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It was going to rain. He could feel it in his bones. Whenever the temperature went down or it rained, his bones would ache. He knew it was a consequence of breaking them too many times. He was really really glad that he no longer broke bones every time he used his quirk.
(he would never admit it, that he felt cold naked relief whenever he thought that he had finally reached the starting line for heroics by managing to be able to use his quirk. without being a liability. who was he kidding, he will remain a liability. maybe one day, he will become enough to not remain a liability)
He did the usual exercises. They helped. They always helped. Whenever he wanted to stop thinking at all. Whenever he would be reminded of middle school. Whenever he woke up to a quirk and a mangled set of arms. crooked little things.
So he stretched, and went about getting ready for school. He knew it would rain. And he knew his hands would shake, he knew that by the end of the day, he would not be able to do anything with his hands, be it writing, be it eating, be it anything, everything, something.
So, he went about his work and made it to the class.
He flinched at the boom. Thunder illuminated the sky. He didn’t need to think about middle school today. It started raining. It was getting colder.
His hands were shaking. There wouldn’t be any hero training class, according to the schedule. He needed to calm himself.
Yes, he could-he could do that. Think about good things. Think about All Might, Uraraka-san, Iida-san, everyone, Eri..ERI!
He had failed her!
No, stop stop stop. He had to be there for her. He can’t go down any lane of negative thoughts. How would he be able to become a hero Eri loved if he was set back by rain and thunder. He should go to Recovery Girl sometime that week. He was due for a check-up.
(he knew he might miss that. he didn’t want to burden her. it was his fault alone. but he needed to get better. he needed to be able to have every advantage he could amass)
So, he tried to calm himself. Bakugo came and sat down in his seat, right in front of him. Stop thinking at all. He bit his lip, trying to ground himself.
The tremors had almost died down.
His friends were there. He greeted them, talked with them. When it was time for the bell, they went to sit in their seats and he too settled in his, taking out his school supplies. It was heroics theory with Aizawa.
Yes, he knew a lot about that, but mostly about quirk and quirkless discrimination. The tremors of his hands had calmed down a lot.
Yes, he would be able to get through the day without any problem. He would be able to write and eat and do some things, if he could just keep himself calm throughout the day.
Aizawa-sensei came out of his sleeping bag and wrote something on the black board. He couldn’t read it. He tried to read it. The words should make some sense to him. But they didn’t. He could read it. He wanted to so desperately read them.
REad read read
READ
The class was quiet, uncharacteristically quiet. That happened only if Aizawa-sensei used his quirk. He must have stared too much, because he could feel a gaze on him. Before he could pin-point it, it was gone.
He looked at his hands, they were trembling again. There goes all the efforts he had put in to be able to make it through the day. He would need to prepone that visit to Recovery Girl. He couldn’t-he couldn’t afford to lose anymore time, just because he hid his injuries, or more aptly the aftermath of his injuries.
Calm down, calm down.
Voices droned around him
CLAM DOWN!
He shut down for a minute, sitting there, but not quite. He was feeling numb, not cold or bothered, or anything. Just numb, as if he was made of static glitching with his shaking hands. Numb as if everything in the world was just static and somehow everything lost his focus. Everything except those words on the board.
QUIRK DISCRIMINATION
Aizawa-sensei began his class.
“Does anyone of you know the aspects on which quirk discrimination takes place?”
Shinsou raised his hand.
“Yes, Shinsou?”
“Villainous quirks.”
“Not quite, villainous is a subjective word. What can be extracted from your answer is mental-type quirks. Sit down. Any other aspect?”
Shouji raised his hand.
“Yes, Shouji?”
“Mutant type quirks.”
“Yes, good sit down. Anyone, anything to add?”
He wasn’t looking anywhere. Suddenly the desk became the most beautiful thing in the world. He couldn’t look up from it. The static was increasing. He held his hands together and hid them underneath the desk. No good would come from disturbing the lesson in the middle. He could bear with it a little longer.
Another hand was raised. The class was surprised. Who wouldn’t be surprised?
“Bakugo?”
“Quirkless discrimination.”
The static was gone for a moment, until it came back in full force. Only difference was that he could only see Kacchan.
“A surprising addition, but good nevertheless.”
And the board held the words:
Mental quirks
Mutant Quirks
Quirkless
He could only see Bakugo.
“These are the three most important categories. There are many others, such as cosmetic quirks, weak quirks and so on. But before that, let’s discuss these aspects.”
He wrote down a few numbers on the board right in front of each of those categories.
“Can anyone tell me what these numbers mean?”
Tsuyu raised her hand.
“Are these the percentage of people who suffer from discrimination due to those individual reasons? Kero?”
“Yes, Asui.”
Why were they studying this? Why? They could have done it on some other day? Why then? Why did Aizawa have to do that?
Stop thinking, you freak! Pay attention in class
He jolted. Looked up to see Aizawa-sensei pulling up some statistics.
He couldn’t focus on them, his focus was on Kacchan. Aizawa-sensei was discussing various sets of data and information and graphs and everything with the class. His gaze was locked on the data, rarely blinking.
Another slide change, another bout of discussion, another bout of staring at the slide.
Another slide change, another bout of discussion, another bout of staring at the slide.
Another slide change, another bout of discussion, another bout of staring at the slide.
Another slide change, another bout of discussion, another bout of staring at the slide.
Another slide change, another bout of discussion, another bout of staring at the slide.
Another slide change, another bout of discussion, another bout of staring at the slide.
Another sli-
He choked. It was no slide. He wrote something on the board. It was the quirkless suicide rate. Suddenly the static was gone, only returning again, letting him focus on Aizawa-sensei, Kacchan and the slide.
“Can anyone say something about this number? Midoriya, hmm? You seem to be distracted today?”
His hands were shaking, he tried to say something. His voice wouldn’t come through. His mouth opened and closed again and again.
Aizawa-sensei was waiting for him to gather himself enough to say what the percentage was.
90%
He knew what that was. How could he not? He could not form words. The static was suffocating him. The static was suffocating him. He couldn’t breathe. He bit his lip.
“Quirkless Suicide Rate.”
That wasn’t his voice. That wasn’t Aizawa-sensei’s voice. That was Kacchan’s voice.
He looked at him. Suddenly all the static was gone. He could feel everyone’s eyes on them. It was too much. Anything would be too much after feeling nothing for a while.
He waited a moment to collect himself, thinking of how to deal with that, how to correct it, how to-
“Why do you know that?”
Kacchan didn’t move an inch.
“Kacchan, I’m asking you something. Why do you know that?”
There was no static at all, but somehow it felt as if he and Kacchan had been transported to another dimension, maybe another timeline, somewhere, perhaps at the river where Kacchan had fallen, and poor little quirkless freaky weak Deku was asking Kacchan if he was alright.
Everyone had stopped existing then too. He was still looking at Kacchan.
“Kacchan, why do you know that?”
He turned behind and looked at him. He couldn’t comprehend whatever was there in those red eyes. Red like fire. Red like explosion. Red like his quirkless shoes.
Red is the colour of fate. It never felt apt for him.
He asked again.
“Kacchan, why do you know that?”
Kacchan clicked his tongue and spat, “Why can’t I?”
Their world shattered. It was a broken pandemonium of things of feelings, of past, of memories, of words, of quirks, of lives, of school, of notebooks, burnt or otherwise. The world was shattered, but still they were the only ones there.
“Why?” His voice was a garbled broken sob.
“Tch, why what? You damn nerd?”
He lunged at him, pinning him down on the ground of their shattered world. Grasping him, by the collar of his shirt. Shaking him again and again.
“You don’t deserve to know that.”
“Why, huh? You think that you fucking freak are so entitled, to know that? I fucking can’t know? Huh? DEKU!”
Izuku flinched, and was again consumed by the numbness. He tried to punch Kacchan, again and again. There was something pulling him away. Something wrapping around him, something binding him.
“Why? Why do you know that? When did you know? You don’t deserve to know that! Did your lackeys know? Did you know? Did you think before- Did you think of her? Did you know during middle school? Oh! I think you must have known! Kacchan has always been so good at everything. You must have known. You must have known since the wooden bridge, the river. Why Kacchan? Did you know that when you said- You knew, didn’t you? Everything makes so much sense! You! Your lackeys knew it and-and-”
He was hysterical, he knew that. There were tears pooling in his eyes. His hands would be shaking violently if they were not bound.
Kacchan’s face was screwed up in a weird expression. He had never made that expression. It was a new expression. Something told him that Kacchan’s expression was a mixture of anger, regret and guilt. mostly anger.
Anger he knew and could handle.
“You didn’t know?” the guilt increased.
He burst out laughing.
“You didn’t know, and you-you said! Haha! Did you think of her? Of your mother? What if I- Would you have felt guilty? Remorseful? Regret? Or would you have laughed? You should have known, before- Haa! Why am I even bothering?” There was a resigned streak in his voice. Something that had never made it out into the living world, but something that resided inside of him since he was diagnosed quirkless.
“Answer one question, when did you learn this?”
There were tears in Kacchan’s eyes too, but he didn’t want to think about that.
“After coming to UA.”
He sighed. “Tell me, Kacchan. If you had known, would middle school have been any different?”
Kacchan was choked. It was stuttering.
“I don’t know.”
Kacchan was being honest. There’s nothing wrong with that. But it hurt him more. He started crying even more hysterically. He was being cradled. He didn’t know who it was. But someone was holding him close to their chest, close to their heart, letting him get it all out. Letting him let all of that go. Letting him feel safe, cared for.
He tried to relax, but the tears continued dripping faster. The bindings were undone, so his shaking hands were exhibited for anyone to see and deem him weak.
Kacchan came over to him, took hold of his hands and buried his face into them.
“I’m sorry.”
It came out as a whine, a sob, a whimper.
Kacchan didn’t cry. Kacchan was strong and powerful and cool and wonderful and he wasn’t weak. Kacchan never cried. Why was he crying.
“Why?” He breathed.
“De-Izuku, I’m sorry.”
He didn’t understand. This was Kacchan he was talking about. He was sorry. For what. He was apologising to him. Kacchan had changed. But, how much.
Would the apology be a joke.
He didn’t want to think about it.
He bit down on his lips.
A salty coppery rusty flavour invaded his tongue. It grounded him and helped him think. Kacchan was apologising to him. For what?
“For what?”
Kacchan looked at him, really looked at him.
“For middle school, for all the extras, teachers, students, everyone. It shouldn’t have happened at all.”
“You mean it?”
“Yes”
All air was sucked out of him. He was glad. He felt that maybe he could let go of his childhood, hid middle school life. It would be a part of him. It would still define him. But he would no longer be a shadow of his middle school.
“I can’t forgive you, Kacchan.”
They were leaning into each other. Kacchan mumbled into his hands.
“It’s ok. Let me atone. You can forgive me in the future.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to forgive you. I don’t know if I can forgive you. I don’t think I know if I want to forgive you.”
“I don’t need your forgiveness. I just want to atone.”
He shed some more tears. He didn’t think about everyone. He just knew that maybe he could start feeling better.
Maybe he could be better again.