Chapter Text
“I don’t care what you guys say, apartment 204 definitely kills people for a living.”
You and your roommates sat sprawled on the living room couch, drinks in hand and a neglected documentary playing on the TV. None too coincidentally, it was a documentary about the Yakuza, the very thing that sparked the debate about your reclusive neighbor.
He was a man of few words, so few that neither you nor the others had ever held a conversation with him. Not that any of you had many chances. 204’s apartment was often left vacant, and when he was home it was usually only in the odd hours of the night. The only reason you knew this fact was because he had a habit of kicking his front door shut as if it weren’t four in the morning, and you were a light enough sleeper that it woke you each time.
While these things didn’t necessarily prove anything, the liquor had your creative juices flowing, and the images of tattooed men on the flatscreen weren’t helping his case. It was undeniable that your neighbor was sketchy, it was the first thing you all had noticed about the tired man.
Shamefully, the second thing you noticed was that he was devastatingly handsome.
Maybe he seemed a little rough around the edges, maybe he was likely out of your age bracket, and maybe you were sort of creeped out that time you caught a glimpse of him heaving an armful of duffel bags out of his apartment in the middle of the night. But god, wasn’t that just your type?
Mika snorted into her glass, slapping Yui on the shoulder. “Hush! He can’t know we’re on to him!”
“He’s not even home, he won’t know a thing.” Yui thought for a moment, a thumb playing at her chin. “Unless he bugged the place, in that case we’re fucked.”
You clapped a hand over your mouth to contain a mirthful giggle, cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the thought of your mysterious neighbor listening in on your ridiculous theories.
“You know,” you started, “I’ve never seen him without that weird tracksuit. He could be hiding some ink under there.”
Mika swung an uncoordinated finger in your direction, “Exactly! He’s obviously, like, an oyabun or something.”
Yui raised a brow. “Really? You think he’d be living in a shit-hole like this if he were a Yakuza boss?”
“Oh, right… huh, maybe he’s a shateigashira then.”
“Eh, maybe.” Yui grunted, “Poor guy, they should really pay him more. You’d think a Yakuza would make enough money to afford something better than a bachelor pad.”
You let out an ugly chortle, “Let’s give him our condolences.”
You all laughed, settling back into the worn cushions and carefully nursing your drinks. Your gaze flitted back to the TV. On the screen was a slow shot of some grainy photo, a crime scene most likely, if the blood was anything to go off of.
“No, but on a real note, I wonder what 204’s deal is. It’s gotta be an interesting story.” You hummed thoughtfully.
“What if he’s just a villain?”
“Nah, he strikes me as the honorable type. My money’s still on the Yakuza.”
“Thennn maybe he’s a detective.”
“Too boring.”
“Assassin?”
“Ehhh, that’s still in Yakuza territory.”
“Oh! Oh! I’ve got a good one! Divorced dad hiding from his ex, living in the slums to avoid paying child support.”
You cackled. “Oh, that’s gotta be it.”
“Funny, but it still leaves too much unexplained.”
Mika pouted, sinking into the armrest. “You’re no fun.”
“Sorry for being realistic.”
You side-eyed her. “Is anything about this realistic?”
“It is to me,” Yui declared, slapping her palms onto the coffee table with enough power to send her cup over the edge. “I will get to the bottom of this! And- aw shit.”
“Yui- What the hell?! Our deposit!”
The glass laid on its side, the carpet already soaking up the colorful liquid. Yui fretted over the stain that had formed, and Mika taunted her while she had the chance, the topic at hand completely forgotten.
After that it didn’t take long for you to stumble your way back to your bedroom, leaving your roommates to harass each other and conspire all they wanted. Yui wasn’t the only one who had too much to drink. Your head was spinning like a top.
Despite your drunken exhaustion, you ended up wide awake through the night, long after the girls put an end to their arguing and went to their own respective spaces. You traced the odd patterns in the cracked ceiling with your eyes, watched the way moonlight snuck through the gap in your curtain, studied the dust settling in the corner until the buzz fogging your brain faded. Only the feeling of anticipation remained, tugging at the strings of your consciousness firmly enough to prevent you from resting.
And so you waited into the odd hours of the night, thinking of nothing in particular, until you heard it.
Two hard thunks. The first dull, like the rubber sole of a boot hitting metal. The second more firm, followed by the click of a latch.
204 finally made it home, you guessed.
The soft sounds of life past your bedroom wall lulled you into a drowsy stupor, inklings of curiosity curling its loose grip around your mind.
As silly as you knew Mika and Yui were being with their conspiracy theories, your neighbor’s peculiarity truly did spark a sense of thoughtfulness in you. Why was he never home? Hell, what was his name?
…Was he single?
You stifled a snort at that final thought, burying yourself under the covers with a newfound desire for rest. You would solve this mystery another day.
For now, you could simply wonder.
—
It was the crack of dawn when you decided to do your laundry.
The air outside was still cool from the lingering night, the creeping sun just barely lighting your way as you trudged to the washing unit downstairs, a drawstring bag full of clothes slung over your shoulder.
You never usually did much of anything this early in the day, especially not your laundry, though you had procrastinated far too late in the week and no longer had an option. Might as well get the chore over with before you had to delve into your seasonal wear to find something clean.
You knocked the door open with your hip, finding an unoccupied washing machine and dumping in your garments. Once you punched the start button, you rested your forehead against the chill of the metal door, promising yourself you would go back to bed as soon as the load was finished.
Despite your uncomfortable squat, and the fact that you were still very much upright, you were drifting in and out of consciousness as you rested your weight against the washing machine.
It took you nearly thirty minutes to notice that another person was occupying the room. Just at your peripheral was a figure dressed in all black, loitering in the corner.
You snapped to attention, jerking your head towards the unexpected companion.
It was undeniably your neighbor who was fussing with one of the far off machines. His dark hair was knotted into a bun on the back of his head, his hip jutted against the machine, itching the back of his calf with the toe of his sneaker.
You looked down at your own appearance and felt a prickle of shame. You felt a little naked in the thin cami and sleeping shorts you had on, and you crossed your arms over your chest to conceal the few measly inches of skin you could. Why’d you have to run into your hot neighbor now of all times?
As you attempted to subtly study the broad expanse of his back, you caught sight of the garment in his hands. It was hard to tell against the black of the fabric, but as you squinted harder you could make out splatters of some dark liquid on the material. 204 swiped his thumb over the spot, the pad of his finger coming away a cloying red.
You swallowed.
…Was that blood?
Your neighbor rubbed the crimson streak onto his pants, tutting as he cast the soiled shirt into the washer. You watched as his eyes darted around before he shoved the rest of the load into the machine. From the short glimpse you were able to catch, most of his laundry was stained in a similar fashion. Some stains were fresh, clotted in thick glossy splotches on the surface of the fabric. Others were older, dulled to a rusty brown that was only noticeable in the stiff way the cloth moved. You couldn’t be sure in those cases, but your gut insisted it was all the same substance.
It had to be blood. And a lot of it. There was no way that was from a nosebleed, or even from your average kitchen mishap.
You gave him a quick once over, searching for any signs of a massive wound and finding none. If he were injured, he was doing a ridiculously good job of hiding it. His body language read more ‘I need a nap’ than ‘call an ambulance’.
So then whose blood was it?
Your mind wandered back to the conversation you were having with your roommates a few nights before. At the time it seemed like a funny joke sparked from boredom and too much booze, but looking back you guys were definitely on to something.
Something was off about your neighbor, and the evidence was irrefutable.
“You’ve been staring a while.”
The throaty baritone of 204’s voice broke you from your trance, and you realized that he was making direct eye contact with you. There was no way you could pretend you didn’t just clock him.
Shit.
You scrambled off of the ground, standing straight as a rod. You were unsure if you should run for the hills or if that would only dig your grave a foot deeper.
You settled for attempting to appeal to his soft side. He had to have one of those, right? Maybe he would forgive you for catching him red-handed if you swore yourself to secrecy.
“I wasn’t- uh, I mean I didn’t realize I was staring at you.” you tried to think of something pitiful to say, coming up short. “…I’m sorry.”
‘Please don’t bury me with the bodies you got rid of last night.’
His staring persisted for a moment longer before he looked away, only giving you a short hum of acknowledgement as he returned his focus to the washing machine.
You held your breath for a painful span of time, waiting for him to speak. When he didn’t, you let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Now all you had to do was evacuate with your laundry and your life intact. Who cared if it wasn’t dried all the way? You weren’t sticking around to test 204’s forgiveness.
Just as you were stealthily collecting your damp clothes, he spoke up again.
“You live upstairs, right?”
‘Holy shit. Was that a threat?’
“Hah. Yeah,” you laughed, voice sounding a little shrill even for you. Should you have lied? Would you have even gotten away with it? “Upstairs. Yup. That’s me.”
He gave the barest nod, as if confirming some fact he already knew, “Figured.”
You should have known he wouldn’t let you go so easily! He wouldn’t be a hardened criminal if he didn’t dish out at least a few threats before letting you off the hook. Who even knew if he was truly forgiving you, or if he was simply toying with your head before he came back to silence you for good?
To hell with it, you needed to get out fast.
You clutched your drawstring bag to your chest, bowing your head as you shuffled out of the room, not turning your back on him even once.
“Haveagoodmorning!”
And with that you darted past the doorway and bound up the stairs, praying you would live to see the next sunrise.
—
Aizawa hurriedly stuffed the last shirt into his wardrobe, returning the laundry hamper to the sparse corner of his bedroom.
He didn’t have much time to spare. If he didn’t leave soon he would be late for his first class.
Ideally, he’d have more time in between tasks, but his patrols had been more sporadic as of late. Though, Aizawa wasn’t the type to complain about keeping busy. It was simply the perils of being a hero alongside teaching. He was lucky he even found the time to wash his clothes in the first place, lest he subject himself to rewearing the same getup for, what? The fourth day in a row? He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep getting away with it. Violent crimes were at an all time high, and the proof was in the tacky stains covering his gear, he’d had to run his laundry twice just to get the blood out.
As Aizawa pulled on a clean pair of socks, he thought back to the girl with the staring problem in the community laundry unit. The young woman, his next-door neighbor if he remembered correctly, had been flustered. That much was obvious.
He wasn’t sure how to respond to her ogling. It wasn’t often that a man his age got checked out by a woman of her own, especially so openly. He worried he may have been too cold… but what else was he supposed to do? Aizawa wasn’t good at these things, never had been. He’d normally brush this category of interaction under the rug, wash his hands of the uncertainty, but he allowed himself an uncharacteristic moment to appreciate this shred of attention he rarely received.
A small twinge of pride straightened his back as he stepped towards the door.
‘…Guess I still got it.’