His body aches, his bones are weary. He can feel his joints creak with every step he takes. He comes back from another day, another fight, another misfortune. It's not his misfortune, though such rains on him so copiously at times. It was someone else's misfortune that he took as his own, just like every other time. He climbs up steps, his feet bracing upon each step before pushing upwards for the next. His cut fingers reach for the rails with a grip that turns bruised knuckles white. He struggles to stay conscious. No, he's not in pain. He's tired, so very very tired. He knows that he can sleep well because he saved someone, he knows that his conscious is clear when he pulls another out of the hell he had found himself in all those years ago. That hell of being alone, where no one would help. That place that could only be known as a hell of despair. Suffering and suffering without the light of salvation. To reach out only to have that hand cut away.
He doesn't do what he does because of justice. He would know it better than anyone else. Everyone has reasons for what they do, they have dreams and aspirations and sometimes you have to step over others to reach those dreams. But he can't help it. He doesn't fight it. How can he fight against that impulse? The need to clench his fist? Grit his teeth and rush into a situation that could only be described as hopeless? He's only an outsider, but in his heart he knows he's not.
He doesn't know their suffering, he never knows. He never understands how they feel. He swings his right fist against them but he doesn't know why they swing theirs. He talks, he speaks. Hoping, praying that they find some common ground. He tries hard to understand why they fight. And in the end, he stops fighting for one side, and fights for both instead. He swings his fist not because someone is suffering. He swings his fist because suffering exists.
Misfortune has been his mistress for so long that he stops questioning her presence. He actually feels distraught when she leaves his side. It only means that she comes back with twice her mischief and troubles along with her.
He smiles wryly as he reaches the landing to his floor. The corners of his lips don't quite reach his eyes. Though he fights for the sake of others, he doesn't accept their thanks. He never stays long enough to be given gratitude. He walks away, in truth, ashamed. Because he has never fought for them, he never fights for anyone else but himself. Misfortune is his domain, no one else needs to exist within it. He's the only one who needs to suffer.
His hands reach for the door knob. It's cold, so much so that he nearly let go in shock. But he places the key in and slowly turns it. He thinks of the reason why he fights, he thinks of the people he has fought for. He wonders why he even bothers. The reason he fights is selfish, the reason he butts into other people's problems is unreasonable. He tells them half-truths, he tells them lies just so he can resolve the issue and live with himself. He's tired of that, he's tired of it all. In the end he's still alone, in the end there's no salvation. He's still within that hell of despair, the same place in which he evicts everyone else. He's still alone.
He pushes open the door, expecting a dim and dusty room which served as his solitary sanctum.
"Touma. When are you going to cook dinner?"
He hears a ghost of a voice. A young girl's voice. It was accusing, it was angry and yet it was warm. The room is bright and a small breeze clears any staleness that remains. The curtains are open, bathing the place in warm sunlight.
Kamijou Touma doesn't know that voice. He doubts he has ever heard that voice before in all his years in this city of students. But he knows that voice, whether it was in the past, or whether in the future. He is sure he knows that voice. He smiles gently and replies a soft-
"I'm home."
The room is empty, just as it has always been. Nothing changes for the young man. But just a little bit, he feels that he was saved. In that voice that may only exist in his head he finds salvation.
He lies on his bed and lets the day's ventures take their toll. As he closes his eyes and accepts darkness' embrace, little voices chime in his ear and bring a smile to his face.
""Thank you for teaching Misaka that Misaka is important", says Misaka as Misaka-."
"Just once, rely on us!"
"I-I must show you my gratitude! How should I do that?"
"You are such a kind stranger."
...
He hears them echo within the city and slowly beyond. Before his senses stretch further he falls to slumber. Ignorant of the voices that spread throughout the world.