[Adults were the worst liars, weren't they? Though well-intentioned, he isn't entirely naive when it comes to most promises. Don't worry('s), or, it's for your own good('s). Recalling his world's collapse, often. Endeavor was seated at Number One, and still that wasn't enough, and still he wasn't enough. Hearing his father scream helpless leaving its lasting impressions on him. It'd been startling to see him: stained in reds, washed in dirt, eyes staring brokenly over chaos and battlefields. Up at him. Childhood's demon reduced to nothing, to no one. He's convinced himself over again: Dad can't do it; it's up to me, it's left to me; I have to be the one, now. How could he—seeing the strongest, a once-impassable sort of mountain falling eroded in front of him—not feel he's responsible? He's desperate in his quiet way. Swallows something akin to stones when Hijikata speaks softly.
Because you've been with me.
More warmth follows. Soft, blue embers, the younger looking at his friend, his mentor, someone who's occupied every role he's slotted him neatly inside of. The other's calm response rattles him, throws him off because he fears he's a burden. He isn't absorbing his praise at all. Doesn't consider his hand in things as being very much special. He should have grounded it, pinned it. Never enough. Still Endeavor's voice driving him: you have a power greater than any repeating in ears, his thoughts, his heart-space. This very same boy—whose cold once sustained him, subsisting on so much rage it'd nearly consumed him in whole—would bury his ice in anything Hijikata instructs him to. That he's versed in not feeling means he feels too much strongly now. But, if his trusting's this fragile, splinters with doubts from the moment things challenged it, how can he rest on reassurances he wouldn't be killed next? His hypervigilance sharpens him, his worries stemming from past's insistence that his hero's still human.
But the words do relieve him some. How he sounds like another—even, measured, reassuring despite whatever dangers exist still—reaches him further than words alone might. Both his "sensei"; both his examples. Though, he's never walked with Aizawa-san... Listening, stray's shadow trailing in steps just beside him; starstruck wondering while the swordsman's impressed on him. The scape of metal draws eyes again; not yet widening, heartbeat stammering when edge of sword's pressed to monster. As if they've switched places: his precious sensei, for the moment, seeming more threating than anything Hell has to offer, a Kasha.
This is evidence. Every word, every second reminding him, pressing insistent: this man is not All Might.
He's someone else. Not stronger; not rivaling, nor better. Just his hero.
Nothing has happened. Nothing was going to happen. His eyes close briefly.]
Right. [He's right. They're fine.] I'm here.
[A squire trusts his knight. He'll be strong for him, too, now. He's blinking back up.]
We'll... watch each other's backs. [Then, quietly, glancing aside,] I think someone's coming...
<3
Because you've been with me.
More warmth follows. Soft, blue embers, the younger looking at his friend, his mentor, someone who's occupied every role he's slotted him neatly inside of. The other's calm response rattles him, throws him off because he fears he's a burden. He isn't absorbing his praise at all. Doesn't consider his hand in things as being very much special. He should have grounded it, pinned it. Never enough. Still Endeavor's voice driving him: you have a power greater than any repeating in ears, his thoughts, his heart-space. This very same boy—whose cold once sustained him, subsisting on so much rage it'd nearly consumed him in whole—would bury his ice in anything Hijikata instructs him to. That he's versed in not feeling means he feels too much strongly now. But, if his trusting's this fragile, splinters with doubts from the moment things challenged it, how can he rest on reassurances he wouldn't be killed next? His hypervigilance sharpens him, his worries stemming from past's insistence that his hero's still human.
But the words do relieve him some. How he sounds like another—even, measured, reassuring despite whatever dangers exist still—reaches him further than words alone might. Both his "sensei"; both his examples. Though, he's never walked with Aizawa-san... Listening, stray's shadow trailing in steps just beside him; starstruck wondering while the swordsman's impressed on him. The scape of metal draws eyes again; not yet widening, heartbeat stammering when edge of sword's pressed to monster. As if they've switched places: his precious sensei, for the moment, seeming more threating than anything Hell has to offer, a Kasha.
This is evidence. Every word, every second reminding him, pressing insistent: this man is not All Might.
He's someone else. Not stronger; not rivaling, nor better. Just his hero.
Nothing has happened. Nothing was going to happen. His eyes close briefly.]
Right. [He's right. They're fine.] I'm here.
[A squire trusts his knight. He'll be strong for him, too, now. He's blinking back up.]
We'll... watch each other's backs. [Then, quietly, glancing aside,] I think someone's coming...