Work Text:
You’d done absolutely everything right all your life. Stayed out of trouble, studied hard, gotten into a hero school–but it still wasn’t enough. Jobs were few and far between, after all; Only the best and brightest ever got the opportunity to even try and seize their dreams. There was no room left for the forgettable one that sits at the back–the one that listens and learns and tries, but never stands out. Never crosses the threshold from smart to extraordinary.
Growing up, they called you things like “special” and “talented” and “wonderful,” but the moment you graduated, the praise stopped. The very same people that had built you up tore you down–they only offered you desk jobs and then had the nerve to interrogate you about your lack of field experience. It was like being trapped in one of those halls of mirrors. What you wanted was clear–in plain sight–but every time you reached out to grab it, your fingers hit the reflective glass. Cold. Hard. An illusion.
All you wanted was the opportunity to do what you loved–to save, to protect. You were willing to give everything, and they still didn’t care. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.
You crumple up the letter before you even finish reading the whole thing. It’d come in a thin envelope, which meant that there were none of those forms enclosed–the ones that they give to new hires. Besides, organizations only ever sent out notices this early if it was a rejection. That, you’d learned from experience. Knowing that your heart wouldn’t be able to handle another generic “We look forward to hearing from you in the future” footer, you toss the letter into the compost bin on your way back into the house.
Whatever composure you’d managed to fake out front fades the moment you walk through the front door. You don’t even get to lock the door before your knees buckle beneath you, trembling limbs no longer able to support your weight. Your bottom hits the floor with a soft thud, and the room seems to go blurry. There’s a raspy, repetitive echo that bounces off the empty walls, and it’s through a detached sort of awareness that you recognize it’s the sound your own breathing. There’s nothing you can do to calm the heavy rise and fall of your shoulders though–the feeling of despair and fear and hopelessness is just too intense to overcome.
It comes in waves. The panting intensifies one moment, then ebbs away in the next. The feeling of worthlessness remains, however. Before you even know what you’re doing, you yank your phone out of your pocket and open your most recent conversation with Kirishima. You scroll past all of the stickers and little words of encouragement, gritting your teeth and typing out the word that rings in your ears.
Rejected.
Bitterly, you send another message.
Again.
Not even a full minute later, your phone buzzes. There’s a familiar flash of red splayed across the screen, but you don’t want to talk–you know you’ll start crying the second you pick up. Part of you feels guilty for even dragging him into your pity party in the first place. You let the call go to voicemail. The rumbling starts up again. This time, you don’t hesitate to hit the decline button. He texts you instead.
hey
pick up the phone
There’s a call. You ignore it.
pick up!!!
Then another. By this point, you have the sense to at least send a reply.
Sorry. Shouldn’t have bothered you.
Don’t really want to talk about it rn.
You hold your breath, half-expecting another call. It never comes. Those three little dancing dots–the ones that tell you a person is typing–stay there for at least five minutes. The message you finally get back, however, is short.
b there in 10
You bury your face in your hands. Deep down, you knew this was coming; Kirishima wasn’t the sort to just let you sit by and let you feel sorry for yourself–at least not while you were alone. True to his word, he pounds on your door about ten minutes later.
“It’s me. Open up.” Your friend’s voice is muted–both in volume and in energy. He knew better than to assault you full-force with enthusiasm when you were at your low.
“It’s already unlocked.”
The door swings open and nearly whacks into your leg. You yank it out of the way just in time, internally cursing yourself for not having at least crawled out of the entryway.
Kirishima takes a tentative step inside. He’s wearing those stupid khakis and crocs again, and surprisingly, that fact alone is enough to distract you from all the doom and gloom, if only for a moment. When he sees you sitting in your little pile on the floor, the concern is written all over his face.
You lie back, letting the hardwood cool your back through the fabric of your shirt.
“I still don’t wanna talk about it, Eijiro.”
“Fine, no rush.” He shakes off those god-awful shoes and holds up his left arm, putting the plastic bag looped around his wrist on full display. “I brought cookies.”
Neither of you says anything else. You don’t need to. Kirishima locks the door and plops down beside you, unpacking not one, not two, but three packages of Oreos from his bag. He peels back the plastic wrapper from one container and drops it onto your chest without any flourish or ceremony. Then he opens another and flings himself backward, lying beside you on the ground. The two of you go about shoveling cookies into your mouth and the silence ensues. It’s comfortable–punctuated only by the ambient sounds of crinkled packaging and heavy chewing.
You can’t be sure what exactly prompts the hot tears to pool at the corners of your eyes–you’d been careful to avoid any and all thoughts about work and unfairness and failure–but once they finally come, there’s nothing subtle about them. It was like flicking a light switch; One minute you were fine, shoveling your sixth cookie into your mouth, and the next you were an absolute mess.
You shoot a hand to the side, grasping at the air. Kirishima doesn’t miss a beat, grabbing it, clutching it tightly. It was probably sticky, caked in sugar and Oreo cream, but he clings to it anyway. When the worst of your sobs passes, he twists his head to the side, facing you.
“Wanna talk about it yet?” It was a genuine question, without a trace of impatience or frustration.
You shake your head no, sniffling like a child as you shove another Oreo into your mouth.
“That’s okay, I’ve got all day. I can wait.”
And true to his word, he doesn’t push any further. He doesn’t tell you to stop crying or to calm down. He just holds your hand, waiting it all out.