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Eraserhead was a good father. He had a daughter, the rewind girl. He adopted her after the Shie Hassaikai raid, where she was saved by that green-haired hero brat that Himiko liked. Eraserhead took good care of the girl. When she wanted to go somewhere, he usually found the time to take her.
Like the mall.
Eri (that was her name, wasn’t it?) wanted to see the stuffed animal store, as Eraserhead put it. He was holding her hand, walking slow enough for her to keep up, stopping when she told him to, looked at all of the things that caught her eye, even if they didn’t hold significance to him. He smiled at her when she tried to explain a concept that he already understood, instead of berating her or accusing her of thinking he was an idiot.
Yes, Eraserhead was a good father. A great one, even. He was the type of man a child would imagine coming to save them from a family that didn’t love them the right way. The type of man they would sketch during school. The type of man they would think was the coolest in the world, even if he didn’t really exist and wasn’t coming to help.
Because nobody ever came to help. The world was cruel like that.
But Eraserhead was not a cruel man. When Eri made a mistake (she bumped into a man while distracted, knocking over his drink), Eraserhead did not hit her. He didn’t even yell. His voice was even and kind, like a good father’s would be. He helped her and the man clean up, and when the man tried to force Eri to apologise, Eraserhead stepped in with a sharp tone and an even sharper glare.
He was even a good father to children that weren’t his. His class of hero brats, the ones who were blindsided and lucky, were born to be ‘heroic’. He treated them like his own, answering their calls, helping them with life skills, and teaching them things that weren’t part of their curriculum. Even though he was stern with them, stubborn and uncompromising, he still cared for them and kept them safe.
It was infuriating. Teeth-gratingly, eye-twitchingly, neck-scratchingly infuriating. The type of infuriation that seeps into one’s bones and makes them shake with anger, that makes their eyes blurry with tears, that makes their voice wobbly and their heart pound in their ears. The kind of infuriating that brought panic, which brought death.
Tomura found himself knee-deep in this infuriation. His skin was prickling, not even soothed by his nails scratching roughly against it. He could hardly breathe, he was so angry.
Kurogiri said that this wasn’t anger, wasn’t fury, but was something else. Whenever Tomura asked what else it could possibly be, the man made of mist always got a sad look in his eye that Tomura couldn’t decipher. He never answered Tomura’s question.
So, yes, it was anger. Tomura was angry, which meant he needed to kill someone.
But Eraserhead. He was still here, and he had his daughter. The one he loved so much and cared so hard for. If Tomura killed someone, Eraserhead wouldn’t be able to take her to the places she wanted.
Tomura giggled to himself, the sound barely audible through his quivering, chapped lips. His hands were shaking. He felt like he was going to die. “Eraserhead…” He croaked. His giggles turned manic as his breath quickened. He clutched his chest with one finger raised, careful even in this rage-filled state to not destroy the things he loved.
Everything was blurry, shaky. He felt lightheaded.
“Eraserhead… Eraserhead…” He repeated the name of the man, shivering and shaking and feeling like his head was going to burst.
Tomura felt tears gathering in his eyelashes as they slipped down his cheeks. “Oh, Eraserhead…” He whispered. What a good father. If only Tomura had known sooner. He laughed, the sound wet and angry. So fucking angry.
“...You are so cool.”