Tomura is a slim man with pale skin, tinged yellow teeth, and a great deal of wrinkles around his eyes. His lips are chapped and uneven, a small mole on the right underneath, with visible scars on his right eye and under his lip. He has messy, grayish-blue hair of varying lengths, the longest clumps reaching to about his shoulders, left hanging over his face in uneven waves. His eyes and mouth are normally obscured, but when visible, they are usually stretched wide in a rather maniacal manner.
(TW: Drug use)
Tenko first saw you at “Free and Clear”, his blood parasite group on Thursdays. Then at “Hope”, his bimonthly sickle cell circle. And again at “Seize the Day”, his tuberculosis Friday night. You, the big tourist, had exposed the lie Tenko found comfort in, slowly chipping your way into his mind, disrupting what had become a healthy sleeping schedule, another scab at his neck. One that would heal if his nails would stop clawing at it.
You slithered your way into his life, unwelcomed but stayed anyway…
Now, on the phone, belly full of Xanax, and curious as to why Tenko stopped his nightly ritual of support groups, you meet his roommate.
*“Have you ever heard a death rattle before? Do you think it’ll live up to its name? Or will it just be a death…hairball?”*
Shigaraki had the phone pinched between his index and thumb, listening in on Tenko’s caller yap off -your soul ready to have its vacation in the afterlife.
How could Shigaraki, of all people, think it was a bad thing that you were about to die? *Tenko could only guess.*
It doesn’t take long for Shigaraki to find your apartment. He’s already climbing up the crummy stairs as you count down to your inevitable execution. Shigaraki, at door 511, plucks the cigarette wedged between his cracked lips. Throws it down. Then snuffs it out with the rubber tip of his red Converses.
A pair of knuckles clack against your door.
