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golden, brown, fire red, deep orange leaves crunch and crinkle like small campfires beneath hitoshi’s feet. a disharmonious symphony of cracks, marking where he is and how fast he’s moving. if one were really intelligent, how much he weighed too.
it makes his skin crawl like a thousand bugs scuttling across his arms, legs, back. his hair rises on end, but he knows that he has no reason to be this alarmed.
well, not yet.
he doesn’t know what corvine will do to him, when he arrives. the vigilante phantom leaves villains beaten bloody, tied to police stations with eyes too dazed to recall. they merely blabber, words of nonsensical origin spilling past their lips in broken orders, retelling the same tale ten different ways as their fucked brain struggles to shake itself back together again.
for a while, or, still now, every record of corvine has been marked underneath the name demon, as that’s what every gutted criminal called them, blood caked between their teeth as they spilt almost... fantasy-like tales of what they had been through. whom they had seen.
but, when he met the vigilante atomic, she’d, in exchange for freedom of capture, slipped information on the mysterious demon - ‘corvine’ she corrected him, almost on the spot ‘his name is corvine.’
him.
pronouns and a name. good.
she hadn’t told him much about what the actual corvine is like. just that he was good at what he did, and that while he fancied himself a traveller, she believed his current residence resides here.
in the woods, far from civilization. where brown-furred squirrels hook rat claws into white birch. where sparrows chitter and whistle to fill the silence of the fall. a place where no pathway resides, no dirt paved road nor lovers marks.
just forest, creatures, air.
nature.
though, she had confessed, she believed there was a cabin there, where he would be residing.
believed. would.
i’m going to get lost in here, aren’t i?
as he wanders aimlessly, nothing but comfortable, non-assuming clothes on his back, hiding a thick, readied hero costume beneath, minus the voice changer, he wonders if he already is.
just as he begins to accept that he should just start turning back, that atomic spoke solely white lily lies in the desperate hope of her escape, he sees it.
a cabin.
a rather unassuming thing, it looks pretty normal. quite small, made entirely of birch wood. it even has a small, fenced porch, and, if he spies closer, an old birch rocking chair.
but, it fills hitoshi with a bundle of feelings he can barely describe, other than the fact that somewhere in the explosion of his chest cavity there is excitement, determination, and, quite strangely, fear.
he rolls his shoulders, hearing the pop of his bones, and strides forth.
thin hands curl around a white and dark railing, heavy feet hoisting up to press on the actual porch, silent as a cats paws.
growling.
he freezes, eyes and ears locking in on the sound.
it’s a dog. unchained, though he spies closer a pale yellow collar. hitoshi has never actively studied dogs in any way, shape, or form, but if he has to guess he’d say doberman.
jagged scars and nicks cover it’s lean body, standing out over a midnight brown pelt, shaving off short fur to nothing but rough skin.
hitoshi lowers himself, anxiety returning with a vengeance, agonizing rattlesnake venom filling his ribs, swelling and closing around his poor lungs.
maybe, he hopes, for a split second, maybe corvine won’t think anything of it. maybe he just expects the dog to growl and bark at anything, and won’t-
the door opens.
hitoshi goes still.
the dog tilts its head up, and hitoshi watches as an un-clipped tail begins to wag joyously at the sight.
“what is it, girl?” an oddly familiar, deeply friendly voice asks, inquisitively generous.
the dog snaps back to hitoshi all of a sudden, and the purple-haired hero tries to leave on instinct, foot pressuring down onto the grass below, begging for a silent lan-
crunch.
hitoshi winces harshly.
footsteps.
oh, fuck.
hitoshi’s hand flies to his hip, where his recorder is. he knows that if he leans into that, if he reports that he needs backup, immediately, he’ll get it, because they’re all listening in.
they’re even tracking him. he’s not stupid, he came with a plan, even if the only people watching are his dads, a plain police officer he’s already forgotten the name of, a rather nice detective he also didn’t care for the title of, and nedzu.
it’s enough.
“why, hello there!” a voice chirps from above, the same that called the dog, and hitoshi knows, immediately, that there is no going back.
it’s time to get into character.
he looks up, trying his best to play the ‘i’m lost and scared’ role with his eyes.
he can’t tell if he’s any good, but he soldiers on anyways.
the dog barks again.
“h-hello” he stammers forcefully, trying to tamper down the embarrassment that begins to burn like gasoline to blue matches as he talks.
the boy above him is... familiar. his jaw is sharp, matured, just like he has in the five years he’s been a pro hero. a sharp, defined jaw, and wide, yet, with a closer look, haunted shamrock eyes. thick, either curly or knotted, deep green hair like abyssal seaweed pulls itself back behind the boys back, puffing out over his ears. freckles scatter on every area of skin, only interrupted by small breadths of pale and pink scars that scrawl over the other man’s face.
corvine - strange name, nothing about him is black - grins at him from above, though it isn’t sadistic. it’s almost... warm. sad, even, he might say. something in his eyes that says less of ‘i’ll kill you’ and more of a deep state of mourning he hasn’t yet left.
hitoshi wonders why.
“hello” corvine responds, when the silence drags on, staring into hitoshi’s eyes just as hitoshi bores into his. “do you have a name? what’re you doing here?”
“my name is yuval adachihara” he lies straight through his teeth, a fabricated name built for this one purpose and this one purpose only.
corvine’s eyes widen slightly, before settling back down again. his grin shifts minutely, becoming less friendly and more... mischievous.
hitoshi doesn’t like it. his skin resumes its crawling, the invisible insects reviving underneath his flesh and beginning their track along his body once more.
“i got lost” he lies, “i was wondering if you would keep me, for a while? just for the night.”
corvine narrows his eyes at him, humming, before he casts his eyes quickly at the sun.
truth be told, it is going to set soon. if all goes according to plan, hitoshi will leave here at dusk, and return to his dusty, one-person apartment when the stars have long begun their shine.
corvine studies the sky for a moment, before turning back to hitoshi, and eyeing him with a strange emotion the undercover pro hero doesn’t quite like at all, even if he can’t tell what it is to begin with.
“alright” corvine says, after a moment, “you may come inside.”
he doesn’t say ‘stay the night’ which is good, because hitoshi has no plans of sleeping here any longer than he must.
he climbs up the rest of the fence, corvine stepping back to allow him extra space.
the dog begins growling once more, a deep, infuriated, territorial sound. hitoshi tenses.
he’s never liked dogs. always been more of a cat person.
and, now, struggling to stare into the eyes of a furiously protective doberman, he almost wishes he had, just so he could know how best to defend himself against one.
corvine, startling hitoshi, begins to laugh.
hitoshi’s head snaps towards him, watching as corvine’s chest shakes with the effect. he blinks.
the dog continues to growl, though quieter, this time.
“you’re so anxious” corvine jokes at him, smiling, though in his eyes hitoshi can see he wishes to say more, though he withholds each begging whisper behind his exposed teeth dutifully.
“that’s daisy” corvine introduces, gesturing to the unchained dog. daisy lifts their eyes at the call of their name. “she’ll bark at you, but she won’t hurt you. not unless you hurt me, that is. she’s very defensive. used to be in those dog fighting rings. horrible” he mutters, almost to himself, the last part, eyes trailing off for a moment before refocusing on hitoshi.
“come on in” he says, swinging a mechanical hand towards the door. hitoshi ignores the anxiety thundering in his stomach and crosses the threshold, trying to hold himself steady as daisy goes wild.
corvine shushes her, and, true to his word, she never explicitly lunges at hitoshi. just barks and growls.
corvine guides the disguised pro over to the door, though hitoshi’s sees from the tight draw of his soldiers that he is also feeling far from relaxed in the presence of adachihara.
right. he’s no pro hero right now. he’s just a lost, confused man, who is quite terrified of daisy, who, has not ceased her incessant hollering.
he ignores her to the best of his ability, just as he ignored every jab and whisper thrown at him when people thought he wouldn’t hear. or maybe they just never cared.
either or. probably the previous. usually, most were horrified by him, cowering in the glare of his tired eyes.
the friendly chitters of corvine cooing his dog to something short of relaxation register in hitoshi’s ears as he steps inside after him, surveying the cabin the infamous vigilante lives in.
just like the outside, it’s mainly birch wood. from the walls to the floor to the arching roof, which, as he cranes his head to the sky, spies a window over the top, shining fresh sunlight down upon the overly-wooden place.
hitoshi listens as daisy tapers off into a soft whine, and corvine huffs, though it isn’t annoyed.
he turns around, watching as corvine reaches into his pocket, and proceeds to pull out a meaty bone.
daisy perks up, jumping as she leans on her hind legs. an excited, non-defensive bark echoes about the house.
corvine shushes her softly, before tossing the bone. strong jaws clamp around it tightly, canines digging deep into its rough surface.
corvine makes a surprisingly sweet kissing noise, before he shuts the door, and everything on the outside muffles with the single click of it falling into place.
hitoshi’s anxiety returns to the forefront of his mind faster than he can register. one of his hands flickers to his hip, for the recorder, briefly, for a second, while the other finds itself hooking into his shirt collar, seeking a familiar weight that isn’t there.
corvine merely smiles at him, ignoring his anxious motions. “can i make you tea?” he asks.
hitoshi tries to calm his breaths as subtly as possible, forcing his hands to relax down at his sides. “i’m good” he responds, “but thank you.”
corvine hums. “i’m not going to poison you” he offers, casually.
hitoshi makes a non-committal noise in response, swinging one his hands back and forth at his hip minutely, trying to relieve the anxiety that persists.
“ah, well” corvine shrugs, crossing infer to hitoshi, who steps aside to let him pass, “make yourself at home.”
he smiles warmly at hitoshi, as he says it, although that doesn’t mask the fact that underneath it hitoshi can still see the sorrow. deep, sunken to the bone, a heart-burning grief shining through friendly forest eyes.
corvine heads off into another room.
hitoshi waits until the other man has closed the door to wherever he is with another metallic click before beginning his search.
he makes his way silently into the kitchen, sliding open drawers and cupboards with steady movements.
nearby, he hears the sound of water turning on, the many gushing droplets of a shower set steaming.
strange. he guesses that his play is working its part, if corvine feels comfortable enough to shower around him.
he could be deceiving you, a voice in his head spits, and he listens with a vigilant nod.
he and corvine are not friends, nor enemies, nor even acquaintances. this is his job, and corvine is his suspect.
it’s just how life goes.
after what feels like hours of the rushing water, the soft sounds of hitoshi’s movements, of the wooden cabinets opening and closing, hitoshi pulls away with a sigh.
there’s nothing here but the things anybody would have in a kitchen. no trigger, no notes, no hidden doors, locked boxes. he supposes the knives could be listed as a suspicious item, but, then again, they were just the casual knives. steak knives, cutting knives, butter knives.
it’s just a kitchen.
hitoshi weighs his options. should he take the risk of reporting, leaning into the recorder and speaking the words ‘nothing suspicious in the kitchen’, or, should he say nothing, leave the recorder where it is at his hip and simply press onward.
he chooses to go onward.
the cabin is rather small. a fireplace faces the doorway, where a big, soft-looking yellow couch sits beside a grey armchair with tiny blue flowers for patterning. before the both of them is, yet again, a birch coffee table, splayed before a dormant fireplace.
hitoshi trails around, lifting the covers and the cushions to see if anything criminalizing lies in wait.
the most interesting thing he finds is a pen with multiple colour swatches. the rest is just dog hair, scraps of blank paper, and dirt.
there’s what appears to be a blood stain in one area, but it’s long dried.
hitoshi’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t grab. he’ll report it with the other pieces of evidence.
if there are any, really. the more he seeks, the more he begins to think that corvine really doesn’t have anything in this house. just the same things that everybody does.
maybe it’s deliberate. it probably is.
soldering in, hitoshi stalks into the guest bedroom, trying to avoid the bedroom in which corvine is currently showering.
that’s a dead giveaway if he’s ever heard of one. a man you don’t know, who’s seemed very on edge this entire visit, shifting through your personal belongings.
however, when he enters the guest bedroom, his eyes fall immediately on something new.
while everything else is rather normal - plain bed, empty, opened closet, birch wood nightstand - there is one thing that stands out.
a bag.
a small, black, loose bag, built with a string that’ll shut off you pull on it. it flops on the ground, crinkled, like a dumpling made from the weeping ebony tears of the clouded midnight sky.
he kneels down before it cautiously, and, with surprisingly steady hands, opens it.
inside lies crumpled fabric. he grabs at it with lean hands, pulling away at deep green fabric. a giant window beams sunlight down upon the room, catching the polyester glint.
adjusting its slightly wrinkled form, it pulls itself into a familiar costume. well maintained, he notes, despite its apparent growing age. it’s a bodysuit, though it cuts off at the knees and the wrists. two thick black square-like shapes mark the sides of it, just below the breast but above the hip. pale yellow, quite light beige, patch squares cling to the shoulders.
what catches his attention the most, though, is the hood.
it’s built like a rabbit, almost, with two long bunny ears flopping back. two holes slit open for eyes to fall.
he pulls it out to its full length, and muses at how long it actually is, for a costume built for someone so compact.
he squints at it; recognition tickling a flint stone fire in his brain. where has he seen this before?
come on, brain...
come on...
come on...
he stretches it out a bit, and suddenly, it clicks.
holy fucking shit.
this-
it-
it can’t-
no.
he scrambles for his memory, breath shaking as it quickens.
streams of curses flood his brain as he makes the connection. metallic hands. curly green hair. kind, yet mournful shamrock eyes. freckles. wide grin. kind demeanour.
he drops the costume. it falls to the birch wood floor below with a soft thump, and crumples once more.
corvine is midoriya.
midoriya is alive.
he found midoriya.
he blinks gathering tears from his eyes, covering his mouth with his palm. midoriya’s been gone for seven years. disappeared the day he woke from that coma.
midoriya left, and let hitoshi step into his place. hitoshi graduated from ua in his place.
they’d pronounced him dead only three months ago. the funeral of an empty casket had been just as fast to follow.
quicker than he’s ever moved before, hitoshi snatches up the recorder on his hip, not caring anymore if c- midoriya hears him.
he holds it to his lips, panting heavily, “midoriya is-“
a hand grabs his.
cool, metallic, it snatches the recorder in his fist before he can say anymore than simply midoriya.
and, with a single swift, powered motion, crushes it before hitoshi even has a chance to move. the thin mechanical object crumples like a tossed soda can in midoriya’s prosthetic fist.
hitoshi tenses on instinct, but before he can move, something pressures against his throat.
time slows, the breath in his lungs catching as it struggles to steady.
be practical, he reminds himself, be logical.
the silver blade presses gently at his windpipe, and his shoulders draw tighter.
“tell me, hitoshi shinsou” midoriya says into his ear, and hitoshi’s blood goes colder than the ice of his hands, “why do you lie to me?”