Chapter Text
The heavy wooden doors slammed behind Katsuki as he pushed them open, his breath ragged, arms tense, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles glowed white in the moonlight. The cool night air stung his cheeks—he didn’t stop moving until he reached the far side of the courtyard, where the edge of the training field met the dormant trees, dark and silent in the moonlight.
He let out a slow, shuddering exhale and dropped onto the cold stone bench. His back hunched, elbows on knees, he dragged his hands down his face. His eyes were still burning. From the screen. From that scene. From her. From himself.
What the hell was that?
Moments passed.
Then the doors creaked open again.
Barefoot steps padded softly onto the stone, hesitant. Not like her.
Mirko stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a loose tank and flannel pajama pants. Her wild white hair was still damp, slightly curled from the steam of the shower she took just before the movie started. She shouldn’t be cold—she never was—but her arms tightened just a little more around herself, as if she’d been peeled raw.
She spotted Katsuki. He didn’t turn, but his head dipped slightly, as though acknowledging her. She walked over, the silence stretching like glass between them.
She sat on the other end of the bench. No eye contact. More silence.
Just the wind rustling the leaves, and the soft echo of the song still burned into both their minds.
Finally, they both opened their mouths—
“Look—”/ “Listen—”
They stopped. Blinked. A scoff from Bakugou. A sigh from Rumi. She looked at her knees. Silence again.
Then—
“What the fuck was that?” Katsuki muttered, the words like sparks struck from stone.
“That stupid, goddamn scene. What were they even—what was he thinking? Stabbing the ground like that?” He looked over, eyes raw, red around the edges. “You saw his face?”
Mirko didn’t answer at first. She nodded, barely.
“I saw it,” she finally said, her voice gravel-soft. “Too well.”
He swallowed. His jaw clenched, but there was no more fire in it. Only smoke.
“You looked like you were gonna tear the couch apart.”
She didn’t deny it. Instead, she leaned back, eyes searching the stars overhead.
“I always thought I didn’t need anyone,” she said quietly. “I told myself that. Drilled it into my bones. It’s cleaner, safer, faster to work alone. Depend on no one. No ties, no weights. Just you and the fight.”
Her voice cracked just barely.
“But then… then I saw her. And he—him—saying that. Looking at her like she wasn’t indestructible. Like she was just… lonely.”
Katsuki’s throat worked as he looked at her. “They’re not us.”
“No.” Usagiyama’s eyes flicked toward him. “But they are, a little.”
Bakugou looked away again.
“I thought I’d gotten past it. The whole… being a failure thing. Not being what someone else needed me to be. I thought I accepted that. But when he looked at her and said that line—‘Why’s your life spent all alone?’—” He hissed in a breath. “It was like… someone finally saw.”
Mirko closed her eyes. “That’s the part that hurt.”
He looked at her again. “What?”
“The seeing,” she said. “That someone saw through all the noise and grit and armor. Saw what we don’t even admit to ourselves.” Her arms dropped. “You’re not the general, Bakugou. You were never meant to be him. You’re too angry. Too stubborn. Too real.”
She gave a bitter half-smile. “And I’m not a leader. Not really. I just know how to charge.”
Katsuki’s lips twisted. “You trained me like your version on the screen, but without killing actually ”
“I know,” she said, voice quieter now.
This word—again—hung like a stone between them.
“And is not that I’m not looking for a mentor either,” Bakugou muttered.
Mirko was silent a moment.
Then, “I know.” Her voice barely more than breath, as she repeated what she said before.
“But that part where he cried on her?” Her eyes locked with his.
“I don’t think he wanted to stab her at all. I think that sword was just… a way to stop the conversation. A way to say, ‘This hurts. Let’s end it before I say something worse.’”
Katsuki’s hands clenched again into fists.
“I hate that we watched that,” he muttered. “I hate that I felt that.”
“You think I didn’t?” she snapped, standing up.
“You think I’m not used to pretending I don’t feel anything?”
He looked up at her, startled. She glared down at him, eyes gleaming in the dark.
“I watched that version of me get told—no, shown—that everything I’ve believed about being strong alone was a lie. And I felt like I’d been punched in the chest. Over and over. I saw her look up at him like she wasn’t sure if she was going to scream or cry. And I hated that I understood it.” She took a shaking breath. “And I hated that it looked like me.”
Katsuki stood slowly. They stared at each other.
“I didn’t cry...” he muttered.
She snorted, but it wasn’t mocking. “No. You ran.”
“I’m here now.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “You are.”
Another silence. It wasn’t cold now. Not quite. The kind of night that made your breath fog, but didn’t bite. They were just two people—too loud, too proud, too used to bleeding alone—who suddenly realized they might not have to be.
Mirko sat back down. “Come on. Sit.”
Katsuki hesitated. Then, finally, he did.
###
After few minutes of silent, Katsuki was sitting with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he was trying to physically keep something inside from spilling out. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders taut. Mirko sat beside him against the opposite end of the banch. Her pajama pants rustled softly in the breeze, a contrast to how rooted and heavy her presence suddenly felt.
For a while, nothing. Just the soft hum of electricity in the outdoor lamps, the occasional bark of a dog in the distance, and the sound of two people breathing like they were afraid of what would happen if they spoke first. Why conversations were that hard?
Then, at the exact same moment:
“So what now—” “I guess we should—”
They both paused, cut off by each other’s voices, and their eyes met, startled. A short, awkward silence followed, and then they both looked away. Kats exhaled sharply through his nose. Rumi smirked without humor.
Again, they tried.
“Maybe we—” “I was thinking—”
And again, silence.
Frustrated, Mirko slapped the banch lightly, then rubbed her face with both hands. “Shit,” she muttered.
Katsuki shoved his hands in his pockets, then stood, stepping forward just a little.
“Okay, screw it,” he muttered. “I’ll say it.”
Mirko raised an eyebrow, her arms folding across her chest now. She waited. He didn’t look at her when he spoke.
“I know we’re not them,” Katsuki said finally. His voice was lower than usual. Slower. “We’re not those people from the screen. That guy wasn’t me. That girl—wasn’t you. I get it. It’s a dramatized version, or a reflection, or—whatever the hell it is.”
Usagiyama didn’t interrupt. She just listened.
“But it still hits,” he added. “’Cause somewhere in there... it’s us. A piece of us. Like a version that didn’t get it right. And I guess it’s scary knowing that even in another world, with all that power, all that fire—we still screw each other up.”
A pause. Then a bitter smile flickered across his lips.
“Guess we’re consistent.” Even if thinked about this again and again. Rumi turned her head slowly toward him, as she also stood. Her expression was unreadable at first, then softened. She studied him—not just his face, but the way his arms were slightly too tense, the way he didn't meet her eyes, the edge in his voice that wasn’t anger, just something almost... scared.
She exhaled slowly.
“You’re right.”
That made him look at her.
“We’re not them,” she continued, “but we could’ve been. Hell, I was halfway there. Thinking I didn’t need anyone. That if I just pushed hard enough, ran fast enough, punched hard enough—I could outrun the weight of... connection. Trust.”
Bakugou blinked. The honesty in her voice was cutting.
“I’ve always worked alone,” she said. “Because people slow you down. Because relying on them gets you killed. Or worse, it gets them killed.” She looked away. “I taught myself that was strength. But maybe... that was just survival.”
She fell silent again. And he didn’t mock her. Didn’t throw something snide back. He just watched. Then her ears twitched, and she turned slightly toward him.
“You cried,” she said casually, as she wanted tease him again about this.
He groaned, turning away. “Oh, fuck off, rabbit—”
She stepped toward him. “No, I mean it. It was the first time I saw real tears from you that weren’t just rage. That shit meant something. Don’t pretend it didn’t.”
He opened his mouth to reply—but closed it. Instead, he leaned back against the railing and muttered, “Fine. It meant something.”
She smiled—not mockingly, but warm, and strangely gentle.
“What comes next, huh?” she asked.
Katsuki took a moment, then responded seriously, “We keep fighting. But maybe now... not just for the mission. Not just to prove something. Maybe we fight for each other. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts.”
Mirko nodded. “Yeah. No more pushing each other through cracks like we’re disposable.”
Bakugou snorted. “No more sword-to-the-face moments?”
“Only if you ask for ‘em, brat.”
He smirked. “Tch. You did try to chuck me off a ledge.”
“You landed on me.”
“You pushed me first!”
She laughed, stepping toward him with that familiar swagger in her gait.
“Still think I’m useless?” he asked.
“No,” she said without hesitation. “Still think I’m a reckless old bitch?”
He grinned. “Nah. Just an old fag with too much pride.”
Her eyes widened and then narrowed dangerously. “What did you just call me?”
“Old. Fag,” he repeated, teeth bared like he wanted the fight.
Before he could dodge, her arm snaked out and locked him in a firm headlock, pulling him down with impressive ease.
“You little brat—say it again. I dare you.”
“Let—go—RABBIT—can’t—breathe—”
“I’m barely squeezing.”
“You’re crushing my fucking neck—!”
“Oh no. Your fragile ego and your tiny throat. Tragic.”
They struggled, both laughing now, limbs flailing, him trying to squirm out and her not budging an inch.
Finally, she let go, shoving him a step back.
He straightened his shirt, huffing dramatically, hair tousled more than usual. “One day I’m gonna suplex you.”
Mirko stretched her arms above her head. “You can try. Might even let you win, brat.”
They stood in silence again, this time comfortable. The air was still cold, but it no longer bit at their skin. They didn’t need to say it—but something had shifted. Not in the past. Not in that movie.
But here.
Between them.
And maybe, just maybe—that was enough.
###
The hallway lights were soft and warm, humming gently in the silence of the late evening. Bakugou and Usagiyama walked side by side, not saying much after their half-serious, half-playful spar outside. The air still held that crispness from the night, and their steps echoed lightly against the tiled floor. Mirko was still in her loose pajamas, her arms crossed, a slight smirk ghosting her lips. Katsuki shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes forward but his jaw tight, as if chewing on the thoughts still lingering in his head.
As they reached the main lounge area, soft giggles and murmurs of conversation drifted to them. The glow from the big screen flickered against the walls, casting shadows of moving figures — the musical had stopped, but in minute, the next saga.
Students were curled up on couches and blankets. Some were playing cards. Some were laughing softly. And almost every one of them was interacting with their Lotus Eater. The strange, otherworldly creatures were scattered throughout the common space.
Koda was seated cross-legged on the floor, gently braiding glowing threads of his Lotus Eater’s mane. Jirou sat on the couch, headphones sharing half a song with her own, nodding in sync. Even Tokoyami, reserved had one curled near his shoulder, its eye (just one now) blinking slowly. The moment was peaceful, like a dream after a storm.
Usagiyama blinked, pausing in the doorway. “Damn…”
Bakugou narrowed his eyes, scoffing under his breath, “…Bunch of saps.”
But even he softened a little when the two Lotus Eaters that had accompanied them on their ‘mission’ suddenly emerged from around the corner. Rumi looked down, stunned, then slowly knelt. The creature didn’t flinch. She reached a hand toward it. “…You again?” The creature leaned into her touch.
Behind her, Katsuki stared down at his own Lotus Eater. It blinked once at him, then tilted its head, like it could still see all the things he’d left unsaid during the movie — and didn’t judge him for any of it.
“…Tch,” he muttered, but crouched to let it lean on his knee. They stayed like that for a moment. Quiet. Connected. Then Aizawa stood, yawning.
"Go back to your seats, we will continue watching"
Everyone went to their seat. Mirko on the floor, while Bakugou next to Kirishima on the couch.
"You okay?" Eijirou asked him, and Katsuki only nodded, smiling a little.
"Yeah, don't worry Shitty Hair" Everyone looked at the TV screen, where another song title appeared: Storm