Chapter Text
It is Friday afternoon, November 7th. The first-year students of Shizuoka City’s public junior high have been given a free period to study for their upcoming tests. Hikiochi Miharu is sitting at her desk, idly kneading the gel-filled ball as her eyes run over and over the names of various authors and tries to match them to their respective works.
The teacher had stepped out for a moment and, naturally, the class of twelve-to thirteen-year-olds took the opportunity to goof off. All the noise of the laughing and rough-housing has her bouncing her knee and squeezing the stim tool tightly. She doesn’t want to draw any attention to herself by putting in her earplugs, but every shout across the room might as well be a shout directly in her face. Of course, the loudest of them all, Ibaragi Shin, has to drag his chair across the room, bumping into Miharu in the process, to sit next to his buddy.
Ibaragi is the class troublemaker, always throwing small objects and teasing the other students. No one is off-limits, especially not the autistic girl that got “special privileges" like not having to give oral reports, never getting called on in class, and getting to play with kid’s toys at her desk. He enjoys whistling as high-pitched as he can and watching Miharu flinch. So it’s no surprise to anyone when he turns and stands over her desk.
“Hey, Hikiochi. You playing with toys again? You’re not in pre-school, y’know.”
She simply ignores the boy’s poor excuse for an insult, trying to go back to her studies. Ibaragi isn’t swayed, goaded on by his two friends that stand around him. For the most part, none of their classmates are paying attention to the teasing. This is normal from Ibaragi, and telling him off would only lead to you becoming his next target. Besides, he never went far enough to actually get in trouble. Their teacher seems to have a soft-spot for him, never taking his actions seriously or acknowledging that what he is doing is, in fact, bullying. This only leads to him growing more and more bold.
Today, it seems, he isn’t satisfied with light provocation, and her nonreaction only ticks him off. In an instant, he snatches the ball from Miharu’s hand, holding it up over his head and laughing. She doesn’t move from her seat, instead looking up at him and giving him a deadly glare. He laughs harder.
“Oohh so scary, hahaha! What are you gonna do? You want your baby toy back?”
He tosses the ball between his friends for a bit, not caring that they’re bumping into other people’s desks. Finally, he catches it again and slams his free hand down on her desk.
Miharu’s brain releases a flood of adrenaline and cortisol and clenches her fists at her desk to calm herself. The tidal wave of panic and anger has every muscle in her body tensing as she fights her distress. Are the other kids looking now? When is the teacher coming back? She doesn’t want to have a meltdown right here, not in front of all of her classmates and especially not in front of Ibaragi.
Just then, a voice pipes up from behind her. She can tell that it is another one of Ibaragi’s primary targets; a boy that he likes to tease for being effeminate.
“Hey, give it back to her. You know she has autism, you prick.”
The room begins to quiet down as people turn to watch the scene. Ibaragi’s friends laugh and elbow him, asking if he is going to take being talked to like that.
“Nobody asked you, girlyboy, so shut up!” Ibaragi’s voice is serious, losing its humor as he looks to the back of the room. “What, are you two girlfriends or something? I thought you were into guys, freak.”
There is complete silence now. Sure, Ibaragi is annoying, but this is something else entirely. No one expected him to go that far. The other boy, however, remains unfazed, responding with a calm, sarcastic tone.
“How about you ask your mom if I’m into guys.”
Ibaragi’s face goes red as the class erupts in laughter. He is silent for a moment, looking around at all of his classmates laughing at him. Now, this isn’t something he’s used to. He’s always been the one to dish it out, and never had to be on the receiving end of humiliation. Not one to be upstaged, Ibaragi activates his Quirk, popping out short, curved thorns all over his body. He brandishes his empty hand, revealing a palm full of thorns that resemble those of a rose.
“What did you say?” he asks as he takes a step forward, clearly threatening the other student.
But before he could move forward, Miharu stands up. She doesn’t know why or when she made that decision, but here she is, standing in front of the boy with razor sharp thorns poking out of his skin in random directions. Ibaragi glares down at her, lifts the hand with her squishy ball in it, as he produces thorns from his palm, and pops it above her head. Thick, purple gel drips onto her dark teal hair before he lowers his, now thorn-free, hand and smears it over her scalp. The sensation of the cold goop dripping down the side of her head and forehead has her cringing out of her skin.
“Out of my way, reta-”
She cuts him off by wrenching his hand off of her head and surging forward, aided by her own Quirk, nailing him on the bridge of his nose with her forehead. A sick crack sounds out across the classroom, quickly followed by gasps and the scraping of chairs.
Ibaragi shouts in pain, using the back of his goopy left hand to cover his nose. When he pulls it back, he stares at the blood for a second, before his other hand comes sailing down for an openhanded slap with thorns covering his entire palm. Miharu tries to back up out of reach, but he manages to catch her with his fingertips. Sharp thorns slice through her upper lip, rip into the lower one, and cut down her chin.
She loses her balance and falls back, landing on her rear as she grabs her face. A warm fluid seeps through her fingers. The taste of iron fills up her mouth and she grimaces, spitting out the foul liquid. It’s blood, she realizes, eyes blown wide. Then she wonders why she can’t feel the pain. Surely she should be in pain, right? It wouldn’t make any sense to not fee–
……Oh, there it is.
Gasps and screams hammer into her head at the same time the pain hits, sending her doubling over on the floor. Crimson stains the white sleeve of her uniform before falling down and splattering onto the tile floor in small plops. The tiles blur before her as tears spill over and mix with the blood on the classroom floor.
She doesn’t scream, she doesn’t move, she doesn’t even breathe. Her senses are bombarded as people run around her, shouting words she can’t process right now, and desks screech against the hard floor. The tile under her left hand is too cold, her right hand is too warm, her mouth hurts, the slime in her hair is making her itch, it’s too loud, it’s too much. She squeezes her eyes shut so her Quirk can’t activate on its own and send her rocketing across the room.
Pressure builds in her head and her chest until she’s forced to take a breath. Opening her mouth for air causes a fresh wave of blood to spill through her fingers. As soon as there’s oxygen in her lungs, her throat closes up on its own again, and she holds her breath for as long as she can. It’s the only thing that gives her some sense of control. That is, until she feels someone touch her. It’s brief, just a hand on her back and a comforting tone that only serves to grate her frayed nerves further.
She curls up tighter as panic completely takes over and she succumbs to a meltdown.
_________________________________
Her entire head is pounding when she comes back to herself. She lay in the nurse’s office, though the memory of how she got there is incredibly fuzzy. There were different voices talking to her and arms pulling her up into a chair. She remembers thrashing in their grip, feeling like her arms were trapped in a vice. She cringes internally when she remembers attempting to bite at the hands pushing her down into the wheelchair. Did she make contact?
Finally, she opens her eyes now that she’s sure her Quirk won’t send her flying. A young EMT is applying an ointment to her mouth, and they definitely have teeth marks on their forearm. Nonetheless, they smile when they see Miharu’s eyes open.
“Hey kiddo, are you with me? How do you feel?”
Their voice is calm and respectful, despite the imprint she had left in their skin. They don’t move their hand from her face, apparently not the least bit worried about receiving another bite for their efforts, and continue to talk without getting her answer.
“Guess you can’t exactly respond right now, huh? I’m almost done here, we’ve cleaned it out and I’m giving you some numbing gel. My partner is in the next room talking with your mom, and she’ll determine what we’re gonna do next.”
The mention of her mother would have made Miharu flinch if she had the energy. Mom’s not going to be happy about this. Which is worse? The fact that she got into a fight, had a meltdown at school, or that she potentially scarred her “daughter’s pretty face?” Each of those things on their own would have Mom locking her in her room, but all together? Miharu is not sure when she’ll be let out again.
The door to the nurse’s office opens and the clicking of heels indicates her mother’s arrival. The EMT helps Miharu carefully sit up on the bed, and she sees their nametag, which reads “Shuzenji.” She also spots a pin on their lanyard that says “they/them,” and she silently hopes her mother won’t mention it or make a scene. Thankfully, she’s too wrapped up in her performance of “caring mother” to say anything about it.
“Oh, Miharu-chan, are you alright?” She asks, walking with unhurried steps to the bedside.
Neither of the medical personnel can see the way her mother’s eyes squint at her or how she’s pressed her lips into a thin line. Only Miharu can read the telltale signs of frustration, having had plenty of opportunities to study the expression throughout the years. She’s too exhausted from her meltdown, however, to even attempt pacifying the woman, so instead she just looks at her mother with glassy eyes. The sharply dressed woman inspects the wound and the mess in her daughter’s hair, frowning in disgust, before turning to the older EMT.
“And you said stitches will give her a better cosmetic outcome?”
“That is correct, Shiretoko-san.” The older tech nods. “The lacerations aren’t particularly deep, but they’re long, and, with a sensitive area like the mouth, it’s a good idea to make sure the lip line remains level.”
Her mother clasps her hands together and then picks up a set of clothes at the end of the bed.
“That’s what we’ll do then. Please excuse us so I can help her change and then you’ll drive us to the hospital.”
The paramedics take their leave, stepping out to give the mother and daughter some privacy. Once they’re out of earshot, her mother tosses the outfit in Miharu’s lap. She’s still woozy from her meltdown, so it takes a second to register that this is her gym uniform and her shirt is still covered in blood.
“Your face was cut up, not your hands, hurry up and get changed.”
Miharu does as she’s told. Under the scrutinous gaze of her mother, she slowly changes out of her school uniform and into the gym shorts and short-sleeved shirt. She’s kicking off her school shoes when her mom moves closer and grabs her by the chin, forcing her to make eye contact. It’s all Miharu can do not to recoil from the jarring motion and the cigarette breath in her face.
“I was told that you not only started that fight, but also broke the kid’s nose, threw a tantrum, and then bit the EMT? Am I raising an alley cat or a child?”
Is this the kind of question she’s supposed to respond to or is it rhetorical? She can never tell, and she always seems to get it wrong. If the harsh grip getting tighter is anything to go by, her mom probably wants an answer.
“A child?” Her voice comes out hoarse and quiet, torn up from the screaming during her meltdown.
That must’ve been the right answer, because the sharp, perfectly manicured nails release their hold on her face.
“Then act like one.”
And, with that, her mother turns and walks out of the room, leaving Miharu to bend down and pick up her outside shoes by herself. She only barely manages to not fall on the ground in the process.
The ambulance ride goes by quickly for Miharu, who’s slowly growing more and more lucid. She’s grateful there’s no emergency sirens. If she has to cover her ears when an ambulance simply drives by, she can’t imagine the sound from inside one.
The hospital smells like chemicals, but they don’t have to wait long before a doctor comes in with a needle and suture. Obviously, Miharu is nervous about getting stitches, but her energy reserves are shot. That, mixed with the pain medication the nurse gave her, leaves her feeling boneless. Still, it’s an odd sensation, feeling the needle go in and out of her skin and the thread tie her flesh back together. Once that’s complete, the doctor gives her and her mother instructions to take care of the stitches, things like don’t get them wet for the next 48 hours, don’t pick at it, and don’t apply any creams or ointments.
Then, she and her mother are escorted to the front entrance. Her mom had insisted Miharu could walk fine on her own, but when she’d tried to carry her own backpack and nearly fell over, the staff decided they didn’t want to take any chances and instead got a nurse to push her along in a wheelchair. The backpack, along with her bagged dirty school uniform sit in her lap.
Miharu looks at the ground the entire way, chastising herself in her head. She should be walking, her legs are fine, she’s just tired, just being dramatic. A sudden hand on her shoulder threatens to dig its nails in. It’s a warning she recognizes all too well as her mother telling her to keep herself still. She hadn’t even realized she’d been patting herself on the leg and quickly shoves her hands under her thighs.
Before they exit, her mom stops into the gift shop, buying a simple ballcap with the hospital’s name on it. She comes back out and drops it on Miharu’s head, then hands her a medical mask.
“There, that should hide the filth in your hair until we can clean it out, and put this on, too.”
The air is cold on her bare arms when they reach the front entrance. Her gym clothes aren’t doing her any favors against the early November air. The nurse expresses his concern when Miharu’s mother tells her to get up, asking if they have a coat for the child. The woman smiles as she waves him away and assures they won’t be outside long. She checks over Miharu, making sure her mouth and the goop in her hair aren’t visible before leading her from the hospital’s entrance to the main street sidewalk.
Miharu walks alongside her mother as the woman attempts to hail down a cab. Crossing her arms doesn’t do much to take the bite out of the wind. Each shiver shifts the weight of her backpack and each clatter of her jaw pulls at the freshly sewn skin of her mouth. Once a taxi pulls over, she can finally sit and bask in the heated backseat… for all of a minute before her mother turns the vent off, claiming the warm air is drying out her eyes.
Whatever, it’s still warmer in here than it is out on the sidewalk.