Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chuuya was striding through Yokohama on his bike. He always loved the feeling of the wind blowing past him and the thrill of the speed after a hard work day.
He sped up on the empty road when a sudden explosion made him hit the brakes. Explosions were a common occurrence in Yokohama with all the ability users and the gangs around.
But this wasn't what alerted our mafioso, no, what alerted him was the fact that the explosion was near the border. This same border meant to keep outsiders away from the city.

Without second thoughts, Chuuya revved his bike and drove towards the explosion. The place was eerily quiet, which made our ginger suspicious. He parked his red vehicle, locking it carefully- he didn’t want his friend's gift to get damaged in the commotion- and stealthy rayed the walls.
With a frown, he assessed the situation: he was right, it was indeed outsiders. They were only a few but they seemed to have what they called “quirks”. Chuuya heard the Boss talking about them a few times, they were apparently less powerful than abilities and known to have noticeable drawbacks.

Chuuya took his phone out, sending a text to Dazai, giving him a report of the situation.
Once the text was sent, he looked up, ready to fight.
They were only three, a big man parading in flames, a woman with an awfully revealing costume and a weird emo looking one, wrapped in a grey scarf.
Chuuya decided to set his attention on the flame guy and, when he had the back turned, lunged at him.
Unfortunately for him, the emo looking one notices.

“Endeavor! Behind you!”

This Endeavor guy- what the hell were those names?- turned around and Chuuya saw a burst of flames being thrown right at him.

“Shit!” he curses, lunging himself to the side, barely avoiding the flames, his sleeve being sacrificed.

He lands on a nearby wall, reassessing the fight, scarf-guy gaze was on him and he saw his eyes turn red.

What the hell was this?

The mafioso narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the dusk and smoke the woman he had noticed in the beginning.
His attention was quickly averted when he felt his ability wobble.

A nullification quirk? This makes it so much more complicated.

He jumped back down on the floor, not really wanting to fall on the floor.
Why the hell is there so much smoke?

He lunged towards the nullification quirk guy, he could fight very well without his ability, but it would make it easier if he had it.
The outsider welcomed him with a kick in the guts, momentarily cutting the air out of Chuuya lungs, he doesn't move though, he takes the kick and then grins, grabbing the guy's ankle and pulling it, making him lose balance, allowing Chuuya to knee him in the chin.

He then set himself behind the guy he just hit to avoid flame guy lunging at him. Chuuya was tempted to grab his wrist to set him off balance too but he was feeling his movement getting sloppier and the smoke was too thick to properly see anymore.

The mackerel is definitely going to keep this against me if I lose…

Was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

  Chuuya slowly stirred awake, the familiar warmth of his partner nowhere to be found. He blinked slowly, trying to shake off the haze of sleep. His surroundings were sterile, unfamiliar. He could remember the last time he'd been in a hospital… No, he refused to think about that right now.

His eyes finally snapped open, his body instinctively tensing, a quiet hiss escaping his lips. A hospital. He’d been here before, but this time, it was different. There was no reassuring presence beside him, no Dazai’s annoying voice to grumble at. Just the cold, sterile air and the strange, suffocating quiet of an unknown place.

Somewhere overhead, a fluorescent light buzzed, flickering slightly — the sound like a fly trapped in a jar. He could hear the echo of footsteps beyond the door, too. Distant voices. Muffled, but not familiar. Nothing here was familiar.

Arahabaki stirred faintly in the back of his mind. Both of them hated hospitals. It wasn’t just the memories of wounds, pain, and betrayal; it was the helplessness. The inability to control things. And that was the one thing Chuuya never allowed — helplessness.

His chest rose and fell too fast. He forced his breath steady, counting under his breath in French — an old habit he hated but that sometimes worked.

Un. Deux. Trois.

The god inside him pulsed once, restless, dragging his focus back to the hum of gravity under his skin.

Trauma bonding, I guess, he thought bitterly, shaking his head as he felt a cold sweat gathering on his forehead.

Without hesitation, he ripped the IV from his arm, feeling the faint sting as the needle came out. His hand dripped with blood, but he barely acknowledged it. The immediate action was what mattered. A hospital gown clung awkwardly to his frame, and he froze for a moment, the discomfort of being so exposed almost too much to bear. Someone had changed him. A wash of disgust flared in his chest, but he swallowed it down. The scars from his past were still there, like a cruel reminder of the life he'd had to live.

His fingertips drifted over the pale marks on his side — old cuts, old burns. A reminder he was never really unarmed. If they wanted to carve him open again, they’d have to get close first.

He flexed his hand. The blood dripped onto the pristine sheets, a smear of red on white. Good. He liked ruining their clean things.

His gaze darted around the room as panic crept in. Where were his clothes? His hat? Dazai? The absence of his partner made his stomach turn. His mind raced, realizing that whatever had happened, he was alone. For now.

The antiseptic smell clung to his nose, making his stomach twist. The air tasted like metal and bleach.

He scanned the room, pulse hammering in his ears. Hat? Gone. Gloves? Gone. Dazai? Not even a question. His fingers twitched. He needed something — anything — familiar.

A flash of black by the chair caught his eye — a bag, tucked half out of sight.

With a sharp breath, he flicked his hand. The gravity shifted with a subtle hum, the bag floating to him effortlessly. His control was shaky, but there.

Arahabaki stretched beneath his skin like a cat. He could almost hear its growl echo in his bones.

Small miracles.

He dug through it quickly. Gloves. Pants. Shirt — half-burned. Hat. His hat. His hand trembled just slightly as he pulled it close, the familiar weight grounding him more than he cared to admit.

He pressed the brim to his forehead for half a breath, letting his eyes close. The smell of dust and city smoke clung to the fabric — home in a way nothing else here was.

The ruined shirt he discarded. Not worth keeping.

But as he dressed, movements practiced and tense, he felt the coil of panic still simmering under his ribs. Arahabaki pulsed with his heartbeat, twitchy and irritable. The god wanted out.

It always did when he was cornered. It always offered when he was desperate.

Not yet.

A glance around the room confirmed his fear: there was no way to hide the damn hospital gown. He needed to get out, but doing so with this obvious uniform would draw too much attention. He turned, eyes searching frantically for something to cover it.

The window was bolted shut — he tested it anyway, palm flat against the cold glass. He could force it open, but not quietly. He pressed his ear to the door next — the hallway outside hummed with quiet conversation and the squeak of wheels on linoleum. He hated every second of this place.

Before he could act on it, the door creaked open.

Chuuya’s body tensed, and before even thinking, he was on his feet, slipping into a defensive stance. His blood ran cold, and his heart rate spiked. He wasn’t sure who was on the other side, but he didn’t care. Whoever it was, they were going to regret entering his space.

He bent his knees slightly, one hand already half-raised — gravity itching at his fingertips like a spark begging for dry kindling.

Two men walked in. The first one, wearing a ridiculous scarf, instantly caught his attention. He didn’t even have the grace to hide his exasperation, something that felt oddly familiar. The second man, with hair that looked like it belonged to a shampoo commercial gone wrong, gave Chuuya pause. The sheer ridiculousness of his appearance momentarily distracted Chuuya from the growing frustration of his situation.

What kind of idiots are these?

Aizawa let out a long sigh, one that reminded Chuuya of Dazai’s most exasperated expressions.

“Of course,” Chuuya muttered under his breath. “What now?”

Without wasting a second, Chuuya used his gravity ability to twist the pressure in the room. The bed creaked under the weight, and one of the heroes, the weird-haired one, was quickly brought to his knees, letting out a startled yelp.

Somewhere, a vase on the side table toppled and smashed — the shards rattling across the floor. He didn’t even flinch.

The second man, however, barely flinched. His grip tightened around the scarf, trying to counteract Chuuya’s pull. But it was obvious he was struggling.

Chuuya grinned, feeling the familiar rush of power surge through him as he jumped onto the bed to avoid the speeding scarf that flew toward him.

The metal frame groaned in protest under the shifting weight.

"Ha! You’ll have to try harder than that old ma—" He didn’t even finish his sentence before the bed beneath him gave way under the strain of gravity. He let out a yelp as he fell into the twisted remains of the mattress, his hold faltering. The scarf wrapped around him, binding him tighter than before.

It squeezed his ribs tight enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

“Oi! Let go!” he snapped, struggling. His ability flickered, unstable. Arahabaki surged unhelpfully in his chest, irritated by the restraint, but his control faltered, too disoriented to channel it properly. 

“We just want to talk,” the scarfed one said evenly, tightening the hold.

“Like hell I’m gonna talk!” Chuuya spat, face flushed with frustration.

The radio guy pushed himself off the ground, brushing off invisible dust. “Kid’s got spirit. You always bring home the fun ones, Eraser.”

“I’m not your kid,” Chuuya snapped.

“You sure act like one,” the other muttered.

Chuuya scowled, finally relenting. He hated being forced into situations like this.

“Alright, alright. Ask away,” he muttered grudgingly.

The first man raised an eyebrow, then sighed. “I’m Aizawa Shota,” he said. “And this is Hizashi Yamada. What’s your name and age?”

“Nakahara Chuuya,” the redhead replied without hesitation. “Sixteen.” Sixteen. It felt strange to say it, like so much time had passed since Verlaine, yet so little at the same time. Sixteen. That was supposed to be a normal age for a kid. But not for me. Not anymore.

He wondered, fleetingly, what he would have looked like if he'd really been sixteen in a world that stayed soft. Maybe a school uniform. Maybe bruised knuckles from street fights, but not from orders. Not from bodies in the dark.

“And do you have any family?” Aizawa’s voice was sharp, but there was something else in his gaze, something that Chuuya couldn’t quite place.

Chuuya froze. Family? Family... He thought of the Sheep — could they be considered his family? He was their leader, their protector, but he couldn’t be that soft. And they had betrayed him. The Flags, maybe? No. That was too fresh, too painful. But he couldn’t let these heroes think he was truly alone.

“I have an older sister,” he muttered after a pause. “She takes care of me.” Verlaine definitely doesn't earn a family place in his life yet.

“What’s your quirk?” he asked.

Chuuya felt something flicker behind his smirk.

“Gravity manipulation,” he said carefully. “I can manipulate the gravitational field around myself or objects.”

“Cool,” Yamada said with genuine enthusiasm. “That’s a seriously badass quirk! You’d do great in the hero program.”

“I’m not a damn hero.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad word.”

Chuuya gave a sharp look. “It is.”

“Okay, edgy,” Yamada muttered under his breath.

“Can I just go home?” Chuuya’s voice was sharp now. “Ane-san will worry if I don’t come back.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed, and the tone shifted. “We can’t just let you go yet, kid.”

“Why not?” Chuuya’s voice was raw with irritation, the exhaustion and anxiety starting to build. “I’m fine, okay? I was just in Yokohama—”

“Yokohama?” Yamada cut in, voice strained. “You’re lucky to be alive, that area’s crawling with villain activity.”

“Yeah?” Chuuya’s voice dropped low. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

“Yeah, and your scars—” Aizawa's voice was softer but no less firm, “They don’t exactly scream ‘safe at home.’”

Chuuya clenched his fists.

Under his breath, he whispered something vile in French — the words tasting like iron on his tongue.

“You had no right to run scans on me,” he snapped. “You’re violating my rights. I could sue your entire department for that!”

Aizawa looked tired. “You’re not even in the system.”

“Exactly! I should be!”

Yamada raised a brow. “That’s not how... never mind.”

The two guys stared at him dumbfounded, even if the hobo hid it better.

Aizawa knelt beside him, voice quiet. “Your injuries—your medical records—don’t match a kid with a safe home.”

Chuuya didn’t answer.

After far too much yelling, bargaining, and glares that could kill a god, the two heroes finally got him into their car. Aizawa drove. Yamada sat beside Chuuya, clearly designated as the “less grumpy” adult.

He sat in the back of their car, arms folded, head against the window, watching a world that didn’t feel familiar, usual. The cityscape was unfamiliar. Taller buildings. Strange traffic patterns. Nothing of the Port Mafia here.

Just another world entirely.

He wondered if Yokohama would remember him, or if it would keep on breathing without him like it always did.

He said nothing.

Neither did they.

They arrived where he was supposed to stay, Chuuya refused to call this place home. His home was with the Port, with Dazai and where his friends rested.

They let him in the living room, where Chuuya slumped against the couch while the heroes talked about arranging the room where he will be staying.

While they were organizing, he looked around the room with professional precision. Except for the front door, there seemingly were no cameras.

He relaxed a bit more. He was not watched, that was good enough for him.

Small miracles as he said back at the hospital.

And as much as he hated being hosted here with these two clowns, it was far better than staying at the hospital.

He kicked off his shoes, curling his feet up under him, hat tugged low. He let his eyes close for a second — just a second — feeling the hum of the apartment around him. New creaks. New ghosts. But no needles, no bright lights.

Soon enough, Aizawa and Hizashi walked into the room, probably having come to an arrangement.

Chuuya eyed them warily, in his haste of escaping the doctors and white walls, he forgot that they were still potential threats.

The redhead dissected them with his gaze, which, he noticed, made them very uncomfortable.

The blonde man talked first:

“So, listener! We arranged the guest room for you!”

Chuuya just lifted an eyebrow. He wasn't going to thank them for this, they kidnapped him first!

Aizawa crossed his arms, studying him like a stray cat that might bite. “You’re free to use the kitchen if you need to. Don’t break anything.”

“Not making promises,” Chuuya muttered.

Time stretched thin.

Then, finally, Chuuya broke the silence. “Can I call someone?”

Yamada looked back with a smile. “Sure, kid. But loudspeakers on.”

Chuuya snatched the phone, fingers twitching. The number came easily. He’d memorized it long ago. It was instinct, not hope, that made him press the digits.

Ring.

Ring.

Static.

Nothing.

“What the hell?” he muttered. “Why doesn’t it work?”

“Yokohama numbers don’t pass through here,” Aizawa said simply. “Different registry. Something about the dimensional signal structure.”

Dimensional. That explained more than he wanted to process.

He leaned back, a sigh crawling from his chest.

Then he dialed again.

This time, the number began with a French country code.

—

Chapter Text

Chuuya sat forward, looking at the phone with almost desperation to contact what has become his home. The second it clicked, Chuuya leaned forward, listening carefully.

“…Allô?”

The French curled around the line, low and familiar. It made Chuuya’s throat tighten for half a second. He bit it back.

“Paul.” The assassin's name obviously couldn’t be said out loud as he has been known worldwide for his kills, especially the Queen's one.

A pause. Not long, but heavy. Then: “Chuuya.”.

The heroes glanced at each other but stayed quiet, listening.

“You’re late,” Verlaine continued, tone almost amused, though it never warmed. “I expected your call sooner. You have no idea the trouble you’ve raised around here. You’d be surprised how many visits that brought me.”

Chuuya grit his teeth. “Maybe if you went out more often you’d be used to company. At this rate you’ll decrepit faster than Hirotsu.” He shifted, eyes darting to Aizawa and Hizashi. “I’m… out of town.”

“Inconvenient.” Verlaine’s voice didn’t change, but Chuuya could hear the calculation beneath it. “Do you require extraction?”

Chuuya hesitated. On one hand, he really wanted to get back like this never happened. On the other hand, he could gather information on heroes by playing the role of the victim. And he didn’t want Verlaine to cause carnage by coming to Mustufatu… He tugged his hat lower, the heaviness feeling comforting. “Not yet. Situation’s… complicated.”

“I see.” A faint rustle of paper in the background, the quiet click of a lighter. “You sound cornered. That rarely suits you.”

Chuuya’s nails dug into his palm. “Tch. At least I have fresh air.”

The line was silent for a moment, but Chuuya felt Verlaine’s mind working. Always watching, always dissecting.

“Are you compromised?” Verlaine asked at last.

“No.” Why would the French man ask that? Was he scared he’d get attached to this city? Pff, no way.

“Hmm.” A faint exhale,  maybe smoke from the cigarette, maybe disappointment. “If you are calling me, little brother, you are in a bad situation.”

Chuuya’s jaw locked. “No, just unexpected. I’m fine, I just had no number going through except yours.”

 He exhales “Please just share the information with the others.”

On the other end, Verlaine chuckled low, humorless. “Very well. I will wait.”

Chuuya exhaled, reassured. “Good.”

The line cut.

The silence stretched too long. Finally, Hizashi whistled low. “Wow. That was… not a casual family chat.”

Chuuya shot him a glare sharp enough to kill. “Mind your business.”

Aizawa, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, said nothing at first. Then: “Who was that?”

Chuuya seemed stressed for a short moment though he covered it quickly with a narrow of his eyes. “My brother.”

He still hated that name, he may have forgiven the man but the wound was still too fresh to call him this way. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make the heroes suspicious.

Aizawa studied him, gaze dark and unreadable. The weight of it made Chuuya’s skin itch, it reminded him of Dazai when he knew something was going on. But only the Executive really ever knew, no way a homeless looking man with no knowledge on him would figure it out or even understand, especially with the bleak view of this society.

“Right,” Hizashi said, forcing levity back in. “Super cozy sibling vibes.”

“I don’t see why you should judge,” snarked the redhead. “You probably wouldn’t understand me or my family.”

The word family stayed stuck in his throat like a bad hair, the Flags were family, Kouyou was family, hell, even Dazai could be considered as such. But it wasn’t a real family, it wasn’t how a parent would be to him, it would never be it.

He sighed.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Well first of all! We have to show you your room, it is a bit small,” Yamada rubbed the back of his head apologetically, “But we weren’t really expecting someone y’see?”

“Tch, not like I care, I’ll be gone soon enough.” He grumbled which cost him a glare from Aizawa.

They led him down a hallway that was covered in pictures of the couple in various places, he noticed multiple ones with cats.

“Ya got something with cats?” He asked slightly curious but not wanting to acknowledge that.

“Oh yeah! Zawa loves taking care of strays, they usually hang around afterwards!” Hizashi imputed while Shota huffed with embarrassment.

Chuuya simply nodded, he liked animals too,even tho they seemed scared of him for some reason. Sometimes he would even believe they could smell the blood on someone's hand and therefore avoid killers... But he never really understood.

A few framed posters leaned unevenly on the wall—music bands, hero slogans, giving the corridor a mismatched but lived-in feeling. 

Yamada stopped at a door and slid it open with a flourish. “Here it is! Not much, but we, uh, tried.”

A single window let in a muted glow, its curtains slightly too long, pooling onto the floor. The whole place carried an air of family, something that made him deeply uncomfortable, he clearly didn’t belong in these types of places, he was a killer (a monster ), not a kid they can foster like a family, he’ll hurt or kill someone (like the Flags, it was in his nature).

Chuuya stepped inside, gaze flicking over every detail. He didn’t see any camera or microphone but he’ll have to check when the two men are gone. 

"We'll call you for dinner when it's ready," cheerfully chimed the blonde hero, even though it seemed slightly forced at the lack of reaction from the redhead, "Do you have any allergies or anything we should be aware of?" 

... Allergies? Chuuya thought for a moment, he didn't think he had allergies, sometimes he felt a little sick while eating something but he couldn't really know. After all, his body resisted even poison, side effect of Arahabaki, which, for once, he didn't mind that much. Maybe it countered any possible allergies he could have...?

"Not that I think off, no." He replied quietly, still scanning the room.

Yamada nodded. Soon enough, both adults had left the room.

Chuuya plopped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. This was annoying to say the least. He hoped his motorcycle didn't have anything back in Yokohama, Dazai probably brought it back to his garage after the text he had send him while spying on the heroes.

Maybe he should've waited... He wouldn't have gotten into this mess. He felt a headache coming and he wishes he could go to the usual bar and drink a good glass of wine.

He sighed, but of course, he couldn't, he was a minor here. He grumbles and gets up, searching the room for cameras or wires.

He didn't find any, which was slightly relaxing, they somehow trusted him. If only they knew he was an Executive of the Port Mafia and apart of the feared duo Double Black.

He chuckled at that, two heroes fostering a kid from what they thought was a dangerous city when he was the danger in the city.

His chuckle turned into a full blown laugh, not the dark ones he could have while fighting but a genuinely amused one, he slid down on the floor, holding his stomach, trying to calm himself. 

This was ridiculous, completely unexpected and weird and ridiculous.

He laughs for a few more moments before calming down and letting out a tired sight. The moment passed, he now felt more exhausted, the hospital, the new people and places were weird and constantly watching around was tiring.

In Yokohama, he knew he had the upper hand, well, he still had it here but couldn’t show it. This society was so badly put up, one individual slightly different or too powerful would bring a lot of unwanted attention. But he didn’t know the city or any trustworthy people, he was by himself.

The God churned inside his head, and despite himself, Chuuya smiled, okay, maybe not that alone.

He didn’t especially like Arahabaki’s presence much but since he left Yokohama, he’d been more silent, watching. Even if a part of him was worried the God was planning something, it was a relief to have some quiet in his head.

He heard Hizashi calling him from downstairs.

With a sight he picked himself up from the floor and headed towards the kitchen. He quietly padded and awkwardly stayed at the door, not knowing how to make his presence noticeable. 

Yamada turned around with the dishes, not having noticed Chuuya, but when he does, he drops the food and let's out an honestly not very heroic like shriek, his hand flinging to grasp his chest. 

"Jesus Christ kid, don't scare me like that!" He says at the same time. 

The redhead had, luckily, caught the dishes with his ability– Chuuya definitely didn't want a spoiled dinner, it would be a waste of good food– just deadpanned. 

"For a hero, your instincts AND reflexes suck." The mafioso calmly replied, floating the plates to the table were Aizawa was dragging himself to. 

They all say down at the table, the meal was simple, rice and sauted vegetables. 

Once served, be watched the two men taking a bite to see if there was any possibility of poisoning. 

Not noticing any signs, he grabbed his chopsticks. 

"Itadakimasu" he murmured and took a careful bite of the food. It wasn't poisoned, he ate a little more freely. 

Only then that he noticed the surprised glances of the couple. 

"What? Never seen a kid with manners before?" He snarked.

The sound hero laughed and Aizawa even cracked a smile and they all dug in.

Chapter Text

“Why would I need to do that?” a tired Chuuya asks.

He had, in fact, not slept at all. Whether it was the stress, the new people, the unknown environment or his instincts keeping him awake, he didn’t know.

Chuuya had wished to go on a rooftop or an empty bar to help with his insomnia but he obviously couldn’t in this city, especially not with the heroes and him being underage.

So he just gazed out the window, watching the city lights, a siren sometimes blaring near and some drunk people yelling in the streets underneath.

Around six, he heard Aizawa returning from patrol, and curiosity made him step out of his room. The man looked dead on his feet. Chuuya wondered if that was his normal routine. If it was, no wonder the guy was perpetually exhausted.

Hizashi got up an hour later, hair surprisingly down while they prepared breakfast.

The Mafioso had nearly fallen asleep in his cereal when the blonde announced, far too loudly, a shopping day.

“Well, you can’t really stay in those clothes forever!” Hizashi beamed.

Chuuya’s head throbbed. “…You’re giving me a headache, old man.”

Aizawa just nodded in silent agreement with his partner.

“Fine, fine,” Chuuya relented, waving them off. He wasn’t happy about going out with no sleep, in a crowded place full of unknown quirks — but he wasn’t about to argue. His jacket was gone, burned, his shirt torn. He needed replacements.

“Did the hospital give you any of my belongings?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh! Yeah!” Hizashi said, dashing off.

“We got a phone and a wallet. Phone’s weirdly intact,” Aizawa noted.

Chuuya accepted the small bag and dug through it immediately, pulling out his phone. Indeed, it was intact.

“Well yeah,” he said dryly, “it’s a goddamn Nokia.”

It had been issued by the Boss — like all the higher-ups’ — reinforced to be practically bulletproof. It was a safeguard. Important contacts, mission intel, emergency lines. He had a modern phone too, but that one stayed separate.

He took out his wallet next.

There wasn’t much inside: about 7000 yen, a credit card, a business card, a few pictures. One of Dazai — slipped in there by the idiot himself, no doubt — and one of the Flags, laughing together. There was even a tiny piece of metal he didn’t remember ever putting in there.

He sighed, thumb lingering on the group photo.

Hizashi’s eyes caught it. “Oh my gosh, isn’t that the famous actor Lippman? You got a picture with him? Man, I’m so jealous!”

Chuuya blinked. “Huh?”

“Didn’t he get murdered, like, two weeks ago?” Aizawa added.

“Yeah, in Yokohama! So unfortunate. He shouldn’t have gone there, though, it’s dangerous.”

Chuuya bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

“He was from Yokohama,” he said tightly. “That’s why he was there.”

Both heroes gave him the kind of look people reserved for anomalies. He didn’t care.

“Really? Never heard that. How’d you know?” Hizashi asked, still oblivious.

Chuuya stared at the cereal bowl, debating how much to reveal.

Finally, he sighed, grabbed his things, and muttered, “I have my ways. Shall we go?”

The two men exchanged a look but didn’t press further.

Half an hour later, they were in the car, Aizawa driving, Hizashi trying to spark conversation, and Chuuya responding only with the occasional grunt. His gaze drifted outside the window, where the skyline shimmered faintly in the morning sun. He missed Yokohama already.

Once at the mall, Chuuya finally relaxed when the two heroes got distracted comparing hero supply stores. He used the opportunity to slip away quietly.

He browsed through the aisles, grabbing what he needed: two strong leather jackets, a handful of black t-shirts, jeans, pants, and — against his better judgment; a pair of soft sweaters that didn’t look like a crime scene of neon.

Seriously, what was with this city and colors? Everything screamed for attention. Even some bulky guy walking by in a yellow-red-blue outfit looked like a walking circus. Didn’t people here understand harmony?

At the register, the cashier frowned.

“Where are your parents to pay for that?”

"I'm paying myself." He politely replied, pulling out his card and swiping it. 

The machine beeped, the transaction passed. The woman blinked, speechless. He walked away before she could ask anything else.

Aaaand he may have taken a wrong turn. Because he was now lost. People were everywhere, crowding the place.

Arahabaki flared back to life as a pressure in the back of his head. Chuuya glanced around, as much as he didn’t mind crowds usually, this place was still unknown and the God’s presence giving him a headache didn’t help. So, yes, he was getting panicked.

People started giving him weird looks, he glanced around. An exit. Good, he could get some air and his calm back.

He made his way up to it, probably bumping into multiple persons by the interjections he got his way. He ignored them, finally reaching the door and shutting behind it once he was out.

He let out a sight of relief, relaxing his tense body back to something that looked normal. Arahabaki quieted. His hand stopped holding his bag of clothes as tightly and he leaned against the door, eyes closed for a few moments.

Until he felt a presence.

He had almost left his guard down. That was so unlike him, this city must be tiring so much he can’t keep the usual awareness he has.

He tensed, snapping his eyes open.

A girl stood nearby, blonde hair tied messily into two buns, yellow eyes bright with slit pupils. She tilted her head, smiling in a way that expressed curiosity.

After a long awkward silence, Chuuya decided to finally talk:

“Err… hello?” he greeted cautiously.

“Hi! Are you lost?” she chirped

“…Not really. Just— too many people.”

She nodded knowingly. “Crowds suck. I sneak out here too sometimes. Everyone thinks shopping’s fun, but it’s loud and smells weird.”

That earned a quiet huff of amusement from him. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“I’m Toga! What’s your name?”

“…Chuuya.”

“Nice to meet you, Chuuya~!” she sang, stepping a bit closer. “You look kinda pale. You okay?”

“Didn’t sleep,” he admitted, half against his will. “I’m fine.”

Toga tilted her head again, watching him with a small grin.

“Didn’t sleep? That’s bad for you, y’know.”

Chuuya gave a faint shrug. “Yeah, well. Hard to sleep in a place that’s not yours.”

“Ooh, new in town?”

“Something like that.”

“Mm.” She rocked on her heels, hands clasped behind her back. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here either. You talk funny.”

He smirked faintly. “You think everyone outside your city talks funny?”

She giggled. “Maybe! But you sound cool. Like someone from a movie.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he muttered, amused despite himself.

Toga’s eyes glinted. “You really aren’t used to people, huh?”

“Guess not,” he said, tone mild. “People are… complicated.”

She hummed, gaze flicking over him curiously.

“Yeah. They like to say one thing and mean another. I don’t like that.”

He nodded slowly. “Neither do I.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

“So,” she said brightly, “did you buy something nice?”

Chuuya looked down at the bag in his hand. 

“Clothes.”

“Boring.”

“It’s a mall, what did you want me to have?”

“I don’t know…” she made an act to think, “Food? Alcohol?”

“I thought alcohol was illegal for minors?”

“Oh c’mon, do you really follow the rules to the letter?” She asked with a small pout.

“Don’t you?” He shot back with a raised eyebrow.

She just giggled.

Then Toga perked up again. “Hey, do you have your phone?”

He blinked. “What for?”

She grinned. “In case you get lost again. Or too tired to walk. I could, y’know, show you the quiet spots.”

“… I guess it wouldn’t cost me anything…” Chuuya handed her his phone where she quickly typed her number in it.

She smiled as she gave it back, making Chuuya notice the fangs. He didn’t really mind them, but it intrigued him– Arahabaki had given him small fangs too, almost imperceptible, for whatever reason– he wondered if her abili- quirk had something to do with it. But he kept quiet and pocketed his phone.

“See ya Chuuya-kun!” 

He echoed her goodbye and went back into the mall. He still had to find the two idiots he lived with.

Chuuya was getting frustrated, where the hell were they? How complicated was it to find to obnoxious and loud people in a mall? 

He had tracked tougher people, this was supposed to be a piece of cake! 

When he was wondering whether to give up and ask security, he saw them. 

With a bird man? Man bird? 

He still went towards the duo, eyeing wearily the guy. 

"Who's that?" He asked making the three of them jumped as they had not seen him coming. 

"Oh, uhm, that's Pro-Hero Hawks!" Mic says, still a bit shaken by his sudden appearance, "We were asking him to find you since we didn't see you anymore..." 

Chuuya glances at Hawks disdainfully with an offended sniffle. 

"I didn't need some chicken to guide me through a mall. I'm am outsider, not an idiot." 

" C- chicken?! I'm not a chicken! I'm a Hawk!" The mentioned hero defended. 

"Well, with all that yellow and red, we surely look more like a rooster. Ya just need some blue like that weird bulky man that keeps appearing in merchandise"

Aizawa raised a questioning eyebrow, was he talking about All Might?

Hawks blinked. “A- a rooster?!” His voice cracked so sharply that a passing kid turned to stare. “Do I look like I wake people up at dawn?!”

Mic snorted. Loudly. Embarrassingly loudly. 

“Chuuya, kid, you can’t just say that to Japan’s Number Three Hero—”

“Number Two,” Hawks corrected automatically, pointing a thumb at himself. “Actually. As in, second strongest. Second fastest. Second coolest. Not a barnyard animal.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Good for you. Congratulations on not being a chicken professionally.”

Hawks opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Why are you like this? I literally tried to help your friends find you!”

“Did I ask?” Chuuya shot back, arms crossed, heel tapping impatiently on the tiled floor.

Aizawa finally pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted already. “Chuuya. We came here to shop. Not to antagonize public figures.”

“He started it,” Chuuya muttered.

Mic let out a nervous laugh, waving his hands between them. “Okaaay, let’s maybe bring the volume down! We’re still indoors, yeah?”

Aizawa sighed from behind his capture weapon, looking already tired. “Chuuya. You vanished. Again.” His voice dragged like he’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

Chuuya scoffed. “I didn’t vanish. I walked. You two just got distracted drooling over snacks.”

“They were on sale,” Mic defended softly.

Aizawa shot him a look. Mic immediately stopped defending himself.

“Let’s just go home.” Aizawa sighed.