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Izuku Midoriya, first year at UA’s hero course, is fine in one sense of the word: he is clothed and washed and fed and watered. He has no shoes and no doors in his little world are open to him. Not unless he pleases, and then likely not for a long time of pleasing. He knows the date from the laptop he’s been gifted, heavy with controls and blocks; he can see the world outside through a custom web browser, but he cannot reach out to it. He has tried. He has given up.
He cannot reach the quirk gifted to him only a few months prior, which gave him a chance at the life of a hero, his one dream. He can reach the anti-quirk cuff on his ankle. Izuku was wound up by All Might to begin a once in a lifetime journey, and now it might never come to pass; Izuku is on hiatus, as long as he’s trapped here.
There is no sound from outside. The walls are high, made of cement. Izuku couldn’t touch the ceiling if he stood four clones of himself on top of each other. The overhead lights stream down light constantly, evenly; he must sleep with the lights on. It is so quiet, he can hear the electrical buzz of the wires, the conditioned air puffing through the vents. If he presses his ear to the floor like a seashell, he may hear the living LoV headquarters, if that is where he is being kept. It is like living in a giant observation tank. There is one large window showing him treetops and skyline—he does not know if it is a hologram—and one large skylight that makes him cry.
While the room is intact, it is also spare. There is a desk, a dining table, a couch, a TV, some work out equipment, and a bed. A few toiletries on the bathroom counters, and no sharp objects. Izuku’s bed has only one pillow, a disappointing flap of a thing. All his basic needs are met, but only just. If he wants more, of anything that word can be applied to, he must go to Shigaraki.
Often, what Izuku wants more than anything is a soft pillow to keep between his knees at night. He wonders if that is strange. It is a sensation that reminds him of when he was little, when he and his mother used to bathe together, of her most nurturing hugs: pure softness and warmth as he floated in a world made of safety, buoyed in a love that was both liquid and solid. Any bed can be a good place if Izuku puts a pillow between his knees. Any place can become good with a pillow.
Izuku wonders at this wish; shouldn’t he crave freedom or the breaking of his anti-quirk cuff, or unbridled fury to pummel Shigaraki even quirklessly? Or to simply Detroit Smash his way out. And he does, but the thing each atom in his nerve endings ask for is a pillow to cradle him at night, an object that can make the best of a bad situation. To Izuku, at least. It is a strange sensation to want something so much, when what is wanted is neither person nor physical need. Is it the pillow he wants? Is there some magical Other thing about it, that makes him feel like he’s lost a limb in its absence? Maybe it’s simply association from memory; perhaps he needs his mother now more than ever. After all, he ran out of escape ideas weeks ago.
Or he’s just hollowed out for want of an extra pillow of all things.
He would do much to get that sensation again. He prays Shigaraki will never take advantage of that.
Izuku glances at the time and pads over to the small dining table. He sits down cross-legged on the tatami mat to wait. Time for the first ritual of the day.
His gaze pours over the short table as the seconds pass. Pale blond wood, shiny from lacquer. There will be chopsticks and small bowls of color and flavor, soon. There will be something awful at his back, soon. He sucks in a breath with struggle; it is like forcing air into a corpse.
1
The side door ever at the edge of Izuku’s vision, opens. Shigaraki enters with a tray and lowers it onto the table. Then he sits immediately behind Izuku. His kneecaps brush against Izuku’s back.
In Izuku’s mind’s eye, he watches Shigaraki place his hands on the floor, just behind Izuku’s hips. The villain’s breath puffs very softly against the back of Izuku’s head.
The fingers behind Izuku start to drum on the tatami.
So Izuku listlessly lifts the top off the tray and glances at the many bowls. It is a traditional breakfast. The bright scents of broth and runny egg and pickled vegetables rise to his nose. Izuku’s stomach does not respond.
The fingers behind Izuku drum harder.
Izuku sets the cover down on the table. He picks up his chopsticks even though he’s not hungry, and takes a good deal of time picking up a whole lot of nothing.
Shigaraki’s nails begin to scraaape across the tatami, tearing at the fibers.
At last, Izuku says it: “No.”
His head cracks against the table; Shigaraki grinds Izuku’s cheek in to the wood just to the side of the tray. Everything on the tray clatters and the world shakes for a minute. Pain blooms in Izuku’s cheek. Shigaraki’s hands are shaking against Izuku’s scalp even while he forces Izuku to stay down. This is Shigaraki. This is us.
Initially, their story was very pretty.
The point made, now it is over: Shigaraki releases him and resumes his seat behind Izuku.
Izuku slowly sits upright, as though he must crank a creaky wheel to pull the rope of his spine taut again.
Izuku finds Shigaraki’s hand on the tatami mat behind him. He shoves their hands together. Shigaraki grunts. The villain keeps his thumb separate, and his fingers close like creeping vines around Izuku’s hand while Izuku makes himself eat.
Isn’t that better.
2
He isn’t allowed to bathe on his own.
Izuku stands naked in the small bathroom attached to his cell. He crosses his arms over his bare chest and stares at the bathtub.
The door opens to reveal Shigaraki carrying several towels. He sets them on the counter and pulls the hairdryer out of the cupboard.
“Midoriya,” Shigaraki greets him.
“Don’t call me that,” Izuku snaps reflexively, without even hearing what Shigaraki said.
Shigaraki stops in his tracks, tired eyes blinking owlishly wide, and his hunched spine finds a new length as he stares at Izuku.
He comes close, reaches out as if to dress Izuku’s naked shoulders with his hands.
“Zuzu?” he asks. His now glittering gaze dances over every inch of Izuku. Shigaraki’s is a gorgeous face at its most beautiful now.
Hope is ugly.
Izuku punches him.
``
Despite the black eye, Shigaraki slides into the hot water behind Izuku. This is not a surprise; Izuku’s resistance does little, even if Shigaraki’s wincing and grunting prove he hasn’t lost any arm strength.
Izuku listens to the little sounds of pain, and those of Shigaraki adding more scent powder to the water, then dousing the scrubber with body wash. He used to be afraid when Shigaraki washed him, but his worst fears did not come true.
Still, it is an obvious excuse for touch; no one cleans themselves in the bath, but in the shower beforehand. Conveniently, there is no shower head.
His thighs bracket Izuku’s and his gloved hands slide over Izuku’s arms on their way to make the scrubber sudsy. The water and what Shigaraki added to it gives their skin extra slip; Izuku concentrates on keeping his legs still while Shigaraki moves around him. It still surprises him how much movement can be detected in the legs, even the feet; each time Shigaraki moves to clean a new part of Izuku, he feels the shift.
Shigaraki’s sweeps the scrubber over the small of Izuku’s back. He’s wearing his gloves, so he holds Izuku steady with whichever hand is free; his free hand presently rests on Izuku’s abs. Or just holds him, for the brief seconds before Izuku catches on and moves to knock him away. Otherwise, Shigaraki’s free hand always chases the scrubber, as if to smooth away an imaginary residue of body wash left on Izuku’s skin. He scrubs Izuku’s forearm with the scrubber, runs his free hand over the bellies of the muscles.
The movements and the texture speak to something inside Izuku and he wants to echo each shift, to rub himself against Shigaraki of all people, to drape himself over him like a blanket. The urge to stretch out and meet the villain from wrist to ankle tingles in Izuku’s muscles. That want makes his skin crawl.
One thing Izuku’s mother, teachers, and society in general taught him, was to make a private space inside where he could go to be alone. Life on a populous island rather limited one’s external personal space. Now Izuku is a captive; he digs deep in his mind, diving and withdrawing from his own skin, hiding somewhere physical touch cannot reach.
But today it still feels awful because today it is still bliss. It’s so flowery it’s ugly, but his skin feels like a carpet of butterflies fluttering into flight wherever Shigaraki touches him. Beneath his touch, a beautiful heat spreads out in tendrils, tendrils that find him however deep he tries to dig. Izuku craves Shigaraki in some raw, beastly, unutterable way, the way monsters want things: without the concept of moderation. Izuku’s core is one giant mouth that has never been fed since he was born, not once. He is surrounded by a banquet.
Tears spill down Izuku’s cheeks. His breath starts catching in his throat.
He glances up into the mirror at the worst time: when Shigaraki is doing the same. Izuku’s stomach lurches, and then Shigaraki’s arms are wrapping around him.
“Shh, let me,” Shigaraki rasps. He starts to rock Izuku from side to side. His strong, firm chest is good against Izuku’s back; there is no one handsomer Izuku has ever seen. Shigaraki looks nothing like All Might and Endeavor yet he is more beautiful to Izuku than both of them combined. He never had to look like them to be beautiful, to Izuku.
It is awful, watching him touch him in the mirror; it is a horror that delivers on its promise without a single jump-scare. Shigaraki nuzzles against Izuku’s temple while he gathers Izuku’s arms to his chest, cradles them with his own. He lays kisses over Izuku’s freckled skin, he runs his fingers over Izuku cheek as he stares Izuku’s reflection in the eye. Plain Want dances in Izuku’s fingers for this malignant beartrap of a person; his tongue undulates behind his lips for him. It is so good that Izuku wants to puke or find the highest cliff and dive into the ocean.
He tries to find his hiding place inside again; this time it works. The sensations and all their errant perfection fade away, leaving Izuku nearly deaf to the world with nothing worse than an endless, hollow ache.
Izuku stares at the overhead light, dreaming of the darkness; when it falls, he will finally be alone again.
Shigaraki’s touches lose their earnest quality, their confidence; the older boy begins shrinking away. Izuku has done this before. Maybe it hurts more than the punches. Good.
Later when they are both dry and standing outside the tub, Shigaraki doesn’t dare touch him. Yet his mouth hovers over Izuku’s bare shoulder, either lingering or paralyzed. In both cases, fruitlessly. In the mirror, Shigaraki’s reflection smooths a lethal hand over his lined face before ramming a clean shirt down over Izuku’s head.
Isn’t this nice.
3
The glass of the skylight is curved as if to keep rainwater out of Izuku’s room, like a basin. Or an eye ever looking inward, to the self. Izuku hates the skylight, wishes it would reflect on someone else’s character, and choices, and terrible wants that got them locked up in this god damn cell until they die.
Done with dead lifts, Izuku moves to the pull up bar. He won’t give up training, even if he can’t even feel his quirk anymore. He must stay ready, ready for Ochako and Tenya and his mom and Kacchan, even if only to behold the latter’s glory. Izuku dreams of the four of them daily, because he cannot bear to think of All Might. He turns his daydreams into a vigil. By this mental image of Ochako befriending a butterfly, I’ll...something. By rehearsing the scene of himself and Kacchan being reunited, he’ll do that something even harder.
It really is something, right?
Now the grasping specter is here again; Shigaraki lingers on the edge of Izuku’s vision. They both know Izuku has seen him. It is the nightly ritual: Shigaraki arrives with the darkness like a hyena on the edge of a lion’s kill, awaiting a chance to get at the food of another. Thief.
Izuku keeps working out. Another set of pull ups, and then another. Suddenly there is no such thing as too many pull ups; prickling erupts behind Izuku’s eyes.
Shigaraki is, most of all, fast. Izuku jumps when the older boy suddenly appears beside him; he clenches his fists shut so he doesn’t fall on his ass, and lands on his feet instead. He moves away swiftly, but Shigaraki moves with him. Shigaraki wraps one gloved hand around Izuku’s elbow, lightly; he grabs Izuku’s neck—also lightly, but without gloves—with his free hand, reeling Izuku back to him.
His back ramrod straight, Izuku tolerates the older boy’s caresses.
Those fingers get into his hair. They begin massaging the strands, the scalp.
“Stop doing this,” Shigaraki hisses. He rests his forehead against Izuku’s temple. “Stop.”
Izuku breaks into a run even though there’s nowhere to run to. It is the mouse’s mistake, tempting a predator that was not quite in the mood to chase, into racing after him with its superior speed. And jaws. And hands.
Shigaraki catches him against a wall by hurling Izuku into it. He fastens his arms around Izuku during the boy’s momentary shock.
Their struggle is quiet, despite the heartbeat drumming in Izuku’s ears: outside themselves, they hiss, grunt; rattling inhales and the sounds of hands scraping over clothing, sometimes the rip of thread. Shigaraki’s hands move in starts and stops over Izuku’s body, hungry and searching, ultimately aimless; what they seek can’t be found on the surface, except maybe on New Year’s Eve. They keep roving, despite Izuku’s ceaseless attempts to force his way out of the band of Shigaraki’s arms. Izuku hurls himself against Shigaraki’s hands and forearms, trying to break open this fleshy cage; he manages to strike the villain’s ribs with his elbow until Shigaraki adjusts his grip to block such movement again. Izuku hurls his head back at Shigaraki’s face, but the older boy keeps dodging. Izuku stomps his feet, trying to heel-strike Shigaraki’s slippered feet or at least bruise his shins, to return a fraction of the pain he’s dealing Izuku every day.
Izuku wants to claw his way out of his own meatsack if that means he can finally ditch Shigaraki. Izuku wants to watch Shigaraki while he bleeds out, to admire the fine couple that horror and dismay make upon the villain’s face as he loses Izuku in the worst way. Izuku wants a chair and length of rope, or explosives and detonator. He yearns to savor the feeling of holding himself hostage. He daydreams of basking in the power of self-destruction, of submerging completely in the heady joy of stealing away what Shigaraki has invested so much into stealing for himself.
He wants out as much as Shigaraki’s hands seem to want in, but the hope of escape keeps Izuku on this side of the decision.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Shigaraki whispers into Izuku’s hair. “I need my Player 2 back. You’re not a stupid little NPC, so stop acting like one.”
Izuku yells wordlessly into the room, his cell. He fills up the space with sound of meaninglessness equal to the traitorous meaning of his captor’s words. He sounds like a beast that is dying.
“Zuzu,” Shigaraki rasps in his ear. One hand grasps at the neck opening of Izuku’s shirt, tugs it fruitlessly and to no clear goal. Again, “Zuzu.”
Izuku shakes his head furiously.
“Zuzu,” Shigaraki urges. Izuku shakes his head even harder; he strains his head as far away from the villain as he can get.
Shigaraki lets go. Izuku lands on his hands and knees on the cement floor. By the sting in his kneecaps, he knows more pain is coming. He’ll need bandages. Bandages won’t be enough.
It’s quiet now.
Izuku tilts his head, watches Shigaraki from the corner of his eye. He does not bother to get up.
The villain stands there, his expression a mess while his awful hands clench and open around air. Do his killing machines ever stop hungering?
Eventually, the older boy walks out the way he entered. Izuku slumps against the wall. He allows himself to gradually slide onto the floor. It’s as fine a place as any to sleep, in this place. Does Shigaraki sleep in this building, too?
Shigaraki does not return the next day. Izuku cries, but he also busts his knuckles on the wall. Turns out they’re broken on his right hand. Now there is even less Izuku can do on his own. Shigaraki will be thrilled.
But Shigaraki does not come with bandages and antiseptic; only Kurogiri, with a crisp, professional-looking First Aid Kit that makes Izuku’s heart sink for some reason. Izuku hasn’t seen Kurogiri since he woke up in this cell five weeks ago.
Izuku lets the villain wrap him up in a gutter splint and enough bandages to keep his arm warm in winter. Izuku obeys when he’s told to ice his hand. He takes the pain medication that is offered to him. He cannot bear to ask if Shigaraki knows, if Shigaraki asked Kurogiri to come on his behalf to treat him. Both foreseeable answers would hurt too much.
4
Izuku still has a whole working left hand and three good knuckles on his right hand, but the next day Kurogiri brings him smoothies for the first two meals of the day. They have colorful, bendy straws as though that would, uh, raise morale. He drops off protein shakes and crunchy things for Izuku’s snacks. He departs rather quickly for a caretaker.
Izuku resorts to meditating and staring at walls and reading and watching any Youtube video that looks good or at least interesting to him. There are now days in his life where he doesn’t feel like watching videos of All Might and other amazing heroes.
He could work out, but he decides it’s best not to encourage blood flow in the first couple days after smashing the bones in his hand. Today is a forced rest day. He’ll research modifications to his work outs so he can continue training, when his wounds have settled down a bit. The thought of how he can’t bear weight on half his fingers makes him miss Ochako, for some reason. That soft ache becomes only a starting point for further longings, and his thoughts reach out like empty hands to memories of the classmates he barely knew, and even faculty who made him feel more discomfort than anything else. He thinks tenderly of Midnight and her weird getup, how it makes him not know what the hell to do or where to point his gaze simply because no one taught him how to exist in that situation. It’s not about sexual attraction for him—Shigaraki is proof of that. Izuku just—what’s the etiquette when the human personification of sex walks into a formal, non-sexual setting and students as unprepared to understand that phenomena even in themselves have to keep their focus on her because she’s the literal sensei? It awakens all of Izuku’s anxieties and awkwardness about sex in his private life.
Why am I thinking about this, Izuku wonders. He thinks about a lot of odd things in captivity, he notices.
Late that afternoon, the door opens and Izuku’s gaze automatically tracks the movement. It’s the only moving thing in his cell, besides himself.
Instead of Kurogiri, it’s Shigaraki with a bowl in hand—and Izuku does not know what to make of his body’s reaction.
The second he sees Izuku’s splint, Shigaraki starts scratching his neck.
He walks over. The smell of seasoned beans and rice alight in Izuku’s nostrils while Shigaraki is still a meter away.
“Did you do that for me? Huh?” Shigaraki rasps, pointing at Izuku’s injured hand. He flops gracelessly onto the tatami beside Izuku and his laptop, spilling some rice and beans onto the floor. He loads a spoon with food. “Did you think that would make me come back? You’re being such a brat today.”
Izuku is a “brat” every day. Nevertheless, he flinches.
“Here.” Shigaraki holds the spoon to Izuku’s lips.
Izuku pulls back. “I can still hold a spoon,” he says. “I don’t need you for that.”
Shigaraki’s nostrils flare. His eyes widen before they narrow to frustrated slits.
“Fucking eat it anyway,” he grumbles.
“I’m not hungry,” Izuku says. It’s true.
“You’re being a little shit because you’re mad,” Shigaraki accuses. Also true. He shoves the spoon at Izuku’s mouth. “You have to eat.”
Izuku flicks the spoon with his good hand, sending rice and beans flying everywhere.
“Not hungry.” Still true. “I don’t need you.” Tru—hmm.
“I hate this level,” Shigaraki mutters. “I don’t know how to beat this boss.”
Izuku looks at the tatami mat between his legs. “You beat it by letting me go.”
The sound of scratching reaches Izuku’s ears.
After the USJ attack, Shigaraki reached out to Izuku online. They talked and messaged and texted and called and sent letters and packages back and forth. Only Shigaraki wasn’t Shigaraki, as far as Izuku knew; with the aid of hair dye and eye drops, the older boy had lied until well after their first few clandestine meetings, until Izuku was hung up like a raincoat for him. Then surprise: Your first true love is a murderer whose mission is to kill your hero mentor! And everyone else!!!
Izuku, somehow, didn’t respond well to that big reveal, and Shigaraki didn’t respond well to being dumped.
It had felt like the world’s greatest love story, in the beginning.
For kami knows what reason, tonight the obsessive villain picks Izuku up and carries him to bed. Izuku is curious about what Shigaraki intends to do, so he doesn’t fight; besides, he enjoys dead-weighting it and watching Shigaraki’s face as he struggles with the awkward bundle in his arms. He allows Shigaraki to tuck the covers over his shoulders.
“Did you brush your teeth?” Shigaraki asks.
“It’s five in the evening,” Izuku replies. Shigaraki doesn’t seem to notice that, or Izuku’s tone.
“Where’s the light switch?” Shigaraki mutters.
“There isn’t one. You didn’t want me to have dark,” Izuku says.
“What?” Shigaraki rasps. He stomps out of the room and comes back a few minutes later with a gun in his hand. He shoots the light bulbs out of the ceiling and throws the gun back out the door before he closes it. He returns to Izuku’s bedside and sits on the floor, staring at Izuku, whose heart is racing.
“I’ll get Kurogiri to get a light switch in here,” he rasps. “Think you can sleep?”
“No,” Izuku says, mentally citing “the gun” for his MLA reference.
It’s dusk, so the remaining light comes from the skylight and the large window showing the maybe-real treeline. It’s a pretty sunset, if only because all sunsets are.
Shigaraki begins running four fingers over the corner of Izuku’s mattress. He hugs his knees to his chest with his free hand and turns his head every so often, looking at his surroundings as though there is even one thing here of interest to him that doesn’t have a freckled dick. His treading fingers creep over the mattress, toward Izuku like tiny, curious tentacles. Izuku gets a sudden craving for calamari.
“You’re stupid,” Izuku says to those fingers. “I’ll let you stay if you get me calamari.”
Shigaraki leaves. He returns not long after with two takeout containers plus drinks.
Izuku eats on the bed. Shigaraki eats on the floor nearby.
``
Now full and no longer upset enough to drown out his instincts, Izuku sets his food aside. He gestures at Shigaraki’s face. “C’mere,” he says.
Shigaraki’s eyes widen, he sits up straighter; he stuffs another dumpling into his mouth and scoots up against the bed. He leans over on his forearms and lets Izuku touch him.
With ghosting touch, Izuku spreads his fingers over the older boy’s face, his handsome cheekbones, the fine temples his bangs hide from everyone except Izuku. He resists the impulse to smooth Shigaraki’s eyebrows although the urge tugs at his gut. Izuku touches the swollen skin carefully. Shigaraki’s swelling is only half of what it had been in the first 48 hours; the bruise has turned from what Izuku could only describe as an “evil” purple to blotches of yellow and mauve. At this point, the eye probably no longer needs cold but Izuku says “fuck it” and takes off his shirt. He takes the ice out of his drink and wraps it in the shirt, and places it gently against the injured eye.
After a moment or so, Izuku draws Shigaraki’s face to his sternum, so his bones pin the ice to Shigaraki’s face. He cups Shigaraki’s jaw and slides his splinted arm around the older boy’s neck, cupping that, too.
Shigaraki lets his head drop against Izuku. His arms creep over the mattress, wrapping around what he can reach of Izuku from that awkward position. He apparently decides Izuku’s elbow and the slender curve of his side are more than good enough places to settle down. Izuku allows it, choosing for once to sit with his enjoyment of his ex’s touch.
Shigaraki releases a sigh. He shifts and moves as if to burrow into Izuku’s chest, but he flinches at the resulting pain.
“Yeah, don’t nuzzle into your bruise, stupid,” Izuku murmurs. Shigaraki grunts in reply.
Carefully, Izuku rolls onto his back; from this position, he is Shigaraki’s pillow. Izuku keeps his hands on his ex’s face, cradling it, like his mother would have done when he was little—or in the future if he ever sees her again.
So...maybe never.
That thought doesn’t hurt today. Small blessings. It will hurt tomorrow, if not in another few hours.
Izuku strokes Shigaraki’s cheek; Shigaraki’s hand sweeps back and forth over the dip in Izuku’s waist.
You’re cute even when you look like a gremlin, Izuku does not say.
When darkness swallows them, Shigaraki murmurs, “I love you.”
“Get out,” Izuku whispers.
Shigaraki does.
5
A few times a week, Shigaraki makes him play video games with him.
But this time Shigaraki brings pillows—Izuku’s heart stopped until he saw how many; then, relief. Today is not the day Shigaraki breaks that promise, he realizes.
Instead, Shigaraki sets on the couch a blue backrest pillow like Izuku once used to study in bed, a body pillow Izuku could wind himself around, and a regular head pillow. Yet it is this plainest pillow that catches Izuku up. It is thick and round and lush and lovely. Holding it will feel like the most nurturing hug; want hums in Izuku’s chest. He tries not to look too hard at any of the pillows, because Shigaraki’s gaze is already palpably boring into him.
Izuku looks up to find Shigaraki watching him from over his shoulder as he sets up his XBOX. The stage is set for the vignette: there is a TV, the coffee table, and the couch that only sees use when Shigaraki wants to pretend they still game and chill.
Izuku sits beside him on the couch without a fight. While Shigaraki is resorting to tantrums less and less in response to Izuku’s consistent stonewalling, this activity is still one where the villain is likely to get bratty.
Shigaraki makes a pleased sound when he sees Izuku’s already plunked himself down. He finishes setting up and flops down beside him on the couch. Their thighs touch. Izuku ignores that.
Shigaraki favors horror games for several reasons, not least of which is that Izuku used to gradually squirm onto Shigaraki’s lap for comfort. It is plain to Izuku, in the glint in the villain’s eye, that he’d like nothing more than for Izuku to do that again, to initiate, to reach out to get him for once; to be wanted as furiously and obviously as he wants Izuku. But perhaps out of mercy, luck, or other calculated decision, he picks Borderlands 3.
In what may be another calculated decision, he didn’t bring his mic; it seems he wants to play solo.
Izuku can’t play even if he wanted to, with his hand like this, so he settles in to watch.
``
“Just lean into me. You like touching me,” Shigaraki growls, his arm a rope around Izuku’s waist. “You don’t need a cheat code to find a way to get comfortable.” He yanks Izuku back on top of him.
Izuku plants his feet on the seat of the couch and pushes off with enough force that Shigaraki rolls onto his side because he doesn’t let go. Shigaraki puts the controller down and grabs Izuku’s shoulder, pulling Izuku’s back to his chest. The only reason Izuku isn’t fighting harder is because of his knuckles; he’s going to wind up on Shigaraki’s lap eventually—either completely or partially and even more awkwardly—but he doesn’t have to let Shigaraki just have it if he isn’t feeling it.
When it turns into outright wrestling, Izuku wishes he’d just let it happen. This it too much like their fucking, back when they fucked; how Shigaraki wraps every flexible piece of himself around Izuku, makes him feel caged, surrounded, overwhelmed, in his power; it was always a really good time. The passion carried them even in their first awkward fumblings when sometimes, embarrassingly, they had to stop partway through because, well, they were virgins. Izuku doesn’t feel like remembering that now, least of all the great and the good of it, and Shigaraki might level up in Asshole-ness if Izuku’s body responds.
He’d do a lot without asking for returns, Izuku knows, at least initially; they’re both starving. A hyena and a leopard are locked in a cage together, but neither one can eat.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” Izuku snaps. “Fine. Just get off me.”
Shigaraki untangles their limbs and rolls onto his back. His spine is clearly a liquid, given how easily he molds himself to the couch and the backrest pillow. He tugs Izuku’s shorts in the direction of his lap. Izuku gets up and lies down on his back, mostly on top of Shigaraki.
The villain shoves the body pillow into Izuku’s arms. Izuku accepts it in his arms, but he doesn’t put the tail of it between his knees. Shigaraki sighs, but he must realize that he’s already getting more than he should and drops it.
Shigaraki loops his arms around Izuku’s middle and rests the controller on Izuku’s abs, to the left of the body pillow Izuku hugs. The villain wiggles a little beneath Izuku and releases a happy sigh when he gets comfortable. Izuku won’t let himself express how much better this is for him with something in his arms, when he’s opened his arms to something.
It really is something.
“You wanna play? I bet you could even with your cast!” Shigaraki rasps brightly. He tries to press the controller into Izuku’s hands. Izuku keeps his palms flat against the body pillow.
He shakes his head. “Can’t get the shoulder buttons.”
“You can if I’m your hand! Look, I’ll put my two fingers up here and you can reach all the letters. Just rest your wrist on my hand.”
“That’s the problem,” Izuku replies, his head pillowed on Shigaraki’s shoulder, “too much contact.”
Shigaraki pulls the controller away. He unpauses the game and goes to find something to whack to death.
He was right, though: Izuku doesn’t need help to find comfort in this position. Listening to Shigaraki’s quiet breathing so close to his ear, feeling himself propped up on his ex’s body, brings back memories. Of many kinds, but the most felt of which at the moment are the comforting ones—from back when it was easy, when they fell into each other without thinking, and it always turned out sweet.
Shigaraki’s character tosses a grenade at the monster, while Shigaraki sings, “All you need is love!”
The grenade creates a violent splatter of juicy, purple biomatter.
Izuku laughs, Shigaraki laughs, the world laughs, the gods laugh.
So he does it again.
Chuckling, Izuku settles into his involuntary seat. He’d forgotten how easily Shigaraki made him laugh; there were countless little things about his gremlin that made Izuku smile. The pillow feels better in his arms. More good memories activate in his head and it’s a bit like seeing Shigaraki fresh. The pillow feels better still; his arms ache to open to a warm body now.
He tosses the pillow to the floor.
These walls haven’t heard them laugh before; their prior giggles and snickers and chuckles were all in secret meetings off of UA campus, or on video calls in Izuku’s dorm. The laughter has a magical effect; it makes the electric light warmer, the air cozier, the inside of Izuku slushier.
When they get hungry, Kurogiri brings bags of snacks. Izuku and Shigaraki dig in with abandon; they get the powders all over their hands and wipe them on their shirts. Izuku makes a game of wiping designs of neon orange cheese powder on Shigaraki’s sleeves. Shigaraki tickles him from time to time.
Izuku’s been keeping his head pointed resolutely forward this entire time, but now he angles his head towards his ex—just a little. To see a bit of his face from his peripheral vision, that’s all.
That’s all.
The air seems to shift. Shigaraki inhales and his eyes, which were on the screen, are no longer focused there; his fingers freeze on the controller. Izuku’s skin prickles.
Shigaraki resumes playing, if only sluggishly. He leans his head almost imperceptibly towards Izuku’s. Izuku, after a moment, does the same.
Izuku rests one hand against Shigaraki’s chest. His good knuckles rest just above the point where the v-neck of Shigaraki’s shirt exposes his chest. Izuku runs the back of his finger against the naked skin, back and forth.
Slowly, as if not to startle a wild animal, one of Shigaraki’s hands leaves the controller in favor of Izuku’s face. He rests his wrist on Izuku’s collarbone and caresses Izuku’s jaw with a finger. It’s so light, it tickles. He ghosts the pad of his thumb over Izuku’s chin. The older boy has a small hand tremor. The digits curve as if to grasp, unconsciously manifesting hunger even while they try not to possess.
Izuku turns his face a fraction of an inch towards Shigaraki; after a moment, he does the same. Shigaraki runs the tip of his nose against the curve of Izuku’s cheek, so lightly Izuku could say it was his imagination. Not looking him in the eye, Shigaraki nuzzles up and down the apple of Izuku’s cheek. Izuku’s lips part with a quiet noise; it makes Shigaraki freeze, briefly, before his mouth opens, too. His pale blue eyelashes tickle Izuku’s cheekbones. Izuku’s lips curve upward in a smile.
His lips barely touching Shigaraki’s cheek, Izuku closes them in the shadow or memory of a kiss. Hesitantly, he does it again. Shigaraki turns his mouth to Izuku’s jaw and places a ghost of his own on the skin there. His fingers keep skating over the far side of Izuku’s face, wanting to hold and trying to not.
Shigaraki places something more like a real kiss on the corner of Izuku’s mouth. They are so quiet, the tiny pop of kiss’s release is loud in Izuku’s ears. His heart flutters; he tangles his fingers in locks of blue hair. He begins rolling onto his side, to better join with Shigaraki, while pressing a chaste kiss onto the older boy’s bottom lip.
Shigaraki drops the controller and pulls Izuku to face him. He presses his hands into the small of Izuku’s back as if to seal their bodies together as he rises up into Izuku’s mouth. They kiss the way a torrent hits a dam. The way monsters kiss. Shigaraki is a monster.
Izuku retracts his head; he rolls onto his feet and is suddenly miles away.
“Fuck,” Shigaraki yells from the couch behind him. Then he screams, “FUCK!” The console shatters against the wall.
6
Today, at nightfall, the hyena arrives with It.
He promised he wouldn’t. What did Izuku really expect? He predicted Shigaraki would break his promise back in Week 1.
Shigaraki sits opposite from Izuku at the short table. He places the pillow before him. The new “gift” sits, unassuming and abundantly shitty, soaking up the light where all around it the tabletop reflects the overheads. He pushes it into Izuku’s reach.
Tears well up in Izuku’s eyes; he tries to stop them but his lungs are already sucking and pushing out gusts of air, rattling around each breath like an elevator about to collapse.
“No!” Izuku yells. “Sstop it. No, go away!” He scrubs his hands over his face. His stomach lurches and then cramps. “Stop,” he screams between his fingers. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?!”
He gets up and walks the length of his cell, wiping his tears on his arms. Shigaraki follows, the pillow in hand. Shigaraki plants himself in Izuku’s way when he turns a corner and pushes the pillow into his arms. It is thick and round and lush and lovely, the way love feels when it is good.
“I need my Player 2 back.”
Izuku swallows the pain, so it bursts silently in his stomach.
He takes the pillow. He gets into bed. He places the pillow between his knees and it rushes back to him, over his skin, seeping through the armor; an overwhelming softness. He wants, the way monsters do.
Shigaraki scrambles in after him, and winds himself around him. Izuku sobs, an awful, pathetic sound no hero can make and ever be considered intimidating again.
“Shhhh,” hushes the villain as he pets Izuku’s hair. “I’m here! I'm here, I swear I'm here! It’s all right now...”
Shigaraki rolls Izuku over, pillow and all, and tucks the boy’s head beneath his chin.
“Tomu,” he begs.