Chapter 16 Core

He failed.

And he failed.

And he failed again.

He failed without meaning to, and he failed mercilessly.

Now, another growling day had passed with no success. No little girl in his arms on the street, or baby-snoring in the car seat in the back, snuggling a stuffed fox, or tiger, or horse. All he had to hold onto at the end of every failed hour was Eri's purple jacket and her matted tiger, Shaka.

And now, Eri had run from him just as he had his mother at eighteen. He had deduced that in the dark hours of the night, ungreeted by stars. He had taught Eri how to use a phone—landline, cell, and payphone—and taught her how to ask for help at a police or fire department. By four in the morning, he had been forced off the road by a policeman who noticed his car speeding and swerving in a residential area. No ticket, but the fellow community hero caught note of Shota's sleep-deprived blackouts and emotional torment as they spoke. Shota gave him a picture of Eri—her first school picture—with the intention of asking if he had seen her around town. The policeman shook his head, but assured the pro-hero that he would search immediately. Shota thanked him. The policeman made him swear to keep off the road for a bit, get some shut-eye, eat, and then continue the search. Only once he was physically able. Shota agreed, but pulled over by another park's curb to close his eyes for an hour. Most.

He slept until nine, forced awake only by the protest of his stomach.

As he got another triple-shot at the nearest drive-thru coffeeshop, and gave another call to Nezu, he could only pray that Eri was not getting into as much trouble as he had during his time on the streets. Where could a five-year-old truly go without being spotted?

At her core, somehow, she truly was his daughter. God's version of irony, he suspected. He could almost laugh, but all that would come out would be dry and pitiful-sounding. Besides, laughter was locked by his failure as a parent. With Eri gone… He could hardly fathom that phrase anymore. It was too real. He had been searching for days on end, but…everything was becoming too real too soon.

Eri's unknowing absence from his life held potential linked to his numbed heart—the incessant alone that caused the spouts of self-destruction, the bed-hopping from Midnight to Chi, and the habitual overwork he submitted himself to every day. The addictive distractions, the avoidance, the overflow, the overindulgence, the undernourishment, the uncaring, the defensive-and-dismissive, the ill-fated confrontations.

God, he had been a mess, and still was, in a way. Just when he thought his shattered pieces finally learned how to fit again. But the broken parts had only been glued over, forced to match where they simply cannot anymore.

But now was the time to alleviate that. He had to. For her. For him. He had to break that link for the sake of them. Break the cycle—like he had his family's heirlooms of children's exposure to drug and alcohol addiction, of familial abuse and abandonment, of lies and false claims of love and support. His grandparents had tried, but his mother fell victim to the all-over-again. But he broke it to all hell—him and Eri did.

Or…he tried. He hardly knew anymore.

The gray loomed closer every hour of the day, and he watched it. His world dulled with each blink of the eye. He did not know if he could outrun it this time. There was no way, if Eri evaded his glance forever, if his careless caused her harm or death, he would not survive. That would do it. All the times he rose would diminish because of this time that he would surely fall, tucked in, eyes closed, without any limbs or sights to be told otherwise. That would be fine.

But that would wait. The only thing he did know was that he had to keep going, keep trying. Stubbornness was in his blood, tangled in his DNA. He could be stubborn just as much as he could be selfless. Eri deserved his stubbornness right now. Hearing her I-hate-yous would be far better than never hearing her voice again. Exhaustion was better than submission to that gray while she was out there, at the mercy of this urban jungle of Musutafu. The gray had to wait. It had to.

Turning down the nearest street, he scanned from alleyway to store to planter and bench for a head of white-blue hair and massive crimson eyes. Nowhere to be seen was his baby girl who required his expressions of love first thing in the morning and last thing at night, who scarfed down everything he cooked, but refused bell peppers, unless butchered to crumbs.

Back to the details.

She wiggled her nose once, like a rabbit, when she tried to lie. And when she did lie, she could never lie for long: her eyes would water, her voice would wobble, and she would correct herself in a mumbled apology without reaching out for comfort. Instead she would drop her chin to her chest and silently dread whatever she imagined would come next. As if she deserved the death penalty or worse. Shota could never think to scold her for that—just a warm hug and some encouragement.

What else… She liked having her hair braided, especially with ribbons or flower-clips. The drag of a comb through damp and conditioned hair lulled her to sleep, even while she sat upon her father's leg. She loved fried chicken, along with apples and miso ramen, but only when boneless. Spicy foods turned her nose pink, and heavily-sauced foods always ended up staining her hair for hours. Her one allergy: grapefruit.

His phone exploded into song, the vibration rattling the cupholder. It took another few rattles to alert him. Without checking, he dragged his thumb across the green icon. "Heya."

"BRUH!"

Shota recoiled, pulling the phone from his ear. "Ow, fuckin'… What d'ya want? I'm busy."

"Lay off the bite, brutha! I'm vibin', socks off and all, at your complex!" The speaker gave a series of short screeches against the volume of the other teacher/pro-hero's Voice. "What'd you and the Babyzawa call it?"

"Not now, Mic." Shota, wincing, rubbed the outside of his beating ear.

"Oh, the A.B.C!"

"Mic, not now!" The uncharacteristic quiet on the other end caused a churn of guilt to torment his stomach. He and Mic had had rough times together—the latter had bullied him ruthlessly during the first half of their U.A. days, they argued and fought like dogs, Shota kept secrets and found excuses to build more walls, Mic never knew what to say and opted out of even asking at times. There was enough fault to go around. But they never left each other for long. Hard times come with being best friends. "I'm sorry. Eri's…" He could barely say it today. "I'm looking for her, still—I've been looking for… I don't know."

Present Mic gave a sound of disappointment. "I'm… That's rough, bud."

"That hardly covers it."

"Yeah… Yeah."

"What'd you call me for? On with it."

"Just wanted to check on you, I guess. You sure you don't want me to come out there to help you look?"

"I search better solo. It's like work, I guess. I just need to focus. But… I can't. But I can't stop either."

"Yeah. I hear ya. Well, you know you can do it. Keep going. But…"

"But? But what?"

"Come on back. To your complex." Shota opened his mouth to protest. "You need some rest. If not, then at least a meal."

On normal circumstances, Shota would smirk as if Mic was right there in the car with him. But today…almost everything that came out of his mouth was toneless. "You consider your attempt to cook to be a meal?"

"Shut up, man. Just come back and eat something."

"I am eating—"

"Not coffee. Coffee isn't a meal. When was the last time you took your meds?" Shota winced. The silence said it all. "Exactly. I'll see you in fifteen."

Shota nearly protested again: "But…" But, already knowing to expect another protest or excuse, Mic had already hung up to emphasize his point. Death-gripping his cell, Shota growled, "Mic, damn it."

##

Despite all the rocks in the road for the two of them, Shota knew Mic's worry for him—stemming from Shirakumo's death, and Shota's refusal to mourn—came from a good place. He truly did. And he knew it would not change any time soon. Sometimes the best Mic could do was sit near him, in silence, and that would be enough for Shota. Other times, it was all screaming and dragging and encouraging alcoholic behavior and casual sex.

Shota considered it a blessing and a curse that Mic knew nothing of his homeless affairs, and the rehab and therapy that followed. Knowing and knowing it was too late for him to help would destroy him, Shota deduced. He would break down, call himself a "shit-friend," and who knows what will pull him back out. Again, Mic just wanted to help, and Shota respected him for it.

But right now, he wanted to punch him. Glancing between his best friend and Midnight, he was suddenly conscious of the sallow hue of exhaustion on his skin, of the days-old deodorant under his arms, of the stench of coffee-after-coffee in his frizzing hair.

Mic gave a labored chuckle. "What's the name of that look, Plus Ultra homeless chic?" A joke they had passed around since high school. Shota was sure they would laugh about all this later. But right now, hell no. The joke arose an offended scowl to his brow, and nearly caused Mic's spiraled eyes to dilate. Beside Present Mic and Midnight were two bags of fast-food breakfast, complemented by the jug of orange juice from the fridge. On cue, Shota's stomach growled across the space.

The space he realized only because of Eri's absence. He dragged his eyes up to meet his best friend's. Not Midnight's. He knew what would reside in those deceitful blue irises. He just got free of their spell. "What're you trying to do?"

Thankfully, Mic understood. "That aside, you should eat. That was my main plan, but… you know."

Shota frowned harder. "No. I don't—"

"Just sit. Please."

Midnight nearly gasped. It was the first time she had ever seen Yamada frown. The tension between the two men caused her to go forward and grab Shota's baggy sleeve to pull to the food. "Come on, Eraser."

"Don't," Shota cut in, moving his arm of her grasp. "Don't touch me."

Mic snatched his wrist and force-pulled him down to sit at one end of the kotatsu. "I ain't here for a tantrum. Shota." He fumbled through the bags, placing paper-wrapped food on the table.

"And I ain't here for a pity meal and a pity fuck. Hizashi." Shota crossed his legs into a pretzel tangle, running a hand through his hair. Dude and Sushi rubbed against his leg and back in greeting. "Hey, guys. Sorry."

As he spoke, he heard Mic mutter to Midnight. "Figures. The only ones he nice to are his cats." When a sharp glare was sent, the Voice Hero put up his hands in defense. He placed a sausage and egg sandwich, a chicken biscuit sandwich, two hash browns, and a full cup of orange juice and a mug of coffee in front of the Erasure Hero. "Actually…" Mic took away the coffee.

"Are you trying to get your head torn off?" Shota deadpanned.

"By the smell of you, you don't need any more coffee."

"Isn't that how Eraser took down his first villain after graduation?" Midnight reminisced, serving herself and Mic. "The guy slapped the coffee from his hand. Or was it liquor?"

"Either way," Mic huffed. "But yeah. You don't fuck with the man's morning pot and night juice."

Shota stared at the food, starving but nauseous. "I appreciate this. And I'm sorry to worry you, and cause you to do all this for me. But really, it's not necessary." Hearing them reminisce gave him a piece of normal, of the before-Eri times, and of…peace. But the nausea reminded him that the house was eighty-percent empty.

At that, both Mic and Midnight smiled. The Voice Hero studied the deepened bags under Shota's eyes, the dying waves of his hair that collapsed straight from exhaustion and nights sleeping in the car, and the sunken look of his cheeks that screamed for food. Not that Shota had been one to take care of himself aesthetically before, but even the DJ could tell Eri's presence had broken some of Shota's habits of appearing homeless. Now, a complete one-eighty and then some sat across the kotatsu from him, and it made his stomach drop. "Any time. Now, eat before your corpse feeds your cats."

"Aye aye." He half-heartedly reached for one of the breakfast sandwiches, but instead went for the orange juice. "How much?"

"A comatose nap," Mic said, biting into his egg and sausage burrito.

Midnight scooped a chunk of scrambled egg, spinach, and bacon into her mouth. "And a firehose shower."

Shota inhaled the first sandwich and juice, though he barely tasted either. Mic slid his medication case to him. "Sorry, I didn't notice, really. Is it really bad?" He was already moving back away from the table, from them.

Mic scooted closer to him. "It's nothing like that one time when Sensoji did the three-mile run without deodorant. Remember that?"

Shota rolled his eyes. "He was chasing me. How could I remember that if I was in front of him?"

Midnight wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Oh, I forgot about him. He goes by Mr. Blaster now. Guess the name stuck. Yeah, he was a huge bully."

"Massive bully," Present Mic added. "Even I was scared of him!"

Shota tuned the rest of it out. Between the stress of Eri's disappearance and the sudden consumption of solid food—and a lot of it, after days of just coffee—caused his stomach to throw its hands up like, What the hell are you eating?! He could barely stomach the scent of the food, or the acidic remnants of the orange juice on his tongue. But that mattered little. Eri was out there—out there in the city. The same city that not long ago completely and utterly contributed to his self-destructive streak when he ran away from home the moment he graduated from U.A. Eri was a child still, but the streets could be unkind, if not blind. She had to know that, had to, to a degree.

He prayed to the Lord in his head, begging for a clue, a trail, something, vowing to do all the right things when Eri returned to him, vowing to learn from the wrong things he had done and will do in his efforts for perfection. He prayed until he stuttered in the voiceless realms of his mind. But he kept on for Eri. That was his refined motto: for Eri, for Eri, for Eri. He thought he had devoted himself to it before, but his daughter's disappearance proved to test the thinning rope of his promise.

"…ta! Shota Aizawa, hello!" Both of his colleagues stared at him as if he had sprouted horns. But by the thickness in his nose and eyes, he knew they saw a fraction of the mourning and ruin that lay within. But knowing himself, he was confident that had only chanced a glimpse. If even. He looked between them, trying to fathom their words that sounded submerged.

"I'm gonna shower. I'm heading back out after. And no, I'm not arguing this with you." He stood and made his way to the staircase. "Thanks for coming by. Stay as long as you want." In his room, a non-cluttered master bedroom with the curtains drawn and the bed properly made from days ago, the air seemed to turn its keen attention on him, slipping around him like a stalking snake, but never coming close enough for him to breathe it. The silence closed in on him, hissing, as he stared at the bed, a little strand of white hair on one of the vintage pillowcases on the side where Eri would sneak in.

He turned into the tiled room and took a numb shower.

By the time Shota got to the stairs again, he heard the others bickering in the kitchen. "See?" Midnight said, sounding victorious in a hushed way. A wide smile in her voice. "In the end, he did need me."

Present Mic screeched at her, "It was my idea! You don't get the credit and the D, girl! Not cool!" They saw him after another two rounds of comebacks and witty remarks, but it was far too late. Mic spoke first: "Shit."

"Y'know what?" Shota's expression drained of anything less than settled rage. The other two, hearing this, turned to him. Only Mic knew what was coming. "Forget that I ever thanked you, either of you. Forget that I ever gave you two a chance."

"Shota, listen—"

"Just fuck the whole thing." Shota never moved his gaze from his best friend, remembering why, after all these years, Yamada remained a friend. Never a brother. "Fuck the entire bloody thing 'cause I'm done."

Midnight groaned in annoyance as Mic backed away from the two of them. "You had a moment of weakness. Duh, you're human! We all are! It's fine—"

"And you loved it, didn't you?" Shota accused, breathless. "You may not understand what I'm going through right now, or any of the other shit I've dealt with. But you are not going to keep making me look stupid. Especially now. Now."

Present Mic tried to come to him, but he turned to find his keys under days of unattended mail and whatever the hell else built up on the side table. "You heard something you weren't supposed to. And besides, we were only joking around!"

"Glad we're back on the 'joking' again, Hizashi," Shota said, moving past the other pro-hero to search elsewhere for the damn keys. "Now get out of my face before I joke my fist into yours."

Present Mic insisted, following his best friend to the other side of the room. Anger built up in his own person, heating his face to a rising red. "You know, I thought we were passed that!"

"—I did, too."

"—But you're bringing it back up now?!"

"What, and you're fucking with me now? You must be real high or just plain stupid!"

"Excuse me, Aizawa!" Midnight stormed over to them, though never coming close enough in case either of them shoved or threw a fist. She needed space for her Quirk to work in its full effect. "What makes the possibility of us so stupid that you can just say that kind of bullshit?!"

Shota glanced at her for only a bit. "I told you: it's over. Move on."

Midnight hissed, getting closer to him, "Sorry I don't have the same dismissive luxury that you do!"

Present Mic budded in. "Can't your pity party wait?! Our friendship is at stake here because you can't keep your wet ideas to yourself!"

"You're blaming me?!" Midnight retorted. "You're the one with the one-and-only friend complex!"

"—acting like a whore!"

"—wallowing along like a little bitch, Hizashi!"

"I can't believe you would even try to put this entire thing on me!"

"—Always the victim! You came crying to me that he wouldn't fuck you! I'm trying to help my homies out with one shot!"

"Bullshit! Get your insecurities out of—"

Shota slammed the kitchen drawer shut—unsure how it even got there, but uncaring at the moment: "Will you shut up?!"—and faced them with an expression that demanded compliant silence. "My God, you're delusional! You both come in here, completely aware that my five-year-old traumatized daughter has been missing in God-fuckin'-knows-where for days; but neither of you even stopped to think, 'hey, maybe this isn't the day to screw with Eraser's feelings' because, surprise—I have feelings! Unlike y'all, I'm trying to finally deal with my emotions, and accept them, and turn myself around again for the sake of someone I love, and for the sake of me! Take your goddamn problems somewhere else!"

Neither Present Mic nor Midnight dared move or speak.

"I don't have time for you two. Well, I do. But the thing is, I don't want to have the time for either of you. Everything I have, and everything I am," Shota emphasized, eyes watery, but fiery, "goes straight to my daughter, especially right now. Understand that. She needs me," he concluded, nearly defeated in the way his tone dropped low. He turned to leave, storming toward the door. "And I need her."