.

(Eri did the same thing with her own scarlet gaze, watching him for cues on what to do and what was happening, peering up at him from behind her light hair.)

“Do you plan to elaborate on the other day?” He drawled, keeping his expression uninterested. Shigaraki looked away from him now, face partially obscured by his hair. The silence ticked on for a few more moments. “You said-”

“I know what I said-”

“-that it was too bad I couldn’t save you.” Shota continued unflinchingly at the interruption. Shigaraki still wasn’t looking at him. “What did you mean by that?”

“What do you think I meant, Eraser?” He snapped. Shota blinked slowly and said nothing, watching him squirm in his bindings. “It doesn’t matter. Drop it.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"What do you want, Shigaraki?" He asked.

"Destruction." Shigaraki answered easily.

Shota tilted his head one way, then the other.

"No." He decided. "What do you want?"

The villain blanched a bit, staring back at him with wide eyes and a creased brow, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What? I just told you.” He argued. Shota shook his head. Something was off about the way he’d said it, the way he acted.

“You told me what someone wants. What do you want?” He pushed. Shigaraki bared his teeth.

“I want to get rid of everything! I want it all to come tumbling down. I want to watch it all crumble .” 

Shota was quiet for a moment.

“And you hate all heroes?” He guessed.

“Take a wild guess. Hero society is fucked.” Shigaraki blew a strand of hair up from his face, scowling when it fell back into place.

Well, that’s something we can agree on.

“Yeah, it is.” He didn’t miss the skeptical look Shigaraki gave him, but moved on. “Typically, though, people who hate all heroes don’t think a pro-hero is ‘cool.’”

He tensed and Shota hummed, giving him a minute to respond. 

When nothing was said, he stood up.

"Alright."

He'd be back again, eventually.

Shigaraki's gaze burned into his back as he left the room.

-

Tomura was beginning to wonder if he was going to rot there.

He knew Tartarus was hard to break into; his own master was trapped here, somewhere else in the facility. However, it was just starting to set in that that meant he was here until further notice. Stuck with the cameras watching him, surrounded by white walls in his dirty clothes, strapped down.

He felt grimy. He felt dirty. He felt disgusting.

It's not that he wasn't used to not showering or changing clothes for extended periods of time; sometimes, he couldn't seem to pry himself out of his bed, or showering seemed an impossibly difficult task, even when Kurogiri would point out it'd been days.

It was just something else to be deprived of it entirely, to be caged in like an animal and denied the option.

The door opened and Tomura was only mildly surprised to see Shota Aizawa shuffle in, dark eyes staring straight into his soul from underneath a mop of black hair, the effect only barely dulled by the glass between them.

"You again?" He groaned, hiding his confusion in a thick layer of disgust.

"You don't seem to be saying much to anyone else." Eraser responded, which was true.

Other heroes had come and gone within the past few days, the ex-symbol of peace included (it was far too satisfying to see the once great All Might looking so pathetic, he had to admit), but they either were shit at asking questions or he'd pissed them off too quick for them to get any real replies from him.

"I haven't said much to you, either." Tomura pointed out.

Eraser shrugged.

"You've said things different from the others."

“That’s why I like you, Eraserhead. You’re a real hero.”

Fuck, that's right. He really needed to think before he spoke.

He decided on saying nothing, scowling and leaning back in his bindings.

Aizawa seemed unbothered.

"Look, how about we try something different?" He asked. Tomura raised his eyebrows, curiosity rising. "I don't have questions for you, or at least none I think you'll actually bother answering. What do you want to talk about, Shigaraki?"

Now, wasn't that a question?

Tomura tilted his head slowly, not shying away from Eraser's tired stare.

"Well," he said, "did you know I haven't showered in a week?"

He wasn't sure why that was what he went with, but it felt sort of...nice to get out.

"I didn't get the chance to shower for about 2 days before I was brought here, and they don't exactly let me out of this to change clothes or shower. I had to piss into a bucket. That someone else was holding. With the cameras on, and this," he tugged at the restraints, "still keeping me in place. I feel gross. This fucking sucks. " With that, he slumped backwards a bit. It was stupid, and didn't do shit in the long run, but he felt better having gotten his complaints off of his chest.

"Hm." Eraserhead said, unreadable as always. Tomura flexed his fingers uncomfortably and shame bubbled in his chest. He knew better than to do that; being quiet and staying silent was much more intimidating than complaining about not being able to shower, and he had an image he was supposed to be maintaining.

No wonder my master's allies think so little of me.

Eraser said nothing else, and god, did Tomura's skin itch, fingers twitching with the urge to scratch and scratch until his skin was red and irritated.

"If that's all, I think I've taken up enough of your precious time, don't you?" He mocked. The hero hummed again, studying him, and Tomura ached for Father to cover his face with, even if the cold weight on his skin brought more muffled despair and misery than any form of comfort. 

(It was supposed to do that. He was supposed to be upset, angry, and full of hate. That was how his master told him he'd be strong.)

"I suppose so." Aizawa shrugged again, and Tomura almost felt regretful as he watched him go.

-

Shota didn't say anything when he and Hizashi got in the car, but of course he caught on anyway.

“What happened? Anything useful this time around?” Hizashi asked, glancing away from the road in front of him to peer at Shota over his shades.

He considered not bringing it up, as, technically, no, nothing useful was said, but Shota knew damn well Hizashi wouldn’t just let it go if he brushed him off.

“They’re treating him unnecessarily inhumanely.” He admitted, eyes on the dashboard of the car. Hizashi made a noise next to him, fingers drumming on the steering wheel in his grasp.

“In Tartarus? I mean, isn’t he dangerous?”

“Yeah, but he’s- he’s only twenty, Mic, and they’ve got him pissing in buckets, on camera. Tied up. Said he hadn’t been allowed to shower in a week.”

“Oh.” Hizashi said, and Shota didn’t need to look at him to know he was frowning. A brief moment passed between them where nothing was said, the silence filled by the car’s engine and whatever loud pop song Hizashi had playing from the radio. “Shit, Sho, did you say twenty?”

Shota sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest.

“Yep.”

“Never met a more punchable twenty year old, he’s such a little bi-”

“Hizashi.”

“I’m just saying that his age doesn’t entirely absolve him of being a bitch, okay, you still have the scars to prove that.” Hizashi answered. Shota grunted, and Hizashi sighed as well. “Yeah, yeah. I remember what you said about him before, the whole,” he waved a hand, “being saved thing. Anything else?”

“When…” He frowned again at the memory, not liking the picture being painted in his mind that meant the current biggest threat to Japan was some traumatized kid. “When I asked him what he wanted, he said destruction. But he didn’t mean it, and that’s what I don’t get. He talks about destroying everything, bringing it all down, crumbling hero society, your usual shit except he doesn’t talk about rebuilding things or doing it better, and I’ve seen the hate in his eyes but it still doesn’t…I don’t know, Hizashi. He seems like his heart’s not really in it. He’s just repeating things he’s been told. I know it.” He insisted.

Hizashi didn’t say anything, brow pinched and fingers drumming absently on the steering wheel again.

“Yeah. I know you do.” He glanced over at him again, the green of his eyes dulled by the lenses of his sunglasses. “So what are we gonna do about it?”

Shota’s frown deepened. Hizashi hummed at his lack of response.

“Well. Can’t let him stay there, right?” Hizashi grinned.

-

“You’re kidding.” Tomura rasped, eyes skeptically examining Eraserhead for any sign of it being a trick. “You’re kidding? You’re kidding. You’re joking. ”

Eraser looked about as serious as always, though, which was exactly what sent Tomura into a cackling, maniacal sort of laughter.

“You’re joking!”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

His laughter trailed off into giggling that abruptly stopped, the smile dropping from his dry lips when the hero continued to wait for his answer.

“You…” Tomura wrinkled his nose. “You want me to come live with you? What? Are you out of your mind ?” 

Aizawa’s calm expression never faltered—did he practice that in the mirror or something?—and Tomura squirmed under his gaze.

“You realize removing me from here means I’ll probably come get picked up by the League, right?” He mused.

Eraser rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I realize that it means they’ll try, if they find out.” He didn’t seem overly bothered by that fact, and Tomura considered things more carefully.

It was an easy choice to make, but the idea of being trapped in a house with Aizawa was… admittedly intimidating. It shouldn’t have been, he was a villain and a damn dangerous one at that, but it was intimidating nonetheless.

(His master would be so disappointed in him.)

“Yeah, sure. I’ll humor you.”

It took about an hour and a half (he had to check the clocks to know, because they’d knocked him unconscious for it) to get Tomura out of his restraints.

Aizawa had laid it out plain and simple for him; he’d be on his best behavior, or he’d go right back to that hideous white room and the stupid bucket. He’d have to keep a pair of special handcuffs on at all times except for the shower and changing clothes. He’d have to stay inside the house.

And the golden rule that piqued his interest: play nice with Eri.

Eri, he’d been told, was a little girl in Eraser’s care, and she’d “been through enough already” and he was to treat her with all the care in the world, which amused him to no end.

Tomura was certain this wasn’t going to go well, but it wasn’t like he had anything left to lose.

Present Mic wasn’t much different from how he’d expected. He smelled like coconut shampoo, some sweet smelling cologne, and leather, and he talked loud, moving his arms and gesturing with his hands. Tomura only half paid attention to what he said at first, distracted by the way his hair was styled so high and wondering where he’d heard his voice before. He climbed into the back seat of the car, buckling up reluctantly at the weird look Mic gave him when he didn’t.

It took approximately 10 minutes of driving, Mic’s yapping (that guy really didn't stop, did he? Better than the silence of his cell) and the trashy pop he was blasting from the car’s radio being the only noise, for him to grow bored enough to fuck around.

Tomura leaned forward, poking his head between the two front seats.

“Are we there yet?”

He very nearly shrunk back at the look Aizawa gave him, instead offering up a shit-eating grin, though it faltered slightly when Mic started laughing.

“I know you’re probably just fucking with us,” he said easily, lifting a hand from the steering wheel to wave dismissively, chipped black nail polish glinting in the light, “but no. Shouldn’t take that long, though, little listener.”

Tomura balked at the nickname and leaned back, slumping down in his seat, the tips of his ears burning in embarrassment.

Little listener my ass .

He wasn’t a little kid, and he definitely wasn’t one of this hero’s ‘listeners.’

Tomura scowled, lifting his feet and kicking at the back of Aizawa’s seat, rubbing his muddy sneakers all over it.

He agreed to go, but he wasn’t going to be happy about this.

“Hey.” 

Tomura sat up with a start, instinctively kicking out and only feeling a little regretful when his foot connected with Mic’s face, knocking him backwards onto the sidewalk outside the car.

“Oh,” he muttered, groggily rubbing at his eyes, the thin layer of cloth around two of his digits smooth against his skin. When had he fallen asleep? “Whoops.”

Eraser stood a bit behind Mic and looked torn for a moment, stuck between finding it funny and being unamused, but it only lasted a moment, and he shook his head. 

“Best behavior.” He reminded, and Tomura grimaced, peering out through the open car door.

“Yeah, yeah. It was an accident.”

“I’m fine!” Mic gave a thumbs up, his other hand holding his nose. Tomura snickered and unbuckled himself, climbing out of the car. “We’re there yet, also.”

Tomura wondered if he was always like this.

Catching his expression as Mic jogged ahead to unlock the door of the flat before them, Aizawa leaned over.

“He’s just like that.” He muttered, though Tomura noticed the fondness dripping from his tone. He shrugged, mostly aching to get out of his clothes and into a scalding hot shower. Or maybe he deserved one of the frigid ones today, he’d failed his master miserably, after all.

There was a bit of fussing and awkward staring, but Tomura had a one track mind at the moment, resigning to check out the flat later.

Clean clothes were pressed into his hands—some band t-shirt and hilariously patterned Eraserhead pajama pants, they were both Mic’s because he was closer to his size—and he was being steered towards the bathroom by Aizawa, who was nagging Mic about a bloody nose and telling him to get an ice pack from the freezer “or so help me, Hizashi, I’ll shear you like a sheep.”

Tomura tried very hard not to be bewildered by everything, sitting still as Eraser undid his cuffs in a specific way that Tomura memorized even if he wouldn’t be able to reach the spots needed to do it himself.

(If and when the League found him, it'd be nice to know how to direct one of them to get the restraints off.)

Mic popped into the bathroom briefly, an ice pack held to his nose, and told them he was going to pick up Eri from someone named Togata.

When he left, he seemed to take the noise with him, leaving the other two in awkward silence. Tomura rubbed his wrists and absently wished he’d had gloves like these ones before, they were smooth and pleasant on his skin and he didn’t destroy anything by accident.

“Uh,” Aizawa looked less intimidating here, softer around the edges now that Tomura had seen him hang his capture weapon on a coat rack and kick his boots off to reveal socks with cartoon cats decorating them, “you can figure out the shower without disintegrating it, right?”

Tomura cast his gaze over to the shower, mildly amused to see the diversity in products ranging from a kid’s apple scented body wash to basic men’s shampoo to several fancy conditioners. 

“Yeah, probably.” He reached up and scratched at his neck, relishing the scrape of his bitten down nails on his skin.

Eraser nodded, backing out of the room, hand on the doorknob.

“Let me know if you need anything. Don’t destroy my bathroom.”

Tomura snorted as he shut the door, and started stripping.

-

Shota couldn't help the way his mind jumped to the comparison, but he still felt a little bad about thinking Shigaraki looked like a wet cat when he exited the bathroom. Only a little, though. His blue hair was matted and dripping with water, and the clothes Mic lent him hung loosely from his thin frame, the only form fitting thing being the half gloves provided by Tartarus. One hand lazily dangled the pair of cuffs, ready to be replaced.

He lost his humor when he realized the boy was shaking, and the image of a dangerous threat further slipped away at the sight of pale, trembling hands.

“Shit.” He muttered, getting up from his seat on the couch. “Hey, are you-” He hesitated as he neared the villain, noticing the goosebumps raised on the visible portions of his arms. Shota idled for a moment, then took the handcuffs from him. “...you’re cold.” He stated. Shigaraki shrugged, holding out his arms. His concern only grew when he touched his wrists to put the cuffs on and was met with freezing cold skin. “Jesus Christ. Did we not have hot water?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t try it.” He finally responded, not that that was any less worrying.

Shota stared at him for a long moment, earning him a raised eyebrow and narrowed eyes.

“What?”

“We have hot water. You should use it.” He muttered, lowering his gaze to the cuffs again and replacing them on Shigaraki’s wrists.

"Yeah, whatever." Shigaraki shrugged, raising a hand to scratch at his neck as soon as the cuffs were back on. That seemed like an unhealthy habit, but Shota wasn't going to push his luck trying to convince him not to do it, at least not so soon.

"You can sleep in the guest bedroom." He said instead. "It's pretty small, but it's not like we have much else."

Shigaraki shrugged again, appearing disinterested as his gaze wandered around the room.

"I'll get you some better fitting clothes tomorrow. Do you know what size you are?" He continued, trying not to feel awkward. You'd think he'd be used to not being around conversationalists given the introverted student he was currently mentoring.

"No. Kurogiri gets my clothes."

Something about the way he said it seemed particularly sour, but Shota wasn't sure what he did to upset him, so he just moved on.

"Alright. We'll figure it out. Uh, you can go check out your room, and I guess the rest of the place."

"Yeah. Are you dating Mic?" Shigaraki asked.

Shota choked.

"I- what? No? No. No, what? Of course I'm n- what? " 

Shigaraki scratched his neck again, stare unwavering.

"Are you in a romantic relationship with Present Mic?"

" No. I'm not." He answered. Shigaraki snorted and promptly exited the room without another word.

Shota pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What the fuck?" He murmured.

-

Tomura heard the front door open and the excited greetings that followed, but stayed in 'his' room, reclining on the unmade bed, still shivering from the air on his cold skin, but it was nothing compared to what his master would've done if given the chance.

He was pretty sure a couple hours passed like that, the pillow under him wet from his unbrushed hair and a chill occasionally dancing along his spine.

The knock that came on his door was soft and quiet, and Tomura drew his gaze from where night had fallen outside his window to the peeling white paint of the guest room door.

"What?" He called flatly.

The door quietly opened with a small clicking noise, and round, sad red eyes met his own, wide and watery in a way that a child's really shouldn't have been.

Tomura wasn't sure what he'd expected Eri to be like, but it wasn't this. Her hair was long and white, falling around her like a curtain and contrasting the red overall dress that flowed down just above her knees. White stockings, a white shirt under her dress, and black mary janes. Most interesting was likely a tie between the strange little horn that protruded from her head and the hintings of scars Tomura could see peeking out from her clothes.

He said nothing, and she said nothing.

After a beat, she stepped into the room and gently shut the door behind her, blinking at him.

"...hi." She finally said, whispered into the room like it was a secret.

Tomura stared at her.

"I'm- I'm Eri, Mr. Aizawa said…" She fidgeted with the skirt of her dress. "Mr. Aizawa said you'd be here and that he'd introduce us tomorrow, but I heard that you, um."

Tomura shifted, sitting up on the bed, raising his eyebrows at her.

"I heard you have a dangerous quirk." She said.

His mood soured instantly, and it must have shown on his face, as she shook her head quickly.

"Which made me want to come see you, because I have one, too! It hurt- it hurts a lot of people, and um..."

He paused, examining the little girl before him.

"...how old are you?" He rasped.

"I'm six." He sucked in a breath and then choked on it, coughing into his elbow.

"You- six?" Tomura repeated. "Fuckin- Jesus. Your quirk doesn't hurt people." He considered his next words carefully, and decided 'fuck it.' He scooted over, waiting for Eri to climb onto the bed before continuing. "Your quirk does not hurt people. People might get hurt, because you're young and struggling to control it-"

"Hana! Wait, please, you came to apologize, right? Please! Wait!"

"-but that's okay. It happens, and things," his breath caught and he had to clear his throat, scratching his neck, "things will get better. Most accidents are fixable, and the ones that aren't, you just deal with. Quirks are tools, they don't inherently hurt or help anyone." He shrugged, glancing down at his own hands and flexing his fingers. "It's about what you do with it."

Or at least, that's what Kurogiri told him.

It took several long moments of silence for Tomura to look up again, startled to find Eri looking back at him with an expression far too similar to the one Eraser gave him back in his cell.

"What-"

He cut himself off when the child wrapped her arms around him briefly, cheek pressing into his chest.

"Thank you, Mr. Shigaraki." She let go and slid off of the bed, fixing her dress. "You know, your arms kinda look like mine."

Tomura fought the urge to look at his arms, already aware of how they looked, scars littering his pale skin, both from failed or dangerous missions and from his master's reactions to said failed missions. His adolescence wasn't his favorite time to reminisce on.

A six year old's shouldn't look like his.

"Yeah?" He said instead of voicing any of that.

Eri nodded.

"Mhm!" She combed her hair out of her face with her fingers, heading over to his door again. "Your hair is really pretty, also. Goodnight, Mr. Shigaraki."

"Bye, Eri."

The door clicked shut behind her and Tomura let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

(His master would've killed him for giving that little speech to a hero's kid, but for once, he wasn't sure he cared.)

He waited a few minutes, then Tenko Shimura curled up on the bed, and cried himself to sleep.

-

Shota stopped walking abruptly, not making a noise, and took in the scene in front of him with wide but tired eyes.

It was six in the morning, and Tomura Shigaraki was on his couch, tongue stuck out in concentration and blue hair pinned back from his face with a hot pink butterfly hair clip. His hands were still cuffed and the bags under his eyes were more visible like this, but he looked his age, eyes nearly crossed as he focused on his task. Which happened to be braiding a six year old's hair.

The leader of the League of Villains was trying his damnedest to braid Shota's six year old's hair, while said six year old chowed down on cereal in her unicorn nightgown.

He blinked slowly, then backed away from the doorway, relatively sure he was hallucinating, and resigned himself to go back to sleep. It was far too early, anyway.

Except, there was a conversation happening now. Shota drifted back near the doorway.

"-and that's when Deku and Lemillion came and saved me, and Mr. Aizawa takes care of me now. Sometimes Mr. Mic does, too." Eri said, spooning another mouthful of cereal into her mouth.

His heart warmed, though he found himself frowning at Shigaraki's tense expression.

"...they saved you?" He exhaled shakily, swallowed, then patted her head with a gentleness Aizawa had never seen him exhibit. "Good. That's... yeah. That's good. I'm glad."

"Mhm!"

"That bad man... he wore a bird mask, right? And a stupid jacket?" He clipped a baby blue hair clip into her hair to hold a strand in place.

"...yeah. He was… he…" Eri trailed off, and Shigaraki hummed.

"Yeah. I get it." He combed some of her hair, smoothing out any knots. "He… He hurt some of my friends, too. He took one of them, she was a really nice lady, and he hurt another. He wanted us to help him, but we didn't want to. He was mean. I didn't know how mean, then, but I guess I was right about that, huh?"

"Mhm. The meanest." Eri agreed.

"The meanest." Shigaraki echoed, nodding. "When he got locked up, my friends and I… We actually made it so he couldn't use his quirk on anyone else. He's never going to hurt anyone again, okay?" He leaned down a bit, peering down at her. Eri smiled weakly.

"That's good. Thank you."

Shigaraki poked her nose with a bobby pin.

"You tell anyone about that good deed and I'll have to cut off all your pretty princess hair." He threatened. She smiled again, wider.

"You think I have pretty princess hair?"

"Don't tell anyone I said that, either."

Eri laughed, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound, and Shota figured that things would be alright if he went to bed.

He'd hate to accidentally spread Shigaraki's 'secrets', after all.

-

Tomura retreated back to his room soon after combing the very poorly done braid back out of Eri's hair.

It was nearly seven in the morning, and he was tired. He'd wandered through the house an hour or two prior and found Eri doing the same, unable to sleep. So he'd reluctantly hung out with her until she felt tired, and now he was back in his room, turning a butterfly hair clip over in his hands.

Eri said he could keep it, that it looked pretty in his hair.

Sometimes, if she was doing really bad, he'd let Toga style and decorate his hair. She probably would have liked this, now that he thought about it.

He swiped his thumb over the plastic pink butterfly.

Tomura's hair was too knotted and matted to put the clip in and have it look nice.

He hadn't had the gloves before, so he wasn't used to it, but technically, he could brush his hair now.

Usually, if it had to be done, Kurogiri brushed his hair.

Tomura tightened his grip on the small object.

He hadn't allowed himself to linger on it, earlier, but he really wished Kurogiri were here.

He missed the League in general, actually, but he really wished he could lean forward and rest his forehead against Kurogiri’s shoulder and be hugged so gently , like he was something breakable instead of someone who brought destruction wherever he went.

It was Kurogiri’s job to take care of him, but Tomura liked to think he did genuinely care.

He swallowed, setting the hair clip on a bedside table. His master would think him pathetic.

His master would be right.

A few knocks came at his door in rapid succession, and he recognized the sound from a song he’d heard on the radio.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

Oh.

Tomura rolled his eyes, sitting up.

“What?” He called, scrunching up his nose when Present Mic opened the door.

"Yo, yo, I heard you need some clothes, so I'm here to take you shopping!" He beamed. Tomura thought he looked weird with his hair down and a pair of heart shaped sunglasses seated on his nose. 

"Eraserhead said I wasn't supposed to leave the house."

"Eraser doesn't have to know!" Mic tossed a black beanie and oversized yellow hoodie at him. "Nobody will recognize you, no biggie."

"I'm going to look like Big Bird." 

Mic waved him off.

"We'll also say you're sick, so you can wear a mask." He grinned, far too proud of himself.

Tomura sighed heavily.

"Alright."

The boiling hot shower water felt good in that it felt as painful and destructive as he was, and it left his skin red and raw and irritated.

The gloves came on, then another set of Mic's pants and shirt—a pair of black sweatpants and a hideous neon yellow shirt—and then the large hoodie and black beanie were tugged over his head.

He paused, considering, then pulled the beanie back off. Tomura forced his fingers through his knotted hair, unflinching at the sting and ache of his scalp, until he deemed it good enough, then carefully sectioned a few strands off to the side.

He clipped a butterfly hair clip into his hair, a shade of pink too bright for his tastes, then pulled the beanie over his head, covering it up.

Tomura frowned at his reflection.

He looked... well, ugly.

He grunted, flipping the hood up, and snatched the cuffs from the sink's counter, ignoring the way the clothes rubbed against his sore skin.

Whatever .

If Mic noticed the increased aggression in his behavior, he didn't say so. He asked simply if Tomura was comfortable (he wasn't) and hummed when he told him to fuck off.

(He was a little bit disturbed by how this pro reminded him of Kurogiri, but it was in the way he looked at Tomura and saw a child, the way any anger thrown his way slid off his back like water off a duck, the way he-

He should stop now.)

He was offered the option to pick the music, when they climbed into the car, and Tomura realized all at once where he'd heard Mic's voice before, other than the USJ incident.

"You have a radio show." He blurted. Mic paused but took it in stride, grinning.

"Yeah! I sure do!"

He decidedly bit his tongue against mentioning it made good background noise before he'd had the League, loud enough to fill his bedroom and warm enough that he'd felt just slightly less alone.

He also didn't mention how Kurogiri had dropped a plate when he'd turned it on the first time, though that felt oddly relevant.

"Weird," he said instead, reaching over and turning the radio on to some rock channel. Mic didn't seem bothered, of course, and the car ride to the mall passed with a mostly one sided conversation. (Read the room, I'm not telling you my life story.)

Tomura didn't really like the mall.

It was loud and crowded and bright and everything was trying to sell you something.

And there was hero merch everywhere.

Plus, his face mask was all sweaty.

Tomura resisted the urge to groan and pouted under his mask, slouched against a wall. The coolness of the plaster seeped in through the hoodie, soothing against his sore skin. Mic seemed to be looking for something specific within the racks of t-shirts, occupied digging through.

He really just wanted to go home.

Kurogiri would have a cup of tea, he didn't know what kind but it was warm and sweet and it felt like comfort, and he'd play videogames with Spinner until Toga got bored and started begging him to let her do his hair and makeup, and she'd promise that she wouldn't "make you look stupid this time, pretty please, last time was the last time!"

The bright lights of the store hurt his eyes and it was so noisy. He wasn't sure what changed, or what made that noise different from the constant loudness of the League, but his hands found his neck again, blunt nails dragging across pale skin with an increasing amount of franticness in his movements. His head hurt. He wanted to throw up. He was so pathetic. He-

"Hey, Shigaraki," Mic's voice was the softest Tomura had ever heard it, he hadn't even been sure he could lower his voice (and when did he get so close?), "look at me. Can you do that?"

Tomura's eyes drifted forward, finding a confusing amount of concern behind Mic's frames.

God, was someone sitting on his chest?

"Shigaraki." He dragged his eyes back to Mic, unsure when they'd wandered away. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

No , Tomura couldn't do that, he didn't want anyone's hands on him, it'd burn and sure he deserved it but his master wasn't fond of having his successor damaged in ways he didn't control, and Tomura wasn't fond of the choking sensation he always seemed to get when people would grab and grab and scratch and hurt and grab and not let go ,

"Hey, I'm not going to do anything if you aren't okay with it, okay?"

Okay, Tomura (Tenko?) thought, because he was gullible, and stupid, and Mic had Kurogiri's ever outstretched hand, offering him support he didn't deserve.

(Kurogiri had to have that, though. Mic didn't. Mic was lying.)

"You're hurting yourself," he was, wasn't he? The bite of his nails had faded from a heated sort of pain to a sort of numbness, there was something wet and warm under his fingernails and on the tips of his fingers, "Shigaraki, can you do me a favor?"

Yes.

"I need you to breathe, okay? Can you do that?"

Of course he could, he wasn't stupid.

Well, he should have been able to, but it seemed like pushing a boulder uphill.

Mic was saying something else, something with numbers, and Tenko could hear Kurogiri's voice, and Tomura could hear Spinner asking if he was okay, because he'd been here before.

He breathed in for four seconds, held for seven, and breathed out for eight, following Mic's instructions a few times before the air flowed freely into his lungs.

"And can you take your hands away from your neck, little listener? Please?" His hands had stilled, but his nails were still dug into the skin there.

Tomura hesitated, but pried his hands away.

He blinked a few times, his eyes burning a bit, and realized with growing frustration he had almost started crying.

The floor was cold under him and Mic was kneeling in front of him, brow creased and green eyes searching his face.

"Are you…"

"If you ask me if I'm okay, I'll kill you without using my quirk." Tomura rasped, biting the inside of his cheek when his voice cracked. Mic didn't mention it, nodding slowly and standing up.

"...Do you want to borrow a pair of my sunglasses?" He asked instead. Tomura squinted at him, ignoring the hand Mic held out and pushing himself up on his own.

"What?"

Mic pointed a finger at the ceiling.

"For the lights." He tapped the headphones resting around his neck. "You could borrow these, too. They're noise canceling."

Really, Tomura should say no. He was already pathetic enough, wasn't he?

Draped in stupid clothes that weren't his, trapped in stupid cuffs, and a hot pink hair clip hidden under a beanie.

The mall was hell, though, and he was tired.

"Give me the fucking headphones."

He felt stupid, but he also figured he couldn't look any stupider even with the bulky red headphones and orange sunglasses he now wore.

(Mic had a backup pair of sunglasses. And a backup backup pair. Tomura didn't ask.)

They went to a different store and, after Mic once again “ didn't” -ask-if-he-was-okay (he was fine) , Tomura wandered away from him, figuring he should probably actually look at clothes if he wanted any that weren't like his current outfit.

He picked up a black graphic t-shirt, amused by the "What doesn't kill you gives you XP" printed on it in a blocky white pixelated font.

“You like that one?”

He whirled around, nearly punching Mic on instinct.

“Don’t do that.” He hissed.

Mic gave a crooked smile.

“Sorry.” He glanced back down at the shirt. “Do you like videogames?”

Tomura hesitated, looking down at the shirt in his hands then back up at Mic. He’d been purposely avoiding talking about himself, but he wanted this shirt.

“Yeah. They’re basically my only hobby.” He shrugged. He half expected to be laughed at or told he was childish.

“Cool.” Mic said instead, plucking the shirt from him and holding it up to examine. “I think this is too small, though. Let’s find one your size, yeah?”

Tomura nodded wordlessly, trailing after Mic as he navigated the store.

They returned to the car with a few arms full of similar tees and long-sleeved shirts, several pairs of jeans and sweatpants, and a few pairs of soft shirts and pants. He’d also gotten a very fuzzy, very soft sweater with a cat on it, and some socks and underwear. 

They were nearly at the flat again when Tomura finally spoke up, barely audible over the loud guitar solo of whatever song was playing.

“I used to listen to your show.”

Mic paused in his humming and his fingers stilled for a moment on the steering wheel.

The beat of silence had Tomura's nerves jumping, and he quickly spoke again.

“Not a lot, I mean, it is weird for a villain to listen to a pro’s radio show, or whatever, yeah, I know, but it was on, and it was, uh, good background noise, I guess, and-”

“Well, did you like it?” Mic interrupted. Tomura's mouth snapped shut.

He shrugged, sliding the sunglasses and headphones off.

"Well, I didn't listen to other ones, did I?"

Mic's grin widened, but the teasing Tomura expected never came.

The scolding he expected from Eraserhead when they entered the house did, though.

"I told him you said I couldn't leave. He said you 'didn't have to know.'" He shrugged.

Mic let out a gasp so loud and offended it almost made Shigaraki laugh.

"Traitor! Snitch! Narc!" He accused. 

"Yamada." Eraser's arms were crossed, and Mic wilted a little.

"He needed clothes!" He protested.

There was a stare down, Shigaraki's eyes darting between Mic and Eraser to try to figure out what the hell they were saying that he couldn't hear, then Eraser sighed.

"Just ask me next time."

Mic saluted and Tomura snorted, though that sinking feeling he'd gotten earlier was returning and he missed the League all over again.

Eraser sort of sounded like Kurogiri had when he, Toga, and Dabi had snuck out at three in the morning to grab McDonald's (read: rob a McDonald's) and he'd never missed being scolded so badly.

"If you two are done, I'm thirsty and I don't know what I'm allowed to touch in the kitchen." He said, instinctively reaching up to scratch his neck and running his fingers across the unicorn decorated Band-Aids stuck there instead. Mic had put them on when they got to the car, insisted on it.

Eraser followed the movement with his eyes, gaze lingering on the Band-Aids, then sighed again.

"Yeah, okay. You're getting tea." He said simply, turning on his heel and trudging to the kitchen. Mic gave Tomura a thumbs up that he promptly ignored as he hesitantly followed Eraserhead.

He sat at the table, stiff and awkward, as the hero made tea in complete silence.

"I like your new sweater."

He paused, glancing down at himself. He'd changed from Mic's clothes into a pair of new jeans and the soft sweater with a cat on it.

"...thanks." Tomura muttered.

Eraser placed a mug down in front of him and Tomura bit back a laugh at the little cat face it had.

"You like cats?" He guessed, picking up the mug with his pinkies out on instinct, going still after his first sip.

It felt like comfort, warm and sweet in his mouth, and he very suddenly was blinking back tears, grateful that Eraser had turned back around.

"Yeah. I have two slinking around here somewhere."

Tomura cleared his throat, taking another sip.

"Cool." He said, and left it at that.

-

Shota figured he probably should have been more cautious with the leader of the League of Villains in his living space, but it was hard to be worried about him hurting anyone (other than himself, concerningly enough) when he was playing Jenga on the floor with a six year old girl, in a soft, fuzzy cat sweater and equally soft sweatpants. And losing.

The tower wobbled ominously and Shigaraki let out a string of poorly censored swears.

"God- jesus fu- fricking Christ oh my fuc- frick- god dammit," he hissed, "how am I losing to someone half my size?"

Eri blew a raspberry at him and Shota stifled a smile.

"I'm gonna kick your ass. Your butt. I meant-"

"Mr. Aizawa swears, too, it's okay." Eri answered, getting on her toes and carefully placing a wooden block on top of the tower.

Shigaraki pouted, his knees pulled up to his chest, and he was struck once again by how young the other was.

He was only two or three years older than the third years at U.A.

The cat in his lap purred, and he drew his eyes down to the pile of black fur under his hand and he scratched gently behind her ears. Oddly enough, Shigaraki seemed enamored with her but kept a good distance, as if he was afraid of her.

Shota frowned.

Or as if he was afraid of himself.

He looked back up at the sound of the tower crashing down and Eri yelping, immediately lifting the cat from his lap and moving to get up, but Shigaraki seemed to have him beat.

"Sh- Crap, I'm sorry, are you okay? I didn't think it'd fall on you." He reached for her, then his hands twitched and fell back into his lap instead, leaning forward to examine the girl. "You're not hurt, are you?" He asked, blue hair falling into his face.

"I'm okay!" Eri said, rubbing her forehead. "My head hurts though…"

"I'm sorry." Shigaraki repeated. "Can I see?"

Shota got up at that.

"I can get a Band-Aid or ice pack depending on how bad it is." He said. The way Shigaraki seemed to shrink a bit when he spoke, pulling his hands closer to himself, didn't escape him. He idled, then added "Neither of you are in trouble. Just be careful."

He didn't wait for a response, heading to the bathroom to fetch a first aid kit from the cabinet.

It only took him a minute or two, but he paused outside the living room.

Shigaraki was kneeling in front of Eri, one finger from each hand hooked on the edges of his mouth and his tongue sticking out, eyes crossed.

"You look so silly like that!"

"Yeah, that's kind of the point." Shigaraki snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ugh, I got spit all over me! This is your fault." He wiggled a finger at her accusingly.

"It is not!" Eri protested between giggles.

Shigaraki hummed, leaning forward and examining her head with his hands securely in his lap.

"How's your head? I'm sorry I hurt you, I wasn't trying to."

Shota leaned against the doorway. For the leader of the League of Villains, Shigaraki seemed awfully insistent on not hurting anyone but himself.

"It's okay." Eri picked at the seams of her dress. "I get it. I hurt people by accident, too."

"That's not your fault." He watched as Shigaraki hesitated, then reached forward and patted her head. "Your quirk is hard to control, but it doesn't mean you hurt people. I'm just bad at Jenga."

He smiled, crooked and wide with his eyes wrinkling at the corners, and Shota's breath caught for a moment.

"How are you so good with kids?"

"Well, I like making them laugh." He grinned, lopsided but genuine, the corner of his eyes crinkling. "I think you're better with kids than you think, Sho. You could probably even be a teacher, y'know." He tilted his head slightly, light blue bangs falling in his face.

"Yeah, yeah. You always say that. I don't see it."

"I bet Zashi would agree."

"Whatever, Oboro."

He coughed, getting off the doorway, and the other two's heads turned.

"Hi Mr. Aizawa!"

"Eraserhead."

Shota nodded, holding up the first aid kit.

"All good?" He asked.

"Yeah." Eri rubbed where the block had hit her forehead.

"...do you want a Band-Aid anyway?" He raised an eyebrow, unsurprised when Eri nodded.

"Yes, please." She smiled and Shigaraki quietly started picking up the wooden blocks.

After a rainbow Band-Aid was stuck on her forehead and she seemed satisfied with his care, Shota glanced at Shigaraki.

"I know it was an accident. You can relax." He said, checking the time. "Bedtime, Eri."

Shota very purposely ignored the feeling of Shigaraki's gaze on him as he took Eri to her room and tucked her in, continuing to do so when he returned to the living room. He sat on the couch, sighing after a moment when Shigaraki kept staring.

"Can I help you with something?"

Shigaraki blinked a few times, scratching awkwardly at his neck.

"I was just... I've never seen…" He shrugged noncommittally, looking away and frowning.

Shota tilted his head.

"You've never seen…?"

"Nevermind.” Shigaraki shook his head. “Nevermind, just- whatever. You probably want me to go to my room, right?” He turned an apathetic gaze to him, lip curled a little in distaste.

He’d been rather cooperative, though Shota got the impression he just didn’t want to deal with a fight or going back to Tartarus. It was still more than he’d expected, though, and he had definitely made good on the ‘play nice with Eri’ rule. She seemed a bit too fond of him, honestly, which should have been more worrying than it was; it was hard to see him as a threat about it when the kid barely fit into his clothes and hid behind his hair half the time.

“He said videogames were his only hobby, y’know. Guess there’s not a lot of time for hobbies when you’re trying to bring down society.” Hizashi snorted.

“You don’t have to,” Shota said against his better judgment, rubbing the back of his neck, “you could stay up a bit. We could, uh. Do something.”

Shigaraki stared at him and he met his gaze, silently debating something.

“...like?”

“Videogames.” Shota suggested, and the standoff was won.

“Yeah, sure.” Shigaraki relented, flexing his fingers.

He perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch as Shota dug out the Wii he’d bought a few years ago. It was mostly brought out when Hizashi wanted to play something.

Shigaraki looked out of place, his blue hair tangled and messy, the skin under his eyes dark, and his mouth pressed tightly into a thin line, sharply contrasting the colorful Band-Aids on his neck and the soft clothes he wore. He looked too harsh for Shota’s place, all rough edges and bared teeth. Despite that, he looked so young. His features were round, his jawline soft and frame small. It was hard to think of him as the same villain who'd nearly killed his students after watching him be so gentle, so careful with Eri.

Perhaps it was hypocritical, but Shota couldn't help but wonder if he brushed his hair at all, though his mind half answered that Kurogiri probably did it for him, like he seemed to do everything that Shota asked about, from clothes shopping to food making ( "I don't know if I have any allergies, Kurogiri always makes the food I eat." He'd said like it was obvious and Shota was an idiot. )

He hadn't interacted much with Kurogiri, the USJ fight barely counted, but he was starting to get the idea that he was the main caretaker of the kid.

Speaking of, he was meant to be trying for information.

Shota grimaced slightly as he sat down a good distance away from Shigaraki, tossing a remote at him which he fumbled to catch.

"Hey, kid-"

"I'm not a kid."

"-are you ever going to tell me what you meant when you said that?" He asked. He didn't have to clarify.

Shigaraki paused, eyes locked onto the loading screen on the television, though the way his fingers flexed around the controller in his hands didn't go unnoticed. (He kept his pinkies out despite the gloves, apparently without even realizing. Must have been instinct.)

"Most people," he says finally, gaze distant and voice pinched, "don't know loss, don't know pain, like I do, and would pray they never do." His lip curled in distaste and he dragged his eyes back to Aizawa. He tensed, distinctly remembering the intense pain he'd felt in his elbow the last time Shigaraki had given him that look.

"Shigaraki,"

"Your brat, Eri?" He leaned back on the couch, lounging on it as if it were his own. "You should keep an eye on her. Sweet kid, isn't she?" He snorted and grinned at some unseen joke. "Those are always the ones with the worst luck. Then again, she did get saved." His grin twitched and seemed a little more forced. "Maybe I'm just cursed, then."

Shota swallowed.

He didn't like the way Shigaraki had talked about Eri, sharply reminded that he was more than some poor kid that he'd taken in. Regardless of whether he actually wanted to do the things he said or not, he believed he did, and he'd take lives to make it happen.

He gritted his teeth.

"You're not cursed." He said. Shigaraki waved him off.

"Nevermind. It doesn't matter. Can we play Mario Kart?"

"Yeah." He reluctantly agreed.

He kept his eyes on the screen for a while, admittedly not trying very hard at the game, not that it would have mattered if he had. The kid had been firmly in 1st place for most of the match.

It was only when the match finished, Shigaraki still in first and Shota in sixth, that he looked back at him again.

Shigaraki was grinning, genuinely grinning, and he whooped when he finished in first, leaping to his feet and doing an odd dance where he hopped from foot to foot and spun around, wiggling his hips and throwing his hands up.

He shoved down the memories of Shirakumo's stupid little victory dances and rose an eyebrow.

"Congrats." He said flatly. Shigaraki stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry at him.

"What's it like to be a loser? " He mocked, holding his fingers up in the shape of an L in front of his forehead.

Shota rolled his eyes.

"Maybe it is your bedtime."

"Mad you lost?" He grinned smugly, crossing his arms, pinkies up on instinct. "Don't worry, just stick to your job as a hero instead."

"Alright," Shota waved him away, "alright, yeah, go to bed, kid."

"I'm not a kid." Shigaraki snorted, throwing the controller at his face. He caught it easily, watching Shigaraki's brow furrow a little before shrugging. "I don't know why you keep calling me that."

"You're young enough. Go to bed."

"Do you call everyone younger than you 'kid'?"

"No. Go to bed."

"How old is Mic?" Shigaraki asked, sitting back down on the couch.

Shota sighed.

"Shiga-"

"Actually, how old are you?"

"Shigaraki." Shigaraki blinked at him, expression calm and curious, red eyes wide, and he looked his age. He could almost forget about what happened a few minutes ago. "If I answer your questions, you answer some of mine. Deal?"

His expression tightened a little, but he nodded.

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

"Fine." He leaned back against the couch and resisted the urge to close his eyes. "Mic is 31. I'm also 31."

"Who's older?"

He sighed again, grimacing.

"...Mic."

"Really?" Shigaraki smirked. " You're the baby of you two?"

He grunted.

"I'm not- nevermind. When's your birthday?" He asked. Shigaraki shrugged.

"I don't know. It's not like I celebrate it really, anymore." He glanced up at the ceiling. "Well. Kurogiri makes my favorite breakfast and-" He paused, eyeing Shota. "Nevermind."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Nevermind?"

"I'm not explaining personal details of my life to a stranger, especially not a pro." He scoffed. Shota shrugged.

"Fair enough." He tilted his head. "...who is Kurogiri, exactly?"

Shigaraki stared him down for a long moment.

"Kurogiri," he finally spoke, his voice sharp and cold, "is a member of the League. That's all you need to know."

Shota tilted his head.

"Is he your caretaker?"

"Eri is Overhaul's kid, isn't she?" Shigaraki asked instead of answering. 

Shota narrowed his eyes slightly, considering his response.

"No. She's mine."

Shigaraki blinked once, twice, then turned away abruptly.

"He was experimenting on her, right? Using her to make those bullets?"

"You really want to talk about this?" Shota sighed once more. "Yes."

Shigaraki hummed thoughtfully, leaning against the back of the couch. 

After a moment's pause, to the point where Shota wasn't sure he was going to say anything else, he looked over at the wall but spoke again.

"He killed… a member of the League." He admitted. "I don't know if you care, given you're a hero, but she wasn't a bad person. He killed her, and took another member's arm." Shigaraki's fingers flexed. "He wanted us to work with him. To work for him, really."

"He… He hurt some of my friends, too. He took one of them, she was a really nice lady, and he hurt another. He wanted us to help him, but we didn't want to. He was mean."

"I'm glad we took that bastard's arms." Shigaraki scoffed. "What a piece of shit.”

Shota bit his tongue.

He shouldn’t agree with that, especially when their attack on Overhaul cost a hero their life. 

“Yeah.” He said. “He is a piece of shit.”

Shigaraki eyed him.

"Eri's a sweet kid. A little naive about how dangerous I am, though." He said, reaching up and roughly scraping his nails against his neck. "Let's keep it that way."

Shota nodded slowly.

"Yeah." He hesitated, then added "you're good with her."

Shigaraki tensed ever so slightly, then shrugged, getting to his feet.

"My sister was a sweet kid, too." He wasn't looking at Shota. "I'm going to bed."

"Yeah." He agreed, turning off the game. "Night, kid."

"I'm not a kid." 

Shota tilted his head.

Aren't you, though?

-

Tomura blinked.

"Can you… what?" He said, scrunching up his nose.

Mic grinned at him.

"Can I brush your hair?"

He looked at the brush and comb Mic held in one hand, then at the various hair-related items gathered in his arms.

He pointed at the bottles.

"What are those?"

"Dry shampoo, leave-in conditioner, detangler, etcetera etcetera." He hummed. "Don't worry, nothing I wouldn't put in my own luscious locks."

Tomura continued to stare.

"It would hurt." He blurted, furrowing his brow further as he raised his gaze from the hair products to Mic's eyes.

"Well- maybe a little, but no, not really, if you're careful. Which I am!" He twirled the brush between his fingers then held it like a microphone to his mouth. "I'm the number one hair stylist around these parts, baby!"

"With the cone you put on your head? I find that hard to believe." He cocked his head, biting back a snicker at the loud, offended noise that Mic let out.

"My hair looks great!" He pouted a bit, but brightened again. "This isn't about me, though! I promise I'm not like Eraser, I don't plan to be ripping your poor hair out." He snorted.

"I didn't know he brushed his hair at all." Tomura admitted, eyeing the brush warily. It would be nice to have his hair less tangled, but the only person who touched his hair (other than sticking random clips into it, which did not count as hair styling, Toga ) was Kurogiri. Before that, his parents always scolded him for letting it get bad, and he internally winced at the memories of pain in his scalp and a brush tugging harshly at his head.

"He brushes it in the shower, usually." Mic was waiting. Tomura could tell, he was fidgeting a little but didn't seem to have any plans to go anywhere.

He ran a finger along one of the brightly colored bandaids on his neck, recalling the way Mic insisted he put them on over his bleeding scratches that he otherwise would have ignored and let scab over.

"It's up to you, ya know. I'm not gonna force you or anything."

Fuck it.

"Fine. If it hurts, I'm leaving. I don't care if the brush is swallowed by my hair, I'm gone." He relented, rolling his eyes at Mic's cheer. “You’re way too excited about this.”

“Eraser says I’m way too excited about everything.” He mused. “Anyway, you want to do this on the couch, the floor, or, like, your room? If you sit on the floor and I sit on the couch it'd give me good leverage but if it's uncomfortable we can put pillows down or you could-"

Tomura kneeled on the floor in front of the couch.

"Let's get this over with."

Mic blinked at him, eyeing his legs.

"Are you sure you don't want to sit on a pillow or something?"

"I've dealt with worse than sitting on the floor." He rolled his eyes, only further agitated at the concerned noise Mic made.

The hero seemed to realize he was running out of patience, though, and settled on the couch behind him without any further arguing.

It did hurt, a little, but it was only a little worse than when Kurogiri did it, likely because it had gone unbrushed for longer than usual.

Kurogiri…

Tomura missed him. He loathed to admit it; it was a sign of weakness, an embarrassment, but it was unfortunately true.

He'd almost bitten Eraser's head off the other night when he'd asked about him. As… admittedly nice as things had been here, he was a villain, and he wasn't to give up any information to these heroes.

(He also didn't want to talk about the League due to how his throat closed up and his chest tightened when he thought about them too much. He wanted to go home.)

"You know, I never really thought a villain would listen to my show."

Tomura grimaced.

"Your song choices aren't the worst." He excused.

The reality was that he was lonely. Sure, he had the League now, but he didn't always.

He grew up in an empty bar, Kurogiri his only company with the exception of his master's visits. 

He was not going to admit to Present Mic that he used to talk to his radio like it was his best friend for a while. He'd rather die than admit something so pathetic and depressing.

"Thanks." Mic sounded absolutely delighted by the 'compliment.' Tomura clenched his jaw.

"How long is this going to take?" He asked. His knees were steadily moving from 'aching' to 'pins and needles' territory and it was pissing him off.

"I'm almost done!"

Really? He hadn't realized he'd spaced out for so long. It probably helped that he was exhausted. He'd barely slept at all since he arrived here, and the brush sliding through his blue locks and gently scratching his scalp was so soothing. Maybe if he just leaned his head back in Kurogiri's lap and closed his eyes, he could get away with a small catnap, he knew his caretaker was always advocating for him to rest when he needed it-

He jerked forward slightly, making a small noise when the brush, which was in Mic's hand, not Kurogiri's, Kurogiri wasn't here , snagged his hair and tugged harshly at the action.

He wasn't in the League hideout. Kurogiri wasn't brushing his hair.

He wasn't safe.

He was wide awake once more, reaching up and yanking the brush out of his hair, flying to his feet. He dropped the brush, storming off to 'his' room without another word despite Mic's concerned questioning.

He slammed the door shut behind him, leaning back against it heavily and exhaling shakily.

(He really wanted to go home. He really wanted to be safe. )

Red eyes skittered across the room like a cornered animal, taking in the bland decorating, cream walls and furniture in various shades of beige and tan and brown, gray curtains, all bare minimum for the guest room.

A flash of pink caught his eye and he stiffened.

The butterfly hairclip that Eri had given him laid on the wooden desk, mocking him.

Rage boiled up with him and his lip curled.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Shigaraki?"

Ignoring Mic, he made his way over to the desk, snatching up the clip.

He had every intention of disintegrating it, turning it to ash at his touch. A small but noticeable and deeply unpleasant shock raced up his arms from his wrists and he dropped the clip, hissing in displeasure. The cuffs. Right.

Not that he'd be able to decay anything with the gloves on anyway, but they had warned him that trying to use his quirk would "be pretty damn uncomfortable."

Awesome.

The anger simmered down, settling into a seething that boiled under his skin.

He stared down at the clip.

Mic said something about giving him space and, for some fucking reason, apologized for… "whatever it is that I did."

Tomura startled slightly when a drop of water splashed onto the plastic of the hairclip and was even more disturbed to find it came from himself.

He swore, his master hated it when he cried, but he couldn't bring himself to stop.

He wasn't sure how long he spent there, standing over a stupid hairclip, shaking and muffling whimpers and sobs with a bitten lip and clenched fists that would occasionally unfurl only so he could reach up and drag his bitten down nails over the skin of his neck until the skin burned, but when he finally found the waterworks were over (he was still trembling, much to his annoyance), his legs were stiff from standing in one position for too long.

He inhaled, exhaled, and carefully kneeled on the floor of 'his' room. Tomura picked up the clip gently, as if it were delicate, and rose to his feet again, placing the clip back on the desk.

He was going to take it with him, when he inevitably was found by the League.

Tomura bit his lip harder, the dried skin thin enough that he drew blood when he really dug his teeth in. He barely noticed.

He wanted to show Toga the clip. She'd love it.

She'd love Eri.

Maybe he could ask Kurogiri to style his hair in a way that didn't look ugly with the clip.

Tomura reached up, running his fingers through his uneven tresses, and relaxed slightly when he was met with little resistance and no pull at his scalp.

Mic wasn't Kurogiri.

Tomura ran his fingers through his hair again, slowly sitting on the bed.

Mic wasn't Kurogiri, but he wasn't that bad, either.

-

"Eraser."

Shota wasn't surprised by the presence behind him; you'd be hardpressed to find someone who could successfully sneak up on him. He was a little surprised at the voice, since Shigaraki wasn't very fond of speaking to him and usually took to lingering at the corners of whatever room he was in and staring at him as if he had two-heads, even when he was doing something completely normal.

He wasn't entirely sure what that was about but had filed it away for later.

He made a noise, somewhere between a grunt of acknowledgement and a questioning hum.

Being met with silence, he sighed, setting down the jar of jelly and the butterknife he'd been holding.

(Eri's lunch. She liked more jelly than peanut butter in her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, even though she felt bad making requests like that.)

Shota turned around, raising an eyebrow at the way Shigaraki immediately looked away from him, shoulders hunched up to his ears.

He looked like an anxious child, which Shota supposed he was.

"What?" He asked, blunt and to the point. Shigaraki flinched minutely and Shota bit the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he should be a little more tactful, but Shigaraki was shifting his weight and preparing to speak before Shota could do anything else.

He seemed to be weighing things in his mind for a moment before making a decision, and the words he spoke came out slowly, as if they'd get mixed up with each other if he let them all out at once.

"I want…" He paused and seemed to decide there was a better way to say what he was trying to force out. "Could you make me some of that tea you made before."

Despite the phrasing, the request was spat out and sounded far more like a demand or even an order than anything.

Shota considered Shigaraki for a moment, then crossed his arms.

"Say please."

Shigaraki sputtered, scowled, then twitched slightly and looked sharply to the side. He mulled it over, then took a deep breath.

Without looking at Shota and spoken through gritted teeth, like it physically pained him, "could you please make me some of that tea?" 

Shota raised both eyebrows.

Given his behavior at the USJ and then his time living with him, it was easy to tell Shigaraki was a brat.

He wondered what it was about a single cup of tea that led to the hopeful way red eyes were looking at him out of the corner of his vision, and filed that away for later, too.

"Okay." He agreed simply, staring Shigaraki down for a moment before turning back around to finish his paused task. "I'm making Eri lunch. After that, I'll make you tea."

Shigaraki was silent behind him, though he heard some shuffling, then he muttered something.

"What was that?"

"Fucking- I said-" Shigaraki paused. "I said thank you. For the- you know. For the tea."

"For the tea." Shota repeated, eyeing Shigaraki from his peripheral. He nodded, then jerked his head slightly in the direction of the cabinets. "Yeah. No problem. You wanna get out a cup and kettle?"

Shigaraki nodded slightly, ducking his head so his hair fell into his face as he got out the same cat mug as last time and the kettle.

He turned his gaze back to the sandwich he was making, but he didn't need to look to feel Shigaraki staring at him.

'For the tea.'

He glanced at the villain again. There were fresh Band-Aids on his neck.

Shota said nothing when he finally handed Shigaraki his tea, merely watching as he cradled it like it were liquid gold in a cup. He watched as his eyes closed after the first sip, seeing the way his shoulders slumped and his expression relaxed, leaning back in the kitchen chair.

He tilted his head slightly, not quite sure what to make of that reaction.

After a moment, he spoke.

"You can ask for tea whenever you want." He said. "I'm not going to be annoyed by it."

Shigaraki didn't open his eyes but his brow creased ever so slightly before smoothing out again.

He didn't get a verbal response, which was fine.

He simply made a mental note to stock up on more of that tea, and moved on with his day, even if his mind kept wandering back to the strange interaction.

-

Eraserhead had two cats.

Tomura hadn't touched them, wouldn't touch them, and he was pretty sure Eraser noticed, especially with the way he stared at them.

He hadn't said anything yet, but Tomura still felt frustratingly seen under the hero's gaze and it was really hard to read his expressions. The stupid 'hm' noises he made didn't add any clarity. It was really annoying, actually, and reminded him of Kurogiri sometimes, or Compress' masks. At least Compress generally had exaggerated body language; Kurogiri was always stiff and eerily still even at his happiest and most excited, and Tomura couldn't tell Eraser's teasing look from his annoyed one.

Regardless, Tomura didn't really care if Eraser knew or not. He had his reasons for not touching his cats, or any animal, for that matter, and even though he knew that the gloves and the cuffs restricted his quirk usage and he couldn't actually decay the poor pets, he couldn't get the image out of his mind.

He could easily picture them crumbling at his contact, the blood and dust staining the floor, and-

Tomura didn't want to deal with that again. The feeling of Mon becoming ash and blood in his grasp was one that followed him into his nightmares and even though his master said focusing on his hatred and his painful past helped him, he didn't really want to go through it again. It would… hurt him. And it would hurt Eri, and Eraser, and Mic, and he'd be put in that horrible little cell again all because he couldn't resist the selfish urge to indulge in the animal lover in him.

Innocent cats shouldn't be dusted because he was selfish.

"You can pet her, you know." Eraser's voice next to him made him jump slightly and a small part of him fanboyed over the stealth of the underground hero, his favorite hero, the coolest-

He quickly squashed it down.

Tomura narrowed his eyes at Eraser after tearing his gaze from the black cat that was lounging on the back of the couch.

"I don't want to."

"Right." Eraser didn't believe him for a second, Tomura could tell that much regardless of how difficult he was to read. He glanced down at Tomura's hands, to which he instinctively pulled closer to his body. "Are you worried about your quirk?"

"I don't want to pet your cat." He insisted. He would've crossed his arms if he could.

"The gloves and cuffs won't let you hurt her." Eraser continued. "Or anyone, for that matter." He added as an afterthought.

Shit, had he noticed that he tried to avoid touching Eri, too?

"I know that." Tomura snapped. He hesitated, but Eraser was still looking at him, so he squirmed and said more. "I just- I used to have. A dog."

"You had a dog?"

"Had." Tomura nodded. Eraser said nothing. "Uh, when." He flexed his fingers, looking at the cat again. "When…my quirk manifested, I was hugging her." He didn't elaborate further, but he heard Eraser suck in a breath.

A beat of silence passed, and Eraser finally spoke again.

"Her name is Noctem."

Tomura blinked.

"What?"

"The cat." Eraser gestured towards the black cat on the couch, a patch of white fur in the shape of a triangle colored her chest. The name was fitting.

"The- okay?" Tomura scrunched up his nose. "What?"

"Her name is Noctem, and she likes to be pet." He said, as if it explained everything.

Tomura stared at him.

"I'm not petting her."

Eraser took Tomura's wrist and put his hand on his chest, raising an eyebrow.

"Wow. Look how alive I am." He commented flatly.

Tomura scowled and yanked his hand away.

"If I pet your stupid cat, will you stop patronizing me?" He questioned warily.

Eraser gave him a shit-eating grin. Shigaraki blinked in surprise at the expression, then scowled further.

He sat on the couch without any further ado, and lifted his hand up to the cat.

Tomura hesitated, glanced at Eraser, then lowered his hand, smoothing it gently over the black fur of her back.

His expression softened immediately, repeating the action when she didn't turn to nothing.

"Oh." He muttered, so quiet it was uncertain if he'd said it at all.

The cat, Noctem, purred as he pet her some more, and he stared at her with wide eyes.

"You're not inherently destructive, kid." Eraser told him. Tomura swallowed harshly and willed his eyes not to water.

No one teased him for the hour or two he spent sitting there and petting the cat, or the following hour he spent hunting down and petting the other cat, an orange one that he was delighted to learn had been named Cheeto.

He was, unfortunately, going to miss this when he returned to the League.

For now, though, he simply rubbed his hand down Cheeto's back and smiled crookedly when the cat arched into his touch.

Perhaps it was a good thing he couldn't currently use his quirk after all.