He didn't feel it, even as Midnight wrinkled her nose and bat aside her unruly bangs. It didn't chill his skin, rustle his hair, or drag against his clothes; it didn't dry his eyes, didn't sweeten nature's aromas, it was a total null factor for him.

And he was probably the only one.

"Brr! Do you guys feel a little nippy out there? I feel like someone walked over my grave!" Present Mic said, his teeth clattering between words. "It's like a blizzard is coming!"

Shoto didn't spare him a second thought. Tuning Present Mic out entirely, Shoto closed his eyes and quieted the purring engines within. Slowly, the heat engulfing him thinned, and he felt it—just a little. It came first as a shortness of breath, then as a few rapid blinks.

When his hair began tickling his ears, he understood what felt so off putting about Inasa Yoarashi. The entire Stadium was engulfed in a biting breeze.

Opening his eyes, he tracked the way Yoarashi's short, nearly buzzed hair shifted in his own winds. While his leaned right, Shoto felt his own bangs shift left, exposing his forehead. The winds rotated clockwise. It was no real surprise, but knowing that Yoarashi was affected too meant that he wasn't the center. Somewhere between them was the eye of an invisible, easy storm—the core they would fight for. He wondered if there was a reason for not centering himself, or for doing it in the first place.

Regardless, he cared little for these things.

"Hello, Todoroki!" Yoarashi said, before giving Shoto a stiff, deep bow. "I hope we can have a good fight!"

His eyes remained dead on the floor—stubborn, but also respectful. Discomfort wormed through Shoto—was this really how a powerful opponent acted? Izuku'd never done such a thing. Nothing even close. Peering forward, Shoto tried to peel back Yoarashi's shell, to understand him, but only found more questions.

There was no bitterness where Shoto thought there should've been. He didn't quite understand why the boy was so set in these ways. It wasn't like Shoto asked for Yoarashi's respect. Dignity and fealty in the Todoroki household was demanded, not offered. Or, at least, it used to. Nowadays, Shoto was so unaccustomed to such gestures that he wasn't sure how to respond.

As he lingered, unsure what to do, he suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine. The cool breeze revolving around the stage bit into Shoto's thermal wall, sinking ice-cold fangs into his neck and waist. Yoarashi's winds buffeted against his walls again, and after a few seconds, the boy shot back into his steady, proud posture.

Despite the cold, Shoto felt an instant relief—yes, he thought, staring at the boy's huge silhouette, this was the posture of a mountain. He could see a somewhat familiar strength running through Yoarashi, if a slightly different flavor.

Shoto knew strength. He saw it in his father, his sister, Izuku, Setsuna, and Whirlwind—but he didn't understand it. Not entirely. What was it that made Yoarashi seem so… distant? What made someone like Izuku who they were? What kind of counterforce could tear someone like that down? What kind of strength would it take to build him back up? What would it take, Shoto asked himself, to make himself stronger?

Yaoyorozu called Yoarashi a foothill—but even that wasn't guaranteed. He couldn't be sure his Everest would follow this. Mountains put everything into perspective—if there was no Izuku, would this foothill take him to the top of the world?

Midnight shot her hand into the air, finally done fussing over her wind-tussled hair.

"Do either combatants object to the current matchup?" She asked, first looking at Yoarashi.

"No ma'am!" He said, not wasting a second. Turning to Shoto, she asked the same question—but her voice might as well have come from across the country, it was so quiet. Every ounce of his focus was upon Yoarashi—studying him, deciphering him, begging him to answer his thousand questions.

Would this be his greatest fight? If Izuku didn't pull through, would Yoarashi suffice? Could he accept that? Did setting a goal mean anything, if you don't even get to try?

Swallowing, Shoto let out a long, heavy exhale, till there was no air left to squeeze out. He held his lungs like that for two seconds, then four, before letting them expand again—but not with air. He did not inhale.

Yoarashi looked at him expectantly, not moving a muscle yet so obviously excited.

After six seconds of holding full lungs, Shoto spoke with fire.

"I'm ready."

Her eyes widened by a fraction, seeing the flames lick his upper lip. Quickly, the rest spilled outwards, growing over him in moments. It spilled down his neck and shoulders until his entire frame was slightly flickering with light. The light ballooned outwards, growing to surround him like a shield. His hair stopped rustling, instead slightly raising on the left side as the hot hair insulating him began to waft up and off him. Once again, he could not feel Yoarashi's influence.

Yoarashi half-stepped back, his eyebrows raising as Midnight likewise backed off. Focusing on himself, he drew back in the large cloud of heat, condensing it around him. Blocking out his heat with a hand, she turned to the crowd.

"Let Shoto Todoroki versus Inasa Yoarashi… commence!"

If the crowd made a noise, he couldn't hear it over the roar of flames in his ears. Shoto didn't let fanfare distract him; the moment he was sure Midnight was a safe distance away, he moved.

Conjuring a diagonal ice-pillar under his feet, Shoto launched himself towards Yoarashi. Mid-air, he cast several icy mists and smoking flames alongside his arc, obscuring his approach. In a blink, he came upon the distracted boy with a searing kick.

Just before he made contact, however, he slowed down. His flames squeezed around his ears, keeping back a sudden crushing air pressure. He tried to conjure another flame to stop his momentum, but by then, it was too late. Shoto's kick stopped a foot short of Yoarashi's chest, the air between them too thick to push through.

Yoarashi staggered back, the effort to maintain stable condensed air between them making veins throb in his temples. Shoto tried to wrench himself free, but he was stuck in the air, as if captured by a photograph. His limbs were restricted, breathing was impossible. Slowly, Yoarashi's hands, raised out and clawing at the air on Shoto's either side, began coming together. Shoto's ears popped as the pressure, for a brief second, overpowered his flaming armor—

He was in his father's training room with Izuku, sliding, leaping and maneuvering through choking smoke and cracking whips. A few ice-bullets flew into a green fog, doubtlessly missing. Shoto could keep up, but he was slowing down, overwhelmed, and tiring quickly. Any moment now, he'd take a solid attack to the shoulder, or gut, or inner thigh, and he'd go down. He'd already taken a few smoke-bullets to the chest, and they still smarted. Smoke trailed behind him as prepared for another attack, but none came.

The chaos faded. For a second, it didn't register—Shoto's training partner didn't tire before him. Neither did. But on that day, Izuku stopped. His smoke creations collapsed and faded, his black ropes retreated, and he stepped into the open like a disappointed theater villain.

"You know, Shoto, I shouldn't be able to grab you with my smoke," Izuku'd said, hand on hip and exasperation written across his face.

Shoto turned to him, trying to hide his heaving breaths and lightheadedness.

"What?" He'd asked, feeling a slight annoyance creep over him. "You didn't."

"Not entirely," Izuku said, containing what Shoto thought might've been an eye-roll. "But you let me coat you enough to slow you down. If I'd focused harder, I could've restrained you entirely. That shouldn't be possible."

Izuku then raised his hand and beckoned him forward. While Shoto had no intention of moving, he found himself walking anyway—and not by reluctant choice. His legs literally moved on their own, puppeteered by a thin layer of green smoke-pants.

It was a little thing. He toppled over a moment later, unable to balance his conquered shins with his willful waist, but Izuku cushioned his fall with a pressured smoke cloud anyways. Izuku clapped his hand with Shoto's, pulled him upright, and laughed. Shoto cracked as well, feeling his frustration fade. Izuku walking over him wasn't worth getting upset over, he decided, when all he wanted was to help.

"Sorry about that. It's your heat, Shoto. At the end of the day, my smoke is basically just a limited form of air manipulation, and I condense it to fight. Therefore, I'm subject to all the same weaknesses that air-manipulators have. So, for future reference, remember that hot air is less dense than cold air. If you feel restricted or stuck, remember to let your hot side flare a bit. A low roast isn't enough."

—Yoarashi's eyes—a dark, near-black brown—briefly shone a vibrant orange as Shoto abandoned his cold side entirely and tapped into the eight-cylinder machine in his chest. His flames exploded out behind him as the flames surrounding him grew condensed and brightened. His flames shifted red, and he cut through Yoarashi's air-pressure prison like a hot knife through butter. Shoto channeled every ounce of force he could through his palm and into Yoarashi's chest, shattering his concentration and sending him flying.

Like a cut tightrope, the air pressure's tension snapped and the wind whipped Shoto like a bad dog, likewise sending him flying back. He hurdled head over heel, careening off-course for the brown grass below.

A mere half-second before he might've crashed, disqualified himself, and turned the brown grass black, he found his balance. Slamming both fists by his side, he launched himself back into the sky, the air surrounding him still crackling and screaming with burning heat.

He saw the world through overlapping, ever-changing hues of crimson and orange—but it did nothing to impede the truth he beheld. Like Shoto himself, floating some thirty meters off the ground, was Inasa Yoarashi. His smile was so wide and taut that Shoto feared it might jump from his mouth and inflate to the size of Mount Lady's. A handprint, five fingers spread evenly, scorched the dead center of his shirt black. It was still smoking when Shoto first saw him again, but with a flick of Yoarashi's wrist, he dismissed the smoke into the nether realms.

"That was so badass, man!" Yoarashi shouted, before leaning forward and gripping something invisible behind him. "You're strong as hell! Fire! Get it?"

Shoto tuned the rest out. He couldn't fly like this indefinitely; sooner or later, he'd need to touch down and let his frost cool him down. Checking his chest, he could already see how his flame retardant uniform was beginning to blacken around the edges. Another timer.

With a roar, he wound up a punch and closed the gap between them. His punch slowed down through a wall of wind, but it was too hot to stop. Still, it was like attacking water; the surface tension killed his strength, and the underlying current pushed him off course. Missing Yoarashi by a wide margin, the huge boy took what he'd grabbed and hurled it at Shoto. A ball or pure wind slammed into his chest, sending Shoto flying.

He almost cremated some spectators, but he managed to propel himself back over the stage. The issue of oxygen, however, eluded him. Yoarashi's blow knocked the wind out of him, so even as he drew back into the boy's range, he found himself falling, his strength weakening. The concrete darkened as he landed—and then shattered, as Yoarashi slammed down to earth fist-first, sending a thousand spiderweb cracks through the stage.

Yoarashi hadn't touched the ground, however. A one-foot gap of air stood between his punch and the ground; the wind enveloped him like armor, like fire did Shoto—only, oxygen constituted his, and oxygen fueled his. Shoto couldn't get a breath, but he also couldn't stay still.

Shoto dodged another blow as Yoarashi came upon him again, each punch extending several meters past his knuckles. Yoarashi stood some three meters off the ground, totally enveloped as Shoto scorched his footprints into the concrete, running like hell. It was a ragged sprint, but necessary. He allowed Yoarashi to chase him across the stage, feeling distant winds crash against and dissipate off his flames.

Before long, however, he couldn't keep up. When he felt he couldn't take one more step without air, he finally relented. The flames above his shoulders sputtered and died, allowing sweet, fresh air to grace Shoto's upper lip. As he tried to suck in, however, he found he could not. Every molecule of oxygen stood in steadfast protest of his needs, held frozen under Yoarashi's intense will.

It was dirty, Shoto thought, as he turned to face the rapidly-approaching and laughing Yoarashi. Almost slimy. He wondered if anyone even noticed Yoarashi's trick. Shoto couldn't do anything; he could disrupt Yoarashi's manipulation with hot enough flames, but in doing so he would consume the oxygen he desperately sought.

Before he could solve his situation, Yoarashi caught up. Shoto could barely put up a half-hearted guard before a wind-blow struck his right side like a freight train. His shoulder clicked painfully, wrenched out of place—but that was little, compared to the scrapes the concrete gave him. By the time he stopped rolling, he felt like it'd flayed most of his forearm.

His remaining flames died, retreating to wherever flames go when there's nothing to eat. Immediately, he felt himself scooped into the air by some invisible force, restraining his limbs in all four cardinal directions. They flew high into the air, leaving Shoto with no sense of direction. Slightly diagonal and with darkening vision, he could hardly even see Yoarashi's wide smile as he drew close. All he could say for certain was that one hand curled towards him, slightly obscuring his other.

"Wow! I can't believe you lasted so long without a breath, to be honest. Endeavor's kid sure is tough. You should surrender now, though! I don't wanna hurt you or have your dad mad at me…" Yoarashi said, drifting slightly lower; or did he raise Shoto up?

Shoto's vision swam as he pulled at his invisible restraints. Weak flames flicked on and off along his frame, never staying long. His heart beat a sorrowful song, tired without the air he so needed. Yoarashi's winds were freezing cold, without his armor. Each fingertip was beginning to numb, though he couldn't tell if that was the asphyxiation or the biting chill.

As his vision swam, however, he swore he saw something. It was just for a moment, but far, far over Yoarashi's shoulder, Shoto could just barely see a green bush. From this distance, he might as well have been a drop in the bucket… but… yes. It was certainly Izuku, with his pale arm… crossed over his heart? Tapping his chest?

Yoarashi drifted to the side, eclipsing Izuku's miniscule visage with his huge smile. Shoto's desperate struggle slowed, eventually slackening to an infant's ferocity. The air was still thick as molasses and cold as early winter, but… as Shoto squinted, still just barely able to see, he saw how Yoarashi's smile seemed… off.

It was an odd thing. Big, wide, and excited, sure… but not… happy. Not… real. A facade, a persona, a quirk of forced habit. The way it presented his canines and damn near showed his molars… the way it creased his dimples and made his eyes look sunken by comparison…

He was imitating All Might, and not doing a very good job. It was powerful, yes, but… lacking. Not inspirational or focused or dedicated. Not like Izuku.

Dead behind Yoarashi was a one-armed kid who seemed a lot more similar, even if he didn't smile so much anymore. Yoarashi was not a bad person for it, by any stretch. Really. It was truly commendable that he was even trying to fill those shoes; but while the boy was large, he wasn't nearly as big as All Might. Not nearly.

Could this boy, who so clearly adored heroes more than he himself did, do what All Might did? Could he die in the line of duty, protecting people with his life? Maybe… but could he while clutching his chest?

All Might hadn't clutched his chest, in the news. All those years ago, as Shoto watched the villain blow a hole in All Might's chest… All those years ago, as Shoto watched the world flip upside down… All those years ago, when All Might continued to fight with a cannonball-sized hole in his chest, he'd never once reached down to clutch his wound.

The live report couldn't truly censor the battle. All Might's wounds were freakishly grotesque—yet he paid them no heed. As Shoto's eyes drifted from Yoarashi's blackened chest back to his false-smile, he felt something shift within him. Like dislodged earth sliding back into its divot.

This was a powerful opponent, but he wasn't All Might. He was no peak. Not like Izuku was. If Shoto lost here, he'd never be sated. If Shoto won here, he'd at least have a chance. Yaoyorozu was right, Setsuna was right, and Izuku was right.

He abandoned his flames entirely, letting the last vestiges fade entirely. Dipping his chin to his chest, he closed his eyes, and expanded his lungs.

"Ah, I see," Yoarashi said, his plain voice coming through his radiant grin like a mismatch from hell. "You're out of energy. Allow me to escort you down before you pass out, so you can surrend—"

When Shoto breathed out, it wasn't carbon dioxide. It was pure, sparkling mist.

A tree-trunk sized ice pillar exploded from Shoto's chest, slamming its rounded end straight into where Shoto'd left his black hand print. The wind prison shattered, and Shoto found himself free falling alongside a stunned Yoarashi. Being some forty meters in the air, Shoto probably should've been scared… But he was not.

He could finally breathe again. With one glorious inhale, Shoto lit up like a firework, leaving his right hand just cold enough so that he could grab Yoarashi's flailing ankle without scarring him. Shoto eased the guy down until he was sure he'd land in the soft grass unharmed. Dropping him, he didn't even check to see if he'd recovered before finding himself back in the arena.

Yoarashi grunted as he hit the ground, and Shoto let his flames snuff out. Midnight ran over to the ledge to check if Yoarashi was alright. After a plause, she scurried back and seized Shoto's wrist in her delicate grip.

"Inasa Yoarashi is out of bounds! With an incredible turnaround, Shoto Todoroki has overcome the dominant son of Whirlwind! He is the victor!" Midnight said, her voice a breathless shout as she raised his hand in her own.

For a moment, Shoto thought his flames had come back on without his permission—but it was just the crowd, screaming his name. Their roar was a familiar one to him, so even as a tidal wave of emotions surged through him, he managed to keep calm and let Midnight do her job. She didn't hold his hand up in victory for long, however; after about a second, she stepped back and cursed, shaking off her hands. For a second, he didn't quite understand—only for him to suddenly blink, confused, as his vision took on a perplexing, waving white filter.

Oh, Shoto realized, feeling sweat roll down his back like a cold raindrop. He was steaming. And shirtless. And just bared clothed around the important regions. What remained of his shirt was a one-sleeved sash of burnt fabric, and his pants were little better.

Giving the crowd one last wave, he half-jogged off the Stage and into the tunnel, escaping the hundred-million-or-so viewer's prying eyes. A million things crossed his mind; from the fight, to All Might, to oh-my-goodness, Yaoyorozu was in the crowd, to Izuku's next match—

But the one thing he wasn't thinking about, Shoto realized, as he turned the corner for the nearest locker room, was Space Hero: Thirteen. As such, nearly running straight into her came as quite the shock. It became even more confusing as she caught him, placed him comfortably on his feet, and handed him a new set of clothes, in his size.

"I was looking for you, Todoroki," she said, her voice a thick buzz through her helmet's filter. She glanced over her shoulder, towards his locker room. "Go change, then find me. I'll be in the clinic. Find me there."

Shoto blinked, and before he knew it, he was alone in the hall once again.

"...Alright, then," he said, before slowly turning for the locker room—only to hiss. A flare of pain shot through his arm and into his shoulder. A dull drop of blood splashed against the ground. In all his adrenaline, he'd nearly forgotten his aches entirely. His arm sat crooked in his shoulder and it was dripping blood like he'd just lost a fight with a carrot peeler. "Yes… The clinic sounds good right now…"

[x]

Izuku eased his grip, but only managed to release his shirt's center after several calm seconds. His chest ached with the phantom pain of Yoarashi's wound, even as he released his hold on Danger Sense. It lingered, terribly irritating him. Even as he clawed against his chest, the pain wouldn't leave. He wanted to slam his head into the floor and beat his chest and cry—but, in the end, it was just phantom pain.

It didn't actually hurt. Oh, he felt it, but he was alright. On the outside, he was calm as a cucumber, sat leaned back with his ankle over his knee. Just pain, he reminded himself. Just a phantom.

Ultimately, it faded after a few minutes. It was nothing special. Ghosts and warlocks and yokai and oni. Fantasy.

He pursed his lips. His chest was not the phantom pain bothering him.

Regardless, he found himself puzzled by his own actions. He wasn't surprised that he'd helped Shoto—even on their worst terms, Izuku would've thrown himself under a train for him. Instead, he was surprised at how he went about it. What possessed him to latch onto Inasa Yoarashi's pain, what possessed him to feel it for himself, all the way through? Even after Shoto scorched, bludgeoned, and pile-drove him into the burnt crisps everyone pretended to call grass, why hadn't he released the link?

As Yoarashi stood and staggered off the field, shooing off any medics who tried assisting him, Izuku's stomach began to sink.

Much of the arena was damaged. Present Mic announced a short intermission, and everyone soon saw why. When Cementoss stepped out into the open, the crowds celebrated. Yoarashi's devastating carnage, Shoto's half-melted footprints, and some older cracks smoothed over in a few seconds. Still, even with Cementoss's powers, it didn't dry immediately. It took a couple extra minutes before everything was ready for the next bout.

All the while, Izuku sat with himself, struggling to not acknowledge why he'd needlessly taken on Yoarashi's pain.

It would've been an entertaining fight, Izuku thought, if he'd paid more attention. Most people, he'd noticed, talked more during the alternate-bracket matches. They didn't care as much—yet, in his opinion, those matches were just as valuable. Anyone with a true sense of appraisal was digesting each match like a fine dinner, contemplating each combatants equally. It was what he'd been doing. At least, until then.

As he watched one boy kick sparkles from his shins and another girl clap with concussive force, all he could imagine was the furious elemental war it succeeded and the melee-brawl it would proceed. The tip of Setsuna's finger centered his thoughts, the white of her nail pointed straight at him.

The girl clapped, throwing the boy's sparkles back in his face. He went down, but only long enough for the girl to close the gap. Before she could manage a second clap—cooldown or stamina or underdeveloped skill?—he swiped her feet out from under her, his foot's arc shadowed by a thing light show. Instead of going down like him, however, she clapped point-blank at the ground, sending her back before he could capitalize.

Ojiro would be tough, if… well, if…

Izuku glanced aside, carefully prying his fingers off his nub. It didn't actually hurt, he reminded himself. He just thought it did. Pure illusion.

The boy had two limbs on Izuku, and even disregarding those, he was about 10 kilos heavier. He wasn't tall, but rather, well-trained. Izuku imagined Ojiro probably hadn't weight trained more than he had; he seemed more like a genetic case. His shoulders were broader, limbs thicker, etc. But, Izuku noted, that wasn't what made him considerable. Body-weight exercises resulting in those kinds of muscles meant damnable hard work, and by any measure, Ojiro was flexible. Even his spinal extension, with his muscular tail, seemed extremely mobile. Was that also genetics, or intense training? Both were scary.

Could Izuku beat Ojiro in a hand-to-hand? …Izuku trained hard, in the past. Before the USJ… he might have. It was hard to say, without knowing the true extent of Ojiro's skills. Many martial arts were superfluous—even Izuku's own skill basis was a little off-kilter from reality.

Heroes fell in an awkward place between types of fighting. Mixed Martial Arts and Lethal Military styles were generally considered the most efficient, while things like KickBoxing and traditional schools were more about lifestyles and performances. Heroes were, fundamentally, a militant force, but the last forty years saw the world throw pretty tarps over them. Many were just in it for the performance, and thus traditional schools had taken on a resurgence. Ojiro may be a product of the less efficient styles, or a more lethal school.

If Izuku had to guess, he would assume Ojiro was a true traditional student at heart. He clearly loved Karate, after all—but Izuku wouldn't bank on it. Assuming Ojiro was an easier opponent than he'd actually be was a sure way to be caught off-guard.

Again and again, as Izuku half-watched the ongoing match, he kept glancing at Ojiro. Blackwhip could shatter the dexterity gap between them, and Izuku could out-perform Ojiro physically by abusing Aizawa's training and Danger Sense. That spoke nothing of Smokescreen, using which he could simply overpower and distract the boy. One for All simply made all the boy's advantages null…

Izuku traced the line of his jaw, feeling his neck. His throat—an old issue, by now—could prove… problematic. Blackwhip, too—something still hadn't clicked, yet. Something was certainly different, no doubt, but… he felt like he'd gathered the puzzle pieces, only to slip on a blindfold before assembling them. It would take some fumbling before any progress was made—but progress was coming, no doubt.

He swallowed.

He frowned.

He stood.

The match was over. Spectators applauded the boy's efforts, but even with thousands of heavy hands, none clapped louder than the girl herself. Maybe she earned it, maybe she didn't—but he was happy to see someone get a chance at glory. What Nighteye'd done, he'd done for more than just Izuku. Seeing all these students get cameras on them… it was a damn good thing.

He just didn't know whether it was worth his secrets or not.

Izuku was already moving down the aisle when Present Mic said his name. He was already halfway down the stairs when he heard Ojiro's name echo through the Stadium. By the time he found himself stepping onto the stage, Present Mic's boisterous voice had faded—but not ceased.

"—And that, folks, is our lineup. The resigned President of 1A, going against the ultimate hand-to-hand fighter of the same class! We've seen a lot of crazy stuff today, folks, but if I might share a little secret… I've never been more excited for a duel!"

Across the stage, as Izuku ascended the steps, he met Ojiro's eyes. They were a paradoxical mix of grim determination, base confidence, and… guilt.

He imagined that to Ojiro, his own eyes looked the same.

Midnight stepped between them, holding out both hands. Her eyes lingered on his for a fair second longer than Ojiro's, but she gave him his due attention. For a second, she looked tempted to speak to him privately, but he felt relieved as she shook away the idea.

"Are both fighters ready?" She asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Ojiro said, giving the tall woman a curt nod.

Was he?

The white crescent of Setsuna's fingertip. Shoto's explanation. A challenge—to face Setsuna honestly, to give the fight Shoto needs. Cracking his skull against the wall—endless, suffocating dunes.

Something twinkling in the sky.

A promise to keep.

Ojiro; the foothill before the climb, yet treacherous in his own right.

He slid his left foot back, and lifted his knuckles to cover his chin.

With one singular chop, Midnight stepped back and announced their bout.

"Let Izuku Midoriya versus Mashirao Ojiro… begin!"

[x]

AN: For the second week in a row, I just couldn't bring myself to task. I always write with three buffer chapters inbetween, but I've used two buffers all at once. It's slightly upsetting but at the same time im in the home stretch. i'll be free soon

review!~