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The days immediately after the sports festival carried a strange and malignant weight to Masahirao. He had expected to feel tired; like everyone else, he’d gone into the event prepared to give his absolute best, and it was only reasonable to assume his body would be sore after all that UA had thrown at him. But this was different. While his joints and muscles definitely did ache a bit, nothing on him felt worse than the way he felt thinking back on cavalry battle.
The days he spent off from school were hazy and dismal; he barely left his room at all, eating little and curled into a ball, holding his tail as he used to when he was a child. The pit that had settled in his stomach when he realized what had happened in the second round hadn’t lessened at all, even though he was fairly certain he had done the right thing by forfeiting his place in the final round. The incident lingered in his mind, mocking his failure to prove himself a capable fighter. It seeped into his dreams, turning them into nightmares where his body moved of its own accord while he sat helplessly watching. He kept running over the blank space in his memory like he had run his tongue over the gap where his first tooth had fallen out when he was six. He hoped perhaps his memory would come back too, and he could stop feeling like he’d lost a part of himself.
His mother worried over him and asked if he needed a doctor or more time off, but he returned to school with the rest of his class anyway, even though he still felt disconnected with reality and mildly disgusted with himself. Seeing Midoriya made him feel both better and worse. He was glad that good-hearted classmate had succeeded where he failed; Midoriya was the kind of person you wanted to root for even as he pulled the stupid stunts he’d shown off at the sports festival. Yet he was angry at himself for not being able to do the same, and even angrier that he seemed to be the only one whose failures seemed to be pulling him back instead of propelling him forward.
Masahirao could feel himself withdrawing into the unkind and pervasive thoughts in his mind, though he tried his best to participate in class as normal, so if the class noticed he was quieter than usual they would leave him to it. He felt both deeply melancholy and hollow, and criticized every mistake he made with a harshness he’d never used before. He vowed to work harder, make himself better, but found the usual motivation to achieve those goals gone. The duality and force of all his emotions left him tired and his mind dizzy, and found himself dragging, ever so little, behind the class, his grades slipping almost imperceptibly although he continued to excel in physical training. It was unnoticeable to everyone but himself and his own hard judgment, but although he berated himself for it he also couldn’t find it in him to truly care much, either.
His depressive mood followed him through his field training, coloring what should have been an exciting and useful training exercise a tasteless event he had to struggle to care about. The next day back to school found him trailing far behind his class on the way to lunch as he continued to pick apart his subpar performance with his mentor. The hallway was nearly empty by the time he’d collected his things and headed to the cafeteria and he ambled through the building unhurried and deep in thought, not caring when or if he ever arrived to lunch.
“Sorry,” someone said, after he felt a shove on his shoulder that knocked the book he’d been carrying out of his hands and several out of the other kid’s. Masahirao was more surprised than bothered; he hadn’t been paying much attention to where he was walking but hadn’t been expecting to see anyone else wandering around, either. He knelt to pick up the books and began to apologize himself, but stopped his response cold when the other student knelt down to help.
Until now, Masahirao hadn’t gotten much of a good look at Shinso Hitoshi, but would recognize his wild hair and dead-looking eyes anywhere. How he hadn’t managed recognize the voice that played so often in his mind was a testament to how out of it he must have been. The reasonable part of him told him to collect his stuff and leave, but the rest of him was stuck frozen in place reaching for his textbook. Emotions welled up in him, forceful and moving, leaving him with a swirling mess of anger, humiliation, wariness, hatred, and fear that almost made him sick to his stomach.
Shinso looked up at the non-reply, recognition forcing his eyebrows up as he realized who he’d bumped into. “It’s you,” he said, “from the sports festival.”
Masahirao tried to convey the full force of his anger through his gaze alone even while the continued sound of Shinso’s voice made his teeth clench and a sour taste appear in his mouth. He must have been successful, because Shinso began to look apologetic before he looked down and began to pick up his things a bit hastier.
“Sorry,” he said again, though much quieter this time. “I didn’t realize that you’d be so upset by it.”
You don’t know the half of it, Masahirao wanted to scream at him, but kept his mouth tightly shut.
“I was trying to win,” Shinso continued, unsurprised by the Masahirao’s silence. “But I understand why I upset you and the others.”
You could have just asked, Masahirao wanted to say, and to his horror felt tears welling up in his eyes as the stress of the situation and the past few weeks seemed to come at him at once. Finally able to move, he snatched up his book and started to stalk down the hall.
Halfway down, he heard from behind him, “I know you don’t believe me, but I am sorry.”
Masahirao only walked faster, as if he went fast enough he could well and truly leave both Shinso and his memory behind him.