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“So, where are we going?” Tsubasa asks the group, tuning into the conversation after having finished his burger. He wipes his face with his sleeve, catching the glob of ketchup on his cheek in the process, and proceeds to rub it into the grass. “Have you guys finally agreed yet?”
Dehisa pipes up, raising two long fingers in the air, casting a glare at Imada as he says sassily, “I said we should go to the club, but Imada---," he side-eyes, "---wants to go to the park instead. So, no, Tsu, we haven't decided.”
“I second for the club.” Katsuki declares, creeping out of who knows where, then disappearing in the next second, ever the oddball, probably off to rob a bank or go to a club by himself.
Leaning on a weathered tree that appeared ready to fall over in a slight breeze—for such a weak tree, its limbs stretched out far, its leaves bountiful, gifting the group shade—Dehisa pitches, “Dudes, I've been craving a beer since the math test, lets just go find a bar or a club.”
"Then let's go to my house," Kariage offers, frustration laced between his words after having to endure the hour-long debate of where they should head to after a grueling three hour school day. He uses his quirk to make shapes out of the smoke that leaves his cigarette, rolling out the built-up tension in his shoulders. "It's kinda clean, and I have a stash of beer; we can hang out there instead."
At the same time Imada whispers “no”, gazing longingly at the expanse of grass and basking in the feel of fresh air, Dehisa screams, running around the tree like a lunatic in protest.
"Think about poor Dehisa once in a while, will you? He's got trauma," Katsuki comments, coming out of the shadows like they were home, punching Kariage on the shoulder. "Last time he went, he got mauled by your wild, rabbis infested pet and became permanently disfigured."
"For life," Tsubasa adds, pouring more fuel on the flame. From his place on the ground, Izuku mutters quietly, the argument around him drowning his voice, "That's what 'permanently' means."
Tsubasa kicks him.
“See,” Katsuki says, pointing at Dehisas' moving figure, his long, spindle like fingers tugging at his hair as he runs. “He's already gone insane just thinking about it.”
"He got a scratch on his lip!" Kariage rages. "Disfigured my fucking ass, it barely even shows!" His cigarette, which had been barely hanging off his lips, falls on the grass, ready to set the place ablaze. "Also, poor little meow meow has all her shots! You're just angry she has taste and doesn't go near you!”
“No, no, no,” Dehisa jumps in. He gets into Kariages space, pointing at the slight discoloration by his lip. “Have you seen my face?” He whines. “This is why the ladies don't like me anymore! Even Abiko won't look in my direction.”
“Maybe it's because she's lesbian and dating Nishio, and not because of the botched facial surgery?” Izuku insinuated from his position on the grass, laying down like the world was his bed. “And when did girls ever even glance at you?”
“Deku,” Dehisa says sharply, glaring at the other teen, “shut up. You're a virgin, you wouldn't understand.”
Izuku just rolls his eyes in response.
Kariage takes a drag of his cigarette, looks up at the sky in prayer, and blows a block of smoke in Dehisa's face, exasperation etched on his features.
As Dehisa coughs, hacking up a lung, Imada moves to pat him on the back, accidently stepping on Izuku's hand in the process, who yelps, rolling away from the group—away from the hazards and potential harm—hugging his now injured hand, glaring at the other who completely ignores him.
Katsuki watches the scene in glee, mirth in his eyes and a chuckle in his throat.
Once Dehisa gets his bearings, he continues, his voice slightly hoarse, “We are not going to your house. I rather drink warm piss in the park on a hot summer's day. ANYWHERE,” he emphasizes, “but your place with your pet monster.”
Kariage throws a dirty look in Dehisa’s direction, opening his mouth to say something, but gets cut off by Tsubasa, who compromises, “Then that's it! Let's go to the park and bring some beers for Dehisa cravings. A win-win.”
Tsubasa stands up and stretches the length of his wings, flapping them to cool himself down and dust the grass off his clothes. “Imada,” he calls, “‘you okay with the regular park?”
Imada hums in confirmation, and with that, the group takes off, Kariage grumbling and lighting a new cigarette on the way, one that he only gets to take one drag of before Katsuki grifts it, claiming it as his own, a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he howls at the others continued misery.
The weather was warm, the sun's beams piercing the air like an iron knife, cooled by a crisp breeze. Dehisa and Kariage were on the platform connected to the top of the slide, hidden under the teal roof covering, while Tsubasa lazed on the end of the slide, using his wings as shade. Meanwhile, Izuku hung off the ladder, his elbows resting on a small portion of the floor of the platform, his notebook spread out in front of him.
Imada and Katsuki were nowhere to be seen.
“Okay,” Dehisa, the alcoholic, starts, “but hear me out.” He takes a swing of his beer, letting the bitter, and slightly disgusting taste of convenience store alcohol, wash down his throat, wetting his lips in the process. “Ultimate Cocktail. We mix every drink a bar has to offer and chug it down in one sitting”
“Katsuki already did that, though he probably doesn't remember.” Kariage disclosed. “Then he did it a second time, and went to school not thirty minutes later.” He takes one last puff, ciggarete held between his index and middle finger, feeling the burn in his lungs. As he taps the end of the bud to remove the ash, the cinders float down past the ladder, and Kariage is either oblivious, or simply uncaring, of the way the ash lands in Izuku's curly hair, who cried in indignation, pouting at the culprit, whining: “What did I even do?”
“Fuck man,” Dehisa groaned, “I thought I was on to something.” He swipes his hands down his face, pulling his lower eyelids in the process, then muses his long hair in his perpetual frustration of rejected ideas. “Then maybe tomorrow we can eat at Sushi Jiro? I bet Katsuki would be able to get us all a seat there without a reservation.”
From his spot on the slide, Tsubasa perks up. “That would be awesome!” He rolls over, laying on his stomach and focuses his eyes upwards. “We definitely have to try; my bro would be so jealous. Maybe we could even bring Abiko and Nishio, I bet they would enjoy it.”
“Then it's a plan,” Kariage agreed. “Kats would be down for anything, especially if it's something others can't do or tells him not to.” At the mention of Katsuki, Kariage squints, surveying the playground they were holed in for the devil-incarnate in question.
The soft laughter of children playing and cicadas buzzing got caught in the wind, washing over their little bubble of time with peace—the calm before the storm, or maybe they were already in the eye? The lack of explosions or a maniac cackle was a major cause for concern, and worry built up in Kariages mind, his muscles, and he flexed his neck in response, hoping to alleviate the tension.
Before Kariage could mention his concern aloud, a shrill scream cut through the tranquility, a loud thump soon following, as if a body had crashed to the ground. As he peers down, Kariage concludes two things. One, he was in the eye of the storm; and two, it was Izuku who made the noise.
A full belly laugh escapes Dehisa, who watched the whole fiasco happen, guffawing as Izuku clawed at his back, scrambling and yelling for help. And in his amusement, Dehisa fails to keep his balance, toppling backwards and sliding down the plastic slide, crashing into Tsubasa like a hammer to a nail, causing his drink to go flying out of his grasp in his scud.
“What the hell Kacchan; what did you do?!” Izuku bellowed, voice high and pitched like an elementary school girl or a guy who got kicked where the sun doesn't shine. “Get it out, get it out, get it out!” He repeats, sweat beading down his forehead. The boy jumps up and down, and runs in circles, imitating a horse, tugging on his tucked in white collared shirt that was part of the school uniform, scratching his back and tearing the blazer, along with the shirt, off his back.
“Fuck, man, what did you do to him,” Kairage calls from his perch above, watching the scene unfold, his own laughter bubbling out of his throat and past his lips like over boiled ramen. “Did you rub poison ivy on him, or drop an ice cube down his shirt?”
The light from the sun catches the psychopathic glint in Katsukis crimson eyes, and he smiles, eyes crescent shaped and teeth on full display. “I got some kids to give me their stag beetle in exchange for a “limited edition” rock, and put it down Dekus shirt.” Katsuki moves his gaze from Kariage, watching the chaos he caused, and snorted, “Fucker hates bugs.”
“I found the rock,” Imada adds, his tall figure clinging to Katsukis back, a proud expression on his face as he leans his head down, resting it on Katsukis shoulder, appearing like a puppy asking for a treat.
Katsuki rewards him by ruffling his hair.
Kariage just continues laughing.
In the distance, Izuku's half-naked form can be seen darting from one playground equipment to the next, a small, black blob attached to his back that his pale, thin arms scrape at, embellishing a range of red and pink welts on his inflamed skin. The few kids in the park disperse, shrieking at Izuku's questionable state, and scamper home, probably to wail about a pervert running around naked in the park.
The thought of Izuku, the youngest and most innocent of the group, being labeled a deviant by the neighborhood moms opens the gate for a new flood of dopamine to rush through Katsukis veins.
In Izuku's panic, his arms flailing, he finally manages to remove the bug from his back. Katsuki and Kariage clutch their stomachs in hilarity, then crouch down, their knees weak, their cheeks hurting from the width of their grins when they notice that Izuku accidently manages to toss the beetle on the Dehisa and Tsubasa dogpile, who tumble and yowl, scrambling for the bug instead.
It's later, when the beetle had to be exiled back into the woods, the group on the swings, their school uniforms rumpled and dirty, that peace seemingly returned.
The sun was near setting, the sky a golden hue, a small number of stars pricking the sky. All the children had left, and, shockingly, no cops had shown up.
A breeze rustles Izuku's notebook—Hero Analysis No. 12—on his lap, flipping the pages and making him lose his spot. He sets his pencil down in the groove and closes the cover, giving up on writing, and asks the group of wayward teens lounging at the swing set, cutting off their conversation of which teacher they should prank next, “Did you guys finish the argumentative essay for history class?”
The group, minus Izuku, gives a collective, monotonous agreement of “Onna”, nodding their heads in agreement.
Then, in succession, three resounding “no's” answered the question, and the group turned their attention to the two—Katsuki and Imada—who didn't answer, peering at them curiously.
From his place on the swing next to Izuku, Imada responds, his eyes half closed, drowsy, “I did mine about the shogun period and why it was the most influential on our culture.”
Izuku picks up his pencil and writes it down, adding it to his list of inspiration, while Kariage and Dehisa give the tall teen a look, one that said ‘you really wrote an essay?’ And, as if he were prepared for that, the teen in question sighed, “It's three hundred words.”
“There's the Imada we know,” Dehisa cheered, a drunken grin on his face. He had foregone the beer, opting for a clear liquid in a styrofoam cup, his face spotted with a pinkish flush. He swings lazily from his spot at the end of the swing set next to Tsubasa, who is on the swing beside him to his left, and Kariage, who is on his right, leans on the wooden poles creating the structure.
Once the group's attention waned from Imada, they all turned to Katsuki. Preparing themselves of a real answer from Bakugou the Overachiever, or a batshit response from Katsuki the Genius Idiot.
“I did mine on the history of swords and why I think we should allow guns in Japan,” Katsuki professed, shoes lodged in the space between the seat of the swing and the chains holding it, looming over Izuku and shaking the chains to further annoy the other.
Imada, Izuku, Dehisa, and Tsubasa breath out the name Bakugou, accepting that the chaotic teen did his work properly this time to keep up the “perfect child” façade for the teachers that he was playing.
Kariage snorted, flicking his lit cigarette bud on the ground. “Of course you would, Kats. Bet you even used BB-guns as a source.”
“Wrong,” Katsuki denounced, letting sparks of his quirk trickle down onto Izuku's notebook, who quickly patted down the embers before they went aflame. “I used water guns, and argued about how that could've helped the Japanese win the Battle of Mountebank.”
Tsubasa's eyes dance across the group, confusion written on his face, and inquires, “Did we learn that, or is it just more of Bakugou the Overachiever?”
“No~pe,” Katsuki sang. “The senseis would never teach us about such an arduous battle.”
“It's a fake battle.” Izuku intones, reclining backwards, using Katsukis legs as a wall. He groaned, ashamed that he let himself be tricked into believing the other was being serious in his studies this time. “Mountebank means a person who deceives or tricks others.”
Without apprehension, his words spoken in an even tone, almost washed away in the others amusement at Katsukis essay, Imada perceived, “Fire.” His finger nonchalantly aimed at a three inch fire idly crawling its way up the wooden structure near Kariages scuffed shoes.
“What?”
No one knows who said it, but the question was on everyone's mind, and they all whipped their heads around, following Imadas instructions.
Not a moment later, their tranquility was lost, abandoned like a lost toy, being replaced with unfiltered alarm.
Kariage instinctively jumped, then cursed like a broken record, and began attempting to stomp out the budding fire with his shoe. His attempt went in vain, however, as the fire licked his shoe, it's embers landing on the edge of his pants and catching the fabric on fire.
Kariage yelped, sweat dripping down his neck, his leg half engulfed in flames, using his quirk in a prayer, trying to tamper and smother the heat.
“I got it!” Tsubasa exclaimed, snatching Dehisas drink out of his hand, oblivious to the others warning, pouring fuel on the flame for the second time that day.
As the alcoholic beverage doused the fire, it grew, becoming brighter, hotter, reaching up to Kariages waist, who stands still, giving up, succumbing to what he assumes to be Gods wish, leaving his life in Lady Fates hands.
“What the hell was that?!” Tsubasa raved, watching the ever growing inferno in confusion, his head swiveling left and right, arms making random movements in the direction of the mayhem. “Dee, what was that?!”
Dehisa stands up and bows at a perfect fourty-five degree angle, his hands planted firmly at his sides, emulating a classic Japanese apology bow—seikerei—and replys, “Vodka.”
“Shit.”
“Gather around the fire,” Katsuki hollered, grabbing Izukus collar and dragging him towards the rising blaze. “Keep it contained. If you surround it, it will be intimidated and won't want to spread.” He gathers everyone in a circle, huddled around the dangerous fire. “Its a survival technique called Intimidating Mother—it smothers the flame.”
Izuku starts, incredulously, “That makes zero sense—,” but is interupted by his own squawk, as Katsuki goes behind him and rips his wrinkled blazer from his back, the black sleeves remaining on Izukus arms, a stark contrast to his now white back.
Katsuki tosses the now tattered jacket onto the fire, then directed, “Get closer together, but leave a spot open for me.”
The group follows—abliet hesitantly from Izuku—listening to every word that flows past Katsukis lips like gospel. Kariages eyes water, and just as the pain finally starts affecting him, Katsuki drenches the group in water.
“Katsuki,” Dehisa growls, at the same time Kariage drops to his knees, gazing at Katsuki like he was an angel sent from Heaven, “you jackass, why'd you hit us?!”
“Who cares about you, Dee.” Imada dismisses. He faces Katsuki, his tall frame soaked, his clothes clinging to his lanky figure, looking like a wet cat, and pouts, “Katsuki, why did you hit me? I'm sad.” He says. “And cold.”
“Sorry ‘Mada,” Katsuki apologizes, pulling the aforementioned teen to his side. “You can stay at my house tonight and I'll make you a cup of cocoa, non-spiked.”
“Really?” He narrows his eyes.
“Yep.”
Imada is quiet for another second, analyzing the others truthfullness, and accepts. “You're forgiven.”
“Excuse me,” Izuku begins, butting into the twos kind moment like a pest, “how will I explain this to mom when—”
“COPS” Tsubasa shouts, the distinctive red lights casting an ominous glow on the shadowed playground, painting red on their silhouettes,. The last of the embers stampered out like the blazing sun. “SCATTER!”
The teens split, Imada and Katsuki taking a sharp left and bolting, Katsuki cackling on the way, Izuku trailing not too far behind. His hands appear as if they were floating, detached from his arms from the way the sleeves of his ruined blazer remain on his arms.
Dehisa half-drunkenly latches onto Tsubasa, who takes off into the night, weaving through the trees and using them as cover.
And Kariage? He plays possum. And he continues to do so, ignoring the fact that he was spotted, and soon gets dragged by the police men who mention something about arson, he continues to do so, his body dead weight, as he's tossed in the back of the car.
Good thing I didn't drink tonight, Kariage thinks as his limp body becomes one with the smooth vinyl. Now all I have to do is convince them it was a mistake, and that my leg was burnt from a completely different incident.