weary travelers.

BULLYING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED; JUST BOYS BEING BOYS

The stars collide in a supernova behind his muddled eyelids.

Hawks is pirched over the ledge. Wind frantically weaves through his hair, ice shards stab into his skin. His talons fit uncomfortably in his gloves and shoes. Rubbing away the burning from his smoke-stung eyes and copper stained tongue.

A rush of blonde falls over his eyes and his nose freezes. The feathers on his wings are cold enough to shatter on impact, but the Commission won't stop for something like that. No. He has to be better. They're making him stronger.

(He doesn't know if he's strong enough to be a Hero just yet. So they're changing him. In small ways, tearing him into pieces and putting them back together wrong. They set his wings on fire so that they are no longer made of wax. He is not Icarus, he will not burn under the sun, if only to spite them, if only because his love was burning from the inside out.)

He's dead and gone; a puppet, a tool. The ashes of his dreams linger. Lost names singed onto rotting trees and blow out my fingers, quick, happy birthday, K―saying the name he'd no longer held to his head.

Shadows setting over the skyline and he sees someone that could have been more than a best friend―

Sometimes, Hawks has dreams. Dreams of firey hair and turquoise eyes and the prettiest smile. He dreams about watching the sunrise while too-hot hands soothed the aches on his wings, preening his feathers. Closing his eyes to see something he can be happy about, something that he can be selfish about. Because he doesn't want to be a hero; he isn't in this for himself.

(He's just a child sometimes, the one he never got to be. Or perhaps the one he always was, under sheets, holding onto someone that was maybe more than just a best friend.)

Sometimes, Hawks dreams.

But he's forgotten sleep was necessity and burried his conscious in a graveyard full of haunting memories. Memories of a children named Keigo and Touya. Memories of holding hands durring winter, because he couldn't think in the cold.

Sometimes isn't today. Today he just watches the stars glow bright under his eyes.

_

It's pleasant―the silence is glitching between awkward and comfortable. So, pleasant. Teetering to awful, but then a voice breaks the static and the almost-awful almost-nice serenity is shattered into millions of broken parts. Though, it's fine, because something good will grow from the barely eligible pieces of not-quite and almost-there.

"So, you're dating that frog girl? I can see it." Natsuo breaks the silence, it is something Tomura is all too grateful for. Natsuo has always been like that, but that's what made him, well, without any better comparison, him. Natsuo―his newfound family. (The Izuki Protection Squad will stay around until they find whoever Kacchan is and they ruin all of his chances in heroics.)

It's cold outside, the bar is warm. Heat dances around them and Natsuo is not used to fire. He needs to go outside constantly, his body shuts down at heat. His quirk freezes and Tomura knows that but he's still sad whenever Natsuo has to go on a walk, no matter how long it's for. Tomura blames it on the weather fluctuations and holds his breath, counting to ten. (He won't admit this makes him feel like when Hana said he took the picture―)

In, hold, out. One. He catches his lungs within his crumbling fingers.

Izuku knows how to deal with unwanted thoughts and situations. Tomura knows that look. It kills him because Izuku is just a child- he's fifteen. But there's nothing he can do. He knows Izuku is lying to them, to him, about something. Something he is sure will devastate all of them once they hear about it, but Tomura keeps it under lock and key. Though he can see Natsuo connecting the dots that something isn't right. Ochako remains blissfully unaware, and Tomura plans to keep it that way. Ignorance is bliss after all.

(He wants to keep them all safe in his arms, but they will slip through him like sand if he touches them. That's all he's good for, really, destroying people.)

In, hold, out. Two. He steadies them, making sure they don't quiver or shake.

Tomura has to pay back Izuku for everything he's done. For all that he's helped Tomura with. Even if it's something outrageous, like his life. Tomura knows it would be worth it because Izuku has helped him more than Sensei ever has; and for some reason, he didn't ask for anything in return. He really is a Hero.

In, hold, out. Three. He squeezes the trachea, letting them air flow properly.

Not even All Might saved Tomura, so Izuku must be even better than All Might, in some twisted sense.

In, hold, out. Four. He breathes, once.

"Yeah, well, you're gunna have to, I'mma be disgustingly romantic-- my revenge on you, poor, single, lonely―"

"We get it, oh partnered one!" Natsuo sings to her.

"You better," She laughs. It's all in good fun.

In, hold out. Five. And he smiles with his teeth bared.

_

Shisou Hitoshi is a monster. He is a villain in the making. It has been drilled into his head by his classmates and teachers. He was a fool to think that would change at Yuuei―so he didn't. Just like he didn't listen (but he did believe) the kids from Nabu Junior High. Keeping his distance―he's quiet and dreary.

His teachers don't like him. They never have, they never will, fear is imbedded into their lungs, into their skin and teeth, carved into their bones. Midnight―or Kayama-sensei is the only one that doesn't. She doesn't seem to be scared of anything or anyone.

(She has a quirk that makes people fall asleep, immobilizing them, she was probably told the same as he was.)

Tired and reckless and self-sacrificing. Dreading over nightmares and harsh whispers from two rooms down. Because him speaking makes them scared―because, to them, he will always be a monster. Whatever gods there are have delt him a bad hand; but he'll struggle and grit to make it a good one. He'll win whatever twisted game life is playing.

He's going to get himself killed, be knows. The ropes are too far away from his near-sighted eyes―he wishes that his parents could give him some semblance of reassurance. Fake or not, but they sit silently under a tree, carving their names in rocks and slipping into wooden boxes. The only thing he can do is watch with trembling hads as they play, grainy smiles and petting his hair. (He wishes someone would do that, he wishes he just lived them before all the sad smiles and suites and words no child should hear.)

This is selfish, a suicide mission. But Shinsou Hitoshi is selfish, he's going to take and take until he must reap what he has sown.

He will give and give until his body crashed like stardust and his brain explodes in a supernova―behind a bullet of death that pirches in his lungs. Until he's choking on the air around him and drowning in his own blood saving someone else's from dyeing the pavement.

Shattering his soul, his very pride and cowardice into millions of insignificant shards, he will make himself anew.

(There is a boy he wants to be like, one that inspires him. They've never spoken, but he sees him every day on the train, eyes so tired, hands shaking with tremors and lips bleeding; his teeth tearing himself apart. He wants to be a hero, because that boy sat next to him once, too long ago, and said that he could be a great Hero.)

Shinsou Hitoshi will paint himself in darkness and save all the light in the world. Because he is a monster, but he is a kind one.

"Hey, Aizawa-sensei." He drawls out.

"Yes, Problem Child?"

"Thanks for everything."

And for a moment, be could have sworn, that the infamously stoic teacher smiled.