In the Rustling of the Leaves

Untitled Part 1

Clothing wasn't supposed to be the breaking point for him post-war.

In the aftermath of everything he had endured in less than a year, there were other challenges he anticipated to be far more daunting. Enduring physical contact, facing the rain, and confronting the haunting specter of fire were among the things he believed would be far more difficult to handle after everything.

But, those were things he had expected to bother him, that he had planned for. He hadn't been able to avoid them completely, obviously. He hadn't died in the war, which meant he had no choice but to learn to adjust to this new normal. He was still required to interact with others when he went out, forced to talk to anyone who recognized him as the former number two hero. However, when people would brush by him on accident, it would cause his breath to hitch, and his heart rate to spike.

He'd never really been a fan of the rain before the war, hating the way it made his feathers drip and how uncomfortable it was to fly through. But now it was a real problem, each drop seemingly searing his skin, forcing his body to remember the way All for One had him by his throat. The feeling of Fierce Wings slipping away. How Toga had almost ended his life for taking Twice's, though he would have willingly taken that blow; he'd deserved it.

No, he despised the rain, staying inside and away from it as much as possible.

Fire was another significant challenge, grappling with it every time he was forced to confront it. The first time he'd had to cook for himself after the war, he'd had a panic attack the moment he'd turned on his stove. His vision blurred, the scars along his back and neck screaming in pain just at the sight. It had gotten easier since then; after all, he had no choice but to face it if he wanted to cook for himself. He couldn't just microwave or eat out forever.

No, he pushed himself forward with a smile because that is what he had always done. The Commission had taught him well in that regard. Tears solved nothing, and nobody was going to baby him. He had to figure things out on his own, and so that is exactly what he did. Moving forward like a robot, not dwelling on the things that had happened.

But clothes, that had been an unexpected blow. His actual breaking point.

When he'd been released from the hospital, they sent him home in a borrowed t-shirt and jeans, not really thinking anything of it at the time. His hero outfit had been destroyed, after all, and it was nice of them to offer him something to wear. He took a cab home, taking his pain medication before promptly passing out.

He woke up the next morning screaming, soaked in sweat as he struggled to catch his breath. It was nothing new; the nightmares had plagued him since the first part of the war. Various scenes of Dabi torturing information from his mother, screaming as the blue flames licked at his back and wings, but now he'd just added to it. Fumikage unconscious on the ground, All for One watching the life drain from his eyes as he strangled him.

He panted, brushing his blonde hair back from his face with a groan, before pushing himself out of bed and into a shower. He avoided the mirror, quickly brushing past it in the bathroom. He hadn't really looked at his reflection since the war ended, and he certainly wasn't starting today. The shower was warm, helping to avoid triggering his anxiety as it cascaded down his body. He kept it quick, turning off the water and wrapping himself in a towel before heading towards his closet. He sighed looking around before grabbing a shirt, pausing when it finally dawned on him.

Nothing in his closet worked anymore.

He couldn't walk around in shirts that had two large holes in the back; he would look like an idiot. He knew Fierce Wings wasn't coming back, but for the first time since the loss, his heart clenched painfully. He couldn't stop the tears that finally bubbled forth, clutching a ratty old shirt as he finally allowed himself to grieve.

So much loss, so much death and destruction, and so much fear.

It crashed over him in waves as he sank to the floor, clutching his shirt tightly in his hands. He sobbed, his head thrown back and pressed against the wall as he stared at the ceiling. He wasn't sure how long he sat there in the darkness, allowing himself to just wallow. It felt so good to cry, to allow himself to actually feel.

He was quick to replace his clothing, hiring someone to do it for him to avoid going out himself. He went through his shirts, sorting through them before bagging them all up to donate to a shelter that helped teenagers in low-income areas that needed quirk-specific clothing. It felt really good to give back in that way, almost poetic. His own mother had just cut holes into his old shirts for his wings when he was younger, while these clothes were custom-made for it and mostly name brand. They would be well-loved for sure.

That had been months ago now, and he sighed as he leaned against the doorframe of his closet. He'd been doing better, finally agreeing to Best Jeanist's pleas to see someone about everything he had been through. It had helped, but he still had the nightmares, still had his fears, but slowly they were easing.

But he still missed his wings, missed being able to fly. It was just one of those off days where he would give nothing more than to just take to the wild blue, laughing as he raced through clouds. He sighed, his eyes landing on one of his dresser drawers with a small frown. It had been a while since he'd done this, but he had a feeling he needed it today.

He walked forward, his hand clasping the handle as he pulled it open. Sorting through the socks and underwear, he finally retrieved the dark fabric hidden underneath. He turned it, staring at the word "Endeavor" printed across the front of the shirt before sighing deeply. He had kept just this one, unable to bring himself to get rid of it. It had been his favorite shirt before the war, after all.

He was quick to remove his shirt, wincing at the pull of the fabric across his shoulders—a sensation he wasn't sure he would ever get used to. He swiftly exchanged them, putting on his Endeavor shirt before making his way from his apartment.

Using the stairs, he headed towards the roof access door, finally stepping out into the chilly fall air. He smiled as the breeze hit his face, tilting it upwards and taking a deep breath before sighing. He moved towards the edge of the building, sitting down, swinging his feet over the edge to look out at the city below him.

The autumn wind was fierce that morning, his hair flying wildly in it, and he shivered as it passed through the two large holes in the back of his shirt. It caressed his skin, soothing the scars of his burns. It was absolutely perfect, helping to calm the ache he had felt all morning.

He closed his eyes, listening as the wind blew through the trees, his heart light at the sound they made. He only did this when it was really bad, when the darkness felt like it was pushing in and he couldn't breathe. It helped, soothing him, taking away the pain.

Because on days like this, if he closed his eyes and allowed the wind to blow through the back of his shirt, he could almost pretend that the rustling of the leaves below him were his feathers.