Fine Line || MHA x Male OC

𝟢𝟪. 𝘉𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘊𝘳𝘺

The nightmare Roman had the night of the USJ incident was likely the worst one he'd had in months. His father's brilliant white wings, his mother's long black hair, her—all images that flashed through his head. Most of it was a blur, emotions he could feel trilling in his bones. It was almost violating, in a way.

Overwhelming anger, overwhelming fear, and the sheer desperation of a boy who just wanted to get out. Get out of here, get out of there, wherever here or there was. Here, now, was nothing more than a plain white void, the old never-used dining table from their old apartment right in the middle.

He sat across from his parents. His proud and assertive father, and his young and quirkless mother. With every shift either of them made, every twitch, every inhale and exhale, Roman felt his body tense up. Every hair stood on end, every feather was ruffled. He felt slow, like one always did in nightmares, like he couldn't run if he tried.

He couldn't see their faces. It'd been so long that he'd forgotten what they looked like.

He could, however, recognize his father's voice when he spoke. Just two words: "Wie geht's?"

For some reason, that completely set Roman off. His father didn't get to ask how he was. Not after all he did. He stood up and he yelled at his father, shouting obscenities and calling him every name under the sun. Roman would give anything to rip the bastard's eyes out of his skull where he sat. His mother flinched away from the yelling, covering her blank face with frail and bony hands. It was almost enough to make him forget his anger.

Almost.

He continued to shout at his father, even when his mother began to cry, even when his father rose from his chair and struck him.

He wanted to watch the life leave his father's eyes. He wanted him to scream and beg and plead for his life like Roman had so many times before. He wanted to hurt him in ways that would make the devil sick to his stomach.

He was so angry, so afraid. He just wanted to claw through the man's flesh with his talons. His talons that looked exactly like his father's. He felt tears pooling up in his eyes, threatening to fall as he yelled, and his father whispered something in his ear.

"Jungs weinen nicht."

He lunged.

The world around him melted away, taking his father and mother with it. He was running, there were so many eyes on him, and then he was on his hands and knees, completely alone. Nearly completely alone.

The sickly sweet smell assaulted his senses, latching onto him. He couldn't get the taste out of his mouth. No matter how many times it made him throw up, no matter how many times he forced himself to throw up. He couldn't get the scream out of his head, the scream, that sick gurgling noise, the sound of choking. It wouldn't stop.

It hurt. It hurt so bad. Why did it hurt? Why was he the one in pain? Her. Her. The taste of her. It was jarring. It was awful.

He couldn't stop panting, salivating, dry heaving. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His head was throbbing. Why did it hurt? The burns on his arms were searing, a white hot pain that he couldn't do anything about.

All he could do was drool like a dog, hyperventilating and sobbing because he knew what he did. That disgusting taste of iron and salt slithered down his throat, suffocating him. He was drowning, coughing and hacking it up.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't—

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽  🕊  ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅