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Spinner didn’t expect the League of Villains to smell like dust and instant ramen.
He’d imagined something louder.
Shigaraki Tomura barely looked at him at first.
The man was sitting on the floor, back against a low table, legs sprawled out. One hand scratched at his neck while the other clicked rapidly on a mouse. The glow of a laptop lit his face in harsh blues and whites.
“Sit,” Shigaraki muttered, eyes still locked on the screen.
Spinner sat.
No speech. No recruitment pitch. No dramatic declaration of evil.
Just… waiting.
Spinner swallowed. “You… uh. You said you needed people who believe in Stain.”
That got Shigaraki’s attention, if only briefly. His red eyes flicked up, unfocused, then back to the screen.
“Stain believed in fixing a broken society,” Shigaraki said flatly. “I believe in breaking it the rest of the way.”
The clicking got faster. Spinner caught a glimpse of the screen: colorful characters, a minimap, health bars. A game.
Spinner blinked.
“…Is that League?”
Shigaraki paused.
Slowly, he turned his head this time. Really looked at Spinner. “You know this game?”
Spinner hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I mean. I’m not amazing or anything. I mostly play top lane. Tank builds.”
Shigaraki stared.
Then, unexpectedly, he grinned.
“Seriously?” he said. “What do you main?”
Spinner relaxed a fraction. “Udyr. Sometimes Garen, if I’m bored.”
Shigaraki snorted. “Figures. Big sword guy plays the no-nonsense champs.”
Spinner huffed. “Says the guy spamming assassins.”
“Katarina takes skill,” Shigaraki shot back, offended. “You can’t just mash buttons.”
Spinner raised an eyebrow. “You literally reset by mashing.”
Shigaraki laughed. It was sharp and quick and surprised Spinner enough that he forgot where he was.
“You wanna watch?” Shigaraki asked, scooting over and patting the floor beside him. “Queue just popped.”
Spinner moved before he could overthink it.
They leaned toward the screen together, shoulders almost touching. Shigaraki trash-talked his teammates like it was second nature, narrating every bad decision with theatrical disgust. Spinner found himself smiling behind the mask.
“This guy’s about to overextend,” Spinner muttered.
Two seconds later, the enemy jungler appeared.
“Called it,” Shigaraki said smugly. “Watch this.”
He dove in anyway.
Spinner winced. “You’re gonna die.”
“Worth it.”
Shigaraki died. Immediately.
They both burst out laughing.
A week later, Spinner woke up to the sound of furious keyboard clacking.
He followed it down the hall, sword slung over his shoulder, and found Shigaraki hunched over the laptop again, hair messier than usual, eyes bloodshot.
Spinner leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you.”
Shigaraki didn’t deny it. “Ranked.”
Spinner crossed his arms. “You say that like it excuses everything.”
Shigaraki scoffed. “It does.”
Spinner stepped closer, peering at the screen. “You’re building glass cannon again.”
“It’s called confidence.”
“It’s called feeding.”
“Hey—”
Shigaraki lost another fight.
He slammed his hand on the desk. “That was lag.”
Spinner snorted. “Sure.”
For a moment, there was no League of Villains. No heroes. No plans. Just two guys arguing over a dumb game.
Spinner realized, that this was the most normal he’d felt in years.
A swirl of mist formed near the doorway.
“Kurogiri,” Shigaraki groaned without turning. “What.”
“You have been awake for thirty-six hours,” Kurogiri said calmly. “You are scheduled to rest.”
Shigaraki waved him off. “After this match.”
“You said that three matches ago.”
Spinner cleared his throat. “He’s gonna int the next one anyway.”
Shigaraki glared at him. “Traitor.”
But he shut the laptop.
-----------
The forest still smelled like smoke.
Spinner sat on a fallen log, mask discarded beside him. His hands shook as he tried to clean the blood from his sword. It wasn’t all his.
You did enough, he told himself. You followed orders.
Still, heroes’ and heroes in training's faces flashed in his mind. The way things had spiraled. The chaos. The screams.
Stain would’ve—
Spinner stopped that thought before it finished.
He heard footsteps.
Shigaraki emerged from between the trees, coat torn, one arm hanging stiff at his side. His eyes found Spinner immediately.
“You held the line,” Shigaraki said.
Spinner looked up. “…Yeah?”
“You didn’t run.”
Spinner swallowed. “You thought I would?”
Shigaraki crouched in front of him, rummaging through a bag. He pulled out bandages and antiseptic with rough, impatient movements.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
Spinner glanced down. A long cut along his side, already crusted over.
“It’s fine.”
“Sit still.”
Spinner obeyed.
Shigaraki’s hands were surprisingly steady as he cleaned the wound. He didn’t talk while he worked, but his presence was grounding. Familiar.
“You did well,” Shigaraki said again, quieter this time.
Spinner exhaled. “I wasn’t sure I could.”
“But you did.”
Spinner hesitated. “Why… why tell me that?”
Shigaraki tied off the bandage. “Because most people won’t.”
He stood, offered a hand.
"Besides, you need different skills to make a team right?"
Spinner took it.
As they walked back toward the others, Spinner thought about the game waiting back at the hideout. About trash talk and bad builds and stupid arguments.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
More than he'd had in years.
--------
The new base doesn’t feel real yet.
Spinner notices that first—not the cold concrete, not the humming generators, not even the way Kurogiri’s warp gate flickers like a wound in the air.
It’s the silence that’s wrong. The League has never been quiet before. There’s always been Shigaraki’s scratching, Dabi’s dry commentary, Toga humming to herself. Twice's outbursts. Noise meant survival. Noise meant momentum.
Now, there’s just the echo of what they lost.
They sit around a mismatched table scavenged from somewhere— probably abandoned, like everything else they touch. Maps are spread out, lists scribbled in Shigaraki’s sharp, angry handwriting. Supplies. Names. Damage reports. What they gained from Kamino, and what they didn’t.
Spinner stares at the table but doesn’t really see it.
All Might’s face flashes through his mind, burned into every screen in the country. Victory that looked like loss. Loss that looked like the end of something massive.
And Shigaraki—
Spinner glances up.
Shigaraki is hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands pressed against his face. Not scratching. Not pacing. Just… folded in on himself. Like if he lets go, something inside him will spill out and never come back.
“All For One is gone,” Mr. Compress says eventually, breaking the silence. His voice is quieter than usual, stripped of its theatrical bounce. “But not erased. His influence is still—”
“Enough.”
Shigaraki’s voice cuts through the room, raw and sharp. His hands slide down his face, fingers twitching like they want to dig into skin. His eyes are red-rimmed, unfocused.
“I know,” he mutters. “I know what we lost.”
No one argues.
Spinner shifts in his chair, the weight of his sword suddenly uncomfortable across his back. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good with words, never been good with grief that isn’t his own. But he recognizes this kind of hollow. He’s lived in it.
After the meeting breaks, one by one they drift away. Dabi vanishing into shadow, Toga trailing after him with a hum that sounds forced. Kurogiri pauses, as if to say something, then opens a warp gate and disappears.
Spinner stays.
Shigaraki doesn’t look up.
For a long moment, Spinner just stands there, awkward and unsure, like the first week he joined. Like he’s still waiting to be told whether he belongs.
I don’t know exactly how you feel, Spinner thinks. But I know what it’s like to lose the only thing that made the world make sense.
His fingers curl around something solid in his pocket.
The console.
He’d grabbed it automatically when they relocated, more instinct than thought. The second one is still tucked safely away, wrapped in cloth, like it’s something fragile.
Spinner exhales, then steps closer.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Boss.”
No response.
Spinner pulls the console out and holds it out, resting it lightly against Shigaraki’s knee.
“Dumb idea,” he adds quickly. “But… you wanna play something? Just to— y’know. Take your mind off it.”
Shigaraki goes still.
Slowly, he lowers his hands.
For a second, Spinner thinks he misjudged it, that Shigaraki’s going to snap, or decay the thing out of spite. But instead, Shigaraki’s gaze locks onto the console like it’s something impossibly distant.
“…You still have those?” he asks quietly.
Spinner nods. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches.
Then Shigaraki lets out a low, tired sound, half groan, half laugh, and reaches out. His fingers hover for a moment, careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break it just by touching it.
“Sure,” he says. “Why not.”
They sit on the floor instead of chairs, backs against the wall. The screen lights up between them, familiar and comforting. The game boots up with its cheerful tones, wildly out of place in the aftermath of Kamino.
Shigaraki relaxes just a fraction.
For a while, they don’t talk. They just play.
Spinner watches Shigaraki’s hands steady as the match goes on. The tension in his shoulders eases. He still looks tired—exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix—but there’s focus there now. Purpose.
At one point, Shigaraki mutters, “You always pick tanks.”
Spinner snorts. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”
Shigaraki huffs. “Don’t get used to it.”
But when the match ends, Shigaraki doesn’t hand the console back right away.
He smiles.
It’s small and crooked, but real.
And for the first time since Kamino, Spinner feels like maybe they’re still moving forward.
The air is thick with anticipation.
Gigantomachia waits somewhere out there, a living catastrophe they’re about to throw themselves against. The League is restless, coiled tight with adrenaline and exhaustion.
Spinner tightens the strap of his mask and glances at Shigaraki.
“Hey,” he says, holding up the console. “One quick game before we head out?”
Shigaraki pauses, then shakes his head. “Wish we could. No time.”
Spinner nods, understanding—but there’s something almost wistful in Shigaraki’s expression.
“Next rainy day,” Shigaraki adds. “We’ll play all day. No interruptions.”
Spinner smiles under his mask. “Yeah. I’ll hold you to that.”
Victory tastes strange.
They sit around a long table this time—actual food spread out, warm and plentiful. Meat, rice, something stewed that smells incredible. Laughter bounces off the walls, loud and unrestrained.
They survived. More than that—they won.
Spinner watches Shigaraki at the head of the table, animated in a way he hasn’t been before. Stronger. Sharper. Still himself—but something else layered over it now. Confidence, maybe. Or resolve.
Spinner waits until the noise dies down, then nudges Shigaraki’s arm and slides the console across the table.
“Quick match,” he says.
Shigaraki arches a brow. “We don’t really have time.”
Spinner just looks at him.
Shigaraki sighs and bites his lip. “…One couldn’t hurt.”
They lean closer together as the game starts, shoulders nearly touching. Around them, the League eats and talks and plans the future.
For now, though, Spinner focuses on the screen—and the quiet understanding between them.
Rain taps faintly against the windows.
And for once, just for them, the world can wait.
----------
The room was too big.
Spinner noticed that first, the moment he stepped into it.
The old League hideouts had always felt cramped—unfinished basements, abandoned bars, windowless warehouses that smelled faintly of oil and rot. Places where you could hear everyone breathe, where Shigaraki’s restless movements were impossible to ignore, where the League existed as a cluster rather than an organization.
This place wasn’t like that.
The Paranormal Liberation Front’s meeting hall was cavernous, deliberately so. High ceilings arched overhead, metal beams crossing like ribs. Long rows of seating descended toward a raised platform at the front, each section occupied by representatives of different factions. Thousands of people, all aligned, all waiting.
Spinner adjusted his grip on the sword resting across his back and swallowed.
Too big, he thought again.
He took his seat with the rest of the former League of Villains, though even that distinction felt thinner now. They weren’t really “former” anything. They were the core, the origin point, but the world around them had expanded, grown teeth and limbs and banners.
Shigaraki stood at the front.
That, at least, hadn’t changed.
Tomura Shigaraki—Supreme Leader of the Paranormal Liberation Front—stood beneath harsh overhead lights, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. His posture was loose, almost lazy, but Spinner knew better.
He looked… different.
Bigger, somehow. Like the space itself bent to accommodate him.
They all leaned forward when Shigaraki spoke.
Spinner leaned back.
The meeting began with reports.
Logistics. Territory. Recruitment numbers. Hero movements.
Spinner listened, but it washed over him like static.
He’d never been good at this part, planning, the bureaucracy of revolution. He’d joined the League for ideals, for belief, for the simple clarity of following someone who meant something in a broken world.
Now, as speaker after speaker took turns outlining the future, Spinner felt like he was watching someone else’s dream unfold.
Shigaraki listened with his head tilted slightly downward, eyes shadowed by messy, white, hair. Occasionally he’d interrupt, voice sharp and decisive.
“No. Burn that district first.”
“We don’t need them yet. Let them panic.”
“That hero’s irrelevant.”
Every word landed with authority.
Every word was obeyed.
Spinner’s gaze lingered on him, searching for something familiar.
Do you even sleep anymore? he wondered.
He remembered a different version of Shigaraki. One who sprawled on the floor with a game controller in his hands, scratching absently at his neck while shouting at a pixelated screen. One who scoffed at sleep until Kurogiri gently reminded him of it. One who, for a few hours at a time, could forget the weight of the world in favor of digital victories and shared laughter.
That Shigaraki felt distant now.
Not gone.
Just… buried.
The meeting dragged on.
Spinner’s thoughts wandered.
He thought about how long it had been since they’d done anything normal. Not that “normal” had ever applied to the League, but there had been moments—quiet ones. Late-night games. Half-serious conversations. Shared silence that didn’t demand anything.
Now every interaction felt purposeful.
And watching his boss up there, it was...
He’s thriving, Spinner admitted to himself, a dull ache settling in his chest. This is what he was meant for.
And that scared him.
Because Spinner wasn’t sure where that left him.
He shifted in his seat, claws tapping softly against the armrest. His role was clearer than ever, symbol, spokesperson, embodiment of ideology. He's a tank. Loud and rambunctious. He understood that. He believed in it.
But belief didn’t erase loneliness.
And a tank is replaceable. Strongest wins.
And Spinner isn't so sure he's the strongest anymore.
----
The meeting finally neared its end.
Shigaraki straightened, drawing everyone’s attention without effort.
“We move soon,” he said. “The heroes won’t understand what’s happening until it’s already over.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the hall.
Spinner watched Shigaraki’s face carefully.
There was no hesitation there.
No doubt.
Just resolve, sharp as a blade.
When the meeting was adjourned, the people filed out in disciplined waves.
Spinner remained seated for a moment longer.
He waited until the room had thinned, until the noise dulled to a low hum.
Shigaraki lingered at the front, shoulders slumping just slightly now that the performance was over. He lifted a hand to his face, pressing his fingers against his temple, then dragged them down slowly.
Spinner stood.
He hesitated.
Don’t interrupt, a part of him warned. He’s busy. He’s carrying too much.
But another part, the older part, the one that had followed him long before the world called him a leader, refused to stay silent.
Spinner walked forward.
His footsteps echoed faintly in the emptying hall.
Shigaraki noticed him when he was only a few steps away.
“What,” Shigaraki said, voice rough. Not annoyed. Just tired.
Spinner stopped beside him, gaze fixed ahead rather than directly at him.
“Long meeting,” Spinner said.
Shigaraki looked up at Spinner's voice and his eyes softened slightly, then let out a humorless huff. “That’s one way to put it.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
Spinner searched for the right words and found none of them adequate.
“I’ve been thinking,” Spinner began slowly. “We haven’t… had much time lately. To do anything that’s not this.”
Shigaraki glanced at him sideways, red eyes unreadable.
“That’s kind of the point,” he said.
“I know.” Spinner nodded. “And you’re doing great. Everyone sees it. I see it.”
Shigaraki didn’t respond immediately.
Spinner continued, voice steady but quiet. “It’s just… I almost miss you sometimes.”
The words hung between them, heavier than Spinner had expected.
Shigaraki stiffened.
When he spoke, his tone was clipped. “Spinner, there are more important things now.”
Spinner met his gaze then.
And he saw it.
Not anger. Not dismissal.
Strain.
Exhaustion held together by sheer force of will.
“I know,” Spinner said again, softer. “I just wanted to say it.”
Shigaraki looked away, jaw tight.
For a moment, Spinner thought that was it—that he’d pushed too far.
Then Shigaraki spoke.
“…I don’t have time,” he said quietly. “Not for distractions. Not right now.”
Spinner nodded.
“I figured.”
He turned to leave, heart heavier but not surprised.
Then Shigaraki added, almost under his breath, “But.”
Spinner paused.
Shigaraki’s voice was still rough when he continued. “Next time it rains.”
Spinner looked back.
Shigaraki wasn’t looking at him—his gaze was fixed on the empty hall, hands clenched at his sides.
“…yeah,” Shigaraki finished. “We’ll make time.”
Something loosened in Spinner’s chest.
He smiled—a small, genuine thing.
“Next rainy day,” Spinner agreed.
He started to walk away again.
Behind him, Shigaraki spoke once more.
"Oh.. uh."
He turned around for the umpteenth time.
"Yeah, boss?"
Silence, like he wanted to say something.
“…Thank you, Spinner.”
Spinner stopped, just for a second.
"Sure thing, boss."
Then, without turning around, he nodded.
And for the first time since the League had become something bigger than itself, Spinner felt like there was still space for the things that mattered.
----------- +1
The war started the next week.
Or maybe the next month.
Spinner couldn’t remember which.
He remembered being told he would be given more power—enough to protect the people who needed him. He remembered nodding, because that was what he always did. Because Shigaraki needed him to.
They told him it was to help with the hospital.
They told him it was to free Kurogiri.
He remembered pain, distant and dull, like it belonged to someone else. He remembered pushing forward anyway.
And somehow—somehow—he won.
Did I win?
The hospital fell into chaos. The doors broke. The restraints shattered. Spinner didn’t remember every detail, only the feeling of momentum, of finally being useful. He remembered shouting Kurogiri’s name, over and over, his voice hoarse, desperate.
“Kurogiri—hey—hey, it’s me—”
But when he finally stood in front of him, when it should have been over, something felt… wrong.
Kurogiri didn’t answer.
Spinner blinked, trying to focus. His vision wouldn’t stay still. The world tilted, then righted itself again.
“Kurogiri?” he tried again, quieter this time.
Nothing.
For a moment, Spinner wondered if maybe this wasn’t really Kurogiri. Or maybe it was, and he was the problem. His head felt full, like there wasn’t enough space for his thoughts anymore.
It didn’t matter. Shigaraki mattered.
He needed to tell his boss he’d done it. That he’d won. That he’d helped.
So Spinner moved.
He ran, not smoothly, not cleanly, but forward, using everything he’d been given without thinking too hard about how it worked. His body obeyed even when his mind lagged behind. Each step felt heavier than the last, but stopping never crossed his mind.
He didn’t notice the way his breath hitched.
He didn’t notice the warmth spreading under his scaled armor.
He didn’t notice the way his hands trembled when he tried to steady himself.
All he could think about was Shigaraki.
When he finally saw him, it was almost funny.
Tomura Shigaraki was landing from a jump, boots scraping against broken concrete, posture unsteady. He looked… wrecked. More than Spinner had ever seen him.
Spinner laughed. A soft, breathy sound that surprised even him.
“Guess you got wiped out too, boss.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Spinner took a step forward—and then another—and then he saw it. His boss sinking down, like his body had decided it couldn’t keep going anymore. He hit the ground hard, shoulders slumping, head bowing.
“Oh,” Spinner said, dimly. “Hey. Hey—”
He hurried over, knees hitting the ground beside him. The movement made his head spin. He waited for it to pass.
He was bleeding. Spinner registered that in a distant, abstract way, like a fact that didn’t quite connect to reality.
That’s not good, he thought vaguely.
Still, he smiled.
“Hey,” Spinner said again. “You should see the other guys.”
Shigaraki lifted his head slowly.
“Spinner?” His voice was rough. Almost surprised.
“Yeah,” Spinner said. “Me. Boss. Isn’t this great?”
He frowned, like he was trying to piece something together.
“I think… I think Kurogiri got out,” Spinner continued, words starting to blur together. “I’m not sure. He didn’t really… say anything. I feel kinda weird. Can’t think straight.”
Shigaraki's eyes slipped closed, then opened again. His breathing looked wrong, too shallow, too careful.
Spinner didn’t notice the way blood darkened the corner of the other man's mouth.
Boss looked at him for a long time. Too long.
“I tried,” Shigaraki murmured. “I really did.”
Spinner tilted his head. “Huh?”
“I tried my hardest,” he said. His voice cracked. “Spinner… I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Spinner asked, genuinely confused.
Shigaraki swallowed. “I'm sorry, Spinner”
Spinner laughed again, softer this time. “Boss, Don’t worry about it, whatever it is.”
He shook his head weakly. “No. I really am sorry.”
Spinner beamed at him. “You’re great, boss. You did amazing.”
Shigaraki didn’t answer.
Something cool brushed against Spinner’s face.
He blinked and looked up.
Rain.
“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Hey. It’s raining.”
The drops felt nice against his skin, washing away the heat, the noise. For a second, everything felt quiet.
He looked back at the other. “Yo. Boss?”
A faint sound. Maybe a hum. Maybe nothing.
“It’s raining,” Spinner repeated. “See?”
He tried to sit up straighter—and then coughed.
The sound startled him. Something wet hit his hand.
“Huh,” he muttered. “Must be the rain.”
He coughed again. Harder this time. His chest burned.
Probably should get treated, he thought hazily. Kurogiri helps with that.
He looked around, suddenly aware of shapes in the distance. Voices. Movement. Heroes? Villains? It didn’t really matter.
“Boss,” Spinner said, voice wobbling. “Should we go home?”
No answer.
“Hey,” he tried again. “Can we go home?”
His arms felt heavy. He tried to push himself up and failed, slumping back down beside his boss.
“Can we…” His words broke apart. “Can we—”
He coughed again. And again.
Silence.
Spinner leaned back, staring up at the gray sky. The rain soaked into his clothes, into his scales, cooling everything down.
It felt peaceful.
At least I helped, he thought. At least I did something right.
His breathing slowed.
The rain kept falling.
And with the last bit of strength he had left, Spinner turned his head slightly, smiling even as his vision faded.
“It’s really raining, Tomura,” he whispered.
“…can we play League of Legends now?”
Shigaraki Tomura is a lonely man.
He was never accepted by his family, and grew to hate them.
It was never their fault.
When he was kidnapped taken in by Sensei, Tomura felt like he had purpose.
They had first tried to attack All-Might at the USJ but was unsuccessful. Sensei told him to not worry, he needed a better team.
He wasn't having much luck with new members. He had a few, but he wanted something more.
A man with scales that wore a scarf and looked out of place among villains.
Another fail.
The man talked about Stain.
It was infuriating.
Stain this, Stain that. Honestly, he leaves no media for the rest of the villains.
Tomura scoffed as the lizard man began to talk, turning his attention back to the round he was playing. He tuned the lizard man out, waiting till he had finished talking to kick him out.
Or, he was going to.
"Is that League?"
Oh?
Perhaps this wasn't a bad idea after all.
----
Tomura was stressed. Nothing had been put into action yet, and he was tired of waiting. So he did what any normal person would, and stayed up all night gaming.
Before, Kurogiri would come one every few hours, to tell him to sleep. He'd never listened, only telling him to go away when he entered.
So when the door creaked open, the first instinct was to tell the person to fuck off.
It took his mind a second to process the fact the door had opened, instead of a portal appearing behind him.
Lizard man-Spinner leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you.”
Had he come to… check on him?
“Ranked.”
“You say that like it excuses everything.”
He sounds mad, why?
He scoffs. “It does.”
Tomura felt a presence at his shoulder. “You’re building glass cannon again.”
“It’s called confidence.”
“It’s called feeding.”
“Hey—”
Tomura lost another game, but he didn't mind so much.
Having banter with a teammate? Friend? Whatever it was, it was new, but not unwelcome.
Sensei was never like this.
-----
Tomura was uneasy.
He had finally acted on his plans, they were flawless, so why does he feel this way? Everyone on their team is competent, so what does it matter?
He sent a glance at the clock. Most of the action would be over, so it couldn't hurt to go check, would it?
He grabbed a small first aid kit that was on the bar and got Kurogiri to warp him to where the mission had took place. Tomura walked past Compress, Toga, Dabi, Twice, but no Spinner. He walked a little faster.
Why did Tomura care anyway?
Eventually, he came across the Lizard man, perched on the edge of a log.
Spinner had quite a large gash on his side, which Tomura insisted on treating.
He reassured Spinner, letting him know he did well, and they had walked back together.
It was not so bad, having other people around.
-----
After Kamino, everything had gone to shit.
Sensei was gone, they had to find a new base, and had left everything behind.
He'd tried to salvage what he could, he really had, but nothing was working for him. Compress had tried to bring up Sensei, but Tomura had snapped at him. Everyone left to stew in their own sorrows after that.
He was lost in thought, trying desperately to make sense of everything in his mind when a voice cut into his thoughts.
Hey,” the voice had said. “Boss.”
He felt something nudge his knee. A console. "You want to play something?"
What?
Can Spinner not see he's busy brooding?
The Lizard only looked at him, eyes wide in a silent plea.
He grumbled, before accepting the console, hesitantly.
They play a few matches and when the time comes for them to go look for food, Tomura pauses for a second longer than he needs to.
-----
Shigaraki took a deep breath. He can do this. Conquer Gigantomachia, and free Sensei.
He looks around the room at the league- no, his League hearing up for what could be a fight for their lives.
Tomura looks into the distance, thinking.
“One quick game before we head out?” Spinner's voice came from his left.
He wants to play, more than anything really, but...
Tomura pauses, then shakes his head. “Wish we could. No time.”
Spinner nods, looking understanding.
It makes him feel worse.
“On a rainy day,” Tomura promises. “We’ll play. No interruptions.”
Spinner smiles under his mask. “Yeah. I’ll hold you to that.”
Tomura hopes it rains soon.
-----
They won.
Not only had they got Machia to submit, they had an army.
The meal of victory went on, everyone in high spirits. It had quieted down, and Shigaraki leaned back and just listened to the hum of chatter around him.
He listened to the taking, the sound of cutlery against plays, and the soft patter of rain against the window.
It's raining.
Tomura smiled to himself, as Spinner slid a console across the table.
The other things can wait.
------
Shigaraki isn't really sure how it happened, but he is now the leader of the Paranormal Liberation Front. The meeting he was in would begin shortly, and he had lots to speak on. When Shigaraki spoke, everyone looked to him.
He went over some things and then left the rest of the meeting to the man with the large nose.
He looked over the room, searching for the face of Spinner. He must be here somewhere, right?
The closest Tomura got to spotting his friend was a faintly green blur at the back of the hall. Whatever. He put his head in his hands, and tried to block out everything.
He added his input, every once in a while. It took what felt like forever, but the meeting was over. A good thing too, for he felt thoroughly annoyed.
He heard footsteps.
“What?”
“Long meeting,”
That's Spinner's voice.
Shigaraki couldn't help but feel a bit warmer. “That’s one way to put it.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“I’ve been thinking,” Spinner began slowly. “We haven’t… had much time lately. To do anything that’s not this.”
I know. I know and I'm sorry.
The all encompassing leader of the PLF would never apologise.
“That’s kind of the point,” he said.
“I know.” Spinner nodded. “And you’re doing great. Everyone sees it. I see it.”
There was silence.
Spinner continued, voice steady but quiet. “It’s just… I almost miss you sometimes.”
Oh.
When he spoke, his tone was clipped. “Spinner, there are more important things now.”
Shigaraki felt a tug of guilt in his chest.
Spinner met his gaze then.
Can he see how tired I am?
“I know,” Spinner said again, softer. “I just wanted to say it.”
The weight in his chest grew a little heavier.
He looked away, he couldn't bring himself to look at Spinner right now.
“…I don’t have time,” he said. “Not for distractions. Not right now.”
Do you understand?
Spinner nodded.
“I figured.”
Please don't hate me.
Spinner turned to leave, and took a few steps before Tomura spoke again, desperate to have his company, if only for a few more seconds.
“But.”
Spinner stopped.
Did he want to have company too?
Shigaraki’s voice was still rough when he continued. “Next time it rains.”
Spinner turned to look over his shoulder at Tomura.
“…yeah,” Shigaraki finished. “We’ll make time.”
He smiled at Tomura.
Maybe he doesn't hate me after all.
“Next rainy day,” Spinner agreed.
He started to walk away again.
Shigaraki spoke once more.
"Oh.. uh."
The Lizard man turned around for the umpteenth time.
"Yeah, boss?"
Would you run away with me if I asked? Would you get out of here, find a place to call our own?
He didn't say that.
“…Thank you, Spinner.”
He stopped, just for a second.
"Sure thing, boss."
Then, without turning around, nodded.
--------
It was maybe a week before the war began, that Sensei gave Spinner another quirk.
Tomura hated that.
He saw what happened to the Nomus, how they became lifeless, obedient, silent.
He didn't want that to happen to Spinner.
Shortly after what would be the final battle began, Tomura knew this was a mistake.
He tried, he really did, but that lonely little boy inside him couldn't fight anymore.
He gave up. Shigaraki was heavily injured. The boy who is fighting him, Midoriya, seemed to know as much and left to get heroes to detain him.
Tomura didn't try to run, he was badly injured and knows how this is going to end for him. Judging by the sad smile the Midoriya kid gave him, he knew too.
Once the kid had left, Shigaraki didn't try to run, only jumped down a platform. The world tilted and the edges of his vision became darker.
Tomura wouldn't give in, not yet.
Not until he said sorry to Spinner.
He heard broken, heavy footsteps and looked over to see who it was.
Spinner.
He looked awful, then noticed Tomura stood there and laughed, it was a breathy sound that was more like a wounded dog than anything.
“Guess you got wiped out too, boss.”
Shigaraki didn't hear him.
Why does he always call me boss? Won't you call me Tomura?
Spinner took a step toward him, then another. They were staggering but he was determined. There was a bright smile on his face, betraying not an ounce of pain.
You're hurting, friend.
Shigaraki can't hold himself up anymore. He fell to the ground, and hit it hard, shoulders slumping, head bowing. He couldn't will his body to move any longer.
He registered Spinner hobbling over, kneeling on the floor next to Tomura, holding his shoulders.
“Oh,” Spinner said, dimly. “Hey. Hey—”
I don't want to hurt anymore.
Spinner was bleeding. It dripped onto him, so rapidly that soon he could no longer tell the two's blood apart.
He knew then, that they would end up the same way.
Spinner must have seen the worry in Tomura's eyes, he tried to reassure him, grinning wider.
“You should see the other guys.”
Shigaraki lifted his head slowly, as much as he could.
“Spinner?” His voice was rough.
“Yeah,” Spinner said. “Me. Boss. Isn’t this great?”
Can you ever forgive me?
His eyes closed, just for a second, but a second too long. He could feel blood coming out his mouth, rolling down his jaw as he tried to talk to the other.
“I tried,” Shigaraki murmured. “I really did.”
He felt nothing but despair in that moment, a tear rolling down his cheek.
Spinner looked at him. “Huh?”
“I tried my hardest,” he said. His voice cracked. “Spinner… I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Spinner asked, genuinely confused.
I'm sorry I didn't win.
I'm sorry I didn't give you the ending you deserve.
I'm sorry for disappointing you.
I wish I'd asked you to run away.
I should've stood up to Sensei when he wanted to give you more quirks.
Why didn't I keep you by my side the whole time?
Tomura gasped for air, blood replacing it in his lungs. “I'm sorry, Spinner”
Spinner laughed again, softer this time.
“Boss, Don’t worry about it, whatever it is.”
He shook his head weakly, no longer seeing much other than black. “No. I really am sorry.”
Your the best and maybe only friend I ever had. You deserved better.
Spinner beamed at him. His mouth is moving, but Tomura can't hear anything coming out.
It hurts.
Shigaraki isn't sure how many of his own words actually left his mouth. He can't think of much at the moment.
I hope Spinner forgives me.
Something cold hits his face and he tries to hum in what he hopes is contentment.
Tomura thinks of Spinner, and the rain then closes his eyes and doesn't think any more.
The skies cried for two boys who were barely men. Pushed down by society, marked as villains before they even had a chance to be anything else, beaten and scarred. Rain soaked the streets, mingling with the blood and ash of battles past, heavy with grief that belonged to everyone but them.
Around them, others wept, villains mourning leaders lost, captured at every corner, comrades gone too soon, lives sacrificed for causes too cruel. Cries echoed across the ruins, a symphony of sorrow.
They led there in the rain, side by side, like it had been since the day they met. Both had so many words to say that the other would never hear.
Even as the world mourned, they did not.
The two lying there did not weep, and maybe that was the saddest part of all.