Chapter Five: Dance with the Devil
Aizawa's eyes flickered from Hizashi's mutilated skin to the medical supplies spilled out onto the floor. There were brow tweezers, embroidery needles, a spool of thread, old crunchy gauze in an opened packet, and a sample size tube of Neosporin. It was a cruel joke at best. Air caught in Aizawa's throat. His chest tightened until he was sure he couldn't breathe. Aizawa clutched at his shirt collar that felt too tight around his neck.
"This is barbaric," said Aizawa as struggled to take a satisfying breath.
Aizawa picked up a rusted needle. It was an infection waiting to happen.
"I'll kill him if I use this shit," muttered Aizawa as he started to tremble. The needle slipped from his shaking fingers.
"You need to try," said Vlad, "you're his best shot at survival."
"I don't know what I'm doing," said Aizawa desperately.
"This is why you pay attention in first aide courses," said Vlad sternly, "now take the tweezers and debride the wound."
It was tedious work, but Aizawa slowly collected a pile of pine needles, pebbles, and necrotic flesh. He was grateful that Hizashi was unconscious. Otherwise the man would probably be screaming as Aizawa dug and sifted through bloody chunks of skin, fat, and muscle.
"I got as much as I could," said Aizawa, but what he truly needed was a saline irrigation.
"No disinfectant?" asked Vlad, and Aizawa shook his head sullenly. Vlad exhaled sharply and said, "keep going – we just have to do our best."
Vlad continued to provide instruction from across the room. It took a few tries to thread the needle with the tremors in his fingers, but Aizawa finally pulled the thread through the eye of the needle. Aizawa took a deep breath as he lined up the needle at the base of the wound. He clenched his teeth and sank the needle into the skin. Aizawa gagged when he saw the needle come out the other side. Bile surged up his throat, but he swallowed and kept breathing through his burning nostrils. He slipped the needle under and up through the adjacent severed edge and tied off the first suture with a triple knot. He repeated this process for what felt like an eternity.
Aizawa wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. The sutures were amateur and ugly. He was sure they would leave an unsightly scar. When the entire length of the gash had been stitched back together, the bleeding finally slowed. Aizawa applied the ointment and bandages as instructed by Vlad.
"Do you think he'll make it?" muttered Aizawa as he finally sat back and let feeling return to his tingling legs.
"He'll survive the night at the very least," said Vlad with a gruff sigh. He was finally able to sit down after overseeing the process for half an hour.
Aizawa just nodded, and he closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about what awaited them throughout their imprisonment. He didn't want to think about the possibility that Hizashi might not wake up again – or that complications might arise due to the unsanitary conditions.
Vlad watched Aizawa awkwardly through a long stretch of silence. Now that Hizashi was stable – Vlad tried to address the act of violence he had witnessed in these very cells less than an hour ago. Aizawa had been thrown to the floor and raped a mere ten feet away from Vlad, but Aizawa acted as if nothing had happened. If Vlad hadn't been able to see the blood streaking across Aizawa's face, he would have doubted that his memories had even happened. Aizawa had regained composure almost instantly as if waking from a bad dream – and ever since he was as calm and as expressionless as always. If he felt even the slightest bit of trauma, Vlad would never be able to tell.
"Aizawa…" started Vlad, but Aizawa didn't answer, "you could use the bandages and ointment on yourself, too, you know…if you need it."
Vlad heard the click of teeth that exposed Aizawa's immediate impatience with the topic.
"I don't," said Aizawa evenly with his eyes still closed.
"If you want to talk – "
"I don't."
"Aizawa – "
"No shame in a quick fuck, right Vlad?" said Aizawa in neutral tones. He sank deeper against the plastic wall, crossed his arms, and tried to find a comfortable position to fall asleep.
"Whatever," grunted Vlad. He decisively ignored the passive aggressive callback to his words from breakfast earlier that day. Vlad turned his back to Aizawa and rolled over on to his side. He didn't have the energy to deal with Aizawa's surly remarks. Years of experience had taught Vlad that caring about this man would only cause him pain, and yet he kept coming back for more.
"I was just trying to help," muttered Vlad.
"I don't need your help," said Aizawa.
And that was that. There were no more words exchanged through the uncomfortably tense atmosphere, and time passed slowly in the silence and heat. It could have been hours, but there was no way to tell.
Then, just as Aizawa had begun to fade in and out of sleep, the door at the top of the steps opened and two silhouettes passed through the blinding rectangle of white light.
"Stain never mentioned anything about taking prisoners," said one voice descending into the darkness.
"Stain never mentioned a lot of shit," said another.
A billowing cloud of smoke preceded the visitors. Aizawa caught the all too familiar scent of Sobraine cigarettes. It was an expensive brand of sweet smelling tobacco that made his heart race and his palms sweat. Aizawa had avoided that scent for ten years.
"Giran," breathed Aizawa before the man appeared in the halo of flickering light.
Suddenly, the ghosts in his sensory systems sent him careening back through time and distant memories. The prison faded away, and he could have sworn that he saw a beam of sunlight beckoning him deeper into his past.
The little shop was bright and cozy. Aizawa had gotten up particularly early that Sunday morning to visit the café down the street from UA. It was his first time back in the vicinity since graduation. His hair was brushed and pulled back out of his face. He had found a button-up shirt that was wasn't wrinkled – a pair of pants that were just tight enough to be enticing. He pulled at the collar of his shirt and thumbed at the rim of the steaming latte before him.
"Waiting for someone?" asked the male barista behind the counter.
Aizawa looked around to see whom the barista could be talking to. He was the sole customer in the café this early in the morning, and so his eyes finally flickered to the man drying coffee mugs with a rag. A friendly gaze looked back at him, and Aizawa nodded stiffly.
"A date?" asked the man with a wink.
Aizawa blushed and looked back at his latte while he nodded.
"I thought so – given your fine attire," said the man with a light chuckle.
Aizawa was too nervous to speak, and so he just nodded in affirmations while he stared out the window with growing nerves.
"Anyways, today is my first day working here. Let me know if you need more cream or sugar. I'm trying to get the balance just right," said the man as he turned away to work at a smudge on the metal of the shiny espresso machine.
Aizawa looked down as the cute little leaf pattern decorating the foam of his latte. It seemed to have cooled down enough to drink, and so Aizawa brought the cup to his lips to take a sip. It was sweet and warm, but the caffeine didn't make his blood rush. Instead, he felt like the world was starting to slow down. An aftertaste blossomed on his soft palate – something astringent and harsh.
"…taste like…somethin' doesn'…" slurred Aizawa as his tongue went numb and his brain went fuzzy. The edges of his vision blurred.
The cup fell from his fingers. Ceramic shattered on the floor. Aizawa started to sway, but the man behind the counter appeared by his side and caught him under the arms. He smelled like tobacco. The man dragged Aizawa towards the kitchen door. Just before passing out, Aizawa saw a smeared trail of blood on the floor behind the counter – the true barista was face down on the floor and hastily hidden from view.
Aizawa opened his mouth to call for help, but nothing came out and the café disappeared.
"It's been a while, Shouta," rumbled Giran, "you look like you've seen a ghost."
Aizawa jolted out of his reverie. His eyes refocused on the broad-shouldered man standing just on the other side of the transparent sheet of plastic. His hair was all grey now compared to the salt and pepper of decades past. The curling crocodile smile was as white and gleaming as ever. His penchant for odd colors, gaudy gold rings, and tailored suits remained. Aside from the new lines that carved out time on his face, Giran had hardly changed.
"Don't call me that," breathed Aizawa.
The black market broker raised one grey brow in bemusement.
"You're not in a position to barter, Shouta," he said.
Giran peered through the plastic with shark dead eyes. Aizawa felt his skin crawl where Giran focused his gaze. Finishing his inspection of the bloody disarray, Giran huffed and lit another cigarette.
"Shouldn't have let Shigaraki come down here alone," muttered Giran over his shoulder.
Finally, his companion stepped into the light. Aizawa caught the glint of blue eyes shining in the darkness before the man stepped into the light.
"I told you he would lose his temper," said Dabi as he picked at something stuck in his teeth.
"Lesson learned," said Giran as he lifted the latch to Aizawa and Hizashi's shared cell, "Shigaraki said that he was goaded into it though."
"Doesn't take a lot," muttered Dabi as he inspected the speck of food he had retrieved under his fingernail.
"I thought our Shouta would have been more well behaved this time around, so I suppose this was a teachable moment for everyone – don't you think, Shouta?" asked Giran.
Aizawa didn't answer. He hated the way his name sounded in Giran's mouth – all false charm and cloying paternalism.
Giran let the door swing open and beckoned for Aizawa to stand and follow suit. Aizawa was rooted in place, unable to will his body into movement.
"You make things hard on yourself, Shouta," chided Giran from the other side of the barrier, "if you would just stop and think before you played at being a hero…life would be so much easier."
Aizawa felt heat rising in his cheeks. Whether it was shame, anger, or fear – he couldn't tell.
"Let's go," said Giran easily with his crocodile smile forever plastered across his leathery skin. Aizawa didn't move.
"Where are you taking him?" demanded Vlad, but he went unanswered.
Giran sighed and gestured for Dabi to intervene.
Dabi nodded and stepped over Hizashi. He hooked one hand under Aizawa's armpit and lifted Aizawa to his feet. Aizawa groaned as his injuries protested the sudden movement. Dabi guided him forward by the elbow, and Aizawa didn't fight this time. Aizawa staggered after Dabi, but his eyes trailed back to Hizashi. He looked pallid and frail crumpled on the floor. The door to the cell shut between them with a bang, but Hizashi still wouldn't wake up.
"He needs a blood transfusion," said Aizawa under his breath so that only Giran and Dabi could hear him.
"Do your part, and then we'll worry about keeping your friends alive," said Giran with a heavy pat on Aizawa's back that sent Aizawa stumbling forward.
"They need food and water," continued Aizawa quietly as he stared up at the daunting set of stairs that led to the exit. He was already out of breath just thinking about the physical exertion in his deteriorating condition.
"Of course," said Giran amicably as he nudged Aizawa forward.
Aizawa winced as he lifted his leg and pain rippled over his raw skin under his pants. He kept going, slowly but surely, until they reached the top of the steps.
"They need decent living conditions," breathed Aizawa harshly. He leaned against the railing for support as his chest heaved for air.
Giran took out a key and unlocked the door.
"We'll see if you're worth the resources," said Giran plainly.
It was always about trade and fair value with this underground dealer – but Aizawa had only his body, his blood, and his life to barter.
The door opened. Bright white light blinded him, and Aizawa stepped forward to meet his fate. He could barely see as his eyes adjusted, but the air was cool and fresh. They walked down a long hallway with Giran and Dabi on either side of Aizawa to keep him on a straight path. Just as his vision cleared, Aizawa was guided into a small room. It was barren and bleached like a sanatorium. There was one rusted and raised hospital bed next to a tray of instruments and a chair.
"Lay down," said Giran.
Aizawa grimaced as he sat and rolled onto his back. He held out his inner arm and waited. Giran smiled at Aizawa's obedience and unwrapped a syringe from the tray. He stabbed the needle into the fleshy part of Aizawa's shoulder and emptied the contents until Aizawa's shoulder ached with pressure. Aizawa instantly felt something warming in his veins.
"Antidote," said Giran simply as he pulled the chair up to Aizawa's bedside. Aizawa peered over to get a better look at the simplistic packaging of the antidote. He wondered if the antidote was strictly necessary to restore quirks, or if their quirks would restore naturally over time and the antidote just hurried the process. If he were ever going to escape, he would need Hizashi's and Vlad's quirks working.
Giran proceeded with a smug smirk as if he were acutely aware of Aizawa plotting. He paid no mind and attached a vial to the end of an obviously used needle in a few practiced movements. He positioned Aizawa's arm and pierced the vein with expert precision.
"Activate your quirk," said Giran. It had been discovered long ago that the compound in his blood was fleeting.
Aizawa blinked a few times in an effort to wet his eyes, but they remained dry and aching. He inhaled and his vision turned red. He felt tendrils of floating hair brushing softly against his cheeks and temples. The pain grew in his retinas until he thought he could feel burning through his optic nerve. Aizawa blinked and his quirk stopped.
"Keep going," said Giran.
Aizawa scrunched his eyes shut to alleviate the sting across his cornea. He took another deep breath and turned on his quirk. His eyes watered under the strain – but his quirk faltered inevitably once again. He brought his free hand up to rub at his eyes. He desperately needed his eye drops.
"Shouta," Giran warned lightly, "don't play games with me."
"My endurance isn't what it used to be," muttered Aizawa. In his youth, his quirk had seemed endless, but his body was getting old and years of battle had worn him down. Especially now, he was faint with hunger and thirst while his blood was being slowly drained. His stamina had never been as low as it was right now.
"If you want Present Mic and Vlad King to live – you'll try harder," said Giran, "otherwise we'll find other ways to motivate you."
Giran nodded to Dabi, and the arsonist stepped forward with a crooked smirk that made his piercings glint in the light. Dabi performed a lazy, two-fingered salute with blue flames licking over the skin on his hand. The threat of torture by fire made Aizawa's heart skip. Primal instinct activated his quirk instantly, and Dabi's flames went out. Aizawa used his fear as inspiration – a fear of fire, a fear of death, a fear of failing to save his friend. For the next ten minutes, Aizawa's eyes flickered rapidly between red and black as he fought to keep his quirk active. Tears of overuse streamed down his temples and drew pale lines through the dried blood on his skin.
Finally, after switching through multiple vials, Giran withdrew the needle and set it down haphazardly. He pressed a bit of gauze into Aizawa's inner elbow while Aizawa clutched at his searing eyes. It burned as if someone had thrown acid in his face. He hardly noticed the gentle, paternal pat on his shoulder.
"You worked hard for me, Shouta," said Giran softly.
Aizawa was dizzy and couldn't quite tell if that gentle praise was coming from the past or the present. Something nagged at his dreary mind. There was something important in the present.
"Hizashi," groaned Aizawa through the pain in an effort to remind Giran of their previous conversations. He heard someone suck their teeth in response across the room.
"Do you think you've earned his keep?" asked Giran absent mindedly as he focused on proper storage of the blood vials.
"If I haven't yet, then I will – just tell me what you want from me," said Aizawa in earnest.
"I want less mouths to feed," muttered Dabi, and Giran chuckled in acknowledgement, "we have what we need right here, Giran."
Aizawa's stomach flipped as he felt his bartering power slipping through his fingers. He had been so passive. He had gone along with this painful process too easily in hopes that he could curry their favor – but it just made their lives easier while he had nothing to show for it. His mind scrambled for answers, but his fear was growing exponentially. He felt hopeless, and then it clicked.
"If one of them dies, I'll kill myself," said Aizawa suddenly.
Both men turned to look at him. Giran sighed and Dabi exhaled a burst of laughter.
"Prove it," said Dabi eagerly. His eyes flickered with excitement as he leaned forward to watch.
"Don't encourage him," grunted Giran, "do you know how difficult Shouta was last time? We had to gag him to keep him from biting through his own tongue. I don't want to deal with his shit again."
Aizawa felt the tides turning in his favor.
"I'll behave," said Aizawa with dizzying earnest. He wasn't sure he would get another chance to persuade them, "food, water, medicine, and decent living conditions. I'll make your job easy. I'll be good."
Giran laughed and said, "I never thought I'd hear Shouta Aizawa promising to be good for me – but I'm not the one you need to convince."
Aizawa's stomach dropped. Shigaraki was the leader of the League, and Aizawa dreaded another encounter with that psychotic lunatic. Then Giran gestured to Dabi, who offered another two-fingered salute.
"I'll be gone more often that not to oversee the production lines – Dabi is taking the lead on this front," said Giran with that awful smile as he headed towards the door – taking Hizashi's best shot at survival with him.
Aizawa took a deep breath as he racked his mind for an ideal strategy. Giran would have been an easy target to manipulate. He knew that old man like the back of his hand. Shigaraki would have been a nightmare, but at least he brought medical supplies in the first place. Dabi was an unpredictable variable that seemed dead set on letting his companions die, and that scared Aizawa more than the leader of the League.
"Good luck," said Giran as he offered a thumbs up before disappearing through the door in a cloud of smoke.
"Well isn't this romantic," said Dabi with a tilted smile cutting across his scar tissue, "it's just the two of us now."
Aizawa opened his mouth to start negotiations, but Dabi brought a finger to his grotesque lips and made a shushing sound. Aizawa shut his mouth and clenched his jaw while Dabi started to prowl. The newly appointed warden circled around the edge of the room like a jungle cat stalking his prey. His gaze seemed hungry and wanting. Nerves made Aizawa's esophagus flutter and his stomach acid burned up his chest. The silence stretched on while Dabi watched him from afar. Eventually, Dabi wet his lips to speak.
"Brought together by the League, we all work towards a common goal, but we each possess radically different values," started Dabi, "Giran has gotten soft in his old age; he likes easy projects and doesn't mind wasting money on a bit of convenience."
Dabi stepped towards the center of the room. In the bright light, Aizawa could see the gruesome burns and scar tissue with more clarity. His gag reflex triggered, but he kept his face neutral.
"But I, on the other hand, don't mind a challenge," said Dabi softly, "I don't mind putting in the additional effort to break a fighting spirit."
Aizawa swallowed nervously against the dryness desiccating his mouth. He had nothing of value to offer this man. Aizawa broke eye contact and looked down at the floor. He only had his body, but what was that compared to the infinite value of Hizashi's life? Still, Aizawa knew resolutely that he had to try. And so, blindly, he reached out and hooked his finger around Dabi's foremost belt loop. He tugged gently and kept his eyes focused downwards.
"I'll make you feel good," breathed Aizawa in a last ditch effort at group survival. He heard the quick exhalation of air through Dabi's nostrils as the bemused man followed the pull at his waist. He took a few steps closer to Aizawa's bedside, and Aizawa continued, "I'll be whatever you want. You can use me. You can break me. Just please…please…"
"You're offering to let me fuck you?" asked Dabi with a chuckle, "You realize I don't need your goddamn fucking permission, right?"
"I know," said Aizawa – his breath hitched, "but you have it, unless you don't want it."
Dabi hummed in contemplation. Aizawa thought he could feel those eyes boring into his soul through the top of his head. What Aizawa actually felt was Dabi's growing erection twitch against his fingers through rough black jeans. Aizawa's brows cringed together as pain shot through his core to remind him that his body wasn't ready to play these games again. Then, Dabi grabbed Aizawa's palm and pressed it flat against the too hot bulge in his jeans.
"Shigaraki wasn't enough for you then?" asked Dabi as he rolled his hips pointedly, "fucking greedy, aren't you?"
Aizawa's eyes widened with nerves. Dabi just kept growing under his palm and well exceed the length of his hand. Dire apprehension made his chest tight and his throat narrow.
"I heard he fucking ripped you apart – but you still want to bleed all over my cock don't you?" murmured Dabi – the lewd obscenity suddenly spilled from his lips like honey, "you want me to ruin you too, hero? You want to play at being a shameless little slut for me?"
Aizawa flinched at the graphic accusations. He wasn't entirely shameless – in fact, shame crackled over his skin like an electric current – but his shame didn't matter. He had people to save.
"I do – I want you," forced Aizawa through the tension in his throat in his best attempt at a submissive plea.
"Good," he muttered. Dabi seemed pleased as he let his head lull back to the side and continued to rut slow circles against Aizawa's hand. Aizawa couldn't stop the blush that returned a wash of color to his pale, clammy skin. Dabi was massive – disproportional to his lean and lanky form. It made Aizawa desperately regret his appointed warden. Yes, Shigaraki had made him beg and plead – made him feel intense, momentary pain – but in the end, Shigaraki was just an arrogant child with a similar disposition to Vlad. It was nothing that Aizawa couldn't handle, but he was starting to believe that the true devil resided within the arsonist before him. Those cold blue eyes were death incarnate.
Eventually, Dabi let Aizawa's hand fall away as he closed the distance between them. Dabi bent forward until the hair on their foreheads just brushed. He lifted Aizawa's chin with one forefinger until Aizawa was forced to meet his gaze.
"You know, I always wanted a pet," said Dabi with a smile that didn't match those lifeless eyes, "When I was young, I always loved playing with those small, stupid creatures."
Aizawa's stomach churned.
"But father never let me keep the ones I brought home after the first few died," said Dabi softly.
A chill ran down Aizawa's spine.
"I didn't realize that fur was so flammable," said Dabi as his forefinger caught fire beneath Aizawa's chin, "not at first anyways."
Aizawa's eyes widened and flickered red just before the heat of the flame could burn his skin, but his beard was singed and the smell of burnt hair fouled the air. Within seconds, his quirk shut off as searing pain shot through his temples. Aizawa jerked back with his palms pressed into his eyes.
Dabi grabbed a fistful of Aizawa's hair and tilted Aizawa's head back with a yank. He pulled Aizawa's hands away from his eyes and waited for Aizawa's eyes to peel open through the pain. Their eyes met again, and Dabi smiled affectionately.
"But father isn't here, so I think I'll keep you for a while," he murmured.
Like a frightened rabbit with it's leg caught in a trap, fear thrummed in Aizawa's veins. His rapid heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He swallowed thickly, but he couldn't look away from the monster that wanted to play.