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The pounding of his head is the first thing Shouto notices when he wakes up. A tension headache is blooming from his jaws and shooting up through his temples, making his whole head throb in time with his heartbeat. He sighs, forcing himself to stop biting down as he tries to blink the bleariness out of his eyes. His entire face feels swollen, his teeth sensitive in that way only blunt force trauma leaves behind.
What had happened? He tries thinking back, weakly grasping at the hazy memories. He had been fighting. There had been a robbery, and he had gotten called in. Routine business. Except something had gone wrong. He remembers rushing through the back alleys, following Midoriya in pursuit of one of the villains. And then, strong arms grabbing him, easily immobilising him and pressing a damp cloth over his face. His nose stinging from the acrid smell, the world fading around him.
He jerks up, eyes flying open as adrenaline starts pumping through him. The room he’s in is bare, the walls unfinished concrete, except for the table in front of him, and the young woman lounging on top of it. She loudly slurps her drink, chasing the last of the ice in the plastic cup with her straw, and lazily scrolls on his phone. She makes no indication of having noticed him yet.
He could use that to his advantage. Quietly, he surveys his surroundings, noting the door next to the table, heavy, steel, and the lack of windows. Underground then, probably some hidden basement. Next, he aims his attention to the chair he’s sitting on, his breathing picking up as he tests the cuffs binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. That, and the thick strap across his midsection leaving him truly strapped down.
He casts another look up at the woman. She’s chewing her straw absently, sharpened canines like fangs poking hole after hole into the plastic. He could probably superheat the metal of the cuffs, and then supercool them. That usually took care of even the strongest of metals. He pulls in a breath.
“Don’t try anything,” the woman drawls, not bothering to look up from her phone. “We’ve got you on blockers, handsome,” she wraps her lips around the straw once more, looking up at him from under heavy eyelashes. Shouto frowns, dread bubbling up inside him. Escaping is going to be harder than he anticipated.
“He’s awake!” she calls out, kicking the heavy metal door once before laying down on the table, the straw still in her mouth as she continues to chew on it. Her nails are long, like claws. They grate against her phone screen.
She’s familiar. Shouto recognises her, having seen her on the wanted villains list. He can’t remember her quirk though, neither her known accomplices. But he remembers the teeth.
The heavy steel door swings open the next second, cutting short any time Shouto had to figure out who she is. A masked figure appears in the doorway, face hidden behind a heavy leather mask. The only visible part of their face is the thin slit between the top of the mask and the bottom of their heavy bangs. Their pupils are nothing more than tiny dots in the middle of endless white, no iris to be seen. Other than that, there is nothing to identify them. They’re neither tall nor short, neither slim nor built, nothing more than a dark shape and piercing eyes.
Shouto doesn’t recognise them.
This is bad. This is really bad. He has no idea who is holding him captive. He has no idea how long he was out before he woke up, and how long has passed since he’s disappeared. Have they even noticed he’s gone yet?
He needs to take control over the situation before his captors can.
He goes to open his mouth, to demand to know what the figure wants. But his jaws won’t move. He tries again. His jaws remain just as immovable as before. There is metal laced over his tongue as he tries to feel for the blockage, weaving through his bottom row of teeth and holding his tongue down. The same metal slides against his lips as he moves them, clamping his jaws shut.
Panic grips his heart in a crushing grip, twists his guts. He strains again, brain refusing to believe what is happening.
“Oh, you finally noticed?” the person asks, amusement clear in their voice. Shouto sucks in a breath through barred teeth, reaching for his quirk despite knowing it’s blocked. The emptiness he gets in return causes him to heave. He knew he’d find nothing, but still, the realisation that he’s not only trapped without access to his quirk, but his jaw is also wired shut, hits him like a sledgehammer to his chest.
Muffled whines escape him with each frantic inhale, but there is nothing he can do to stop the pathetic sounds. The world is spinning around him, a panic he hasn’t felt in years constricting his chest. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. His vision is nothing but a blur. He can’t find a way out. He’s trapped! He can’t move!
“Shhh now. We haven’t even begun. There is no need to react like this yet,” the masked person says, stepping up in front of him. Shouto flinches back, pressing himself as far back into the chair he’s bound to as physically possible. A gloved hand reaches out, easily catching his chin. The leather is cool against his skin, the fingers as strong as the metal holding his jaws shut.
The masked figure squeezes his cheeks, puckering his lips. A leather clad finger lifts his top lip, the peering eyes inspecting the wiring running across his teeth. Shouto tastes blood. His bottom lip is pulled down next. The cool air hitting the metal radiates cold through his teeth and all the way up to his gums.
“Looks good,” the masked figure comments, looking back over their shoulder. “Kuroki-san knows his stuff.” The woman hums in disinterest. Shouto screws his eyes shut, tries to force his shuddering breaths to slow. With each inhale, the metal in his mouth grows colder.
The hand finally leaves his face, wiping the spit on Shouto’s chest before the figure retreats to the table the woman is laying on. They lean back against it, regarding Shouto with almost bored eyes, showing no sympathy for the way Shouto continues to fail at calming himself down.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what we want,” the figure says, their voice distorted behind the rushing in Shouto’s ears. He should pay attention to this. He needs to know this to survive until he’s rescued. But the world is nothing more than a blur around him, and the wires in his mouth are so so real, and Shouto can’t think past the panic.
“Well, truth is we want to test out a theory. And you just happened to walk so nicely into our hands that we just couldn't miss out on the opportunity,” the masked figure explains, crossing their arms over their chest. They’re looking at Shouto, their eyes locked with his. “Plus, I’ve heard you had quite the spicy childhood. That will help us,” they say, and Shouto can see the mirth in their eyes.
His fingers are aching from how hard they’re digging into the arm of the chair, his knuckles white. But he can’t make himself let go. He shakes his head at the other’s words, jaws straining against the metal holding them shut as he tries to plead with the other to reconsider. The only sound that leaves him are wet whimpers.
He’s never done well in captivity training, neither during UA nor when his father trained him. He was never able to keep his cool. He hates being helpless, and right now he feels five years old again, covering on the floor in a pool of his own vomit as the sound of his father’s fists against his mother’s skin echoes in the training dojo.
“He’s all yours now, Sora-san. Find out what makes him tick,” the figure says, pushing off the table and patting the woman on the knee, before pulling the door open. The woman looks up from her phone, a grin spreading over her lips as she slowly sits back up. The door slides shut, the click barely audible over Shouto’s frantic breaths.
Sora grabs her empty drink and slides off the table in one smooth movement. Like a hunter stalking pray she moves toward him, the thick soles of her shoes making each step echo in the concrete bunker. Her claw like nails dig into the plastic cup, long since empty. Sharp canines catch the straw again. The slurping sound beats against his head, somehow louder than the pounding of his heart.
Shouto presses back into his chair, his boots sliding uselessly against the floor. The grating sound of his ice picks against concrete seems to travel up his bones and through the metal in his mouth. He can’t breathe.
“You really are the pretty boy among the big three, huh,” she says, cocking her head to the side and reaching out to push his bangs out from his face. Shouto turns his head, trying to hide as much of himself as he can manage as she moves closer, her breath ghosting his cheek.
“I can’t wait to see you cry,” she purrs, a grin spreading on her lips. The next second, she’s hooked a hand under the front of his seat, tipping him backwards. Shouto jerks forward, trying to balance himself, but it’s already too late. The chair teeters on the tipping point for a split second. The next he’s falling.
The crack of his skull against the concrete reverberates against the concrete walls. Pain, sharp, shoots up behind his eyes and leaves his head throbbing anew. He can feel his eyes roll in their sockets as he tries to blink the dizziness from his vision.
Sora’s heavy soles come down on each side of his chest, the girl crowing down over him until she’s almost sitting on his chest. Her hand grasps his head once more, fingers painfully digging into his temples as he forces him to look at her.
“Don’t hold back, baby,” She pouts, catching the chewed-up straw between her sharp teeth once more. The claws sink into his temples. Reality warms around him, folding in on itself over and over until Shouto’s screaming for it to stop.
And then he’s three years old, his chubby hands squeezing his t-shirt. Touya is standing in front of him, hatred clear in his eyes. The door slams shut in Shouto’s face. He turns to Natsuo, reaching out for his brother. Natsuo refuses to look at him. The door slams shut in Shouto’s face.
Shouto is five years old. His father’s grip is crushing around his wrist, his strides far too large for Shouto’s short legs to keep up. His siblings are playing in the yard. He asks if he can join them. Please. Just this once. He’ll be good and train so hard after. Father ignores him.
Shouto is six years old. Mom won’t touch him anymore. She’s acting weird. She doesn’t want to pick him up anymore or watch the all might movie with him anymore. She ignores him. She can’t see him. Father is angry with them both. Shouto isn’t good enough.
Shouto is six years old. Mom is talking to grandma on the phone. The kettle has been whistling for so long. Doesn’t she hear it? He calls out for her, wanting to help. The boiling water burns against his skin. He’s screaming. The ice burns even worse. He’s screaming.
Shouto is seven years old. Touya is dead. Natsuo tells him it’s his fault. Father won’t leave him alone. Nothing he does is ever good enough. He misses mom. She’s gone. That’s his fault too. Everything is his fault.
Shouto is eight years old. He sits alone during recess. He sits alone during lunch. He sits alone during dinner. No one wants to play with him anymore.
Shouto is ten. Fuyumi and Natsuo stop talking when he enters the room. He presses his ear against his wall to listen in on them. He presses his ear against his door to listen for his father’s footsteps. No one wants to talk to him anymore.
Shouto is twelve. Endeavour decides he should be home schooled. No one in his class misses him. Shouto is thirteen. Fuyumi leaves for university. She says goodbye to Natsuo and to father. Shouto is fourteen. He refuses to use his fire. His father’s fists against his skin feels right. Natsuo pretends he doesn’t hear them. He’s going to become a doctor one day and help people. Shouto sets his own broken bones.
Shouto is fifteen. He won’t use his father’s quirk to win. He isn’t here to make friends. He doesn’t care about his classmates. All he cares about is being right. All he cares about is winning.
Shouto is fifteen, and Midoriya refuses to leave him alone. Shouto is fifteen, and suddenly it’s his fire again, suddenly he’s sitting with friends at lunch again, suddenly people are talking to him again.
Shouto is fifteen. Endeavour becomes the number one hero. Without Shouto. His father promises to do better as a father. He’s fifteen, and his purpose gets stripped from him. His father doesn’t need him to fulfil his dreams anymore, and Shouto has no dreams of his own.
Shouto is sixteen. Touya is alive. His father won’t move. Touya is killing him again. Shouto is sixteen. He can’t speak. Mom says he’s the family hero. Father won’t pick up his calls. Midoriya won’t pick up his calls. Shouto is sixteen, and he is useless.
Shouto is useless. Shouto is not good enough. Shouto needs to try harder, he needs to be better, he needs to use his full power. He needs to burn brighter. He needs to fix this. He is the family hero now. He has to keep the legacy alive, live up to the expectations. Midoriya is leaving him behind, rising faster than he can ever hope to catch up with. Shouto needs to do better. Bakugou breaks top 30. Shouto stumbles, falls down, fails, gets left behind. Shouto is useless, and he always has been and soon everyone else will notice it too, and then they’ll leave him behind again.
Shouto is so alone.
Shouto is screaming.
Something catches on his neck as he jerks awake, leather wrapped tight around his forehead and under his jaw. Shouto tries to shake it off, but his head refuses to move more than an inch in any direction. The ceiling is grey above him, the mattress thin under him. His hands are fixed by his hips, the leather bindings unyielding as he pulls at them. A thick wrap around his waist keeps him flush to the bed, binds around his ankles and thighs stopping any attempt at bucking.
“Already awake?” a voice asks from next to him. Shouto tries to turn to look at it, but the restraints around his head won’t let him turn his head. The panic builds in him once more, a whistling sound starting in his ears.
“Lie still, or I’ll make a mess,” the person next to him says. A second later the masked figure appears above him, their white eyes stern as they tut at him. “I’m feeding you, be grateful,” they say, holding up a large syringe attached to a tube and filled with a porridge like liquid.
Shouto blinks, looking around himself best he can from his prone position on the bed. No matter how he moves his head he can’t figure out where the tube leads to. Something cold tickles the back of his throat. He instinctively swallows, feeling something thick in his throat. His nose twitches, left nostril stuffed and his sinuses aching as though inflamed.
As the masked figure sits back down next to him, the tube moves where it’s looped from his nose and around his left ear, brushing the edges of his scar. He flinches, trying to jerk back from the feeding tube. The figure laughs next to him, forcing more cold fluid through the tube and into his stomach.
Fluid he has no idea what it is. Fluid that could be anything. He sucks in a breath through bared teeth. A panicked sound builds in his chest. He can’t move. He can’t do anything to stop it. He’s absolutely helpless. He can’t breathe. His nose is stuffy. His jaw won’t move an inch. He can’t breathe!
He tries reaching for the figure next to him, trying to signal to them that he can’t breathe! Oh god he’s going to die. He can’t breathe! The metal chains holding the cuffs around his wrists to the bed clink, the sound as shrill as the whistling in his ears. He’s going to die here, strapped to a bed with his jaws wired shut. He’s going to die here next to some twisted stranger. He’s going to die here, all alone.
“Shh, calm down. I’m almost done. I did most of it while you were out,” the figure says, and it does nothing to help the vice grip panic has on his chest. His heart is moments away from breaking through his ribcage with the force of its beats. The restraint around his neck grows tighter and tighter with each passing second. He can’t breathe!
A gloved hand wraps around his fingers, and Shouto is too terrified to feel shame over how tightly he grips it, how strongly he clings to it. The voice hushes him again, a leather clad thumb stroking his knuckles in a mimicry of comfort. His breath shudders, vision growing blurry as his chest constricts.
His sobs are muffled by the wires clamping his teeth together. His tears seep into the leather straps wrapped around his chin and up around the top of his head. His nose clogs further with snot, until the only air he can get in him comes from the clipped breaths he pulls through bared teeth.
“Only one syringe left. Be good for me,” the voice says, giving his hand a little squeeze. Shouto squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth to hold back the whimpers building in his chest. Why hasn’t he been rescued yet? Why haven’t they found him yet? He must have been gone for a while now. They must be looking for him by now. How long had he been gone?
There is no way to tell from his limited view. The grey ceiling and harsh fluorescent lights tell him nothing about where he is or the time of day. He tries to think back to the room with the woman, tries to hold on to the flimsy impressions to see if he can gleam anything from them. But all he remembers is the heavy steel door, the sharp canines glinting as they sink into a plastic straw, and the sound of his skull hitting concrete.
“All done,” the gloved hand leaves his, giving his cheek a light pat as the masked figure appears in his field of view again. “That wasn’t that hard now, was it?” they ask. Shouto sniffs, his chest still jumping with sobs. He feels so small. He wishes someone would come save him. Why isn’t anyone coming to save him?
The figure waits for another second before disappearing once more. Shouto can hear the sound of shoes against concrete and the gathering of things next to him. Plastic crinkling, paper being scrunched up, fabric moving. And then the footsteps start to move away, and the sound of a doorhandle being depressed fills the room, followed by the soft thud of a door closing and the clicking of a lock.
And then he’s all alone.
Shouto pulls in another shuddering breath, hyper focused on his surroundings as he waits for the next horror to befall him. But nothing happens. The seconds pass by, turning into minutes. His breathing slows, his nose clearing back up and the tears drying on his cheeks. His nose is itchy around the feeding tube, but the pain in his sinuses is slowly subsiding.
He shifts on the bed as best as he can with the restraints, flinching at the sound of chains locking taut. If he strains himself, he can see all four corners of the ceiling and the top of the door on the opposite side of the room to the bed he’s restrained to. Nothing in the room can tell him anything about his captors. Nothing at all. The walls are white, the ceiling white, the door white.
He turns his attention to the bed he’s on, testing each restraint in turn. They’re all wrapped tight and secure. Twisting and turning his hands to try and wiggle out of the cuffs yields him nothing more than the beginning of a friction wound. He could burn through them with his quirk, but the blockers have yet to wear off. Most likely he was just fed another dose, meaning he would not be able to rely on his quirk to get him out of this mess.
His fingers are still free though. If he can reach the fastenings somehow, he could get free. He bends his wrists, reaching his fingers up towards the cuffs holding his hands in place. The tips of his fingers uselessly press against the bottom of his palm. Not even when he’s pulling at his arms to get the wrists as far down as possible can he manage to do much more than brush the edges of the leather cuff with his nails.
He tries the restraint around his waist next. He can reach the side of it, feel the belt holding the restraint shut and attaching him to the bed. The fastening is out of reach though. Maybe if he is able to twist the belt far enough to the side, he can reach it? He lifts his waist as best he can, trying to find a sweet spot between not resting his weight on the belt and not pulling it taut enough that it won’t move.
Getting a grip on it is harder than he expects, his thumb not being able to reach from the awkward position he has put his hand in to feel the belt. He tries using his right hand to push at the belt and the nails of his left to pull at it.
It refuses to budge. The back of his throat is closing up once more, the feeding tube thick and itchy as he swallows around it. Please. Please just move! Please let him get out of here! He tries twisting his waist, anything to get the stupid belt to move. But it won’t and feeling the little hope he had slip through his fingers is somehow worse than not having any to begin with.
His hands are starting to grow numb from the awkward way he’s holding them. He can’t tell if he’s properly lifting his weight anymore. The numbness is spreading fast. He screws his eyes shut, grits his teeth, pushing back the panic. He needs to stay calm. He needs to stay level-headed or he’ll have no chance of getting out of here.
What if he never gets out of here?
No! He can’t think like that. He can’t give up! Not this early. He’s barely been here for…for a day? Two days? A few hours? He doesn’t know but it can’t be that long. He can’t give up this quickly. He has trained for these kinds of situations his entire life. He’s supposed to know what to do in situations like these.
Except he doesn’t. Not this time. He collapses back down on the bed, breath shuddering in his chest. He can’t even get a proper look at himself to see if it’s even possible to get out of the restraints. He should save his energy until he has a proper plan. Besides, he can’t feel his fingers anymore. It’s pointless to try and do any kind of precision work right now.
He stares at the ceiling, following the outline of the fluorescent lights in the middle of the room. The numbness in his hands isn’t going away. In fact, he can’t feel the restraints unless he is actively pulling against them. Has his body gotten used to them that quickly? Even the irritation of the feeding tube has gone away.
Maybe he had been given some sort of painkiller? He decides that must be the case before his mind can start spiralling again, knowing it won’t do him any good to dwell on what ifs. Instead, he tries to think of a way to get out of here.
He settles on waiting until they let him out of bed. They have to at some point, to let him use the bathroom and the like, and to make sure he isn’t getting bedsores. Although he doubts they care enough about him for anything outside of that. They do want to keep him alive though, or else they would have killed him already. Which means they have to let him out at some point.
The moment his wrist restraints come free he’ll strike. Or maybe he’ll wait until they had gotten him out of bed. He would have to listen carefully to judge how many people were in the room with him when it happens. So far, he knows of three people involved in this, the woman, the person who wired his jaw shut, and the masked figure. He suspects there are more people he hasn’t seen yet involved though. The large figure who had trapped him in that alley to mention one.
Hopefully, he never has to figure out the exact number though. Hopefully, he’ll be rescued soon. They must be looking for him by now. They must be. So, it’s only a matter of time. He could endure this until then. He is good at enduring. He would endure until his friends found him. They wouldn’t give up on him. They would rescue him, just like he had helped rescue Bakugou back in the first grade of UA and helped rescue Midoriya from those villains last year.
They would rescue him. They wouldn’t leave him all alone.
He shifts on the bed, testing his restraints once more. Solid as ever. Right. Waiting. He is good at waiting. He would wait. He would endure.
When he’s lying like this, body numb and unmoving, he can almost pretend he’s just resting in the hospital or something. Which isn’t too bad. He has been in the hospital plenty of times. That comes with the job of being a pro hero. This is just like those times.
Except for all the ways in which it isn’t.
He shakes his head, the clinking of chains reminding him of the restraints once more. He shouldn’t think like that. He should just…lie here. And wait. Distract himself. He could count, try to keep track of time that way. That would be a useful pastime while he waited for whatever were to come next.
He gives up when he loses count at around 5000 for the second time, his lids heavy as he fights against them closing. He can’t sleep. He has to stay alert. But between the quiet room, the monotone view and the hazy feeling of his body it’s hard to keep track of himself. He can feel his eyes fall close for many long seconds at a time, and when he opens them again, he has no way of telling if he has actually fallen asleep, or if he’s just nodded off for a split second.
It isn’t until the thought that he would have to use the bathroom soon hits him that he can shake the sleep from his eyes. That isn’t much better though, because as soon as he realises the pressing need of his bladder, he can’t think of anything else.
Surely, they would be back to check in on him soon. They had to be. Hours must have passed since he first woke up. Right? He knows at least two hours have passed because of his counting. As long as he hadn’t counted too quickly. But no, he’s fairly sure he knows how long a second is. And besides, time has passed since he stopped counting too.
How much, he isn’t sure of though.
He shifts, wishing he could press his thighs together to alleviate some of the pressure. They must be coming soon. He’s sure of it. They must be coming soon. They had to be coming soon, or else he would be…
He shifts again, straining to look at the door. He hasn’t heard any sounds coming from the other side. Is his room soundproof? Is it worth screaming to try and make his needs known? They had to have someone keeping watch of him, right? They hadn’t just left him all on his own. That would be idiotic, and whoever these villains are they aren’t idiotic. If they were, he would have been found already.
He ignores how his gut twists at that thought and weighs the consequences of trying to get his captors attention once more. On one hand, he still has no idea what they want, and they clearly have no trouble doing whatever they see fit to him considering the position he’s currently finding himself in. But on the other hand, they had fed him, and the masked figure had seemed to have tried to calm him down when he had panicked earlier. So, they probably wouldn’t want him to die. They are probably holding him ransom for his father or something.
His dilemma resolves itself a moment later as the door opens. Shouto quickly strains against the restraints, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever has entered. Is he being rescued? A sound breaks free from his throat. Hope blooms in his chest.
“Did you miss me?” the masked figure asks, the mirthful eyes appearing above him. Shouto tries not to let it show on his face how the hope in his chest crumbles, but from the way the figure laughs he can tell he failed.
The masked figure disappears again, Shouto feeling them fiddle with the feeding tube. It takes a minute of fiddling before something cold starts sliding down his throat again. Shouto swallows, focusing on listening after anyone else in the room. He casts a look toward the door, seeing it’s open.
This could be his chance! This can be the moment he escapes. He just has to make it known to his captor that he needs to use the bathroom. He might not have access to his quirk, but he knows how to fight hand to hand better than most villains he’s come across in his career. Almost all of them are overconfident in their quirk. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to assume the figure is as well.
He makes a noise, trying to close his legs in an attempt to show what he means. He has no idea if the figure is even watching, but the coldness is still present in his throat, which means the figure is still feeding him. He makes another sound, squirming a little on the bed.
Still no reaction.
He keeps up the act, making himself known every few seconds until he can hear his captor start to fiddle with his feeding tube once more. Okay, good. This is his chance. Time to get ready.
He closes his eyes, focusing on the sounds he could hear around him. His hands are still numb, but Shouto pushes that to the back of his mind. He can still fight. He tenses his core, getting ready to strike the other the moment he has his hand free. He can work the rest out after that as long as he gets a hand free.
But then the footsteps are retreating, and Shouto is still just as trapped as he has been since waking up.
He makes another noise, his restraints clinking as he tries to find the masked figure. He can hear the door begin to slide shut, heavy steel scraping against the concrete floor. He shakes his hands, rattling the chains holding his cuffs in place. The door clicks shut. Another noise of distress grows in his throat. The lock follows suit.
Shouto screams, jaws straining against the wires holding them closed. He bucks, trying everything he can to make as much noise as possible. Panic is starting to build in him again, sinking its claws into his chest. He kicks, trying to make contact with the wall next to him but he can’t get enough movement for his foot to reach.
Please! Please come back! Why had they just left like that? Come back! He can’t hold it in much longer. Please!
Tears are beginning to build in his eyes again, his chest shrinking. He shakes, tearing at the restraints with all his might. They can’t just leave him like this! They can’t treat him like this, like he’s not even human!
He doesn’t know how long he manages to hold out in the end, tears beading in the corner of his eyes and sobs seconds away, but something has to give in the end. And that is Shouto. The warmth spreads down his legs, soaks into his sheets and the back of his pants. He sobs, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to hide against the shame.
The wetness slowly grows cold and sticky. Not even the numbness manages to hide how his pants cling to his skin or how the heavy scent of ammonia in the air around him burns his nose. It presses down on him, keeping him fixed to the bed jus as effectively as the restraints.
When the door opens next, Shouto barely has time to begin to entertain the idea of using this opportunity to escape before something is pushed through the feeding tube.
“Time to sleep,” the masked figure says, and Shouto feels his limbs grow heavy.
When he opens his eyes next the room is dark, and impenetrable darkness. It must be night and whatever sleeping agent had been given to him must have worn off.
The second thing he notices is that he’s dry, and the putrid smell of urine is gone. His stomach twists at that, a horrible mixture of shame, relief and horror at the fact the was probably changed while he was out cold. The mattress seems to be dry too, which means they probably changed it. Which means he was definitely let out of his restraints at some point. Which means whatever plans he had of escaping while unrestrained were pointless.
His captors have obviously thought through whatever this is more than he had first thought. He would have to step up his game if he were to have any chance of escaping. He might even have to settle in for the fact that he might be here a while, and that it might take time to gather the information he needs to escape.
His breath hitches at that, something horrible curling in his middle. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. He had thought it was something particular about him, since they had gone through all the trouble of kidnapping him out of all the pro heroes present at the scene. But they had yet to even question him. The closes they had come to that had been during the first day (is that still today?), when the woman had used her quirk on him.
His current running theory is that this all has to do with his father. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Him being kept as leverage is much more plausible than any other explanation. But even that feels wrong. As far as Shouto knows, there hasn’t been any kind of videos or photos taken of him yet that can be used for extortion. Unless they are taking them when he’s unconscious, or from an angle he can’t see.
His chest tightens further at the thought.
Why go through all this effort, with his jaw, the feeding tube and the restraints, just for some extortion. A simple gag and a video of him being rough housed would have been more than enough. No. This is something more, something else, and he doesn’t know what.
He shifts, hearing the metal of the chains holding him in place clink at the movement. One by one, he goes through them again, finding them just as secure as last time. No point in trying anything right now. Even if he manages to get out, the room is pitch black and the door is locked. He wouldn’t make it out of the room unless he got his quirk back, and from the numbness he still feels in his limbs whatever blockers and painkillers they had given him had yet to wear off.
He settles in for another few hours of just lying here. There is not much else he can do. He could try falling back asleep, but he doesn’t feel sleepy, and the mere thought of losing consciousness again and not knowing how he’ll wake up next makes anxiety swirl in his middle.
No. He’ll just lie here and wait, lie here and endure, lie here and ignore how uncomfortable the numbness in his limbs and the darkness surrounding him make him. The lack of any sort of stimuli other than the sound of his breathing is grating on his mind. It makes him feel jittery, twitchy, on edge. It makes it impossible to keep track of the passage of time, to know if he’s already been lying here for hours, or if he woke up mere minutes ago.
The darkness surrounding him means there is no difference between having his eyes open or closed, and Shouto finds himself going to open his eyes when they’re already open several times over. Looking over to where he knows the door is does nothing to alleviate the darkness pressing down on him, which means whatever space lies beyond is just as dark as his room.
Well, at least he can confidently say that wherever he’s being held is most likely underground, considering the lack of windows and natural light. Not that it helps him much. But he should still memorize it in case he gets moved at some point and then manages to escape or gets rescued. It could help the police and other pro heroes catch his captors.
He sighs, deciding to pass the time by doing the coordination practices Midoriya had learned in physiotherapy for his broken fingers and then taught Shouto during one of their stake outs. It’s not much, but the tapping of his fingers in order against his thumb provides some sort of distraction from the pressing nothingness around him. And if he does it hard enough it chases away the numbness in his fingers for a brief moment.
The sound of the lock clicking open startles him, making him lose his place in his current round of exercises. He turns his head as best he can toward the sound, hearing the door slide open and footsteps entering the room.
“Good morning,” A voice, the masked figure’s voice, says. Shouto waits for the lights to turn on, blinking in preparation. But the darkness stays just as pressing as before. The footsteps move closer, the sound of something being set down on the floor next to him following. Shouto makes a questioning noise, his heart speeding up in his chest once more.
Why isn’t the figure turning the lights on? Why can’t he see anything still?
A hand lands on his thigh and Shouto flinches, pulling at the restraints in an effort to get free. He bucks, trying to shake the hand off. But it remains, moving further up toward his hip. Shouto squeezes his eyes shut, a new kind of panic building in him. No. Not this too. Please, not this too.
“Shh, I’m just going to empty you. You don’t want another accident now, do you?” the voice asks as fingers hook themselves in the waistband of his pants. “Lift your hips.”
Shouto shakes his head, the sound of the metal chains on either side of his head echoing inside his head. His heart is racing in his chest, his breathing short as he tries to make sense of what is happening to him.
A gloved hand grabs his thumb, bending it up and back. Shouto lets out a startled cry, twisting as best as he can in the restraints to lessen the painful pressure. The hand is relentless, bending his thumb further and further back until Shouto is sure it’s about to snap clean off. He kicks best he can, bucking and trashing in the restraints.
“There you go. Now, keep your hips up,” the figure says, easing the pressure on his thumb but not letting go. Shouto freezes, his pained whimpers far too loud in the room. His thighs shake from the awkward way he’s pushing his hips up from the mattress, but he doesn’t dare to let it go.
The fingers return to his waist band, easily pulling them down far enough to free his privates. Shouto holds back a sob, suddenly missing the pressing nothingness from before. He’d rather spend an eternity there than go through whatever this is.
The hand around his thumb lets go, landing on his hip and allowing him to relax back down on the bed. Shouto lowers his hips but can’t make himself relax; body strung tight as he waits for whatever comes next. His breaths are nothing more than sharp gasps, curt and shuddery as they rattle his chest.
The crinkle of plastic reaches his ears, the gloved hand grabbing the tip of his penis the next second. Shouto goes absolutely still, breath stuck in his chest as he waits for what’s to come next. The hand fiddles with something, and then the unmistakable feeling of urinating fills him. But despite his clenching he can’t stop it. There is something in the way, holding him open and directing the flow away from him.
A catheter. They installed a catheter in him while he was sleeping. And he hadn’t noticed until now.
He chokes on air, throat feeling impossibly tight as he struggles to breathe. The whistling has returned, blocking out any other sound as the catheter is disconnected from the bag holding his urine, but not removed from him, and he’s tucked back into his clothes. He’s trembling, shaking hard enough to rattle the chains holding him in place. The leather around his neck is growing tighter with each passing second.
What else had they done to him? What else had they done that he hasn’t noticed yet?
He’s hyperventilating, teeth bared to suck in as much air as he can get through his clenched teeth. He thinks he’s crying. The area around his eyes is growing wet. A blindfold. They have blindfolded him. That’s why he can’t see.
He wants to scream, but all he can manage are pathetic little cries. His fingers tear at the bedding, heels slipping against the sheets. He can’t move. He can’t see. He can’t feel his body. He’s trapped, squeezed into a little ball and crushed under an immovable weight. He wants to get out here. Please. He can’t do this anymore. Please!
Something cold hits the back of his throat and Shouto screams, not being able to handle any more. He doesn’t want this! He wants to be in control again. He wants to know what they’re putting in him. He wants to be able to speak, to communicate. He wants to move. He wants to see. He wants to curl up into a little ball and hide away until this is all over.
The gloved hand gently takes his hand, slipping its cool fingers between his and giving them a little squeeze. Shouto clings to it, holding on to it like a lifeline. Shame blooms in his guts. Shame over how scared he is, how poorly he’s handling this, how he seeks comfort in his captor. His chest jumps with sobs, breaths short and clipped in his chest.
The syringes are given to him, Shouto’s cries calming down from hysteria to soft sniffles over the course of his feeding. He clings to the hand in his during it all, focusing on how the thumb runs over his knuckles. It’s not so bad, this part of it all. The feeding. If they wanted to put something in him that kills him surely they would have done so already. Instead, it’s just the same drug cocktail as before, and some sort of nutrient slurry. Soylent, or whatever it was that Kirishima had insisted on eating for every meal when he was on that health craze.
The hand lets go of him as it goes to disconnect the syringe from him for the last time and Shouto hates how he misses the touch. Something soft and wet touches his face, making him flinch. A napkin, wiping away the mess of snot around his nose that his crying had left behind. As the napkin works a hand lands in his hair, pushing it out of his face and stroking it ever so slightly.
“See. That wasn’t so bad. We don’t want to hurt you. Just listen to us and you’ll be fine, okay?” the voice says, stroking his hair again. Shouto sniffs, holding back the urge to press into the touch.
He nods, not wanting to go through this again. He’ll just…he’ll just comply for now. Until he figures out a way to escape, until then he’ll comply. It’s not worth it to waste what precious energy he has on resisting. He should focus on figuring out where he is and what he can do instead.
“Good boy,” the hand pats his cheek before the tell-tale sound of the masked figure cleaning up fills the room. “Try to get some more sleep,” they say before the footsteps retreat once more, the door clicking shut and locking a second later.
And just like that Shouto is all alone once more.
The third (is it the fourth?) time he wakes up with the blindfold on things are different. He is on his side, the leather looped around his head is still in place but the restraints holding him down are gone. He blinks, eyes struggling to find anything to focus on in the darkness. He lifts his head a little, testing the waters. Nothing holds him back.
Next, he tries his hands, finding he can not only move them, but that his range of movement is big. Immediately he reaches for his head, stomach knotting as the sound of chains being pulled taut reaches his ears and his hands stop level with his belly button. He bends down, trying to curl up tight enough to reach his face with his hands.
It’s futile. He can’t even tell if he’s close. He sighs, collapsing back down on the pillow and taking a moment to just breathe. Of course, they wouldn’t miss something like that. Of course, it wouldn’t be as easy as that.
Still, this could be the only time he’s not strapped to the bed. He has to take the chance. This could be his moment to escape. He shifts, rubbing his face against the pillow and trying to use the friction to get the blindfold off his face. It refuses to budge despite his best efforts. The many straps looping around the top and back of his head and under his chin is holding it firmly in place.
He rolls over on his back, trying to move the straps there. But just like before that yields him nothing more than a cramp in his neck and some of his hair getting caught in the buckles. He sighs, closing his eyes for many long seconds.
Once he’s pushed the worst of the disappointment away for later, he tests his legs, finding them basically unrestrained as well, bar the chain linking his ankles together that makes sure he can’t move them too far from one another. Probably it’s there to stop him from being able to run. He estimates he’d at most only be able to quickly shuffle forwards.
Which means…he might be able to get up and move?
The thought feels terrifying in a weird way, like a trick being played on him. Why would they allow him to move now, when he hasn’t moved a muscle more than an inch in days? Weeks? (Surely it can’t be months already?).
He hesitates for a second longer, scared to even try. What if they’re testing him, and any attempt at getting up will just be met with more disappointment and another bout of unconsciousness. But still, he won’t know until he’s tried. And his muscles long for any sort of exercise.
He shifts, curling up and slowly pushing himself up to sitting with the help of his hands. His heart jumps in his chest. So far so good. He turns, using his feet to feel out the edge of the bed. He almost expects there to be a chain or something attaching him to the bedframe, but surprisingly there is nothing. His feet slip over the edge of the bed unhindered, soles pressing flat against what has to be the floor the next second. Except it’s soft, as though it’s covered by yoga mats or tatami flooring. He curls his toes, struggling to make out the material over the numbness still plaguing his limbs.
Working up the courage to stand up takes longer than he dares to admit. The knowledge that he has no idea where he is or what awaits him makes anxiety burn in his chest. He has no way of knowing what’s around him, no way of knowing if there is something dangerous lurking just outside his range of reach.
But…there might be something there that can help him too.
He pulls in a deep breath, nose twitching a little as he aggravates the feeding tube, and stands up.
He sways on the spot for a second, unsure on his feet. He wishes he could see, could make out anything of his surroundings, but the blindfold renders his world just as black as always. Hesitantly, he reaches his hands out as far as they’ll go, toeing his foot forward.
It doesn’t take him long to reach what he can only assume is one of the walls, fingers suddenly brushing against something solid. The wall, just like the floor, also has a softness to it. His fingers sink into the material ever so slightly as he puts his weight against it. Is he in a padded cell?
He doesn’t dwell on that, instead ushing the wall as a point of safety as he slowly maps out the area of the room he’s locked into. It must be a new room, because he doesn’t remember the room he was kept in when he was allowed to see being padded. (Unless he’s misremembering that?) It’s hard to estimate any kind of size of the room considering he can’t see, but judging from how the bed takes up almost all of one side, and the room feels mostly quadratic, he guesses this room is pretty similar to the last on he was in. (Is it the same?)
There is nothing else in it besides the bed, unless he’s missing something in the middle of the room. It takes him two whole laps of the perimeter to find the door, fingers finally brushing over the handle. The door, too, is padded, and when he tries the handle, it refuses to even move.
He tries to not get too disappointed by that, knowing they wouldn’t just leave the door to his room unlocked. But still, he had dared to hope, even if it was just for a split second.
With the whole room mapped out, Shouto once again finds himself at a loss for what to do. There is nothing in here that can get him out of his current restraints, and nothing to tell him anything about where he is, or what might be going on.
He decides to do another lap of the room, just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. And then another, and another, socked feet sliding over the padded floor and fingers trailing the wall. It feels good to move, to have some semblance of control back over his body. He decides that if this is how he’ll be kept from now on, it’s definitely an improvement.
On what feels like his hundredth lap, but could just as likely be his fifth, a sound reaches his ears. It’s faint, almost inaudible over the sound of his chains as he moves, but his brain is so starved of any kind of stimulation that he immediately latches on to it.
He turns toward it, holding his breath and not moving a muscle as he listens. Again! Something loud, but faint and far away. It sounds like…an explosion? His heart starts racing at once, hope making his fingers tremble as they take purchase against the wall. He shuffles toward the door as quickly as he dares and presses his ear against the padding.
There is a commotion happening on the other side. He’s sure of it. Something is happening. Something big. People are fighting. People are fighting heroes. They are coming to rescue him! Yes, he can hear Bakugou’s explosions, and Midoriya’s voice as he screams out his hero moves. They’re coming!
He begins banging on the door as loudly as he can, propping himself up against it by his shoulder so he can use his full range of limited motion to pound his fists against it. He should call out, so they know he’s in here, but the wires holding his tongue down and his jaw shut are just as ruthless as always.
Still, he screams, teeth aching and mouth tasting of blood as he tries to make as much noise as possible. Please! He’s right here. Come and get him. He’s right here!
They’re closer now. The commotion is right outside his door. He screams as loudly as he can manage, until he has to swallow down the blood in his mouth. His hands ache from how hard he’s hitting them against the door despite the thick padding. A light sweat has broken out under the leather of his blindfold, making his eyes sting from the salt. The adrenaline coursing through him makes it easy to ignore, his mind hyper focused on the sounds coming from the other side of the door.
“Shouto-kun should be somewhere around here,” Midoriya’s voice says on the other side of the door. Shouto screams, throwing his shoulder against the door. He’s here! Please! Can’t they hear him? He’s right here!
The sounds begin to fade once again, footsteps growing fainter and fainter. Panic begins to overtake him, making him throw his entire body against the door in an attempt to get it to open. Don’t leave! Not without him. Please! He can’t do this anymore. Please don’t leave him behind!
Suddenly the sound of a door opening behind him pierces the silence. Shouto flinches, turning around toward the sound. Had he missed a door earlier?
“Shouto?” Midoriya’s voice asks. Shouto sobs, relief flooding with such intensity he can’t breathe over the overwhelming feeling of being rescued.
“Shouto? Are you in here?” Midoriya calls out, and at once the relief turns into ice. He makes a sound, trying to reply. Maybe it’s too dark for Midoriya to see? Maybe he isn’t wearing a blindfold like he thought he was, and this is just how dark it’s always been?
“He’s not here,” Midoriya reports, voice growing faint as he turns away. Shouto screams, shuffling as quickly as he can toward the sound. He doesn’t even bother to follow the wall.
He never hears the door close, but when he reaches the other wall there is no door there. The wall is just as solid as it has always been, an endless expanse of padding.
“Half and half?” Bakugou’s voice asks behind him. Shouto flinches, turning around once again. “You fucking here?”
He screams again, as loudly as he can muster. His teeth are bleeding, the wires digging into the gums and the metallic taste on his tongue strong enough to make him nauseous. But that doesn’t matter. He throws himself toward the sound of his friend’s voice.
“Shouto?” Midoriya asks from his right. Shouto stumbles, torn between which voice to follow. “Shouto, can you hear me?”
He whimpers, reaching the area where Midoriya’s voice must be coming from. But there is no door there, no escape, no Midoriya.
“Todoroki-kun?” Iida asks from his left. Shouto moves before he can think, desperation clouding any and all thoughts.
“Sho-chan?” Asui croaks behind him. The wall is a vast expanse against his fumbling hands.
“Shouto?” Midoriya asks, right next to him. Shouto flinches away, the voice that had been so comforting only moments ago suddenly sounding sinister in his ears.
“Half and half?!”
“Roki-kun?”
“Sho-chan?”
“Shouto!”
“Son?”
The voices echo in his head, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. He’s gotten so turned around he has no idea where he is. There are no walls in reach. He stumbles forward, steps unsure as he moves one way and then another.
His foot catches on something. The world tips, the voices raining down on him as he falls. His head hits the floor with a bounce, the memory of being strapped to a chair, of sharp canines chewing on plastic, of his deepest darkest fear being torn from the depths of his mind flashes before his eyes.
And then dead silence.
He sobs, struggling to get his limbs back under control. His breaths rattle his chest, each a struggle. There are no more voices, no more commotion, nothing. As though none of it had ever happened. Everything is just as infuriatingly quiet as always.
But then, where did the voices come from? They must have been here, or how else could he have heard them. Unless…he had imagined it all? No. No! He can’t have. Midoriya is here. He’s here to save him. They just need to find him and then he’ll be free again. Midoriya is coming. He is coming.
He pushes back up on his knees, entire body shaking as he tries to get his feet back under him. Except he can’t, because the chain is too short, and his hands are useless where they’re tied to his waist.
He faceplants back down into the padded floor a second later. The material covers his face, making the panic take hold of him once more. He can’t breathe. He falls over, entire body shaking with sobs. Why aren’t they coming? Why isn’t Midoriya here yet?
Had he left him? Had they given up and just left him behind? He chokes on the next sob, squirming on the floor as he tries to pull himself free. Please! He can’t do this much longer. He just wants to know what’s going on. He just wants to be in control again. Please! Just save him please.
He ends up on his side, body exhausted as the adrenaline leaves him. Every muscle feels weak, numb, like when the masked figure has just fed him. He shifts, testing his range of motion. Oh, he can move today (too?). Right, he’s done this before. He’s woken up on his side before.
Except, he hadn’t slept, had he? No. No this is the same day as before, and Midoriya is coming to get him. But he can’t hear the other anymore. (Had he been able to hear him at all before?) He pushes himself up on his side, remembering how he has to sit up from last time he did this.
Then, does that mean he just imagined it all? Had it been a dream? Had he slept? He pushes up on his feet, slowly shuffling forward until he finds the wall again, and then the door. The handle won’t move as he pushes down on it. Right, so it isn’t open, which means the rescue hadn’t been real, right?
Vaguely, he remembers the story Aizawa told them psychology during his second year in UA. It had been about what might happen to someone after they’d been imprisoned for a long time. Specifically, what happens when the brain doesn’t receive enough stimulation. He had said that it could start hallucinating to compensate for the lack of input.
Is that what had happened to him? Had his brain just made it all up?
But no! It had sounded so real. So so incredibly real. He had heard Bakugou’s explosions, and Midoriya’s voice and…and… Had he heard anyone else fighting? He can’t remember. But Iida had been here to rescue him, and Asui, Sero and Father too. But…had he heard any of them before they called out for him? He doesn’t think so.
Does that mean only Midoriya and Bakugou had really been here? But if they had been, why hadn’t he been able to find them? Or more importantly them him? And where had all the doors come from? Had he hallucinated them too?
Had the only part that had been real been when Midoriya said Shouto wasn’t there. But no, that had happened after the doors had opened. Or had it? Why is it so hard to keep track of the order of things? Why can’t he remember? It happened just moments ago, right? Right? Or had he actually slept, and this is a different day.
How much time has passed? He had been on his side when he woke back up (so he had been sleeping?) and now he’s by the door. So… had he imagined everything? He must have. Or he dreamt it all. He tries the door handle again. It’s just as unmoving as before. He presses his head against the door, trying to hear something from the other side.
His blindfold moves against his eyes. Oh, is he wearing that? Isn’t the room just this dark? That’s what it usually is, right? He remembers figuring that out. That’s why Midoriya hadn’t seen him. Or…no. No that can’t be right because that was just a hallucination. But the room had been dark earlier, even though he hadn’t worn a blindfold, right?
He turns around, finger trailing against the wall. He should walk again; use the chance he has to stretch his legs. He almost feels a little thankful that the masked figure has given him a second chance to move. He should focus on that instead of the hallucinations.
Yes. He should just walk and pretend nothing had happened at all. That would be for the best. Just walk.
He’s going to lose his mind. He’s sure of it. He’s losing it. He can’t do this anymore. He can’t. He’s going insane!
The hallucinations won’t leave him alone! They’re everywhere, never ending, relentless. They’re never enough. They’re always too much. He opens his eyes to light so bright it hurts, to a familiar face and promises of rescue. He opens his eyes to pitch black darkness and an never ending emptiness. He hears them call his name, over and over again, but they never find them no matter how hard he screams. He hears nothing at all. He can’t even hear himself.
He wakes up immobile, a coldness at the back of his throat and a hand in his hair. He wakes up immobile and all alone, not even the presence of his own body there to keep him company anymore. He wakes up mobile and goes to walk his room, each wall identical to the next. He wakes up mobile and goes to walk his room, except now he’s tied to the bed again. He wakes mobile, and he can’t move despite there being no restraints.
He has been rescued more times than he can count, and none at all. His father, Midoriya, Aizawa, everyone and no one. They help him out of the bed, and down the long, long corridor. They sit by his bedside in the hospital. They promise him that everything is okay, that he’s safe now, that nothing will never happen to him again. They make him believe it. Every single time he believes it. And every single time he blinks even though he knows he’s not supposed to do that, because then they’ll disappear, and he’ll be all alone again. He’ll be nothing again.
He’s losing it. He can’t get used to the darkness again. He can’t get used to the nothingness again. He’s slipping away, fighting the hallucinations. He ignores them when they come for him, hides away. Anything to not have to get used to the darkness again. Please. Please. He can’t do this anymore. He just can’t.
He isn’t even sure if he’s awake half of the time. He must be dreaming. This can’t be real. He doesn’t feel real. He hasn’t felt anything real in days (weeks? months?). He hasn’t seen anything real in just as long or heard anything real. His brain screams at him. It crumbles under the nothingness, it rots in his head, it seeps out through his noise only to be wiped up by the masked figure.
His body is so numb he can’t even feel the bed he’s on. Is he even on the bed anymore? Or is there just the padded room? Do they even tie him down? They must, because he can’t move sometimes. Except, maybe he can, and he just doesn’t feel it. Does that mean they’ve taken his body from him too?
It had been his father last time, gaze disapproving as he stared down Shouto’s prone and unmoving form on the bed. And then Shouto had blinked (even though he had tried so so soooo hard not to! He had tried so hard not to because he doesn’t want to be alone again. He wants it to be real but it never is and nothing feels real and he’s losing his mind!) and it had all disappeared into the familiar nothingness.
That had been…many sleeps ago? Or none at all? He doesn’t know. He can’t keep track of it. It’s impossible to know when he falls asleep sometimes. He doesn’t know if his eyes are open or closed, if he can’t move because he’s unconscious or tied down. Maybe he doesn’t sleep. Maybe that’s why he’s hallucinating. Sleep deprivation could cause hallucinations, right?
Or maybe he had never hallucinated to begin with? If the images where only there for a split second, the voices never real, maybe they had just been memories. Does that mean he has already been saved? Has the masked figure captured him again? Does that mean this is his second time going through this? (Or his third? His fourth? Seventh? Twentieth?)
He’s mobile today. (Today?) He’s lying on his back, hands on his waist. (Maybe? He can’t feel them. Maybe they’re gone?) There is no bed, only padding. He has already walked today. Or has he? Maybe that had been last time? Or had he just thought of walking that time?
He’s sitting up. He’s standing up. There is no difference. He can’t hear the chains anymore. They put something in his ears. Or had it just always been this silent? He can’t see. He can’t hear. He doesn’t know where he is. He shuffles forward. He finds the wall. He walks
The handle is gone. Or maybe the door is gone. Had they abandoned him? No. No, the masked figure would never do that. The masked figure holds his hand and feeds him. The masked figure takes care of him. They won’t leave him.
Is he hallucinating the masked figure too?
He walks. The wall is next to him. He knows because if he turns too far into it he can’t walk properly. He can’t feel it under his fingers. He’s so numb. Does he even have fingers to begin with? Had they taken them from him too? Like his eyes and ears. Had they taken his eyes and ears? Right, he had figured out it isn’t a blindfold.
He pushes his fingers as far into the wall as he can, feeling his chest constrict as he still doesn’t feel anything. Until one of his joints protests. Suddenly he’s aware of his entire hand.
He startles, stumbling back.
He flexes his hand, feeling the joint, his pinkie smart. Oh! Oh, it is real. His hand is real. That must mean he’s real too, right? He moves his finger again, relishing in the pain. If he could smile, he would. But he doesn’t have a mouth, right? His hand is real. It’s real again. He brought it back!
Except, it’s fading once more, the numbness creeping up his wrist, his palm, his knuckles. He makes a noise, or at least he thinks he does. He doesn’t want it to disappear. He doesn’t want to disappear! He must bring it back again.
He walks forward, aiming for the wall again, but his leg bumps the frame of his bed. (Does he have a bed?) He stumbles, trying to catch himself. The side of his hand strikes the metal bed frame, sending pain shooting all the way up his elbow.
It’s so bright, so sharp. He can almost taste it. It feels so good! Yes, please! More. He needs more! His brain is screaming for stimulation, for anything to take him out of this numb quiet nothingness. This feels realer than any hallucination he may or may not have had. This feels like he used to feel before.
(Before?)
He manages to get up on his knees, hands fumbling blindly for a moment in search of the bed. (Maybe he doesn’t have a bed. He probably hallucinated that too.) But then it’s right there, and his fingers close around the metal. He knows because he can feel it, because his right hand is real again.
He grips it as tightly as he can, ensuring it doesn’t disappear. Then, he raises his left hand as far as he can, feeling the stop that means he’s reached the end of how much he can move today, and slams it down as hard as he can against the bed frame.
Fuck! It hurts! It really, really hurt. His hand is shaking. His entire body is shaking. He’s sweating. It’s hard to breathe. His hand throbs in time with his racing heart, feeling oh so very real for the first time since…since…since? Since forever? For the first time, period?
He isn’t sure. But that doesn't matter because his hand is real, and he will never let it disappear again. Never.
He grits his teeth, the wires move against his tongue, and slams his hand into the bed again. And again. And again. And again. Both of them. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. Anytime the pain starts to fade, the numbness comes creeping, he throws his entire weight behind the impact.
He can’t move his fingers properly anymore, but that doesn’t matter, because he is real! He is real again. He feels solid. He feels in control. There are no illusions here, no hallucinations. Everything here and now is real. And that’s all that matters. Nothing else matters. Being real is the most important thing. Not disappearing is the most important thing.
Fingers run though his hair. Oh. Oh, he must be laying down and immobile. He stills, because he can’t make his hands hurt if he’s on the bed. The hand brushes his hair and Shouto waits for the coldness in the back of his throat. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, the gloved hands take his hands instead, holding them tightly and securely. Shouto sniffs. His chest constricts. The masked figure is here! They hadn’t left him. Shouto isn’t alone. He tries gripping the hands in his, but his fingers won’t move. They’re too swollen from the impacts.
The figure holds his hands for a long time, for as long as Shouto cries for. They hold them and hold them and hold them. And as long as they hold them the hands don’t disappear. As long as he’s being held, he is real. Does the masked figure control how real he is? They must be. That’s the only explanation.
Next time he wakes up his hands are gone, his arms unmoving.
When he has a moment of being mobile, he kicks the bed until the masked figure comes in and strokes his hair again, letting Shouto rest in their lap. Shouto cries again, relief over the fact that he isn’t alone the only feeling he can work out among the storm of nothingness inside him.
He isn’t mobile for a long time after that. Or maybe it’s a short time. Or maybe it’s no time at all. Or maybe he was never mobile to begin with. He doubts he ever had hands or arms to begin with. He probably hallucinated those too. The same with his legs. Or maybe even his entire body. Or his existence. Is he even real? Had he made up Shouto too, hallucinated him?
He must have. That must be what is happening. He’s just imagining things, people, memories. They were never real to begin with. The only thing that is real is the coldness in the back of his and the hands stroking his hair when the feeding is done, and the relief of his bladder emptying.
And then one day? Moment? Lifetime? He’s mobile again. He is mobile again. He can wiggle on the ground, crawl on his knees. Right, his feet are gone. The masked figure took them. Or were they too never real to begin with?
He crawls, finding the wall, but no bed, no matter how far he crawls. Right, the bed was a hallucination. It was never real to begin with. But does that mean he hallucinated the masked figure too? Because when the masked figure is here, he’s immobile, and when he’s immobile he’s on the bed.
Something cold grips him, ices his heart and gut until he’s shaking with it. No. NO! He refuses to believe that’s true. The masked figure is real! The masked figure takes care of him. They’re the only thing that matters. Without them he would be alone and useless, and he isn’t alone and he isn’t useless.
He crawls, falling over more often than not, losing grip of his body, losing grip of where he is, of what he’s looking for. He floats in a sea of nothingness, of pitch blackness and numbness. He hasn’t heard anything in years! His brain burns with the need for stimulation, for anything.
He’s disappeared
He finds a corner of the room, propping himself up with his shoulders. He…he must make himself real again. Right. That’s what he’s supposed to do. That’s what he has to do. There is nothing else he can do.
He rears back, as far back as he can manage, as he trusts the numbness, and throws his head forward. It collides hard with the padded wall. But it isn’t enough. He still isn’t real. He does it again, feeling something bloom in the middle of his face, something that could be real. So, he does it again, and again, until something cracks and reality hurts so bad he can’t think about anything else.
He keeps it up, terrified of what will happen if he is to stop. His face is wet for some reason. Is he crying again? Is the wetness tears? He can’t feel it against his blindfold though. But the blindfold was never real to begin with. Right. They had taken his eyes. He remembers now. It’s so clear now, now that he’s real.
The masked figure pulls him back from the wall when it becomes too hard to hold himself upright. His entire head throbs with how real it is. The gloved hand strokes his hair, lets him cry and wipes away the wetness. This is the best he has ever felt in his entire life. Here, not alone, and real, with the masked figure.
He loves the masked figure, he thinks. He tries to tell them, but he can’t speak. Right, he doesn’t have a mouth. He can only make noises, he thinks. He can’t hear them, because he doesn’t have ears. He hasn’t hallucinated in so long! It’s only the masked figure who shows up now. They must be proud of him. He isn’t hallucinating anymore. He knows what’s real now. And that’s the masked figure. The masked figure is all that matters. They’re his life.
Shouto loves them.
He wakes up with his head feeling real for so long it doesn’t even matter that he’s immobile. He has done it. He made it real. The masked figure is there to take care of him. They make the back of his throat cold and relieves him and strokes his hair.
Anytime he feels the coldness, his heart starts fluttering. Anticipation builds in him until he feels like he will explode. And then finally the glowed hand touches him, stroking his hair. He presses into the touch. He can really feel it now that his head is real again. It feels amazing. It’s the best feeling in the world, in universe! It’s the only feeling that matters.
When the masked figure isn’t here, he stops being real. He just lies, letting the darkness and numbness exist until the coldness in his throat signals for him to become real again. He isn’t hallucinating anymore. Maybe he never was. That doesn’t matter. He has the masked figure now. They’re all that matters.
They are everything!
He’s between existing when it happens, something that isn’t supposed to happen.
Something is touching him, moving him. It isn’t the masked figure, because it is wrong. The coldness hasn’t been there yet. He’s not supposed to exist now. He’s only real when the masked figure is here.
His heart speeds up. A feeling he hasn’t felt in forever starts to build in his chest. Panic. Panic over how something is happening to him that isn’t supposed to happen, something he can’t stop. His body isn’t real so what is happening?
He struggles, crying out for the masked figure to come save him. Hands touch his hair, hands that aren’t wearing gloves. Hands that are wrong! He doesn’t want them! His body is pressed against something, something warm, large and WRONG! His face smarts from where it’s pressed against the big something.
No! He doesn’t want to be real here! He’s only wants to be real with the masked figure!
The hands touch the back of his hair, where they aren’t supposed to touch it. They touch him in a way that isn’t good at all, that’s nothing like how the masked figure touches him. It’s wrong and bad and he does not want it! He wants it to stop. He wants the masked figure to save him.
“-hear me, Shouto?” a voice asks. A hallucination. Except it’s so loud. So incredibly loud. And then the world stops being dark, light stinging his eyes as the blindfold is pulled away. It hurts! It hurts in a bad way, a way he doesn’t like. Because it feels rea, feels nothing like the hallucinations. And he can’t. He can’t!
He closes his eyes. But the damage is already done and bright red spots dance on the inside of his lids. He hates them. He wants them gone!
“Shouto? Son? Please, answer me! Can you hear me?” the voice asks, right in his ears that he had been so sure had never existed to begin with. His entire head is throbbing, pounding. The numbness is far away, too far away. He wants it back! He is only supposed to be real when the masked figure is here!
He screams, trying to pull away from the large something touching him. He wants to go back! He was immobile and he’s not supposed to be real then. The coldness hasn’t come, and he isn’t supposed to be real yet! Why is everything so real, so close, so loud and bright and overwhelming? He doesn’t understand.
“Shhh…I’ve got you now. You’re safe now, son. You’re safe now,” the voice whispers, far too close. Shouto feels trapped, feels wrong. He can’t breathe properly, there is leather around his throat choking him, killing him. He screams. He wants the masked figure to hold his hand.
Something touches his back.
Shouto screams. He screams and screams and screams but it does nothing to stop it. He can’t breathe! He wants the masked figure to save him. Please! Where are they? He can’t do this anymore. He can’t. Please! He can’t! He doesn’t want to do this anymore. No more. No more existing, no more pain, no more things happening to him. He just wants the darkness and the numbness and the nothingness. He knows how to deal with that. He doesn’t know how to deal with this.
He closes his eyes, as tightly as he can, waiting for the hallucinations to go away. But they don’t. They refuse to. They’re supposed to leave when he blinks. They won’t leave him alone. Leave him alone!
Something happens behind his back that has his arms reappearing, pain radiating down his shoulders, his elbows, his wrists and fingers. He screams. It hurts so much! Every part of him hurts and he wants it to stop! The numbness is slipping away little by little, the fogginess in his head replaced with sharp, sharp panic.
He can’t stop screaming. It’s the only thing he can do, the only thing he has control over. He can’t move, can’t think, can’t see and can’t hear because it’s so bright and so loud. So he screams instead. Screams and screams until his head feels dizzy and someone fiddles with his feeding tube.
Something cold hits the back of his throat.
And then he can’t scream anymore, too exhausted to do much more than allow himself to be picked up and carried out of the padded room. There is a corridor outside, but it’s not very long at all. Nothing like he had imagine. (Had imagined?)
The person carrying him is crying, their big wet tears landing on Shouto’s head. Shouto recognises them. Of course, he does. It’s his father. But the hallucination isn’t right because his father doesn’t cry.
He feels too exhausted to blink, to close his eyes, to move at all. He is so tired. And soon he will fall asleep, and then the hallucination will be gone again. Yeah, that’s what will happen. He will fall asleep and then this will all be over, and he’ll be back on the bed and the masked figure will be there to stroke his hair.
Shouto wants that. So, he lets his eyes slip shut and falls into unconsciousness like it’s a lover’s warm embrace.
There is a white ceiling above him when he wakes up. Something beeps next to him, faster, faster, faster, as he stares at the white ceiling above him. The white ceiling that isn’t supposed to be there, that is supposed to be gone.
He is still hallucinating, which is wrong. He isn’t supposed to hallucinate anymore. He’s supposed to be back in the numbness, in the quiet darkness, in the nothingness. He isn’t supposed to be here. This isn’t real. This isn’t real!
“Shouto?” a voice asks next to him. Shouto flinches, baring his teeth at the stranger next to him. Except it’s not a stranger. It’s Fuyumi, and Natsuo. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut with all his might, and wills the hallucination away.
“You’re in hospital. Mom and dad are here too. They’re talking to the doctor,” Fuyumi’s voice says and it’s wrong! Because he isn’t supposed to hear anything, and this is just him imagining things and he needs to stop!
A hand wraps around his and Shouto pulls it away. There are no restraints on his wrists, nothing holding him down. It feels wrong. It isn’t supposed to be like this. He isn't supposed to be here. He needs to go back to the nothingness and the safety of the masked figure.
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Fuyumi says, voice soft. Shouto hates it, hates her. She’s wrong and not real and she’s tricking him and making him believe things that can’t be true and soon he’ll wake back up where he’s supposed to be! And then then masked figure will come and make him real again. They’ll stroke his hair and hold his hand and then he’ll be okay. Only then will he be okay.
“How are you feeling, Shouto?” Natsuo asks. Shouto shakes his head. Be quiet! He’s not real. None of them are real. And he can’t feel anything except the numbness and then the realness when the masked figure is there. Nothing else is real. Only that.
The beeping is growing louder, faster. It mixes with the whistling in his ears until that’s all he can hear. It hurts! He wants it gone! He can’t get enough air through his nose, snot clogging his nostril. The air is cool when it hits his teeth, sending chills running though his skull. Everything feels wrong. Everything.
The door opens and hope fills him for a split second, eyes seeking out the masked figure in the doorway. But it’s not them. It’s his mother and father, both of them with frowns on their faces. Shouto screams.
Fuyumi is hushing him. His mother quickly moves closer, crouching down by his bedside with tears in her eyes. Her hands reach up toward him, cupping his cheeks. Shouto tries shaking them off. Don’t touch him! A hand moves up to his hair, thumb stroking over his temple and fingers running through red locks.
“It’s okay, Shouto. It’s okay, baby. You’re safe now. You’re never going back there,” she says. Shouto sobs, squeezing his eyes shut as he shakes his head. Her hand is still in his hair, stroking it.
He is going back. And that’s the problem. Because nothing here is real, and soon he’ll open his eyes and he’ll be back on the bed again. Soon he’ll be nothing again. Soon he’ll be numb again. Soon he’ll be with the masked figure again. And he can’t do this anymore. He can’t have the hallucinations try to trick him, try to pretend that they are real. Because they aren’t. And he can’t handle more of this. He can’t get used to the nothingness all over again. He can’t do it. He just can’t!
“Shh, just relax, baby. Just relax. You’re safe now. You’re safe,” Mom whispers, voice breaking through the whistling and the beeping. He sobs, teeth gritted shut. The fingers in his hair circle his ear, tucking away the long strands before a thumb gently wipes the tears away from his cheeks.
She repeats the motion on his left side, careful about his feeding tube. Her fingers are even gentler when she touches his scar, mindful not to pull on the skin.
“There is my handsome boy,” she whispers once she’s done wiping the tears away. “You’re doing so good, Shouto. You’re being so brave.” She strokes his cheek; fingers warm against his skin despite her ice quirk. He sniffs, blinking blearily at her. He doesn’t want her to go away. He doesn’t want to go back there. He doesn’t want to get used to the darkness again. He knows it will destroy him.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her eyes soft and warm and nothing at all like the masked figure’s white, peering eyes. He shakes his head, tries to convey just how badly he doesn’t want to leave, how badly he doesn’t want her to leave him. He doesn’t want to be alone again. He can’t do this anymore. He’s so exhausted. He’s ready to just give in, to let the nothingness claim him once and forever.
“Are you in pain?” she asks, pushing a strand of hair that got lose when he shook his head back behind his ear. Shouto sniffs, nodding. Everything hurts. Everything. His stomach. His arms. His legs, face, teeth. He hates how much they hurt, how real they all feel. He hates how aware he is of his body. He wants to be numb again. He wants to be gone again.
“I can give him some more morphine,” a new voice says. Shouto flinches at the sound, turning toward it. The doctor is fiddling with a drip pole next to his bed, turning a valve. From the bag runs a line, down and down toward his bed, toward his hand. There is a needle in his hand, feeding the drip into him.
He doesn’t know what’s in the drip. He doesn’t know what it will do to his body, what it will do with him. He doesn’t know. It could do anything. It could put him back to sleep, make the hallucinations go away. He doesn’t want that. He can’t deal with that. He can’t stop that from happening.
He shakes, trying to move the hand away from him, trying to make it unreal like it had been for so so long. It isn’t even supposed to be here. He doesn’t have hands, or arms. They aren’t real. He’s whining, panic bubbling up in him again. He doesn’t want to stop this hallucination. He doesn’t want it to disappear. He doesn’t want to disappear. Not again. He doesn’t want to be alone again.
“Tell us what’s wrong, Shouto,” his father says, also having crouched down next to him. Shouto shakes his head, not knowing how to get them to understand. He doesn’t know how to make them stay.
“You can talk, the wires are out,” his father says, reaching up and taking his hand. It’s too warm around his fingers. Shouto shakes his head again, breath shuddering in his chest. He can feel the numbness begin again, the pain subsiding. No. NO! No, he can’t! He can’t go back! He can’t do it again. He can’t become nothing again. He’ll break. He’ll break and never hallucinate again and all there will be is the masked figure and the nothingness. He can’t do it. He won’t do it!
He slams his free hand as hard as he can into the edge of the bed. Fuyumi screams. His mother gasps. He does it again, ignoring how his father is telling him to stop and how Natsuo tries to catch his hand. He rips the IV line, relishing in seeing the blood escape him. He has to be real if he’s bleeding. That’s how he knows he’s real.
He evades Natsuo’s hands again, evades the doctors’ and strikes the frame with his fingers, feeling one of them pop out of socket. The pain is blinding, pushing all the numbness away, pushing any possibility of him returning to that place away.
He won’t return.
A large hand grabs his upper arm, and then his under arm, making sure he can’t move his hand. Shouto screams, bucking to get free. NO! Not the restraints! Anything but the restraints. Please!
“I think it’s best if we sedate him, for the time being,” a voice says. Shouto screams again, the beeping from earlier pounding in time with his heart. He can’t move his arms! They took his arms away from him again! And they’re going to take everything from him again, until he’s no longer real and he’s numb and it’s all dark and quiet again. No! NO! He doesn’t want to go back. Please. Please!
Where is the masked figure? Why aren’t they helping him? Why aren’t they here to take it all away, to stop this? Why had they abandoned him? Why had they left him alone? Why is he all alone again? He can’t do this again. He can’t. He’s so tired. The world is so confusing. He wants to keep hallucinating. He wants to be nothing again. He wants the masked figure to hold his hand and stroke his hair and make sure nothing ever hurts him again.
Something cold touches the back of his throat, more things being forced into him that he doesn’t know what they are, that he can’t stop. What will be gone when he wakes up next?
“No!” he gasps, weakly struggling against the hands holding him down as the drugs take effect. The world is growing blurry, distant. He can’t hear properly anymore, can’t see properly. NO! Please no! He’s crying. He just wants it all to be over.
The darkness swallows him.