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Any touch had been clinical, if it happened at all and he remembered it. Remembering it was met with twisted coils of betrayal and hate, so he often opted for forgetting.
This all made people moving into his space more than difficult.
While the average person might bristle, complain, but ultimately seek to immediately find a compromise for all involved, Tomura found it unbearably hard to stomach. After the borderline infantile scolding he had received--at the age of twenty, no less- the only reasonable thing to do was retreat to safety. What else was he to do? Torture himself amongst them for the sake of fake comradery? It sickened him, the dishonesty. It's exactly what he fights against, once he gets to rationalizing his urgency to be alone in his room, surrounded by his research, books, games, and piles of organized trash he would forever be too lazy to take out, but procrastinate in dusting until he smelt the telltale rot.
Almost like letting things he used come to their natural end made his use of them justified.
That, however, was simply his over-analytical mind attacking itself, as its wont to do. It's easy enough to avoid when he throws himself into the next mission he has planned for the new recruits.
It had gone...
The new leader felt his brow twitch involuntarily, a result of his worthless feelings clawing at his surface like parasites ready to hatch from his skin. It brings about a violent shudder he preemptively quells through desperate scratches to his neck.
... It had gone about as well as he should have guessed it would.
They were disorganized, is what it came down to, and it tugged relentlessly at him. Nagging, nagging, nagging--- a continuous stream of voices, some he knew and some he instinctively growled at but couldn't place, attacked him from all sides. It didn't matter where he sheltered. All previous points of safety were moot in this state of mind, and he knew it all too well.
It made his sensitivity that much more heightened, painfully so, to the possibility of him blowing up on the others reaching a percentage he was well past uncomfortable with.
When he got like this, before them, he would have no qualms in setting up on the couch, in front of the TV, in the bar's main room. Kurogiri would flip the sign without a word. It's not as if they got customers, or needed them for any urgency---something Sensei apparently agreed to, as he was allowed his days to wallow and recover alone in the glow of the news, as long as he completed what was put upon him. The smaller jobs he had taken on as a kid were shirked to others in Sensei's web as his responsibility grew, but once he was old enough for his psyche to take a physical toll, Giran had flippantly informed him that he had stepped in while Tomura was... Otherwise indisposed.
It was the healthiest example he had for genuine care, the respecting of his boundaries (or neglect of his mental health), but it also created a barrier he relentlessly protected as soon as it started being challenged.
Toga was the one most relentless in her poking and prodding of his testy walls and his immediate, metaphoric chomping of the air she breathes as soon as she drawls it to speak. His clear advertence to the presence, let alone the touch of another during his most vulnerable moments, ultimately did nothing to deter her from wanting to know him. As many times as he's been driven from his compulsive couch-nest-of-contemplative-hypervigilance, she never fails to overwhelm him when he deigns to try his luck once more. It was exhausting.
Never mind the fact she made the very corner of his left lip twitch in a phantom expression of amusement, perhaps endearment. She still had his shoulders up protecting his ears, body as far from her in his corner as possible, while still being splayed open enough to hide his nonverbal displays of mental weakness. They couldn't know, fuck no, the thought is mortifying and demoralizing and brings on a deep sense of shame that links back to Sensei always watching his progress as his successor---as someone worthy of being saved from the uncaring Hero-system.
Whatever his actions translated to, they rang loud and clear to her as "keep going," the exact sentiment he never realized his soul was screaming into the static of his mind, purposefully curated by its environment. It followed closely, if not synonymously, with Twice, and then came Mr. Compress.
Atsuhiro Sako.
Every bit of logical sense in him screamed that the man was no threat to him. An anonymous criminal striving for more under the guise of a magician with an ego inflated enough to believe he could make a difference. Perfect for his plans, as his quirk was especially helpful for transport or recovery missions as far as sustaining the League was concerned, whereas the tactical advantage to it couldn't be overlooked. A useful, if not muted, pawn. He would never disregard his ally's power, after all---respect bespoke respect, as the loftily mysterious man often quipped to the equally as shadowy Dabi.
At least with that burnt piece of patchwork, Tomura could easily understand his motivations simply based on casual observation of the older man's emotions. His reactions were intense enough to his relative aloofness that a general backstory could be easily placed within their villainous confines. There weren't many situations, as fucked up as they were, that lead to someone going to the extreme of joining an openly anti-establishment, anti-Hero society, organization such as theirs. It rang to a forgotten part of him, Dabi's sudden passion when it came to certain people and topics within their mission, well enough that he left the other alone in his way of showing understanding... Despite their unfortunate first meeting (that Tomura could see his rashness in, but still stood firmly by his reaction to the rude motherfucker looking for his employment).
That is what made Sako's unfallable bravado unsettling, perhaps. He wasn't sure what else it could be.
The others weren't as... Controlled as Mr. Compress. He insisted on the group calling him something more casual, Toga having settled on "Mister" regardless of his request for Sako, as if to promote an air of... Safety? Tomura has yet to figure the man out. His motivations, background; he must be looking in the wrong place for the answers, but many more important things cloud his mind.
Those questions always flood to the front of his mind on days like these. Days where he resigns himself to dealing with the barrage of noise and stimulus, sure to leave him numb enough to function again and piece together their next step to domination. Days where he knows if he sequesters to his room he'll stay in darkness, avoiding his problems with a video game. It's all he can do to avoid that cycle by planting himself in a public space.
Mr. Compress has taken it upon himself to bother Tomura whenever he isn't running supplies from store to marble to base, more so when Tomura stakes a sullen claim on the community couch, notebook upon newspaper upon piles of pens meant to deter anyone from approaching.
What bugged him the most was that he always timed it in such as way that he couldn't truly be mad. Not when he looked back and observed the interaction with a less reactive mind. Sako managed to either get lucky each time (unlikely) or had cared enough to observe Tomura's habits (much more likely). Considering he had no idea of the man's intentions, but resigned himself to what he did and didn't know, this counter-observation set the young leader's blood aflame whenever the magician stepped close. It "just-so-happened" that every time Tomura felt that tug to be around another, contrary to his lashing out for space, Sako came to him, kind and gentle.
It made no sense. He made no sense, out of all of them---he made the least sense to Tomura.
That logic made his irregular heartbeat, even for his state, even stranger. He felt his heart beat harder, once, a solid pump of blood pushing along with blood a flood of chemicals pulsing through to his fingertips.
It dizzied him. More so that it felt so normal to actually talk while he felt like he did, rather than sink into the usual catatonic silence of his own thoughts and spurts of manic scribbling. Sako asked about things that only he would know, things only Tomura could answer. Nothing he could easily regurgitate from the memorized lectures of his Sensei and the parroting Kurogiri.
Nothing that helped him escape from himself, but... Reaffirmed who he is and what he wants out of all this violence.
They both agreed it could have been avoided, that at one point it was unnecessary, but that there was no other way to wake the audience needed to evoke lasting change. Corrupt heroes were at the core of the faulty system.
Maybe that was when Tomura's guard began its slow, jilted decent.
He pulls the blanket, worn through in places from a mix of disuse and use, closer around him as he takes in the afternoon news report. While he usually took pride in seeing the farthest political sides of the various channels, just to take in the fear they sowed and its dismantling power from the inside, he found he most preferred the more level headed reporting of the most popular anchor man in Japan. His missing horn spoke of dedication Tomura could respect; he wound up listening much more readily to the man's factual tone when he couldn't handle much else. Informed and calm; that's all Sensei demanded him to be.
He just needed to pull it together, snap out of it, shirk any deprecating notions and do what he was born to do: sprint on the edge of destruction and implosion.
As if strung along by clockwork thread, Sako's form is before him, this time on his knees, upper chest and arms draped over the empty cushions of the couch.
When he had first approached Tomura like that, voice coming up from below his cocoon out of thin air in his addled mind, it had infuriated, terrified, and confused him all at once. It was almost primal--in fact, he didn't know what else to call it--when he reacted. His body naturally curled inward, shrinking, tense and ready to dust the man if he were to push past the remaining of his self control.
Needless to say, he never did... physically, at least. Sako has dodged many an embarrassed hand, though not as many, and none as vehemently mortified, as the hands attacking Dabi's negging.
"What is that mind churning, hm?"
Thump.
Tomura's heart clenches tightly at the inflection, the tone, the implication of care infused in carefully chosen verbiage. It's on par with how the man has been since he was first alone with him. Prying, but gently, kindly, in a way that made his thoughts feel important. Like he recognized the hierarchy of a criminal organization and could see through his status to what he's always feared himself to be: just another pawn. Those warm brown eyes tempered his need to defend himself, as there was no trace of judgement, not a hint of Sako looking down on him for the path he leads nor a speck of contempt (past the base's "needed" upgrades).
His stomach clenches, too, the feeling seeming to travel from his heart and down through his nervous system.
Thump.
Nonetheless, he finds he can't respond, too torn between what he could say. Or should say. What Sensei would say and what he wants to say.
Sako seems to understand, as he always does. The fact that he started from a place below his eyesight, unlike Dabi (who relished in looming over his particularly tense self), was proof enough that he took an invested interest in appearing nonthreatening to his new, younger leader... Or that he got it and wanted to come at him from a place of understanding.
Tomura couldn't place which was worse; at least Dabi teased him as ruthelessly as he teased the others, if not the slightest bit more because of his authority and Dabi's aversion to it. He saw weakness and he pounced, even if it was more of a playful bat for those he chose to be around. Sako approached him like the unstable thing he truly felt himself to be. It was disarming, left him wary, but cautiously soothed. Like it mattered that he, as a person, was struggling.
He realizes his thoughts had taken over when the smiling magician, curls on display without any facial entrappings, shakes him from them when he plops himself on the opposite side of the loveseat.
Thoughts scream that he's too close, you don't know enough, and darker still, but louder thoughts remark on his pointed distance. The warmness emanating from his gaze that seems to come from a place deeper than quirks.
Tomura hadn't exactly had a chance to break down since Sensei was captured by the scum plaguing society. Things had ramped up exponentially, though he could argue for the best; rage and hate blinded him more often than not and blocked any doubt he had of himself.
Some how, Sako still managed to find him at his worst.
Though it was contained to their grand sitting room, a concept introduced to him upon entering Re-Destro's mansion, Tomura held his traditions. It made him considerably more suspicious seeing as how these meetings were rarer, as they wound down to his surgery.
How does he know?
How does he know when Tomura can't shake the new memories enough to sleep the fraction he got before their return? How does he know the difference between a grunt of "fuck off" and "seriously, stop, I'll kill you and I don't want to"? How does he know what Tomura really means when he silently narrows his eyes, or rolls them, lips a bleeding mess as he tears them apart in an effort to vocalize?
How does he know...
There's a sudden warmth at his shoulder. Without looking, Tomura can tell the heat, though a lot, isn't enough to mean direct contact.
But it's closer than ever before.
Few have dared to get this close to him (or closer, though skin on skin from a forced hug was somehow colder than this). Toga, Twice, Dabi, and Spinner, with varying degrees of boundary pushing, and varying degrees of successes, had advanced their relationships with Shigaraki Tomura. Spinner had only recently come around after a particularly emotional speech he found himself giving in front of his team and the small man that could potentially help change the tide of their war. Sako had been complaining particularly hard during this time in their lives, regarding their status, mainly amenities, and Tomura was prouder than he would've expected to be provide sushi to those closest to him.
Come to think of it, he hadn't exactly asked if anyone else preferred another dish meant to celebrate them all. Dabi had relinquished his share simply on the basis that he didn't like fish, despite some rolls being vegan. If Tomura had to guess, the proximity to the sea-bearing creature was at fault, and he knew he should have asked the group rather than going off the one, throw-away-rant Sako presented to him that one time.
It had just... stuck. The pang of desire to make him happy. To be the competent leader Sako treated him as.
Thump.
The couch they share is much nicer now, matching the uptick in their closeness. Tomura's shoulder feels like it's on fire but he resists the urge to look, not wanting to ruin this rarity; he soaks in the insecurity it brings, the baring of his soul, the safety he feels he has to do it. As if this intelligently determined aura gave him something he's never had, and now never wants to leave.
It hurts because there's always the worst outcome.
But Sako shifts beside him, and they're touching.
If he were more out of it, he'd be lurching back. If it were months ago, he would be threatening to dust the well meaning villain. He would warn of the immanent decay to those soft hazel eyes that understand and expose way too much... The short, pronounced brows that only confirm Tomura's paranoia with how they urge him gently along. He would push further away with narrowed eyes to slits full of distrust.
Thump.
Tomura can't help but stiffen, albeit slightly, as he takes in the lax form seemingly enjoying the latest Hero update---at least enough to have a slight smile on his smooth lips; he's amused, and it brings a sense of... Something, in him. He doesn't personally find the current story of a minor villain being apprehended by newly licensed Hero-students especially humorous, given the implications, is sure the masked villain isn't happy, either, but the small exhale of air it brings from Sako is enough for him to reconsider the cosmic comedy his life has become.
His own breath leaves him then, too, as if his lungs and heart requesque to Mr. Compress' unspoken request for comfort. It felt like a silent plea for a forward motion, too fragile to be spoken, but strong enough to withstand a silent rejection.
As he reset his breathing to this new normal, he felt Sako sinking into the couch more, and felt himself following as if hypnotized.
Before he knows it, Tomura's head is tucked between Sako's and his well-vested shoulder, comfortably quartered to only see ahead. If he wanted to, he could easily escape the gentle hold. A twitch of his neck muscle, while inevitable, felt at this point to mean so much more; he wanted more than anything to be still. To be calm.
To be present in the wake of life's pain and theatrics.
It hurts to feel this much, Tomura notes, nearly detached but holding on all the same by that specific warmth.
As if on cue, a slow rustle begins above him, and it takes him a second to realize the other had rubbed his cheek against the top of his head for the faintest of seconds. It had felt like eons, expected a jolt at the end of sensation, but felt nothing but a concentrated, warm pressure where he had been nuzzled.
Thump.
It's then he recalls he was asked a question, but doesn't stir to answer it as he usually would.
There doesn't seem to be a need.
nobody knows why
nobody knows how or when
this feeling begins just like a spark
tossing and turning inside of your heart
exploding in the dark