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It's important to note that Neito Monoma doesn't mean to laugh — truly, he doesn't. He understands that the situation they are in is quite dire, and if he wants everyone to make it out alive, then he needs to focus . Regardless, reminding himself of that fact does little to qualm his laughter.
And it's a horrible habit of his, really. One that's not so easy to break. The way a crooked smile will spread across his lips uncontrollably after hearing bad news, the way uncomfortable giggles will bubble past his lips in the most inappropriate of settings. It's not like he doesn't understand social cues either. He knows it's wrong, and that there's a time to be serious—
But all of that does nothing to stop the manic laughter building up in his throat, clogging it, burning until it spills out of his mouth in a horrid sort of cackle. His eyes crinkle, shoulders shaking with each huff of laughter as he stands and howls, sounding more like a villain than he ever has in his entire life.
They're in the middle of a war — what will hopefully be the final battle, the fight to end all fights. Heroes are dead, classmates are injured, the stage is set, the players are in position, the curtains are rising, the lights come up—
“You're the star, Monoma!”
—and he simply cannot stop laughing.
_____________
He stares straight ahead at the man made of swirling dark mist, locked safely away behind the other side of the glass. There's eyes somewhere in there, flickering yellow in the vast dark fog. He can't tell if the man can see him or not.
Neito worries his bottom lip, no doubt chewing it raw. This is a herculean task they're requesting of him. To copy the quirk of a classmate is one thing — he's been around them long enough to know the ins and outs of their quirks, their strengths and weaknesses. Even when not in use, he can feel the thrum of their energies in the air, quirks a siren song luring him in. Now, to not only copy but practically master this stranger's quirk is an entirely different story — not to mention he only has a few days time to do so.
But he knows the situation is dire when he's the one they're calling in to help, knows that it could very well be a futile mission when even Aizawa admits his own weakness.
He suddenly feels very small surrounded by all these heroes. He's no big shot, not like them. He's no key player, no center stage. It feels like an impossible task. There's a curdling feeling in his gut, a little nagging voice screaming that he's an imposter.
Neito Monoma is the side character of his own life. It's a truth he's accepted from a young age. He was destined to be in Class 1-B in order to lift his classmates up. He's meant to help them reach their full potentials, to push them to strive for greatness. Without their quirks — without them — he is nothing.
Vlad-sensei places a hand on his shoulder, and he feels incredibly small in comparison to the man. It's a comforting weight, firm and grounding. And his teacher explains, in a war like this, with a plan like this, there are no side characters.
“You never were,” Vlad-sensei reassures, voice low and rumbling, “and you never will be.”
He's been given his role, and it's time to set the stage. It's your time to shine, Monoma! And suddenly, the thought of being a main character doesn't sound quite so bad.
_____________
It's an odd thought to have in the moment, hidden amongst the fear and anxiety sitting heavy in his chest. The tiniest of thoughts buried amongst the thousands racing in his mind. But he can't help but think as he stares ahead at the white-haired villain that Tomura Shigaraki looks awfully young.
Aizawa-sensei — well, he supposes it's Eraserhead out here — has a hand on his shoulder, a gentle reminder to keep his eyes open, keep the focus on the enemy. In any other circumstance, he'd be internally squealing at the chance to be allowed to copy the man's quirk. Now, it's a solemn reminder of the crucial part he's playing in this war — one he can't afford to mess up.
He watches the realization settle in the villain's red eyes as his quirk fails to activate. It's now, while he's forced to stare ahead at the man lest he wreak any more havoc, that he realizes this is his first good look at him. Of course, he'd seen the man on TV before, news articles plastered with his face. Yet he's somehow different in person. Perhaps it's the lack of hands that used to decorate his face, now revealing himself to the world. He sees the manic desperation swimming in those eyes, facial features a bit softer than he had fantasized. This was the all powerful villain? Neito had seen much bigger, more intimidating villains. One look at them and you knew they were evil. But Shigaraki?
It's a horrifying thought that the villain can't be much older than him.
And yes, he knows. He knows the world is divided into good and evil. There's the heroes, the villains, the side characters. Everyone's got a role to play, but it seems Shigaraki's been dealt a pretty shit hand. Being in the same vicinity as the man seems to scramble his thoughts, blurs that line between black and white, because what did Shigaraki do in his past life to deserve a fate as awful as this?
He's reminded of the fact that compared to the rest of his peers, his class is less prepared to handle such a situation. Class 1-A had fought villains their first month in. Class 1-A snuck out to rescue one of their own from said villains. Class 1-A got all the work studies, attention from aspiring heroes and the pros themselves. Class 1-A has real experience, and he does not.
All he has is the memory of a clone melting before Vlad King and the little time he had to try and master the quirks shoved at him weeks before the war.
He is sixteen years old, unprepared and sent to fight in a war that shouldn't even be happening.
The nervous laughter tumbles past his lips again before he can help it, shoulders shaking, lips trembling. He's got half a mind to remind himself to keep his eyes open, lest they shut, and Shigaraki activates his quirk, and they're all screwed, and he could die out here —
Aizawa’s hand slips from his shoulder and into his hand. It's calloused and warm, so much older, so much wiser—
“Keep ‘em open, kid,” Aizawa murmurs from the edges of his peripherals, voice low and barely heard over the destruction happening ahead.
All he can do is manage a small nod and a quick prayer that they survive this fight.
_____________
The numbers have been drilled into his head, practically engraved into his eyelids. When he closes his eyes, all he can see are the little integers floating around, burned into his retinas. There's a little slip of paper containing the memorized coordinates sitting heavy in his pocket, crinkling as he paces the room.
His eyes are already burning from the extensive training he's been enduring with Aizawa on top of trying to master Kurogiri’s quirk. Using Erasure is enough to give anyone horrible dry eye, but he needs to build up the stamina to use it for an extensive period of time. There's an optic migraine throbbing behind both eyes. He paces the room, eyes squeezed shut, lights already turned off to soothe the pounding headache.
Latitude 34.71° N, longitude 137.73° E. Latitude 35.1° N, longitude 138.32° E—
His brain feels like absolute mush. He collapses face-down onto his bed, letting out a long, drawn-out groan into the sheets.
A hand finds its way to his hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. He lets out a relieved moan into the sheets, all but melting into his mattress. The sensation is heavenly.
“I don't know how they expect me to do this,” he finds himself murmuring.
Most people have a whole lifetime to master their quirk, but Neito? They expect him to pick up these quirks in a matter of a few weeks. Snagging another quirk is typically simple, grabbing at that thrum of energy and using it for show. It's a neat little party trick — one that doesn't require too much thought, but this? Being escorted to a maximum security prison to copy a quirk and then being expected to open various portals all across Japan simultaneously seems damn near impossible. And that's not to mention training Aizawa's quirk so he can participate in the world's longest staring contest.
They're counting on him — he knows this, but the days are counting down, and he's simply not ready.
“Don’t tell me the great Monoma Neito’s facing ego death,” Shinsou murmurs from where he's sitting against the headboard. The boy’s long bony fingers are still running through Neito's hair. “What happened to all that confidence?”
He lets out a thoughtful hum, turns his head so he can glare at Shinsou in the dark. “Perhaps I'm just being realistic, is all,” he replies.
Shinsou huffs, and in the dark, he can make out his upturned lips. “Well, don't let stage fright be the end of you. Fake it until you make it, and all that.”
It's a cheap attempt to make him feel better. Still, it causes a small smile to spread across his lips, and he hides it against the sheets.
“Yes, and all that,” he agrees.
_____________
He can feel his stomach drop as he stares ahead at the rapidly mutating flesh before him, growing and growing with each possible second. Panic seizes him, causes a hitch in his throat. He squeezes Aizawa's hand like a lifeline, feeling himself spiral. It can't be possible, he hasn't blinked, he can't fail Aizawa, can't fail his class—
“Sensei, I'm doing it just like you taught me-” he rushes to say, unable to hide the panic in his voice or the lump forming in his throat, “-this can't be my fault!”
The flesh continues to double, multiplying rapidly like some strange tumor. He hasn't blinked, hasn't looked away. He's done everything right. He can't fail then, can't be the reason they lose the war.
Aizawa's hand squeezes back, grounding. “I know, kid,” he says, but it's not difficult to sense the small shred of panic in his own voice. “I know, just keep your eyes on him.”
A quirk singularity is what they call it — some sort of last ditch quirk awakening, rapidly evolving under extreme stress. In other words, very bad news, because one slip up from Neito means Shigaraki could unleash a near infinite decay, mass and wide-scale destruction from the tips of his ever growing fingers.
They want him to warp in Midoriya, but he can't —
(Midoriya should've been warped here in the first place, as part of the plan. Stupid Class 1-A, always messing things up.)
—doing so would mean releasing Erasure, and giving Shigaraki the chance to decay everything. It's up to Midoriya to find his own way here.
And if that wasn't enough, Katsuki Bakugo decides it's time to rear his ugly head and join the fray. Only a Class 1-A idiot would be stupid enough to challenge an actual supervillain. The ground beneath him rumbles with the blast from each explosion sent, the shockwaves enough to worsen the strain on his eyes.
As much as he hates Class 1-A for their brashness and their flashy quirks, he'd always thought Bakugo to be untouchable. When he fell, he'd get back up again, fought with such a fiery passion in his heart that even Neito was impressed. In his eyes, he was indestructible. But now, Neito watches that illusion shatter as quickly as Bakugo's arm. A few seconds later, and the unmovable is lying unmoving .
A war is a war. His schoolmate is dead. Who's to say he's not next?
_____________
With them being in the middle of a war and all, he can hardly call this a party. Though, that's what it seems like, he supposes. Perhaps a “going away” party, because in a few days time, his classmates are going to shipped off across Japan, and this-...this could very well be the last time he sees any of them.
They're gathered in the 1-B Alliance common area for what could be the last time. The mood is quite somber, and though his friends crack jokes and smiles, it doesn't feel right — not when they haven't had classes for weeks, not when there's carnage sitting just outside their windows.
He'd managed to sneak Shinsou into the dorms with them. They're all currently lounging in the common area, ignoring the fact they're in the midst of a war they might not win. He's sprawled across one of the couches, Shinsou sitting on the floor below. He lets his eyes slowly scan the room, seeing how his friends and classmates sit together, talking in hushed tones, letting out small bits of laughter. It feels unreal.
“You're doing it again,” Shinsou murmurs, eyes glancing up at him from over his phone.
“I am not .”
Shinsou huffs, shuffles to sit up enough so he can flick his forehead. Neito recoils, hand clasping over the area as he scowls.
“You're making that face again,” Shinsou remarks with what can only be described as a look of satisfaction at Neito's pain. Sadist. “Get out of your head, man. It's a party. Relax .”
Neito makes a huff of indignation at that, crossing his arms and sinking further into the couch. Yeah, yeah, easier said than done. If there's anyone who enjoys a good party, it's him. But it's hard to relax when there's a war looming over their heads. He doesn't know how Shinsou does it — how he can just brush it all off and be nonchalant like this.
Shinsou seems to sense what he's thinking, because his normal blank expression softens just a bit. He shifts from where he's been sitting on the floor to cross his arms over Neito's thighs, resting his head in them.
“It's gonna be fine,” Shinsou murmurs, just low enough for him and him only to hear. He moves his hand just enough to grasp at Neito's, and the blond lets him.
Now he's only reminded of the fact that they'll be separated too. Shinsou's got his own part to play in the war. It's up to him to help lure All For One out in the first place. Huh, look at that. Two side characters becoming key players.
But that means Shinsou's going to be miles away, and Neito can't protect him—
He doesn't even remember being ushered to the table, just blinks and suddenly his shoulders are bumping against his classmates. There's a cake in the center of the table — a luxury in a time like this. Kendo moves to cut it, smiling as she shares a toast before the knife comes down.
“And to our very own Monoma Neito!” She cheers, locking eyes with him. “May he have good luck in his leading role!”
His classmates voices echo around him. “You're the star, Monoma!”
_____________
The storm is picking up around them. The wind is howling, screeching as the clouds swirl overhead. It's a battle to even keep his eyes open. Manual’s doing his best to keep his eyes from getting dry, but he feels them burning. He can't give up — not now. Not when they're so many people counting on him.
Giving up would mean letting everyone down, putting them in harm’s way. Would mean the uncertain futures of his classmates. Would mean losing Shinsou. Giving up would mean they've lost, and Neito Monoma is not a loser.
The wind roars, and his heart pounds rapidly against his chest. Aizawa's hand’s got a death-grip on his. He needs to keep fighting, to keep pushing through. For his classmates, for Shinsou—
“This fight is heading straight into the history books!” He declares over the sound of the wind, manic laughter teetering past his lips once more. “And I want them to write that I was the reason we won!”
_____________
“You're leaving me-”
“I'm not,” Shinsou protests, “not forever.” His hands are on Neito’s shoulders, and Neito keeps his face buried in his hands because he hates him right now, doesn't want to see him, doesn't want Shinsou to see him like this.
(And isn't that something, that Shinsou Hitoshi is the only one who will ever get to see him in such a state. For as much bravado and grandeur that he tries to project, Shinsou will always see right through him. He's the only one with that privilege, with that honor.)
“It's only for a little while,” he soothes quietly as Neito tries to weakly bat away the hands trying to uncover his face.
“It's not !” He objects as Shinsou manages to wretch his hands away, and — oh, now look what he's done. Now Shinsou has to see him scream and sob like a toddler during a tantrum. There's a reason he hides when he gets like this. He's always been an ugly crier.
“Don’t—” He warns, eyes wide as he takes a step back. His voice cracks on the tail end of his sentence. “Don't lie to me. I hate liars, don't—”
Shinsou just grabs his hands and squeezes, forcing him to look the other in the eye. And Neito wants to break the contact so bad, because his face is red and splotchy, and there's snot smeared under his nose, and he can hardly make it one second without letting out a sob.
“It's not forever,” Shinsou says firmly, and he presses their temples together, knocks against his forehead a little harder than he means to. “I promise. We're both making it out of this. I'm coming back to you. You've got to promise me you'll do the same. Promise me, Neito.”
“P-Promise,” he stutters, gasping for air. “Promise.”
_____________
The energy in the air shifts. He can feel it — the invitation of a new quirk, a new presence. Can feel a warp gate being opened behind him, but that can't be possible, because his eyes are still firmly locked on Shigaraki, and he hasn't blinked once—
Aizawa’s arm is wrenched from him, and he suddenly finds himself being slammed head-first into the concrete. He tries to keep his eyes open as long as he can, even as his world tilts sideways and pain blossoms in his temples. But bodies upon bodies are piling up up on him, and his eyes are burning.
He gasps out in pain as his eyes are forced shut, and not even a few seconds later does an explosion sound off, rattling his teeth and sending nausea coursing through his body. Oh, what has he done—
I'm sorry Vlad-sensei, he finds himself thinking as the ground beneath him rumbles and his head erupts in agony. It's difficult to keep himself awake, can hardly keep his eyes from fluttering shut. I'm sorry Aizawa-sensei. I'm sorry Shinsou. I failed you. I failed, I failed, I failed.
Screams erupt around him, and U.A. begins to fall, tumbling towards the ground. He drifts in and out of consciousness, pulled along on waves of pain, in and out, seeping into his bones. There's the sick little thought that this Coffin in the Sky will be for him.
He blinks and the world’s gone sideways. He blinks and there's bile behind his teeth. He blinks and Fukidashi is standing over him—
“You're gonna be fine, Monoma,” his classmate assures. His body betrays him though, and Neito watches through slitted eyes as his speech bubble rapidly flashes ‘!?’
He blinks again and his body's erupting in pain as he's being lifted onto a stretcher. Blinks and Mandalay’s on his other side, helping to move him to who-knows-where.
“You did good, kid,” she murmurs as his stretcher is jostled around on the rocky terrain. A bloody paw is on his shoulder, holding him steady. “You can rest now.”
So he does.
_____________
“Don't tell me you brought me flowers,” he croaks as someone settles into the chair by his bedside. “I hardly know what to do with them all.”
At least, he assumes they're there. His eyes have been covered with thick bandages for the past couple days, and the lights in the room are kept low because he threw up the first time bright light made contact with his retinas. Either way, there's been a floral scent cutting through the antiseptic of the hospital, so he assumes that's what they are.
“... Don't tell me you've gone blind,” comes the response in a familiar raspy tone that Neito's come to love.
“Shinsou,” he muses pleasantly, unable to help the smile that spreads across his lips. There's a tingly feeling that fills his chest, spreads to his toes, fills his body with warmth. He raises a hand, palm-up, and Shinsou takes it without question. He squeezes, and Shinsou’s calloused hand squeezes back, so Neito lets himself relax.
“The blindness is only temporary,” he murmurs, turning his head against his pillow towards what he believes is Shinsou's direction. “Overuse of Aizawa's quirk. And I've got a pretty nasty concussion. But, I'll be back to seeing this pretty face in no time. Yours too, I suppose.”
Shinsou snorts, but the sound is watery. Neito can imagine him scrubbing a hand down his face.
“A true Narcissus,” Shinsou says, thumb rubbing over the back of Neito’s palm.
Neito hums. “But you love me.”
“I do.” He says it without hesitation, and that sends another wave of warmth flooding through him.
There's a beat of silence. If he listens very carefully, he thinks he can hear Shinsou sniff.
“...You kept your promise,” Shinsou murmurs. He hears the chair creak, senses the other boy shifting closer.
“And you kept yours,” Neito exhales as Shinsou’s hand lands in his hair.
“I told you I'd come back for you,” Shinsou whispers, and he's so close that Neito can feel his body heat, thinks that if he turned just slightly, it'd be enough to bridge the gap. “Always.”
Oh, and curse his stupid body, because the nervous laughter is beginning to spill past his lips yet again, cheeks flushing warm and rosy. However, it's a joyous feeling, a good kind of nervous, because they made it. He's sixteen years old, and his life didn't end in some dumb war, and there's a very cute boy standing over his bed—
Shinsou and his big stupid face presses their lips together, swallows his laughter for him, guides Neito's hand to his stupidly soft hair and—
Oh. Oh, he likes this very much.