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Quirks are a gift, a miraculous talent that centuries ago could only be imagined. They grant speed and strength and knowledge. They grant the power of gods’ in tiny mortal bodies.
Sometime however, when Midoriya’s skin turns purple under the force of his own uncontrollable power, when Bakugou refuses to pet Koda’s rabbit out of fear of the poisonous substance secreted from his hands, when Sero sits- elbow bleeding and sore, feeling so utterly pathetic, Sero begins to get the sense that quirks were more of a curse than a blessing.
Afterall, heroes only need quirks because villains have quirks- it doesn’t change the playing field just makes it more dangerous for both sides. The drawbacks and faults in every quirk are undeniable and often feel utterly pointless. It feels like a cruel joke from a god sick of humanity’s hubris.
The thought is often shook away. It feels sickeningly ungrateful, especially since Sero has a quirk sought after enough to get him into UA (however plain it may be). Sero brushes the idea off, any contemplation on the realities of their society feels too heavy for a high school student whose most pressing concern should be the upcoming english test.
So he breathes and moves on. He focuses energy on training, on studying, on being more interesting than he actually is. The peeling skin remains hidden, either through long sleeves or casual dismissal when asked.
Most accept that he doesn’t think much of the wounds building up on his arms easily. He catches Kaminari’s eyes tracing along the scabs sometimes and bites down a reflex to hide them, to tuck his arms into his chest. Bakugou seems the least convinced by his brush-off but then again Bakugou is hard to read.
What Sero misunderstands as friendship could just be interest. It could just be Bakugou being his usual analytical self. Deep down something instinctive tells Sero that isn’t true.
He grunts in easy acceptance when Sero waves the quickly building scars of as ‘just one of those things’ but there is something in his eyes, something unreadable but almost akin to concern.
The thing about Bakugou is he does care. Not much and not fast. He isn’t some puppy, just waiting to be loved. He is defensive, harsh and sharp-tongued, those things don’t change just because Sero is his friend.
But whilst all those things may be true, and they are, they aren’t the solitary parts of Bakugou. He is hard-working (to a concerning degree), diligent, careful and most importantly, smart. Maybe not socially smart, he’s crude and awkward, but observant and certainly intelligent.
That’s the part that scares Sero most: the constant feeling of being observed. He knows Bakugou is bothered (or whatever form that emotion takes in Bakugou) by the skin around Sero’s elbows.
He had found moisturizer outside his dorm door once and as sly as Bakugou may be, Sero knew it was him. What he didn’t want was Bakugou to try and talk to him about it.
It would be painful for both parties and Sero would rather the frankly, disgusting drawback remained known but not addressed. Of course, that was wishful thinking and since when had anything gone Sero’s way?
He had spent evenings in his dorm room taking care of his elbows before. He would clean and moisturize the stretched skin, peeling off pieces that caused only irritation. It was a common occurrence, especially with the renewed levels of training since Bakugou’s kidnapping.
He would clean blood off with shaking hands and put plasters on the parts that refused to stop bleeding. It itched and stung, and the joints underneath his skin ached and cried in protest with every movement.
One day, however, it was all too much. Training had been particularly grueling and he was partnered with Kaminari who had overdone it within the first 5 minutes, leaving Sero to lug around his friend like a dummy.
He didn’t blame Kaminari but the additional weight caused problems. The ache was something new, almost sharp as it thrummed deep inside his arms. Practically all the skin on his elbow was red and cracking.
Sero held in tears for the post-training lecture from Aizawa. He ignored the sting in his chest as Aizawa directed a pointed look at him- he was trying his hardest but he always came up short. His quirk wasn’t good enough, he didn’t utilise it well enough and the competition was just too steep for him to ever stand out.
The burning sense of inadequacy robbed him of speech so as soon as an end was called to the lesson he was off, half jogging back to the privacy of his room where he could cry to his heart’s content.
Any calls after him were ignored. He couldn’t handle his classmates now. They weren’t mean or cruel but his face was pinched with the effort of holding in sobs and that shame, of them seeing him, was too much to bear.
The dorm will never quite feel like home. Sero comes from a big family and as much as his friends tried, homesickness was a constant. He missed his ma and his pa and all of his siblings. He missed the cooking, the arguments, the complete comfort.
But his room was as close to something resembling home that Sero had. It was where he felt most comfortable; comfortable enough to cry at least.
And cry he did. As soon as the door was shut behind him, all willpower collapsed and tears were running down his cheeks in warm, salty rivers. His legs gave out as he leaned back onto his bed, sat on the floor with his head buried in his rough hands.
The tears didn’t stop and neither did the pain. He knew blood was seeping into his clothes, he was still in his training uniform and people would notice if he turned up with red stains next lesson so he swallowed a sob and tried to compose himself.
It wasn’t successful; sobs got caught in his throat, tears continued to wet his cheeks and chin and he still hurt so much . Sero stood, on trembling legs, and managed to grab the first aid kit.
The blood was still wet and slippery on his elbows and hands. The idea of going to the kitchen for a bowl of warm water to remove dry blood was unthinkable so he made do with dry swabs.
He wiped and wiped, flinching when the cotton touched an open wound or he stretched his arm too far. The blood came off easily and in the monotony of the task Sero found himself thinking.
This was the life of a pro-hero. How would he ever cope if this was what he dealt with every day? Maybe this was just leading to the inevitable conclusion that Sero wasn’t cut out for professional heroism.
He rubbed a particularly deep wound again and was almost glad for the pain as it wrenched him from the morbid train of thought. He wiped all the wet blood could, leaving only red stains and crimson flakes.
Some places were still wet and slick but Sero quickly stuck yellow plasters (a gift from Mina) over the most concerning spots. He had only done one arm when he ran out and a wave of crushing failure hit him.
He was so, utterly stupid . He was on the bedroom floor, knees of his uniform stained red from the drips of blood, one arm still wet and slick with blood and all he could bring himself to do was cry. He sobbed and choked on tears and rubbed his wet face raw.
His joints were growing stiffer with every passing moment and eventually even wiping tears away made him cry harder with pain. As he sat, suddenly he felt incredibly lonely.
Sero was never quite an extrovert or at least he had never had many friends to figure out whether he was an extrovert or an introvert. It was until UA that he actually felt close to a group of funny, smart people but even now, he wasn’t like the others.
There was no destined greatness or amazing future for Sero Hanta. Not like there was for the others, who all had overwhelming skill to back up a god-given talent.
Sero had his less than impressive, merely practical quirk and that was it. It was devastating, the realisation that perhaps this lonely pain was all that life had in store for him. He was too weak, too much of a child to ever stand aside his classmates as their equal.
Then there was a knock at the door and Sero knew it was all over, he wouldn’t be able to string together a coherent sentence and whoever was at the door would leave, they would call him stupid, a crybaby and everybody would believe them because it was true.
He would be alone.
“Sero,” It was Kirishima “You seemed pretty rough after training, bro. Are you okay in there?”
Sero chokes on a sob. This is it. All because of his stupid, flaking arms, everyone would know just how weak he was. Midoriya broke his arms on a weekly basis and didn’t seem to flinch, Todoroki never complained about the scar muscle pulling on his face, Uraraka never complained about her stomach sickness. Yet here he was, sobbing over some flakey skin.
“Okay, I’m coming in, dude.” Kirishima warns, his voice is low and soft like he’s placating a wild animal. “Bakugou, Kaminari and MIna are with me, okay?”
Sero flinches away, quickly trying to rub tears from his face, pushing past the pain building. It’s a pointless endeavour, his face is red and blotchy, tears still building and his rubbing does nothing to fix it but the act is fueled by panic rather than rational thought.
Kirishima enters cautiously, his steps gentle and controlled. Bakugou comes after, he doesn’t demonstrate the same care as Kirishima. He stomps, like always, with his arms folded over his chest and his face set in a scowl.
Kaminari and Mina come as a pair, as gently as Kirishima but more hesitant. Sero knows it's over but he can’t find it in himself to give up. He buries his shameful face in his hands, muffling sobs and hiding the tears.
“Sero, I need you to lift your face for me.” Kirishima says. It’s not quite a command but Sero obeys without second thought.
“Sorry,” he hears himself say. “I’m really sorry. It just hurts so much.”
He is aware it sounds ridiculously pathetic but he just needs them to know that he is aware of his own weakness. He doesn’t want them to think him oblivious to his failing,
Mina gasps, not a dramatic gasp- more of whimpering exhale and Sero flinches from the sound. For a moment, Sero considers feigning normalcy, standing up and ignoring his tear stained face. He could crack a joke and tell them he’s just tired but he knows it’s too late.
Kirishima lowers himself to a kneeling position opposite Sero and he opens his mouth to speak again, Sero’s muscles tighten in preparation for the rejection.
“I’m going to check out your elbows, okay?” Sero wants to say no, to outright refuse. His elbows are disgusting, skin flakes to reveal blood and muscle and bone, but he doesn’t. He shrugs.
Kirishima handles his aching limbs with so much care, tender soft touches and soothing words.
“I don’t have any bandages right now but we can do that later. Right now, I think we need to talk.” Kirishima says once he has finished assessing every scab and sore.
Sero doesn’t respond but Bakugou does.
“We’re not mad.” His voice isn’t soft but it isn’t harsh, not like it usually is “Those are fucking nasty. This can’t keep happening.”
It’s true and Sero knows it, his elbows are running out of room to scar and this ritual of locking himself up in his room and sobbing is a short-term solution to a never ending problem. That doesn’t make it any less painful.
“Have you been using the moisturizer?” Bakugou charges on. Sero shrugs. He uses it when he remembers, which is rarely. “Use it after every shower. Make it a routine.”
“Okay,” It’s the first word has said when he intended to since he reached the dorm room “I will.” It’s a promise, an unspoken swear to try. Bakugou doesn’t respond other than a huff but that’s enough.
His arms still hurt, his eyes ache and his chest is tight but the irrational panic has faded. His friends aren’t going anywhere. They aren’t repulsed or disgusted- everyone has quirk drawbacks.
As Kirishima wraps a bandage around his arms, as carefully as humanly possible, later that evening, surrounded by friends and warmth- Sero feels remarkably at home.