"Who are you?" Aizawa growls, grip tightening on his capture weapon and his nerves.

Shira—no, the imposter startles, staring up at him with an open mouth and wide, blue eyes. He seems almost frozen for a moment before snapping out of it with a huff and the cheekiest fucking grin which only has Aizawa's damn heart aching worse.

"I know your eyesight isn't that bad, Shou!"

Aizawa does not flinch at the sound of his own name in that familiar voice, he doesn't.

"C'mon, you remember who I am, right?"

How could he ever forget?

Aizawa's eyes narrow into dangerous slits. "Enlighten me."

"Uuugh, if you insist." With as much of a flourish as one can manage with their entire upper body bound, the boy bows. "Loud Cloud at your service!" Then, the little shit winks at Aizawa with another dumb, familiar grin plastered on his stolen face. "But you know my name is Shirakumo Oboro~!"

Aizawa doesn't need Detective Tsukauchi's quirk to see the truth.

"Impossible," he says, "Shirakumo Oboro is dead, therefore. You're lying."

The imposter frowns at that, now looking decidedly exasperated for some inexplicable reason. He doesn't say anything more for a long moment, so Aizawa takes the time to reevaluate the situation.

He lets himself sigh in an attempt to unravel the tightness in his chest, noting all the police and paramedics still loitering around the area. No one has noticed the commotion happening, which meant both he and the bound lookalike are somehow invisible.

How annoying.

It was most likely a quirk of some kind, though he'd already erased the imposter's quirk once, which was somehow identical in appearance and function to Cloud.

Was there another villain nearby that was responsible? If so, how exactly was he meant to fix this mess? It's not like he knew what they looked like, or even how the supposed quirk worked. He wouldn't even be able to ask for help since nobody can see or hear him.

The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks Aizawa from his thoughts.

Right, better focus on one problem at a time.

"What," he hisses through clenched teeth, glaring down one again at his captive.

The boy wasn't grinning anymore, instead gazing up at Aizawa with such earnest determination in those stolen blue eyes that it physically hurts to look at.

"Let me prove to you that I'm not lying," he says.

Aizawa should gag him, make sure he wasn't able to spin any more lies when Aizawa already knows the truth, but he just can't bring himself to do it.

Not when he acts so much like...

Deciding to play along for now, Aizawa gives his best terrifying grin and says, "You can't, but sure, humor me." while an irrational amount of anger burns in his chest. How dare this stranger look like him? Of all the appearances to try and trick him with, it had to be the one that hurt the most.

The boy just nods, head tilting to the side with that terribly familiar expression, the one the real Shirakumo always wore when he was thinking hard about an answer. From here, Aizawa can hear him muttering under his breath.

"Should I mention Sushi...? No, too many people know about Sushi. Maybe the whole war declaration thing—nope. What about..."

Aizawa's eyes narrow in his confusion. How does this imposter know all that...?

"Oh! I know!"

The exclamation startles Aizawa out of his thoughts—internally kicking himself for getting distracted so much today—and he refocuses once more on the situation at hand.

As much as he can when it feels like his heart is splitting in two, that is.

Locking eyes with the imposter, Aizawa doesn't get a chance to question him when he blurts, "You've had a crush on Hizashi since the moment you met him!"

Distantly, Aizawa feels his breath freeze in his chest.

What?

Feeling rather like the rug's just been yanked out from under him—like he's falling— "Took you long enough to finally propose, I was considering coming back to life just to smack some sense into you!"

The boy is looking up at him with that expectant expression again, and Aizawa can only stare with wide, unseeing eyes for what feels like an eternity before he recoils with a hiss. Because no. No fucking way was this actually happening right now.

What sort of sick joke would that be if Shirakumo had been there the whole time, watching and unable to interact while his friends all grieved and grew up without him.

It was bull-fucking-shit, that's what it was.

This couldn't be the boy they'd all mourned, the one with the most potential out of anyone, who never got the chance to be a hero. Because if it was, if he really is—

"...Oboro?" Shouta rasps, his tense grip on the capture weapon slackening a fraction along with his posture.

Shirakumo's smile grows sad, though still slightly amused. "The one and only."

All he can ask is "How."

A shrug, and "Your guess is as good as mine."

And wasn't that just something.

Seeing Oboro alive and well right in front of his eyes was so much more difficult than it had any right to be. He still remembers the last time he'd seen his best friend; broken and still on the ground, covered by that damned white tarp, and before that his face right before everything came crashing down around them. So why...

"Why do you look like... that?" he finally gets out in a weak voice, gesturing with one hand at him.

The boy in question stares back with a questioning though bemused frown. "You just gestured to all of me," he huffs, then tilts his head, adding, "Look like what?"

As if he doesn't know.

"Like... a teenager," Shouta manages to say through the lump clogging his throat. Then, in a quieter tone, "Like the past fourteen years didn't happen..." He has to look away, dark hair shadowing his eyes in a comforting wave. Hiding him.

"Like you never..." Shouta didn't dare finish that sentence.

It never did get any easier to talk about... that.

Oboro just shrugs, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Uh, because I am a teenager?" the normally loud boy says back, just as quietly. Then, his tone brightens back up again, a hint of... amusement? coloring his voice. "Besides, you're one to talk, mister babyface."

...What?

Shouta scowls in confusion, because how in any way, shape, or form did he have a babyface?

Reaching up to yank his scarf down with one hand, he points up at his own face with the other. "Pretty sure you can't have a babyface and stubble at the same time," he deadpans.

"Shou, you don't have any stubble" Shirakumo flashes a shit-eating grin, eyes squinting in what is now most definitely amusement.

Only growing more confused, Shouta's hand switches from holding his capture weapon to scratching at his cheek—a nervous habit he'd never fully managed to get rid of—full expecting the scratch of stubble under his nails. "What are you talking abou—" Nothing.

He freezes midsentence, eyes going comically wide. Now is when he really starts to panic, both hands flying to scrub at his—perfectly smooth?!—face.

Where did his stubble go?! Where the fuck—

"Hey, uh... before you go freaking out over there, mind letting me loose?"

Shirakumo's sheepish voice luckily breaks Shouta out of his building panic attack, and he stares down at the still captive teen in silence for probably too long.

That would... probably be a good idea, yeah.

He's not certain his voice can be trusted to remain steady right now, so with a stiff nod Shouta releases Shirakumo from his capture weapon and wraps it back around himself.

While Shirakumo stands and stretches, Shouta himself takes a step back so he can look down at himself. His body still looks about the same as he thinks it should, though, throughout his career his hero costume really hasn't changed much design-wise.

What does catch his attention is how short his hair suddenly is, the lack of weight when he moves his head. He could see it in his peripheral vision as soon as he'd tilted his head down, too, and wordlessly he brings a hand up to tug at it.

It doesn't hurt, but he can still feel the pull against his scalp when he gives the black locks a sharp yank.

He doesn't remember getting a haircut.

By this point most of the ambulances and police cars have left the scene, so Shouta shuffles closer towards one of the remaining nearby cruisers and stares at his reflection in the tinted window.

A sixteen year old Aizawa Shouta stares back.

He watches in shocked silence as the reflection of Shirakumo comes to stand by his side, eyeing him in concern. "...I bet you have a lot of questions."

Shouta doesn't say anything.

Isn't actually sure he'd be able to say something, even if he had the words. His chest aches.

After waiting another few seconds for a reply that won't come, Shouta watches the other's reflection let out a long sigh, one hand coming up to scratch the back of his head and look away. "It's okay to be confused, y'know," he says, "I know I sure was!" Ah, that damned grin was back.

He's... missed it.

Shouta's eyes flit to the side to observe Shirakumo in his peripherals, latching onto the blurry flickering of his hair. It's a sight he's sorely missed, and it has his heart skipping a beat.

What the hell is going on?

Before he can figure out a way to ask without sounding like a complete idiot, Shouta freezes as, without warning, something stutters to a stop in his chest. It causes his breath to catch painfully, and he staggers back a step.

"Shou?" Shirakumo asks, turning to face him in rising alarm. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Shouta tries to respond, he really does, but all he can manage is a choked whimper before he collapses to his knees, then to the side. He doesn't even think about it as he claws at his chest frantically, attempting to curl himself into a ball in the hopes it'll make the pain stop.

It doesn't, but he can still hope.

Distantly, he can feel Shirakumo shaking his shoulder, incomprehensible words drifting over him in a clearly panicked yet reassuring tone.

His chest hurts, an awful heaviness pressing down on him that was making it hard to think.

Hard to breathe...!

The noises that have been lingering at the edges of his awareness close in with a vengeance, multiple voices filtering in and out of his ears, most of the words indistinct.

An earsplitting screech is hammering into his cotton-stuffed head like a siren. Unceasing. Damning. Cruel.

More distant words wash over him, but he's only able to catch some of it.

"...Shit! ...heart's not...move...! ...get the...restart-"

His heart wasn't... his heart isn't beating?!

"It's okay—it's okay, Shou. Just breathe, okay?" Shouta can faintly hear someone say, but the pressure in his chest only grows worse.

A warm hand finds its way into his, and Shouta grabs onto it like a lifeline.

His breath is coming in-and-out in short, panicked puffs that he has absolutely no control over, and his vision wavers like water.

That pain he'd been expecting from before hits him like a truck—or whatever the fuck beat him into the ground earlier. He can feel it in every bit of shattered bone grinding together in his arms, tearing into his flesh, endless shockwaves of agony lancing through him without mercy. His head, and moreover his face, throb, like someone had lodged an axe between his eyes. Oh, and the axe was on fire. And all of him was on fire. Jesus fucking ow.

"Khh—" Tears well up in Shouta's eyes against his will, even hotter than the pain itself and the hand still clutched in his. He changed his mind, now he really feels like he's dying.

The sound of something electrical charging up is all the warning he gets before he feels like he's just been kicked in the chest by a damn horse, hard. An involuntary wheeze strangles itself up from his throat, as unbidden as the tears and the way his body jerks and tenses.

But then his heart stutters, and... hesitantly begins to beat.

Shouta heaves a tremulous breath as the pain starts to fade away, still jittery and tense with nerves. His head feels foggy, wrong, but the thump-thump-thump in his chest was a relief to feel.

Oh, he never knew that was something he could miss feeling.

It takes him several agonizing minutes to come back to himself, still curled into a tight ball and shivering like a damn child as he just tries to remember how to breathe.

When he finally, finally, no longer feels like death warmed over, Shouta realizes he can feel someone rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. It stills when he squeezes the hand still clutched in his own, before the hand on his back retreats.

His back feels cold without the hand there, but he doesn't dare ask to have it back.

"You back with us, Shou?" a voice from above asks softly, melodic and reassuring. Shouta manages to crack an eye open to peer up at it despite the tears sticking to his eyelashes, but he's only able to make out worried eyes and flicking light blue.

...Oh, right. It's Shirakumo.

Shouta sniffles, then nods ever so slightly against his knees. He has to ask.

"...I'm dead, aren't I?" he rasps once he's managed to find his voice, reluctantly uncurling himself just enough to no longer look like he's trying to become an armadillo. At the same time, he lets go of the other boy's hand.

Shirakumo doesn't say anything at first, though he does carefully retract his hand. Somehow, Shouta can tell he's made him uncomfortable.

"I'm gonna be honest with you here, Shouta," he grimaces, looking off to some point in the distance. "...I don't know. Your body looked pretty rough when they hauled you outta here."

Understandable, given the circumstances.

"And my students?"

"A little worse for wear, but they'll all live."

Oh, thank any god that would listen. All of his students made it out alive.

"...Good." Shouta sighs in relief, pushing himself onto his back so he can just stare unseeingly at the sky. "So... now what?"

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to go find your body—" Oboro cuts himself off, making an odd face as he adds in a mutter, "Man, that sounds weird to say out loud." Shouta just watches absently as Shirakumo straightens himself up, patting the dust off his pants. "Anyway, yeah. Unless you've got other ideas?"

Shouta does not, in fact, have any other ideas.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh, and a "Fine." Because really, what else is there to do?

"Cool, cool..." Shirakumo nods to himself. "Better get going then. C'mere, mister grumpy pants~" With gentle hands, Shirakumo lifts the shorter boy up—and, fuck, was he always this tall?—into a piggy-back ride. Feeling too tired to argue, mentally at least, Shouta allows the movement with only a half-hearted groan.

"I'll get us there in no time, don't worry!" Shirakumo chirps while Shouta just clings to him like a koala, chin coming to rest on the other's shoulder with a short huff. He'd... forgotten how comfy this was, subconsciously snuggling closer to the gentle warmth, the smell of petrichor and ozone.

He more feels than hears Shirakumo let out a soft laugh at the action.

Shirakumo... could he still call his friend by his given name? He'd certainly had no issue calling Shouta by his, but it's been so long that he's not sure where they stand anymore. Shirakumo always was the friendly sort.

Before he can chicken out, Shouta mumbles, "Can I... is it okay if I call you 'Oboro'...?"

The question is apparently unexpected from the both of them, as it causes Shirakumo to trip himself up. "Wh—Do you even need to ask?!" he all but squeaks while catching himself, Shouta holding on for all he's worth—which isn't very much at the moment. "Wait, what am I saying, this is you we're talking about."

Considering the fondness with which the words are said, Shouta will try not to take offense to them, especially when Shirakumo—Oboro?—readjusts to make sure he's stable.

"Of course you can still call me 'Oboro', Shou," he grins, Shouta only just able to see the edge of it. "...Actually, please call me Oboro? I know that took you, like, forever to do back then, but—"

Shouta cuts him off with a huffed "Stop talking, 'boro..." and a weak squeeze, but instead of being upset at the interruption Oboro just beams bright enough to rival the sun. Or to rival one of Hizashi's best smiles, either-or.

Both are enough to chase away the cold that always clings to him.

This was fine.