Chapter Text
Mind over matter. Could it be so easy?
Inko curls her right hand, pressed tight to the small of her back, and sweat gathers at her brow. No. Not with that attitude. It will be so easy. The dumbbell floats over, wobbly and uneven as it rotates, but when it hovers over her other hand, in that moment, none of that matters. She has but a second to feel an all-encompassing triumph before her quirk gives out, almost a tangible cord snapping free, and the weight drops full force into her left hand. With a yelp, Inko tips forward, other hand flying out, but—
It crashes to the floor with a nasty crack, and, irrationally, it feels like the engraved 50lbs mocks her. Inko winces as the sound echoes, and glances over to the beat up sofa in the corner. The computer screen highlights Izuku’s sleeping face, cheek smushed up against the arm where he nodded off watching her. She huffs, smiling, and shakes her head.
Planting her feet, she bends over, and grasps the handle with both hands. Mind over matter, she thinks, and lifts the weight, muscles burning at the strain. Arms out, and one.
Two.
Three.
Four—
Nope. Inko sets the weight down as gently as she can, unwilling to dig another rivet into the smooth concrete, and takes a deep breath. “That’s enough for today,” she says to herself, and isn’t sure she even wants to know what time it is.
The oil in the space heater pops as she moves over to the couch, legs something like jelly, and Inko gives it a wary look as she picks up her towel. Soon, she promises herself, running the towel across her neck, and gives the warehouse at large a determined look. Tucked into a rougher neighborhood and in a weird sort of nook next to some old apartments, it’s not much to look at, but. That’s fine. A fixer-upper with the basics down, and connected to the sewer system, of all things.
It’s going to eat into her savings, no doubt about it, but once everything is up and running? Yeah. Once everything is up and running.
With a tired puff of air, she settles onto the sofa, the cushion sinking. Izuku’s homework slides into her side but she ignores it, eyes slipping shut. Inko can already see it. She’ll build it up, expand, finish painting the walls, put in thick oak doors and durable rugs. Supplementation will have to happen, and she peeks an eye at Izuku, heart aching.
He’ll understand. She knows this, it’s just—
Her fingers dig into the couch. It’s not what he wants, not even remotely close to what he dreamed of, and she hates that doing this will undoubtedly change her little boy. That it already has.
It’s a blessing, that he’s already made a friend, is making friends. Attempting to, rather doggedly, in one case, and. This corner of Saitama has the highest population of Quirkless people, and it’s far enough away from Tokyo, quiet enough, poor enough , that she has no doubts, no regrets, about what she’s going to do.
For Izuku, she prays, and her memory easily draws him up covered in scratches and scraps, smeared red around the edges, but smiling and holding hands with his first true friend.
A rough-and-tumble little girl, wispy blonde hair with the most darling expressions and teeth. Smitten with Izuku, Inko can tell, and protective, only eight to his six. And, quirkless. She's abrasive, worryingly cruel at times, but she’s good to her son, and for that, Inko will overlook many things for his happiness, will sacrifice many things for his happiness.
Inko will do anything for Izuku.
She sighs, and sits back up. No need to put a crick in her own neck willingly. She closes the laptop, but leaves it on the foldable table to scoop Izuku up instead. His head lolls on her shoulder, and he snuffles, arms limp in hers. He doesn’t wake as she lays him out on their bed, merely breathes in deeply before exhaling and rolling over.
Drawing the blanket over Izuku’s shoulders, Inko brushes back a few loose strands of his hair, twining it around her finger for a moment. It’s one of the bittersweet things, dying their hair, but the easiest of things to keep up with, to be new and different people.
The names will be harder. She isn’t quite able to think of herself as Hayashi Ine yet, Izuku as Hayashi Izumo.
Mind over matter, she repeats, licks her lips, and unthinkingly reaches.
The metal water bottle from across the room smacks into her shoulder, and with a bit off yelp, she fumbles for it, startled horribly. Once she has it, nearly halfway off the bed herself, Inko smothers a laugh, heartbeat loud in her ears, and exhales loudly as she sits back up. Hah. Haha. She twists the lid off and takes a long drink.
Hah.
Attraction of small objects. The keyword, Izuku said, stars in his eyes, is small. What makes it small? Size? Weight? Value? Importance? Inko can easily admit that some of the quirk babble went over her head, but she gets the jist. Small as in tiny, as in minor as in lesser, as in inferior as in beneath her, as in the perception of herself in relation to the world around her.
If she deems something small—size-weight-value-importance—then she should be able to pull it towards her person. That’s the idea, anyway. Izuku isn’t convinced it’s limited to small, and considers it worthwhile to think of her quirk like that of a muscle—it’ll only get stronger if she exercises it. So far she can pull small-size objects quicker to herself, sometimes too quickly, but she’s slowly, slowly, upping her small-weight limit. The small-value-importance is going even slower.
Inko’s yet to budge their bed or the couch, or even stumble a stranger, but. Well. She’s got determination in spades, so it’s just a matter of when.
A yawn cracks open her jaw as she puts the bottle down and lays out over the bed, too sweaty to crawl beneath the covers, too tired to go heat up some water. Inko blinks blearily at her hands in the dim light, absently rubs at the band of lighter skin on the one finger. Domesticity has softened her, let her grow complacent, but it’s all too easy to dreg up a simmering rage and let it run her edges sharp and hardened. She yawns again, and doesn’t let the too fond memories wear her down. Instead, Inko bears them to ground with a too long absence and shorter and shorter video calls, missed birthdays, missed calls, and fewer and fewer The Moon is Beautiful.
Izuku deserves the world, not. Not this.
Just on the edge of weary, Inko clicks off the lamp by the couch, focusing on it’s small-size switch, and lets the darkness consume her.
Mind over matter, she tells herself, just one more time, and close her eyes.