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Shōta sits down on the chair provided. Even after he’s been discharged, the hospital staff know well of his visiting habits.
Shirakumo hasn’t acknowledged Shōta’s presence. Maybe he’s tired.
“Hey,” Shōta says anyway. He doesn’t respond.
“You don’t have to talk,” he continues. “I can talk for the both of us. You did that when we were kids.”
“I do not—”
“Know me,” Shōta finishes. “Yes, you do. You reacted to me and Hizashi the first time we visited.” He leans forward on the table. “Shirakumo—”
“I do not know that name.”
“—I know you.”
There’s a pause. Shirakumo doesn’t say anything else, but he’s alert now. In some ways, Shirakumo’s new self reminds him of himself. He’s a lot more like Shirakumo than he used to be. Coming to the research wing to bring his best friend back with the power of friendship is exactly something that Oboro would do.
“If you wanted to be treated like a stranger, you should wait for Yamada,” Shōta finally says.
“I do not—”
“Stop being illogical,” Shōta snaps. “You met him. He blew your foggy eardrums out at USJ. He was there when you came back.”
“I do not want him here, either,” Shirakumo finishes. “Where is Shigaraki Tomura?”
Shōta smiles, slightly. “Once, when we were doing training—”
“I have never trained with you.”
“—we were sparring on a ledge, I wanted to practice how I’d be around high places—”
“I have no recollection of this event.”
“—for some reason, I used Erasure on you.”
They were on the ledge of a building, half standing on one of Shirakumo’s clouds, trying to practice high-altitude urban fights. Shōta was losing, but not without a fight. Shirakumo lunged at him, and Shōta jumped out the way, instinctively activating his quirk s he did so. The next thing he remembered was being on the ground, his foot hurting like it never had before.
“...And you’d floated down on your clouds, once you realised I fell,” Shōta continued. “Yamada went to check if you were okay too, and you yelled at him to go away, so you could check if I was okay.”
Shirakumo looks no different. Shōta’s sure that his one remaining eye is beginning to tear up. A conversation with his dead best friend who doesn’t remember him is a rational situation to be upset in. Even logic has to cave to the reality of emotions. To the fact that only someone irrational would be here and feel nothing.
“You’d think you were the one with the Voice quirk,” Shōta murmurs.
“My quirk is not of that type, my quirk is—”
“I know what your quirk is,” Shōta interupts. “It’s a lot better in a fight than what it was before. I remember when you knew what it was like to be powerless.”
“I have always known this power,” Shirakumo insists.
“We’re not powerless, Shōta!” Shirakumo insisted. Shōta disagreed.
“Yes,” Shōta agrees, in the present. “You’ve never been powerless. Not like I felt, not ever. But you’ve never been gifted with a quirk like Hizashi’s.
“There’s a boy in U.A., Mirio. He reminds me of you. He’s got a quirk that doesn’t seem like much, but he makes it something. He’s got this smile that lights up everything.”
“I have no mouth,” Shirakumo says. “I cannot smile.”
Shōta swallows, nods, whispers, “No, you can’t.” Takes a breath, thinks of his problem children, Yamada, Eri, himself. “Not yet.”
“Physically, my body is incapable—”
“Not yet.”
Shōta can hear thunder in the distance. He hadn’t noticed the rain until now.
“All my students remind me of you,” he says, always circling back to it. “Everything reminds me of you. The clouds, the thunder, the rain. The cat me and Hizashi have. Eri, when she smiles and when she doesn’t. My goggles. My guilt.”
There’s another low rumble of thunder. The rain pounds hard against the roof. Now that he’s paying attention, it’s hard to miss.
“I became a teacher because of you, and whenever I see you in their faces, I just remember how small your body was. How small they are.”
Shōta wipes at his eye with his palm.
“You were sixteen.” His voice sounds like he’s still about to cry. More tears are filling his eye. “Do you know how young sixteen is?” He smiles, one of the scary ones, the kids call it. “It’s tiny. You were just a kid. It feels like I’m saving heroes, with the shit these problem children get up to, but I’m saving kids from making a stupid decision that kills them.
“What was the last thing you thought, Shirakumo?”
“My name is—”
“Were you worried about those kids? They made it out alright, I checked for you.”
“I was not—”
“Yamada doesn’t know anything about being powerless, but we do. You and me.”
“My quirk is not—”
“I’m never going to stop reaching out to you, Shirakumo!” he yells, standing, hands slammed on the table. Shirakumo stops talking. Looks at him through those narrow yellow eyes.
“I thought I learned to save heroes, kids from your death. I guess I just learned how to die the same way.” He smiles, honest. “Because if you have just a little bit of power, you have to save the kids. You knew that. I just wish you remembered rubble existed for you too.”
Shirakumo remains silent. Shōta sits down.
“You don’t have to come back now,” Shōta says. “You don’t ever have to come back. But I’ll be here for as long as I can be, because you don’t deserve to die at sixteen.”
A beat. No one moves.
“And neither do they.”
Shōta stands up and walks to the door before he hears it, and it sounds almost like a plea.
“Shigaraki Tomura is twenty-one years old,” Shirakumo says. “He is not a child anymore, but I am still his protector.”
Shirakumo put his arm around Shōta, despite the other’s protests. “Even when you’re grumpy, I’m always gonna be your best friend,” he said.
“I’ll do my best,” Shōta replies.
“You can do it!” Shirakumo’s voice had said through his broken speakers.
There’s a moment before Shirakumo replies. “Thank you.”