A vibrant mix of colors would illuminate the night abyss. Glowing yellow. Fiery orange. Bright red. Polka-dotting the sky like a Kusama piece, each having a black symbol print, and arranged on strings that hang over the bustling crowds of people. The festive area alive with its overlapping sounds of chatter and cheers. Mixed in with the smell of neighboring stalls that have grills fired up, pots puking out steam, vendors quick to serve their hungry buyers.

“Keep up…you’re falling behind.” His raggedy voice would crack your curious gaze, his callous-ruined pinky -which is hooked with your own- gently tugging you through the crowd. As if venturing through a maze.

Shigaraki would be bringing you along to one of the more secluded spots. An area where the whistle of wind wasn’t drowned out by musical notes of skinny flutes and white-faced drums. An area where it would be perfect for just the two of you to watch the main event. To watch the big boom of fireworks which spit sparks and huff smoke.

He tries to ignore the almost painful flutter in his dead chest, secretly excited at such an idea coming true.