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It was a typical day at UA high school. Morning classes had come to an end, and the hallways were filling with students, chatting amongst themselves and enjoying the downtime of their lunch break. In one classroom, only three figures remained.
“Shouta, hurry up, we’re gonna miss mashed potato day!” Oboro Shirakumo yelled, bouncing on the spot impatiently in the doorway. The tall boy had shimmering pale hair that floated about his head like solid mist, a bandaid across his nose, large bright eyes and a cheerful countenance. A second-year of UA’s hero course, he was one of the next generation of budding heroic hopefuls.
“I’m coming,” replied Shouta Aizawa, his unlikely friend. With dark features and a gloomy personality, he was Shirakumo’s exact opposite. Aizawa deposited the last of his books into his school bag, zipped it closed and hung it up on the back of his chair. “Why are you so excited about potatoes anyway?”
“Because, you uncultured gremlin, they are the food of the gods!” Shirakumo declared, eyes losing focus as he drifted into a foodie euphoria. “Soft and buttery, fluffy and moist! They can be paired with any other foodstuff, be it fish, meat or vegetables.” Drool started to drip from the corner of his mouth. “They’re even sometimes called cloud potatoes! It’s a match made in heaven Shouta!”
Indeed it was, Shirakumo’s Cloud quirk allowing him to summon the weather phenomenon at will.
“Man, c’mon, my stomach’s about to eat itself!” interjected a third voice. Hizashi Yamada, fellow UA student and third member of the trio, poked his head back through the doorway. With an exaggeratedly coiffured hairdo, stylish shades and huge toothy grin, he was the dawn to Aizawa’s dusk. “Yo, you ready yet, slow poke? Some of us are wasting away out here!”
Aizawa shook his head at their antics, and trudged over to the door. “Yeah, I’m here,” he sighed.
“Wonderful!” Shirakumo exclaimed, snapping out of his potato-inspired trance. He snatched Aizawa’s arm and yanked him out of the classroom, almost knocking Yamada off his feet in the process. “Then let’s get going! I need those heavenly carbs in my belly pronto.”
Dragging Aizawa along behind him, reminiscent of a child and their favourite teddy bear, Shirakumo led the procession to the cafeteria at top speed. Aizawa, trying in vain to extricate himself from his friend’s overenthusiastic grip, allowed himself to be jostled along, taking care not to step on the back of Shirakumo’s shoes. Yamada brought up the rear, fists pumping into the air, and he started a mashed potato chant that Shirakumo quickly picked up. A line of glares, curses and tuts made a trail behind them as the trio hurtled through the school’s hallways.
Outside of Lunch Rush’s Eatery, Shirakumo skidded to a halt, with Aizawa and Yamada throwing themselves to the side to avoid crashing into him.
“Hey, hey, Oboro, warn a guy, would ya!” Yamada exclaimed, though he laughed while saying it.
“He’s right,” Aizawa added, more sternly. “You need to have more awareness of your surroundings.”
But Shirakumo wasn’t listening. Instead, he was gazing into the cafeteria with comical tears running down his cheeks, and hands clasped in front of him.
“Yes,” he whispered. “We made it. Cloud potatoes are ours!”
Without another word, he skipped into the cafeteria, his two friends once again following in his wake. Joining the queue, the two extroverts debated the best combination of food to go with the mashed potatoes, while their designated introvert idly scanned the rest of the cafeteria’s occupants. One table caught Aizawa’s eye. It consisted of the Class B gang of misfits, namely Sensoji’s cronies. They’d taken on their leader’s vendetta against Aizawa, and could often be found plotting mischief against the trio, well out of the teachers’ earshot, of course. They were watching the three Class A students closely and whispering to each other. Aizawa gave them a deadpan stare and then turned away, deciding not to waste any of his energy on them.
Soon it was their turn at the food counter. Both Shirakumo and Yamada heaped their plates high with ridiculously large portions of mashed potatoes. Yamada had his with katsu chicken, whilst Shirakumo chose a seafood sauce. Aizawa stuck to some regular beef udon.
“Let’s grab that table by the window, yo!” Yamada exclaimed, and the trio made their way across the cafeteria. As they wound their way through the tables, there was a brief flash of movement off to their side, and then a sudden crash of crockery as Shirakumo’s tray went flying out of his hands, plate smashing to pieces while the beloved mashed potatoes splattered across the floor. A sudden hush descended upon the cafeteria, every pair of eyes turning their way, while Shirakumo stared down at his ruined lunch in dismay. Aizawa’s sharp eyes immediately landed on the source of the misfortune.
A beaky-nosed kid from Class B was lurking nearby, trying and failing to control his smirk. Aizawa recognised him as one of Sensoji’s posse. Before he could berate the moron, however, Yamada beat him to it.
“What the hell, man!” Yamada squawked. “You did that on purpose!”
The boy was shaking his head, twisting his face into a poor imitation of remorse.
“Sorry!” he exclaimed. “My elbow twitched. Here.” He thrust his own tray out at Shirakumo, also loaded with mashed potatoes. “Have mine instead.”
Shirakumo’s eyes darted between the proffered tray piled high with carby delights, and the sad mess painting the floor tiles. Hesitantly, he reached out and accepted the other student’s offering. “Um, if you’re sure?”
“Yeah, of course, it’s the least I could do!” the boy insisted, shoving the tray into Shirakumo’s hands before hastily backing away, smirk creeping back onto his face. “Eat it up while it’s hot!”
Aizawa watched the boy suspiciously as he rejoined his group; several of them burst into giggles, sneaking glances over at them. Aizawa returned their looks with a death glare of his own, and then turned back to his friends.
“Shirakumo, I don’t think you should eat that-“, he began, but Shirakumo was already sat at the table, fork full of mash stuffed in his mouth.
“Hm? You shay shomething?” he mumbled with a spray of crumbs, apparently having moved on from the incident immediately.
Aizawa blinked, and slowly joined his friends at the table.
“Uhh, does that food taste alright?” he asked.
Shirakumo gave him a beaming smile and a thumbs up. “The best thing my taste buds have ever touched, Shouta!”
Yamada was also scoffing down his own meal. “What’s with those jerks anyway?”
Shirakumo shrugged. “It was an accident. It happens.”
Aizawa just shook his head, before slurping up some of his noodles. How could Shirakumo be so nonchalant, no matter what was thrown at him?
The friends continued their lunch, Yamada and Shirakumo animatedly chatting to one another, with the occasional comment from Aizawa. After a time though, only one voice dominated. Aizawa glanced up and noticed that Shirakumo had fallen silent. He was chewing slowly, fork poking limply at the half eaten mashed potatoes. He stared down at his plate, brow creased.
“Are you alright?” Aizawa asked him.
Yamada stopped talking, also looking up at Shirakumo.
“You don’t look so hot, yo,” he observed, peering carefully at his friend.
Indeed, Shirakumo had gone pale, and sweat was beading on his brow.
“Yeah, I just-“ His words were cut off as his hand flew to his mouth, fork clattering onto his plate, and his body lurched alarmingly.
“Easy!” Aiazawa exclaimed, gingerly placing a hand on Shirakumo’s shoulder to steady him. “Do you need to go to Recovery Girl?”
Shirakumo frantically shook his head, but another lurch made his eyes go wide, and he bolted up from his seat, nearly tripping over the bench in his haste. As Shirakumo dashed out of the dining hall, his two friends glanced at each other, stunned, before scrambling to follow him, their lunches forgotten.
Yamada was ahead, calling out to Shirakumo at nearly the top of his voice, but as Aizawa followed, laughter caught his attention. He whipped around, eyes landing on the beaky nosed kid, who was cackling away like a criminal mastermind. Before he knew it, Aizawa was in front of him, the boy’s shirt collar gripped tightly in his hands, and their noses merely inches apart. The boy’s laughter died, and his eyes flicked between Aizawa’s nervously.
“You did do something to that food, didn’t you?” Aizawa demanded. He gave the boy a rough shake for good measure. “What was it?”
The boy returned a shaky smirk. He raised his hands, liquid beading on the tips of his fingers.
“Oh, only a little emetic,” he said. “My Dispense quirk is super handy like that. I can secrete all kinds of substances. Don’t worry, it’ll wear off in an hour or two.”
“A quirk like that and you’re using it to pull stupid pranks?” Aizawa growled. “If you have so much energy left over from training, put it to better use and make medicines that can help people.”
With that, Aizawa shoved the boy back into his seat, and turned his back on him.
It seemed Shirakumo didn’t get very far, as Aizawa found him in the nearest boys’ bathroom. He was hunched over a toilet bowl, violently losing what little of his mashed potatoes he’d been able to get down. Yamada was knelt next to their stricken friend, rubbing circles on his back, and looked up when Aizawa pushed the door open.
“Recovery Girl’s on her way,” he informed Aizawa. “You give that jerk a talking to?”
“Yes,” Aizawa confirmed, temper still flaring at what the moron had done. “Damn idiot.”
“You said it man,” Yamada vehemently agreed. “He’d better keep an eye on his own grub, or he’ll find himself in the middle of the cafeteria needing a new pair of trousers.”
Aizawa allowed himself a small smile at the image.
Their attention was suddenly caught by a groan, as Shirakumo pushed himself away from the toilet bowl and sagged against the stall wall, eyes closed. The stench of bile stung at Aizawa’s nose.
“How you doing, pal?” Yamada gently inquired.
“Oh, peachy,” Shirakumo murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of one shaky hand. “Guess that fish sauce was off.”
Aizawa shook his head. “Sure, the fish,” he sighed, resigned to Shirakumo’s eternal naivety. “Don’t worry about this afternoon’s classes, ok? I’ll take notes for you.”
He got a thumb’s up in response. Yamada playfully poked Shirakumo in the arm.
“Sorry about your mashed potatoes, buddy,” he said. “Come round mine sometime, we can make em ourselves. You too, Sho.”
Aizawa blinked in surprise at the invitation, but nodded. “Sure.”
Shirakumo moaned just then, and swiftly resumed his position braced over the toilet bowl, bringing up yet more of his stomach contents. His friends stayed by his side throughout, offering what comfort they could until Recovery Girl arrived. Shirakumo returned to school the next day, all smiles and cheer as usual. And if in battle training that afternoon, Aizawa’s fist connected harder than necessary to the beaky nose of a Class B student, no one made a fuss.