Chapter Text
“Just because we might believe ourselves to be done with ghosts doesn't mean the ghosts are done with us.”
— Ed Simon, Who’s There?: Every Story Is a Ghost Story
—
The retching is an ugly, violent sound, though Shota isn’t fazed. At least, he tries not to be. He’s heard much worse than this over the years, the sounds of bones snapping and flesh squelching. Children crying. But it’s different, this time.
He scrubs a steel-toed boot against the dirt-caked floor, the belt around his hips digging uncomfortably into his skin as he leans into the sink counter. The stalls he’s facing are an ugly, dark color, hue bleached away by all the dirty things that have been smeared against them over the years. The door to the stall in front of him is open, had even been banged against the surrounding stall earlier in a rush. He can see the poor graffiti written on the inside of the stall, scruffing up once-white walls. And, maybe most importantly, the vigilante throwing up into the toilet inside.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” He asks, not unpleasantly, when the coughing subsides.
The vigilante turns back, still grinning, the bottom of his mask pulled down hastily. His chin is covered in dark inkyness. “Who, me?” He replies, not unpleasantly, before coughing again.
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“I mean, you never know. You could be entering the early stages of psychosis, with the nasty blow to the head you took earlier. Or whatever,” he shrugs, before something overtakes him again and he’s back to vomiting up sticky something.
“...Seriously. You go past your limit every night. It isn't safe or rational. Look at the logistics, kid.”
“I’m sure the logistics say a lot of things, sir—“
His lilting voice is cut off by another round of sharp, wet vomiting.
“It’s getting worse,” is all Shota says.
It takes a while for the vigilante to reply.
Silence overtakes the two. It’s eerily quiet in the bathroom, for just a moment. Electricity buzzes above them, a sound Shota has grown accustomed to with stealth missions and stalkings. The heat had been unbearable today, and though it had cooled down as the night began, the room is still stuffy and damp with humidity. Shitty convenience store, Shota thinks, not for the first time. Shitty air conditioning.
“Sir, why do you do what you do?” The vigilante finally asks, breaking the silence with a hoarse, pained voice, but Shota can hear the smile reverberating against the black-covered porcelain.
“What, the heroics? My job, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“To save others. To rid the world of evil. To protect the innocent. Same reasons as you.”
He can see the shadow of the vigilante nodding. “Right. And when did you first decide to become a hero?”
Shota tries to think, but his headache is still fresh, and it hurts, though there isn't much blood matted against his dark hair. “I don’t know,” he says, used to the weird questions, but caught off guard by them every time. “It was just always there, even when people told me I couldn’t be one.”
“It was more of a calling to you than a choice, right?”
Shota nods—because he has nothing meaningful to say—though the vigilante can't see it. He’s become accustomed to just letting the kid speak, anyway.
“It’s the same for me. A lot of heroes, you know, when you ask them about their first time saving someone—they say that they ‘just moved’ without thinking,” he continues, folding toilet paper to wipe his mouth and the seat. Sure, Shota isn’t hunting him now, but there’s people who are. “It’s interesting, right?”
The fluorescent light above them flickers for a moment before turning off completely, shimmering against the cuffs along Shota’s belt and the gun in the kid’s back pocket. Not for the first time, Shota wonders how he got it.
Not for the first time, he thinks he doesn’t want to know.
“My conclusion, anyways,” the kid stops again, suddenly stalling himself with his own nervously high-pitched laugh, like he’s scared of something Shota can’t place, “is that we’re chosen for this line of work.”
Tilting his head sends a pang of pain through Shota’s skull, but it’s not so bad as to be concerning. Well, maybe it is, and his growing pain tolerance deceives him. Shota can’t tell anymore, but he knows several sore spots along his body will blossom into bruises in the morning. He’s sure the kid will have some too. Shota doesn't reply, anyway, mostly because he doesn't know what’s so strange about this.
“By God, or fate, or just the force of the universe, I dunno. But whatever you want to think—we’re made for this purpose, you know?” The kid cranes his head back to look at Shota, still smiling, teeth stained with black. The cut on his cheek isn’t bleeding anymore, but he’s smeared the blood everywhere. Shota can’t count his freckles under the red.
“Heroics is one of the most dangerous jobs in the world, you know—if not the most.” When the overhead light flicks back on, turning the kid’s dark jacket warm, Shota can see a crack that’s spiderwebbed itself on his dark sunglasses.
“I guess what I’m saying, with all this, is that people like us, you and me?” The kid turns his whole body back, stumbling as he tries to stand. Shota thinks there’s not a thing that connects them, wants to say there is no us.
“Well, we’re born to die,” the kid says. He finally stands, body fully turned towards Shota.
It’s silent for a moment.
“And how does that relate to you overusing your Quirk until your body has you bent over a convenience store toilet, throwing your guts up?”
“Well—” the vigilante starts, stutters to a stop, stumbling over his own words. “I mean, well, it’s just something to think about!”
All dramatics gone, Shota allows himself to smile, watching the kid throw his hands up in mock defense. He’s careful to hide it behind his scarf. “Right,” he replies.
“Ugh,” the kid groans, throwing his head back, letting his hands fall to his sides. “You wouldn’t get it anyways.”
“No, sure, but what I do get is that frequent vomiting can cause damage to your teeth and esophagus. Don’t want to burn through your throat and rot your teeth with stomach acid, yeah?”
The kid shakes his head slowly, and for once Shota thinks he’s agreeing, but then he speaks. “Yeah, you really just don’t understand.”
“There’s a fundamental difference between us that prevents me from, I’d say.”
“And what’d that be?”
“Well,” Shota starts, folding his arms together, just to put some barrier between the two. “I’m a hero, and you never will be.”
The bathroom is quiet again.
Then the kid is rushing back to the stall to vomit into the toilet.
—
They make their way out of the store, the bell above the door chiming loudly at their exit. The kid half-steps uneasily out from below the low overhang. “It’s raining,” he says, like Shota isn't witnessing it. Like he isn’t getting splattered with water. It comes down in little sheets, not slow but not heavy, spluttering out in awkward globs. It’s noisy, the rain, and the night is swirling black. The half-working OPEN 24 HOURS sign on the store illuminates the street in an ugly yellow, drowning in the dark puddles.
“You gonna have trouble getting home?” Shota asks, for a reason, though he’s hesitant to admit it. It’s late, he thinks, but doesn't say.
“Mm, no,” the kid says, pulling his windbreaker close, hood high on his head. His broken sunglasses had been discarded, an equally as inexpensive pair having been purchased before they left the store. Shota wonders how he fights in the late hours with those on.
“I can help you,” Shota’s voice rises to be heard over the rain, falling louder by the second.
“I can walk home by myself, promise,” the kid laughs. It isn’t really about walking home. He faces the other direction anyway, and Shota lets him.
“Don’t follow me!” He shouts, not turning back to look at Shota, before disappearing into the rain.