He's cold, he thinks. Or maybe he's warm.
Small, and helpless and wet like a drowned dog.
He scratches like one - tears skin with jagged nails.
And maybe it's self-hatred, that – that bloody wound gouged in his neck.
Maybe it's self-hatred, that – that unwashed hair and empty diet.
He eats, has everything he could ever want, really, but he's empty.
Cold.
Hot.
Like blood cooling on the floor.
Wet.
Staining his knees, his hands, his soul.
The blood cakes under his fingernails as a gruesome reminder and he scratches, scratches, scratches because maybe if it's his blood he wouldn't have to remember.
Father, mother, sister.
Wouldn't have to remember – blood, cool, warm.
The smell of rot, decay.
Dangerous, they called him, always so dangerous – him.
Child him, small him, with hands like weapons. Portable hand grenades, him, who blew up in their faces.
Sometimes, it makes him laugh.
Dangerous little thing that he is he couldn't even last a day without them.
But they're gone, aren't they? Embracing him like they ever cared at all.
Gone, really, him.
But wrapping around him like a blanket.
And he hates because it's so easy to. He hates because it hurts not to. It hurts to stop and think and wonder - does Sensei really even love me?
No, don't think that. That's weak, that, that traitorous little child in him.
Him, broken him.
Just a small drowned dog searching for a bone.
Manipulated, him, he knows it – wishes he was strong enough to resist soft touches and promises of salvation.
Child, him, they call him, and he wonders how horrifying the inner workings of his brain would look. Wonders if psychologists would have a field day with it. Him, who's both 20-years-old and 5 and not at all what he's meant to be.
He hates, furious him, wonders if he hates himself the most, really.
Furious, him, about what they did to him. Hates because it's so easy to after the life he's had.
The things he's seen – furious, he thinks he's justified, really.
Blame's such a fickle thing but he's rather good at placing it.
The world's to blame for him, it's quite clearly to blame. Made him just the way he is so it doesn't have the right to complain. Him, hateful, him scratch, scratch, scratching.
Like a dog, him, pathetic and starved. Maybe he should get a collar, wrap it around his throat and squeeze. Write 'property of whoever promises treats for the broken child'.
Broken, really, because he was once whole.
Once a strong-muscled boy running, climbing, jumping –
Maybe he needs a muzzle. Him, with words like acid. Him, with tantrums and tears.
Big, scary villain him - a child.
He wakes up with crusted eyes, wonders if it's from tears or sleep.
Doesn't know.
Can't.
Maybe it's the video games – stayed up too late like a teenager again, Tomura TENKO. Fell back to that self-destructive cycle of dusting anything that could ever hurt him.
Even the shower – the water's too cold, warm, wet, like blood pooling under his knees. He corrodes the plumbing like it can stop his brain from spiraling and Kurogiri sighs. Sighs like a tired father and he snaps at him with bared teeth and bloody nails.
Bratty child, him. Moody teenager, him.
Ha, a teenager. He can remember that, but he sure as hell wasn't a teenager. Never has been really – never grew up, him, until his master's locked up tight like his memories and he thinks that maybe he should take a step forward on his own.
Him, a boss, a leader, a comrade, a –
Friend, him.
Family, him, little broken child him has dreams, now.
Him, with soft smiles that feel real.
Are they? He doesn't know.
But he's stopped scratch-scratching as much and thinks that maybe this is an improvement.
Him, growing up? Maybe.
Maybe.
He smiles, shows his face, tells lies and wonders if this is what Sensei felt when he saw him the first time, broken and sobbing in that alley years ago.
Like everything's going exactly the way he wanted.
The thought makes him feel warm.
Him, cold him, warm.
He wonders what god above thought to give a villain like him happiness. He knows it's a silly thought, he's stopped believing in gods long ago, but it's nice to know that karma thought he'd paid his dues.
It's nice and he smiles – bare-faced – and people smile back.
He's warm – warmer than a warm meal, warm house, warm bed could make him. Warmer than it ever made him.
He wonders if Sensei ever felt this way when he looked at him – small, broken child him.
He wonders if he wants to know.