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It isn’t a typical training session; usually, when people hear the word “training,” they think about the physical—weights, punching bags, and sparring mats. Not whispered conversations beneath a starry sky, lazy bodies sprawled out across the grass. Then again, this was a different sort of regimen—one meant to exercise the mind.
“How much longer ‘til the next round?” You ask, your compulsive need to win leaving you with an anxious feeling that stretches to your fingertips.
“Depends—what time is it?” Shinso doesn’t sound nearly as prepared as you are. The only thing he seems determined to do is relax, his arms folded comfortably across his chest.
You peer down at your phone. “Five to nine.”
“Three minutes.” It’s an odd time to set off fireworks—not the top of the hour or some other round number—but Shinso rattles it off without hesitation. You have to wonder how long he’s been doing this—how many festivals he’s spent out here, just watching the sky light up late into the night. How many times he’s done it alone.
Shinso never looks particularly sad when he talks about growing up with a quirk like his, dealing with the stigma, the accusatory stares, the loneliness. He always just shrugs and says something dismissive like “I don’t know anything else” or “that’s just the way it is sometimes.” There’s no overt anger, frustration, sadness—only a stoic sort of acceptance for the way things ended up happening. Still, you think you can catch something flashing across his expression whenever he teases you—whenever he thinks he’s pushed you too far. Maybe you’re reaching, but it almost looks like he’s afraid. Afraid he’ll push you away. Afraid he’ll have to go back to the way things were before he knew what it meant to be with someone.
You brush off the train of thought before it can tinge your expression—if there was one thing Shinso hated more than anything else, it was to be pitied. “What’s the word this time.”
He seems to think for a second, fingers tapping against his tee in a lazy sort of rhythm. After a quick moment of that, he sits up and peers over at you, lazy eyes at odds with his positively devious smirk.
“Quintessential.”
Of course. It’s a long word, a harsh word, riddled with rough consonants—more sound for Shinso to cling to as a beacon for his brainwashing. You’d be under his control before you could even wipe out his hearing. Your quirk had its limits, after all; selective sensory deprivation wouldn’t really be fair if it didn’t have its drawbacks. You could knock out any of a person’s five senses for as long as you could concentrate on just that. If you stopped for even a second to think about the weather or the commotion in the sky or even your name, then it’d be over. Using your quirk required extreme concentration, and the more intensely you could hone in on your target, the quicker you could incapacitate them. So, in a way, this was a race. If you wanted to win, you’d have to knock out Shinso’s hearing before he got the chance to brainwash you.
“That’s a cheap trick and you know it.” You pout, picking at some grass and hurling it in Shinso’s direction. “Pick something shorter for once. You have like, a full two seconds to get me before I can even start thinking.”
“If you’re as good as you think you are,” Shinso says, the tightness in his voice betraying his competitive nature, “you’ll win without the handicap.”
You scoff. “‘Handicap,’ says the man that insists he needs fireworks for this to be a fair match.”
That gets a chuckle out of him. “Wouldn’t be training if there wasn’t some sort of distraction.” He rests his elbow on top of his folded legs, leaning in and propping his head up on his palm. “Explosions go off in cities all the time—gotta be prepared to jump into action the second that happens, right?”
“Ooooo, morbid.”
“Always. But that’s just life.”
Shinso was right about all of it, of course, but there was no way you’d ever admit that out loud. Instead, you plot out your masterplan, the way you’ll finally stick it to the purple-haired cheater. Even if he technically wasn’t even cheating, seeing as the two of you had never really made formal rules for this whole game…er, training. But all of that aside, this time you’d definitely win.
“Fine.” You say, earning a raised eyebrow from Shinso. You weren’t the type to concede a point if you could help it. Regardless, you continue. “Don’t you get distracted either.”
It’s his turn to scoff. “Right.” And you can just tell he hasn’t figured you out—has no clue what you’re plotting. Perfect.
You fold your legs and mimic Shinso’s posture. Not another word is uttered, even though the fuzzy feeling in your gut is so intense you feel like screaming. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of red shooting upward into the sky. No sound yet though—the first boom-fizzle would be the starting gun; neither of you could start your mental tug-of-war until it went off.
One second in, nothing.
Two seconds in (though it feels like ten), there’s still a big whopping nothing.
After three seconds, a thunderous, heavy sound shakes the ground, and you put your plan into motion.
You lean in—not an odd action in itself considering it was something you did all the time, an old trick you used to zero in on your target's eyes (the most natural point of focus you’ve found)—then you concentrate. The difference from past matches lies in the way you don’t stop once you’ve pushed yourself up and onto your knees, your hands pressed flat against Shinso’s shoulders.
“Quintessential.” You say firmly, clearly, the tip of your nose brushing against Shinso’s. There are fireworks bellowing in the background, but there’s no way Shinso can’t hear the word—not when you’re this close to him. He should be able to feel it, pick up on the sound as it wafts over his skin, passed along the air from your lips to his. Still, you’re well in-control, even after the final syllable fades into the clamour of the night. Then still after the final firework fizzles into silence.
You can’t contain your grin, looking every bit as haughty as you feel. “How’s this for a distraction?”
And something snaps. You’re no longer in control of your own body, much to your surprise (andirritation). You’d been positive you’d caught him.
His arrogant smirk and your inability to even roll your eyes tells you that you had, in fact, been wrong.
“Tricks only work if you use them to actually win. It was a nice try, though—a good idea.”
In your mind, you’re telling him off: “stop patronizing me, asshole.” Shinso’s words make your skin feel like it’s burning, and you’re not entirely sure if that’s because his taunting makes you seethe, or because his hot breath is still colliding with the lower part of your face.
“You know, I bet you thought you had this in the bag. You didn’t count on your little ‘distraction’ working both ways, did you?”
“I swear, you are the WORST. Wait until I—“
Shinso laughs softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “Man, I’m probably in for it once I release you. I should stop digging my own grave, here but,” something twinkles in his eyes, “I won fair and square. You know what that means, sweetheart.”
His hold over you eases, and on your first exhale in freedom, you groan, loud and heavy.
“It was the fireworks. Too loud.” You say through pursed lips, even though you both know it’s a total lie. “I still don’t think this was very fair, ‘Toshi.”
“Yeah, yeah. Pay up.” You huff, defiant, and Shinso grabs your chin, grinning. “Listen, I could make you. But that wouldn’t be as fun, now, would it?”
You don’t miss your opportunity to be contentious. “Who knows? It might be…” But by that point, you’re already leaning forward, using you lips to smother his next retort.