Chapter Text
Chapter Three: Bad, bad luck.
About a week later, Shinsou runs into a bit of bad luck. That’s the only way he could explain it—terrible, no-good, absolutely shitty luck.
On his way out of his house, he calls Sero, feeling just a little jumpy. “I’m telling you, man, something fucking weird is happening.”
Over the line, Sero laughs at him—Shinsou can hear the little clinks and wooshes of air coming from him working an espresso machine. “Nothing’s happening, dude—you’re just so fucking stressed you’ve started imagining shit. Can you maybe push ‘going crazy’ up on your schedule to like, week-after-next? You’ve still gotta help me move Sho’s things in.”
“I’m not going crazy, something weird is happening .” Shinsou whisper-shouts, gaining odd looks from a lady on the elevator ride down. Once he exits, he continues, “Listen, I’m telling you this because you know I don’t believe in the paranormal, but something not-normal is happening to me.”
“Really? Sero asks, disbelief strong in his tone.
“Look,” Shinsou says, making his way down the street, “I come home from work every night, and I set my keys in the dish by the door—everyday, I put my keys in that fuckin’ dish, Ser, no exceptions. This morning, for the third morning in a row, I wake up—keys are on the fucking floor, across the room, in front of the bookshelf.”
“Sounds like you missed the dish when you came in, Tosh.”
“I didn’t miss the—okay, look, what about this: I check the mail, right?”
“Right.”
“And I set it down in the middle of the kitchen island, right?”
“...Right?”
“I turn around to make a cup of coffee, and hear it fall—I turn around, the letters are scattered across the floor.” Shinsou finishes loudly, “Tell me that’s not fuckin’ weird?”
“...It’s not weird, Tosh. Maybe you didn’t set it down properly, or you left a window open?”
“Sero.”
“Look, I’m just saying, it’s also what you get for drinking shitty coffee—I told you, that shit rots your insides, and look, it’s gotten to your head now, too,” Sero says, an obvious smile in his voice.
“Cabinets are opening and closing in the middle of the night. I’m putting things down, and turning around to find them in a different spot; this morning, I watched a box of cereal fall out of the cabinet. The cabinet , Ser—” He sprints into the train station, only to watch from across the platform as the doors of the train he’s supposed to be on whiz shut. “—And I just missed my train. I can’t catch a fucking break, man. Frankly, it’s starting to freak me out.”
“O-kay,” Sero sighs, “So, what? You think you’re being haunted or?”
“I don’t know,” He huffs, in defeat. “I have never been late, a day in my life. First day I start at Todoroki Investments? My nine alarms don’t go off. I had to call a cab and I still didn’t make it there in time.”
“Yikes. Yeah, Sho-chan mentioned something to that effect. Tosh—are you alright?” Sero asks, seriously, “Because I know you, you internalize everything and it sounds like you’re having a tough time, I don’t want you to—”
“—Fuck.” Shinsou closes his eyes, “I forgot my credentials at home. I need them to get in the building at work. I’ve got to go back.”
“Hitoshi,” Sero says sharply. “I think—I think you need to slow down. Can’t you see, you’re running yourself ragged, here.”
Shinsou hears him, but he doesn’t listen. “Yeah—yeah, okay. Look, I’ve got to run back home if I’m going to make the next train. I’ll—I’ll talk to you tonight, okay?”
“Tosh—” Sero tries, but the line cuts off with a click, and he’s sat staring at a blank screen.
The next few weeks are even more unkind to Shinsou than that. He isn’t sleeping, isn’t performing well at his new job, and he’s had weird, passionate make-up sex with Monoma three times—each somehow still ending with an argument and him picking shattered glass out of his living-room rug.
Tonight, he comes home at around 10pm. It’s not uncommon—he’s making so many mistakes during the day, it’s only fair for his boss to keep him late to rectify them—but fortunately, it’s a Friday, so at least things are looking up.
Except, when he walks through the doors, he sees that every single cabinet in his kitchen is wide open. It doesn’t scare him; not like it did the first few times.
No, this time, it’s just fucking annoying. A mild inconvenience.
Honestly, he would like to tell whichever ghost is tormenting him that things would be much easier if they just scrawled their demands into the walls and just be done with the haunting stuff. But instead, he just drops his keys in the dish by the door, walks over to cabinets, and starts closing them quietly. Whilst doing so, his phone buzzes to life in his pocket.
He almost doesn’t reach for it; it’s Friday night, which means it’s likely Monoma, reaching out with an empty apology to kickstart their toxic cycle all over again. And as much as Shinsou could probably benefit from the stress relief that came with fucking someone and then getting to scream his throat raw—he’s just too tired for it tonight.
Maybe tomorrow, though.
But the line rings again, so once he’s done closing the cabinets, he yanks it out of his pocket and presses it to his ear without even looking. “Mon, I can’t do this—not tonight. I’m too tired for this shit—”
“—You selfish , egomaniacal , megalomaniac ,” Comes from the line—but it’s not Monoma.
It’s his dad.
“Dad?” Shinsou asks, his brows knitted together in confusion.
“How are you doing son? Having fun fumbling through life, with no regard for the people that care about you?” Aizawa shouts, and somewhere in the room with him, Shinsou hears Zashi shout ‘That’s enough, Shota’
“What?” Shinsou turns, leaning against the counter, “What the hell is going on? Why are you so upset? Did something happen?”
“Did something happen?” Aizawa laughs, humorlessly, “Look at your fucking calendar, Hitoshi. It’s the ninth. What-the-fuck-else happened on the ninth, at six, that you were supposed to be there for?”
“Um,” Hitoshi blanks. Completely, utterly blanks. There’s nothing on his mobile calendar—he would’ve seen it already, he’s been using it all day, at work.
“Oh, ‘um’ , that’s all you’ve got?” He shouts, “Prom, I get it—you can look at pictures of her and Koda. Fine. But her graduation, Hitoshi? You’d miss her graduation?”
“Fuck,” He gasps, sprinting over to the calendar on the fridge. It’s still on last month’s spread. He flips it up, and sure enough, it’s there. In Eri’s handwriting, ‘Eri’s graduation ceremony, 6pm!’ with four circles around it and hearts. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Dad—I got tied up at—”
“Work. Yeah, we fucking know, Hitoshi.”
“Is she—is she upset?”
“Of course she’s upset, she’s seventeen.” Aizawa says; though Zash shouts in the background, ‘She’s NOT upset,’ Aizawa continues sharply, “She might not seem upset, but I am.”
“I—” Shinsou starts, but the line cuts off. His dad hung up.
Shinsou stares at his phone for a second, shame curling around his chest hard, making it hard to breathe. He can’t believe he missed that—he needs to call Eri—but then his line is ringing again , and this time, it’s his office’s main number.
“This is Shinsou.” He answers quietly.
“Yes, Shinsou,” A gravelly voice answers—his boss. Well, his boss’s boss, Todoroki Enji. His heart drops down to his fucking shoes. “Listen, I’ll make this brief since I’m sure you’re already expecting it.”
Shinsou stops breathing.
“You’ve been distracted.”
The room starts to close in around him, making it dark, and hard to think—he needs to jump in, to defend himself, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
“Your manager’s noticed it, your colleagues have noticed it; you were hired on recommendation, so it all comes back to me. I know you understand the arena you’re playing in now; I can’t have you distracted.”
“Yessir; I’ve—I’ve had a lot going on, personally—”
“—And normally, I would consider that. I really would; but right now, the firm is in the process of merging. We simply don’t have the time to train you. We need someone who can jump right into things and get work done. I thought that could be you, with how Shoto sang your praises—but you’ve got too much on your plate. This hire simply isn’t going to work.”
“Sir, I assure you, I can. I can hit the ground running, I just—I need time—”
“—I know; but unfortunately, we don’t have it to give.” He sighs. “I’ll have my assistant handle your desk; you can come to pick up your things at any point this week. I’m sorry things couldn’t have gone differently.”
Shinsou pauses for a second; “Yeah, sir, me too.”
And then, it’s over.
The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity Sero’s fiance has placed into his hands, he’d somehow managed to drop and watch shatter across the tile. He doesn’t know whether he wants to scream, or to cry—he doesn’t know what to do at all. Normally, he’d call his dads for advice; but they’re pissed at him. He could try Sero, but odds are Shoto has already told him—and the last thing he wants right now is pity.
Then, the doorbell buzzes.
It’s loud and unwelcome and it makes Shinsou flinch—especially because he already knows who’s on the other side of it.
He walks over, debating not even opening it. He drops his head against the cold wood and closes his eyes. He could pretend he isn’t home; just tiptoe into his bedroom and tug the covers over his head. As much as he hates wallowing; tonight it feels well-deserved.
He pulls it open gently, and his voice is soft when he says, “S’not a good time, Monoma.”
“When’s it ever a good time, you wet blanket?” He brushes past Shinsou, into the apartment.
“Mon—”
“Yeah, no, that’s not working on me tonight,” He says, and Shinsou can’t help but stare; he’s a picture of a dream, that pretty, near-white hair and soft features. Why does he tug on Shinsou’s heartstrings like this? There’s something almost surreal about the way he moves, and walks, and talks like he owns the world—and in a way, Shinsou supposes he does. “You’re such a fucking buzzkill! Let’s go do something—it’s Friday night! There’s this gallery downtown I want to—”
“—not tonight,” Shinsou says too sharply. “I don’t want to be dragged around to art installations, Mon. I want a fucking drink, and then I want to go to bed.”
And in an instant, Monoma’s entire demeanor changes.
His eyes narrow and his brows pinch down. He postures up, ready for a fight Shinsou already knows he’s going to lose.
“...Well fuck me for trying to stop you from turning into some miserable work-horse.”
“Can we please not do this tonight—”
“—Oh we aren’t doing anything tonight.” He says, angrily jabbing a finger at Shinsou’s chest; and it hurts more than he thinks it should. “I don’t know what the fuck crawled up your ass and died, but you better shop-vac that fucker out of there. I’m tired of pretending I like this new version of you.”
And it stings—a slap to the face Shinsou thinks hurts more than anything else that’s transpired in the last hour—because it’s true.
He has turned into a new version of himself. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t like him very much, either.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you need to figure that shit out; You have got nothing to be so pissed at the world about.” Monoma yells, “You’ve got friends who you constantly drop your shit on—and what do they do? They take it; they take it, and they help you anyway! You’ve got a family that loves you. A job you’re good at. A beautiful fucking home.”
Friends he doesn’t make time for.
Family, he’s pissed off with his absence.
A job he just lost.
And a house that’s fucking haunted.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Monoma says carefully; and the look on his face tells Shinsou he might just be serious this time. “I don’t make you happy anymore; you exhaust me. It’s better this ends now, I think.”
“I think,” Shinsou says quietly, “I think you’re right.”
That response clearly was not the one Monoma anticipated—because, for the fraction of a second, he’s unguarded; his anger slips, and Shinsou sees a sliver of something disappointed, something surprised—but then the scowl is back, and he’s huffing.
“Fine.”
And in the same breath, he’s out the door. It slams so hard, Shinsou flinches again.
He stands there, just staring at it for a long minute, coming to terms with the fact that almost every facet of his life is crumbling to fucking bits, in the span of one evening. His chest is tight, a strange mix of fear, frustration, anger, and misery swarming there. He can’t help it—his feet take him to the cabinet above the fridge without his permission, and he fishes out the pack of cigarettes he stashed there when Sero came over to throw the rest of them out.
He lights it at the stove because Sero had thrown all his lighters out, too. Helpful bastard.
Then, he settles at his couch, taking drag after drag of stale tobacco, pretending not to care how the smoke that fogs up the living room will definitely settle in the soft fabric of the couch. And then, he barely sees it.
The bookshelf; a book seems to move.
He glares at the ceiling. “Not now, you phantom squatter.”
Then the book actually does fall. He tries not to let it upset him, but he gets this weird feeling—a sting in the pit of his gut—and just when he thinks it’s gone, another book falls. He blinks over at them.
One is an accident. Two? Two is a fucking ghost.
Then, almost like a scene out of some sort of horror movie, the books begin to fall off of the middle shelf, starting at either end and moving inward. They fall down onto the hardwood, clattering and clunking against each other. It’s loud and every new smack makes the pit in his stomach deepen.
He stands, wearily approaching the bookshelf. The falling books are all leather-bound; the ones that belonged to Mr. Torino’s wife. Shinsou watches all the books fall but one.
In the middle of the shelf, a red-leather bound book with gold gilding and a Celtic knot on the spine is the only one left standing. Gingerly, he reaches for it. On the front, it’s got another knot, this one settled in a pentagram.
He flips it open to the first page where there’s a name, and the word GRIMOIRE in block letters.