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keulixeutin · 2 years ago

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In Defense of Lightning

a/n: hi @coopigeoncoo (: HAPPY MERRY BELATED HOLIDAYS!!!! i was your secret santa!!!!! hohohohohoh!!!!!! isn’t that so funny since you were mine? anyways, sorry it’s late, but i hope you enjoy it anyways!!! <3

summary: aizawa has never wanted to find the other half of his soul marking. soulmate au. aizawa x fem!reader. aizawa x chess-champion!reader.

cw: she/her pronouns, fem!reader. soulmate au. angst, aizawa denying himself happiness, swearing. lots of chess shit.

wc: 5,680.

Once, after a villain fight nearly takes off his head, Aizawa remembers that that’s where his soul marking is located: tucked away behind his right ear and dark hair.

For whatever reason, that’s enough for him to get curious about it. He wonders what happens when two soulmates meet. How do you know the other person is the one? How do you even find each other? And what changes after they’re found?

What if you find your soulmate, but you reject them anyways?

It’s a short googling stint. Lasts a few days, a week tops. The research isn’t particularly helpful. It’s mostly anecdotal evidence, and they’re vague and contradictory. There are just as many people saying things like, I just knew, or My whole body was filled with electricity, or There was just something in their eyes, as there are saying they didn’t know for years, even after marriage.

Eventually, Aizawa moves on. His questions are unanswered, but his resolve solidifies. He’s curious about it all, sure, and maybe, when he’s alone in his room, he can admit that he might be a bit of a romantic—or rather, if he had the chance in another life, that he could be.

But he’s not in another life. He’s in this one, and the more experiences he has, the older he gets, the more he understands that it’s better if he never finds his soulmate.

It’s too unfair for someone to be bound to someone like him.

Despite his wishes, one day in the fall, his questions are answered—and he learns just how truly cruel the universe is.

When he sees you at a park one fateful autumn day, his understanding is just as spectacularly and explicitly vague as all the answers he had read online.

Aizawa knows it’s you before he knows.

He knows it like an afterthought, like how he recalls gravity is a force at work only when he’s falling, or how he remembers that the human body is powerfully impressive only after he stands after a villain attack, or how he realizes that the whole world had been distorted up until this moment, up until right now.

The world suddenly shifts. Refocuses. He looks at the gingko leaves rustling over you and realizes that they aren’t the darkened gold he had registered prior, but a lemon-bright hue.

Aizawa walks over before his ears even recognizes the crunch of the dirt and gravel underneath his shoes.

You must’ve just arrived because you’re still getting things set up at your picnic table. You press play on your laptop and soft piano versions of popular songs fill the space around you. You set out a couple of apple juice bottles and then surround it with individually packaged baked goods and snacks. Finally, you unfold an egg sandwich and eat while you arrange the chessboard and its pieces.

The marking behind his ear begins to warm.

He knows he should turn away.

He’s told himself for a long time now that, if he so happened to stumble upon his soulmate, that he would turn away without making himself known, without knowing what he would miss out on. It’s easier that way. You can’t miss something that you’ve never known.

However, walking away is harder when it’s not a hypothetical situation in his head, when he’s not looking at you, feet away, ethereal under the yellow leaves.

Before he can steel his wavering willpower, you look up and catch his gaze. The depth of your [color] eyes makes him amend his previous thought: he doesn’t know that it’s you like an afterthought, but like a jolt, a blitz of lightning, a strike that illuminates an entire darkened sky.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice is carried on the gentle autumn breeze, spinning around him like the music that surrounds you. He doesn’t detect any surprise or realization or confusion in your voice, nothing that lets him know that you know it, too. Still, he finds himself thinking that cadence of your voice is sweeter than the piano notes, and he’s immediately embarrassed by the thought.

“Do you wanna play?” you offer.

Aizawa is only in the area to take a quick break; reviewing grades and creating lesson plans for future Pro Heroes inside his tiny apartment can get a little stifling. He just wanted a brisk walk and a change of pace. He hadn’t expected to find his soulmate or a chess match or a life changing choice—but you’re looking at him, and his marking is humming, and the universe is so unfair, and he’s so, so weak.

So he says, “Sure,” and closes the distance between the two of you. He takes the opposite seat opposite and tries not to be overwhelmed by the smile that spreads across your face.

He doesn’t even know how to play, Aizawa thinks, sighing internally—and it doesn’t take long for you to catch on.

You checkmate him in six moves. He didn’t even know that was possible. From what he knows of the game, he had thought that chess was generally time-consuming, full of strategy and applicable war tactics and plenty of intense, pensive faces—not this brutal beatdown. You had picked and moved your pieces with lightning speed, as though you weren’t even thinking—or perhaps, you were so good that you could see fifteen, maybe even twenty moves ahead. He thinks he’s heard of great players like that.

“Did you just start learning chess?” you ask, but not unkindly. Your gaze is tame and curious, one that seems to imply that, no matter how good you get, you still remember that everyone starts somewhere.

“No,” he says, trying to keep the sheepishness out of his voice. He’s not embarrassed that he lost; he’s embarrassed that he turned his back on years of resolve all because of your voice creating a pressuring pricking behind his ear. “This is my first time. First game.”

“Just on a whim?”

It’s easy to think that, isn’t it? That this is all coincidental or accidental, the whims of a tired man who just needed to take a quick breather—but it’s all destined. The universe is cruel. He was tired on this day because it needed him to be, because it needed to test his self-control by dangling a potential future in his face, even though he and the universe both know that it could only end in fire.

“You could say that,” he responds, shrugging.

You hum in acknowledgment and lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. You stare at him, but he doesn’t know you well enough to guess at what you’re thinking.

Maybe you’re thinking of him.

Maybe you feel it, too, a warmth on a particular part of your body, on a spot that you’ve traced and wondered about for your entire life. Maybe you’re searching his open skin to find if it’s pulsing on him, too, something left there by someone.

Aizawa doesn’t know what he wants you to say, but he doesn’t expect you to ask for a rematch—“Wanna play again?”—especially considering how badly he had performed.

But he agrees anyways, and you smile, and his heart stutters while you reset the pieces and turn the board: it’s his turn to make the first move as white. Aizawa does better this time: he lasts longer (twenty moves!); he even manages to check you, but he has the distinct feeling that you were taking it easy on him.

“Good game,” you say.

“I can’t tell if you’re really good, or if I’m just that bad,” he admits.

You grin and reply, “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say. “Plus, this is only your second game.”

“How long have you been playing?” he asks.

“Since I was four.”

He gives a wry smile. “So I guess I can’t expect to win on a fluke, then.”

“No accidents here,” you agree.

None at all, he thinks.

He wants another match, mainly because he wants to stay with you a little longer, though he knows he needs to get back. You seem to have realized, too, since you don’t ask him to play again. It makes sense; surely a good chess player should be observant.

“Good game,” he says.

That wasn’t so bad, he thinks, hesitantly hopeful. There are plenty of heroes with happy soulmate relationships. Maybe this could work out? Maybe he could ask you for your name, at the very least?

Then, when he shifts to get up from the table, there’s a sudden ache that blooms in his side, a phantom remainder of a quirk-healed broken rib, the result of an unfortunate run-in with the number two wanted criminal in Musutafu three days ago. The pain isn’t what bothers him—he’s used to all types of injuries and scrapes—but it does jolt a memory, or furthers an understanding, a realization: there are heroes with happy relationships, but how long do they last?

How many more have left their soulmates alone, losing their lives in the field for the greater good?

What does it mean for him to have a soulmate? Not just as a Pro Hero, but him, with all of his hurt and anger and fears?

Is it right for him to bring you into his life?

Is the universe being kind to give him another chance to change his mind by putting you right in front of him, or is it callous to tether you, someone who spends their Sunday afternoons at a park with a chessboard and an egg sandwich, to him, someone who spends his nights nursing his body back from deadly injury, someone who will continue to do so for years or decades to come?

Someone who will more likely meet his bloody end on the streets than of greeting old age in a bed, surrounded by loved ones?

It was earth-shattering when he lost his best friend, a tethering he chose and tied himself.

What would it be like for you to lose a soulmate, a tethering created by the universe?

What would it be like for him to strengthen that bond, only to cut it a few years later?

The marking behind his ear is still warm and pulsing, but he tells himself that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not uncommon for soulmates to not work out, like two puzzle pieces made to fit but whose edges are frayed, unable to smoothly connect. This could be one of those times. It should be.

Aizawa glances at you and his resolve wavers again. As he watches you reset the board, he sees all the world and all the colors around you in a starkly crisp light, and it’s odd, but he can’t help but hope so fiercely that it works out—that it could—that it might—because how could the two of you be bound with no happy ending?

He doesn’t even know your name and he’s already thinking about the relationship ending in flames.

If he stays any longer, he might foolishly convince himself otherwise, so Aizawa settles on a, “See you around.” It’s not quite the firm goodbye he had in mind, but at least he’s leaving—even if there’s a sudden, inexplicable, and fierce thought that you want this tumultuous journey with him, that he can be selfish enough to have this tumultuous journey.

But the two aren’t mutually exclusive (he hears it in your voice). He can want it, and choose not to have it.

“Wait,” you say suddenly.

Aizawa pauses. He glances back, breath in his throat, humming against his ear.

Do you know?

You tilt your head.

You know—you know—you have to know.

“Don’t you want my name?”

Yes, yes—but he hears it again: they’re not mutually exclusive.

So he says, “No,” almost soft, and you say, “Okay,” almost sad.

Aizawa almost caves and goes back the next week. On Sunday, he’s reviewing grades and revising lesson plans again when he suddenly thinks that going for a walk through the park right now wouldn’t be bad. Before he can even debate pros and cons, he’s putting on his shoes at the doorway. The marking behind his ear isn’t humming or pulsing, but his mind and chest are.

He stands up, grips the doorknob, and reassures himself that he’ll make it a quick walk. If he sees you, he won’t talk to you; he’ll just sneak a glance, just to see the world shift again, and then immediately come back to his apartment.

He twists the knob—and then he sighs.

Aizawa sits back down, undoes his shoes, and returns to his desk. He picks up his pen and stares at a colleague’s report on one of his students’ grades. His eyes go over the same line again and again, unable to focus.

In an attempt to start fresh, he sets that student’s file to the side and flips through a different student’s, but after minutes of staring at the same kanji with no luck, he opens his laptop and searches up a chess video for beginners. Later that night, he downloads the popular chess app.

On Tuesday, Principal Nezu sees Aizawa playing it during lunch in the teachers’ lounge.

Or, to be more accurate, he sees Aizawa roll his eyes and lean back in his chair as he irritably watches his rating take a nose dive from losing another match.

“I didn’t take you for a gamer, Aizawa,” the principal remarks. It’s a particularly cold day out, so Aizawa isn’t surprised—though still annoyed—when the quirked chimera climbs up his shoulder to settle into his combat cloth.

“I’m not,” Aizawa says. He reviews the match; the app categorizes his moves, showing that he made some good ones, a couple of book moves, a few mistakes, and a lot of blunders. Oh, he had a missed checkmate, too, apparently. Fantastic.

“I wouldn’t consider this a game either,” Aizawa mutters. Irked by his losing streak, he thinks it’s more like a never-ending hell.

Principal Nezu hums in response, watching Aizawa open up a new game; the stoic hero immediately clicks his tongue when he moves a pawn and realizes it’s not the one he had wanted.

“Chess is often likened to warfare, used as a symbol for tactical genius,” Principal Nezu comments.

“I would say that’s an inaccurate analogy.”

Aizawa moves his knight, eating his opponent’s pawn and creating a fork, an opportunity for him to capture one of two of their powerful pieces. Finally, a move he was proud of and confident in.

“But,” the principal continues, “perhaps it might do the students well to have an exercise where they’re forced to think strategically and tactically, considering both their moves and those of their opponents.”

Aizawa isn’t listening. He captures black’s dark-squared bishop with a minute smile—and then immediately scowls when he’s put in check.

If Aizawa had been listening to Principal Nezu, maybe he could’ve caught what his next move was going to be. Or, if he had been more in tune with his soul marking, maybe he would’ve understood what the annoying itch had meant all morning.

Instead, he had been too focused on his chess blunders both that Tuesday and this morning, resulting in him walking into his classroom, thoroughly unprepared and completely frozen at the sight of you.

You stand at the front of his class, dressed in an ash lavender, business-casual outfit.

Aizawa has been steadfastly avoiding the park to ensure that he couldn’t randomly stumble upon you again, but how could he predict that you’d be here in his class on an innocuous Friday morning?

Though he avoids your gaze, it doesn’t change the fact that the world, once again, reshifts and refocuses in your presence.

Sparks zig-zag up his spine, but he doesn’t have the courage or the time to break down whether it’s due to excitement and longing, or fear and dread.

Aizawa thinks, suddenly, that he must be playing a game with the universe: chess, Chinese checkers, go—whatever it is, he’s losing. Badly.

“Perfect timing, Eraserhead,” Principal Nezu says from where he stands on the podium. “Come meet Ms. [Full Name]. She’s a chess grandmaster I was lucky enough to have met the other day, and she’s agreed to give some lessons. It was a very last minute thing; I told the rest of the faculty yesterday, but you were the only one unavailable—”

“I was on patrol.”

“Yes, which is why I asked Present Mic to give you a call.”

He resists pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t answer his calls.”

“Well”—Principal Nezu blinks at him, unfazed—“that sounds like a personal issue you need to resolve, Eraserhead…”

He grits his teeth. “Why didn’t you just—”

“So, Class 1A and 1B, now that our other homeroom teacher is here, we can officially get started!” the principal exclaims.

Aizawa realizes then that Vlad King is leaning against the wall and the 1B students are crammed into the room with his class, two to a table with a chessboard in between. Last minute indeed, he thinks irritably. It’s times like these that Aizawa is reminded that the school is run by a madman.

Your laptop is on the podium, connected to the overhead projector. As Principal Nezu speaks, you turn your laptop on and project a chessboard onto the blackboard for all to see.

“Today’s lesson will be a rather unorthodox one,” the principal announces, “but one that will still give you valuable skills and experiences, even if it’s not quite what you’re used to. You’ll be working with Ms. [Full Name] in place of today’s morning classes where she’ll teach you the basics of chess; then, you’ll break for lunch, and you’ll resume regular Heroics classes in the afternoon.”

Before you’re able to even get a syllable out, Class 1A’s resident hothead immediately blurts out, “What the hell does chess have to do with being a hero?”

It shouldn’t bother Aizawa, the way Bakugou challenges the plan (challenges the relevancy of your presence), but it does. He has to clench his jaw to keep from saying anything ridiculous, and anything said in response on behalf of you, the person he told himself to avoid for the rest of his life, would be extremely ridiculous.

Principal Nezu looks to you to answer.

You clear your throat, lightly holding the edge of the podium. “Well—before I answer that, I do feel obligated to let you know that I’m not a hero, and I don’t really claim to know what it takes to be a good Pro Hero… Principal Nezu and I just had an accidental meeting and we were able to quickly work something out.

“To answer your question, though, chess has a variety of mental benefits that I think helps the everyday person, so I don’t see why it couldn’t also help aspiring Pro Heroes. It improves memory, problem-solving skills, pattern recognition; it protects against dementia, deepens your focus, even develops perspective and creativity. Chess isn’t about being a genius—it’s about working hard at something you love, and if you ask me, I’d say that sounds pretty similar to what you guys are doing here at UA.”

Oh, shit.

He’s mesmerized by you. Hypnotized. Captivated.

You speak with such love and passion for something he has only seen poked fun of in movies. He’s reminded of your big smile at the park when he accepted your offer, how you were excited to play again even though he barely knew the game, how you were just happy to be moving pieces and analyzing the board.

He had thought you were cute when he had first seen you, but watching you talk about something you loved so much was stunning.

It’s easier not to want something that you don’t know; it’s easier to avoid the park and put you in the back of his mind, hidden like his marking, when he doesn’t know you, but now he knows—maybe not a lot, but enough to know that he wants more, that this feeling is dangerous, that this feeling makes things harder.

This isn’t a kind opportunity to change his mind; this is a cruel dangling of you in front of him.

“Beautifully said, Ms. [Name]. Take advantage of this one-in-a-lifetime opportunity, everyone, and approach it Plus Ultra!” Principal Nezu says as he leaves the room.

With that, Aizawa gathers himself and crosses the room to stand beside King Vlad, saying, “Feet off the table, Bakugou,” as he passes by the blond’s row. Aizawa crosses his arm and leans beside the chalkboard. “I expect you all to show Ms. [Name]”—god, your name is lightning-warm on his tongue—“the respect and attention of the next generation of Pro Heroes.”

There’s an implied or else that his class hears after the period.

The morning passes by surprisingly quickly.

You teach everyone the basics, showing the different pieces on the projected screen and explaining how their purpose and abilities. You talk about about placement, movement, capturing, checks, and checkmates. You explain strategy and tactics, how one needs to be aware of not only their own pieces but that of their opponent’s, and how one needs to have their own plan while simultaneously anticipating and defending against what their opponent is planning.

They’re all good things for the students to learn. It’s interesting for Aizawa to see it applied to a boardgame.

The students are somewhat interested, knowing that what you’re saying is transferable, but still having a difficult time caring since it doesn’t directly relate—until you offer to demonstrate a few games.

You beat King Vlad and Aizawa in under fifteen moves.

Blindfolded.

“It’s not necessary to learn to do that,” you try to say, but it’s much too late. The impressive display of board and piece mastery, the sight of their homeroom teachers getting completely dominated on the board, alights a fire underneath everyone, sparking both competition and concentration.

You move around the room, having each student in pairs to play each other, as you offer advice and guidance. In thirty minute intervals, you give chess puzzles for them to solve, and randomly select their games to analyze the gameplay. Several students try to blindfold themselves, even when you tell them to learn the board first, and end up shouting meaningless letters and numbers at each other.

At one point, the paired practice gets derailed because you end up playing four matches simultaneously with Bakugou, Hagakure, Monoma, and Kendo. You don’t blindfold yourself despite their begging because it’s a good time to further explain strategy and tactics. The class help each other as the four play against you, discussing possible moves with which to thwart you. Even as you explain your moves and tell them which of theirs are mistakes or blunders, your experience and intuition overpowers their team effort and advantages.

In the background, Aizawa discusses with King Vlad the lessons, lectures, and exercises they can build based on the principles that Heroics and chess have in common, such as perception and prediction, though Aizawa finds that he has a hard time fully committing to the conversation.

His eyes follow your every move. His ears hone in to every word and laugh. His body buzzes. His marking hums. He can’t help but be drawn by you, to you.

You’ve caught his stare a couple of times, locking eyes across the room for a split second before the both of you turn away. He doesn’t want to think about what that means.

When lunch rolls around, everyone’s brain is thoroughly exhausted. The students complain about their mental fatigue and tease each other about their blunders as they head off toward the cafeteria. Vlad King thanks you for your time and expertise and heads to the teachers’ lounge, leaving just you and Aizawa.

Aizawa should do the same—say his thanks, shake your hand, and then leave—but he lingers. This will be the last time the two of you meet, he thinks, so he wants to at least make sure you have lunch and know the way out.

He readies himself to speak, but you strike first.

“You’ve gotten better,” you remark. “You were actually trying to control the center of the board this time.”

He should go.

He should say his peace and leave, retreat before he’s captured, before checkmate.

But he’s weak—or maybe he’s desperate, or maybe it’s a calculated risk. With the knowledge that he’ll never see you again, he thinks that he can have a little more, just a little more to hold on to in the night.

“I’ve practiced a bit, since then,” he replies.

He moves behind the podium, as if having something physical between the two of you would help keep him strong. In response, you take a seat at an empty desk across from him.

“Oh, I sparked your interest?” you ask.

Aizawa doesn’t know if you purposely set a double meaning to that sentence, but he stubbornly ignores the possibility.

“Do you want to play again?” you ask.

He glances at the door.

He should go.

“Sure.”

Aizawa drags a chair and sits across from you. He plays white, placing the king’s pawn forward two spaces.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you mention, responding with a pawn opposite his.

Aizawa doesn’t answer. He’s not sure what to say. It’s not that he doesn’t—well, no, he doesn’t. Not really, or at least, not in the way you think. Yes, he wants to, but no—it’s just complicated. He barely understands it himself, but that’s not something he can say to someone whose name he just learned, someone he’s quietly vowed to ignore and forget. He’ll just play the one game and then leave.

“Ooh, avoiding and ignoring me.”

He frowns, both at your words and at you eating his pawn with a knight.

“How could I be avoiding someone I just met?” Aizawa asks.

“Most people try to get to know their soulmates,” you note.

It’s delivered nonchalantly, matter-of-factly, but it still cuts him. He winces internally, but he keeps his face still and stoic.

“So,” you continue, “since you didn’t want to know my name, and since you haven’t shown back up to the park, I’d say I have grounds for a pretty good case on avoidance.”

There’s a beat. He moves a piece, eyes on the board, and then asks, “How’d you know?”

“Same way you did probably,” you say, shrugging. “Nothing crazy. You weren’t glowing or anything.”

He feels obligated to apologize. He knows it’s not his fault; it’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just the way the red string is tied, but he still feels bad anyways. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you say. “I figured you had some really good reason—and now knowing that you’re Eraserhead, the famed Erasure Hero, it makes sense why you wouldn’t want a soulmate, or, at least, not a non-Pro Hero soulmate. I get it.”

You get it? In his surprise, he makes a blunder, leaving his queen hanging. You capture it with a pawn, but he’s too surprised by your words to be embarrassed. If you understand his situation, then it’d be easier to avoid you if you were also avoiding him.

“My mom and dad were soulmates,” you explain. “He was a small-time neighborhood hero who died during a rescue call.”

“My condolences,” Aizawa offers, still reeling in surprise.

You truly understand then. He feels a sadness overtake him next. There are many stories like that. He doesn’t want yours to be another one added to the library, so you must understand his reasoning, why this separation is necessary.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He died before I was born. Check.”

“Already?” he mutters.

You beam. “Gotta work on that multitasking skill, hero.”

He sighs, moving his king into the corner. Then, he realizes that he should’ve moved another piece to block the check instead of retreating his king; you probably want him in the corner.

Aizawa steals a glance at you; you’re staring at the board, resting your face into your palm, fingers curled up and pressed against your lips.

He has more to say and ask, but he doesn’t want to offend you. Then again, he supposes it doesn’t matter; offending you would be in his best interest.

It’s quiet. There’s only the sound of wooden pieces being moved around the board. You have him cornered in the bottom right. He knows you can checkmate him, even though he can’t see how. You’re up in pieces, but so far, you’ve just been moving your pieces around, leaving some of them in places that allow him to capture without issue. You must be lingering like him, he thinks, and the realization makes his chest hurt.

“Can I—ask something personal?” he asks hesitantly.

“Shoot,” you say.

“What did your mom say about it?”

“About what?”

“All of it,” he says. “The meeting, the relationship…the ending.”

He’s staring at the pawns and at your hands, but you don’t move. He’s afraid to meet your gaze, he realizes, afraid of what he might see in the depth of your eyes. Finally, though, he shifts his head and meets your stare; you don’t let him go.

“She says it was exhilarating,” you say. “Fast. Rapid fire fast. One minute she’s learning his name and the next she’s alone. That’s how she described it. But she says it was impactful. Memorable. Charged. Like a lightning strike. Like you know what comes next, but you can’t look away, and it still surprises you anyways.”

It feels like you are baiting him, both in the conversation and on the board. He’s not sure what to think on either. He decides to combat your oncoming attack with his rook, threatening to eat one of your pawns.

“Maybe your father didn’t think so,” he boldly offers. “Maybe he had regrets, leaving her behind like that.” He meets your gaze again. “I would.”

You don’t shy away from his look or his comment. He steels his resolve, yet you seem to soften.

“I don’t think so,” you say.

“Why?”

You smile at him, something sad and poignant and sure. “How could he regret loving her?”

It’s not like that, he wants to say. It’s not about love; it’s about loss. It’s not about the half you find, but the hole you leave. It’s not about you and your love and your time, but him and his duties and his dangers.

“I lost someone,” Aizawa blurts out. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but his mouth opens and the words spill out. “A long time ago. He died on—during his Hero Work-Study Program.”

“I’m sorry,” you offer tenderly. “I’m sure it was hard.”

“It’s still hard. Fifteen years later.”

You wait.

“I—” It’s hard to get the words out. His mouth is dry. His chest burns. His marking buzzes. And you’re in front of him, clearer than ever.

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper.

But he does, doesn’t he? For you and him? He wants you to understand not just the situation, but him. And he wants to make sense of it himself, to close this chapter for good, to cut the string with finality, to see the lightning snake across the sky but not follow where it points.

“I—I can’t put someone else through that,” he says gently. “And—more than that, I can’t offer you what a soulmate should be able to.”

Your eyes glisten, but you don’t cry, and you don’t drop his gaze. His chest hurts; he thinks his breathing is about to come out close to hyperventilating, but he counts his breaths and hardens himself. This needs to be done. It’s easy hypothetically, and it’s hard with you so clearly here, but he’ll do it. He can make the hard decisions.

“People should avoid lightning strikes,” he says, but there’s a lilt to his voice that makes it seem like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as you. “Unnecessary risk.”

“Calculated risk,” you say. “Not unnecessary.”

You gaze back stubbornly. “If in this world we get to choose something, then I choose this.”

“You don’t choose,” he argues. “It’s fated.”

“I choose,” you say again, soft but sure. “I choose the sky bright with lightning.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say.

You don’t play a piece. You don’t capture anything or checkmate him. You pack the pieces and put the board away instead, tucking everything inside your backpack. You stand up and head to the door then, but before you turn the corner, your hand lingers on the frame and you pause.

“You’d choose your friend, wouldn’t you?” you ask boldly. “If you could go back?”

He thinks back to Shirakumo, the weight of his arm on his shoulder, the weight of his kindness, the weight of him in his chest.

Yes, he thinks. Every time.

“Bye, Eraserhead.”

“Shouta,” he corrects, though it feels pointless and hollow to do so. “Wait—last question: what’s your soul marking?”

“An eraser,” you reply. “On my ribs. Yours?”

His hand immediately presses against the mark behind his ear. “A crown.”

“A little on the nose, huh?” You laugh. “Bye, Shouta.”

You leave. The clouds rumble outside the window. His fingers trace the lines of the crown from memory.

Aizawa dreams of you later that night.

In the blackness of his dream, you’re the one bright focal point. He sees you clearly, the curl of your lips, the rise of your eyebrow, the height of your cheeks.

He sees you having dinner in his apartment. You’re watching TV on his couch. You’re playing chess in his bed. You’re touching the humming behind his ear.

How could you regret loving me? you ask with a tender smile.

And Aizawa, struck by how much he already does, wakes up with a gasping in the bright blue-lit night.

#╰【 FILED UNDER … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ novae writes 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ titled「 in defense of lightning 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ fandom「 bnha 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ character「 aizawa 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ reader「 she/her 」#aizawa x reader #aizawa x f!reader #bnha x reader #eraserhead x reader #soulmate au #shouta x reader

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