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It’s always been easy for Kirishima to see the good in people.
Oh, he knows not to make assumptions, and he knows not to jump to conclusions. He knows that people aren’t always what they seem. That one act of kindness doesn’t negate the harm of intentional malice. But he’s always been of the opinion that good is good—no matter if it’s surrounded by muck and sin, buried beneath corruption, or even tarnished by bad intentions. It’s a silver-lining kind of approach.
And here’s the thing—he loves the challenge of finding those silver-linings. Bakugou Katsuki? That boy, Kirishima can tell from the moment he lays eyes on him, is going to be one HELL of a challenge.
It’s a good ten hours later, lying exhausted on the floor of his room at home, that he realizes he probably should have incorporated a bit of practicality into the carefully crafted persona he made specifically for his first day at UA. He poured over every detail in preparation—each spike of his hair gelled to perfection, voice striking the perfect balance between enthusiastic and confident, etc. etc. etc.—and yet somehow he missed that one crucial detail. If he hadn’t, he might not have glossed cheerily over the fact that Bakugou Katsuki is self-reliant, unyielding, unstoppable—a force already eons ahead of his own pitiful figure. At the end of the day, it’s almost too easy to see all the things that will make Bakugou a strong hero.
He’s never going to look at me, Kirishima thinks to himself, eyes staring unfocused at his ceiling. His cheeks hurt from the pressure of the persistent smile he pressed into them at every opportunity. It wasn’t enough. He changed his hair and his clothes and his personality and literally everything in between but he didn’t account for the fact that bright red hair does not a flashy quirk make, and he couldn’t fix his chronic need to be stronger than he really is.
Despite all his best efforts, Kirishima Eijirou is still just Kirishima Eijirou, hardening-quirk and all. That quirk… his quirk… dull and aching, a piece of him that always seemed to fight back at every turn, always seemed to dog his heels.
With an ache of over-used muscles, he raises his hand from the scratchy floor, allowing his quirk to course down his skin from his elbow to his fingertips. Jagged fingers close, one at a time, sore muscle squeezing tight. He raises his fist and its stark silhouette bites into the halo of light from the lamp hanging over him. That fist once closed its teeth on him, scarred his face forever. He carries around the mark left from powerlessness, from a loss of control that he just barely feels like he’s recovered from.
Sometimes he fears he’ll never leave it behind.
But then, just like that, his fingers loosen. Their serrated edges soften again. He doesn’t know if it’s any better. Not now that he’s seen what he’s up against.
“I…”
His voice falls across the cramped edges of his room the same as it always has, back to the soft, unsharpened tenor he’s known all his life. The high ceilings at UA gave him energy, let his lungs project and bounced the excitement right back at him, but here every word he speaks is nothing but a gentle hum, wilting slowly like the rest of him.
Don't let it, he tells himself. Keep up the momentum, he commands. He opens his mouth to try again.
“I…”
…
The words die on his tongue.
He’s just… tired. Tired and, though he’s still in his uniform shirt and the stiff green pants, he's all but laid bare on the ragged carpet of his childhood home. He can't hold it together anymore. It’s anticlimactic, after such an amazing day among so many amazing people. For those few hours, he was nearly one of them! A hero-in-training, a UA student! He just… he wants so badly to be that person, inside and out. The person with the wicked sharp grin, the sky-high hair, the manly aura, the one who stands ready in the face of every challenge, unwavering. He yearns to really inhabit his place among the best of the best of the best. But how is he supposed to bridge the gap between little black-haired Eijirou, frozen solid as Ashido springs to life in front of him, and the new façade he built for himself brick by brick by brick since that day? Can he even do it? Is it even possible?
Stupid. He feels so dumb, all of a sudden—like he spent all that time carefully placing each brick down and forgot, after everything, to leave himself a door.
“Chivalry is not an act but a spirit,” Crimson Riot said, once upon a time. It’s an interview that is burned behind red eyes that used to stare, starry and bright, at the old footage. “You can do acts of good, and they will exist as singular moments of valor, which are all well and good… but unless you commit yourself to the spirit of it, it will never be more than an act. Your duty is to BE more than that. Be the good you want to see in the world.”
He wants to. That’s never been in question. This is what he wants, more than anything. To be strong, to save people, to be a source of strength and faith to the civilians he protects. He thought shedding the sad, weak parts of himself that dogged him through middle school would be his first step toward becoming strong, but… maybe that’s wrong.
In the harsh light of an over-bright yellow bulb, Kirishima raises his hand again. He thinks about Aizawa-sensei, the challenge he presented that morning, all but an eternity ago. To rise above, expand horizons, prove their worth… to show the promise required to have a real shot at growing into someone with the body and mind of a hero. He thinks about Bakugou, the manic gleam of his eye as he hurled a baseball seven hundred meters toward the horizon. Almost without conscious thought, he curls his fingers into the shape of claws, palm bared as if ready to detonate. And then, like he’s done a thousand times before, he curls those fingers farther until it’s a fist he holds above him, again, always.
“…You have to be more, Eijirou,” he whispers to himself, so soft he can barely hear his own voice. “You have to meet the challenge, no matter how far ahead the competition is.”
It’s nothing that he hasn’t said before, felt before, but for the first time, he thinks about silver-linings as the words flow across his tongue. It’s always been easy for him to see the good in people. The small acts of kindness, the good intentions, the things that bind humanity together during hardships and daily life alike. He knows there’s good in himself, too—somewhere mixed in with the scared middle schooler and the dull quirk and the cracks he fights not to show, there’s something good.
It’s not much, but maybe it’s all he needs. One act, two, an act of good every day, and someday he’ll no longer be miming out the motions anymore. Someday he will be good, the same way Crimson Riot was. This, he decides, staring up at his clenched fist… this will be the beginning. The true beginning. Start the timer, because he’s entered the race. Kirishima Eijirou has just crossed the start line.
***