If I can, I'll cough my heart out

by Calixxe

"But, you know, they taste good once washed down with tea."

If I can, I'll cough my heart out

Two weeks before the festival

She coughs.

+It doesn't make any sound. Maybe it's dead, maybe something's missing. She looks through the keys, eyes the different buttons, hits one hesitantly, incomprehension written all over her face. Sighing then looking at her friend near the edge of the stage, she sees her love-struck eyes and laughs slightly, right hand hiding her teeth, left hand pressing a key in hope of it emitting somewhat of a sound.

"Jirou, are you free right now ?" She hides a chuckle again when her friend jumps at the call of her name. Waving, she continues, "The keyboard isn't making any sound."

+Her friend blushes, hitting her comrade's shoulder. The black-haired young girl laughs and apologies, sincerity missing from her tone. The smaller one sighs loudly, desperate.

"Did you break it ?" Inspecting the keys then the buttons, she pauses. "I told you, it's not a keyboard. This one's pretty cheap, so it's fragile."

"I did not break it," Momo contradicts, hurt in her eyes. "I'm delicate, you know." At the look her friend's giving her, she smiles brightly. "It just stopped working, right under my fingers."

"Magically ?"

"Magically."

+Jirou lets out a tired breath and bends down, looking at the bottom of the synthesizer. She carefully opens a panel and lets her fingers wander inside. Reaching for something, she extracts two big batteries. One of the two seems burnt. Jirou chuckles, letting the two green batteries heavily sit on the electric keyboard.

"The battery's dead, it's as simple as that," she says as she postures herself high, proud eyes looking deeply into Momo's ones. "It's not like your expensive keyboards, you know. Those ones are cheap, work on batteries, and they need to be replaced quite frequently," she sings, her tone joyfully echoing in Momo's ears. "And please, don't hit the buttons too strongly. Last time I checked, they weren't so worn out."

"Well, what do you want, I thought it was already broken," Momo laughs, swiftly letting go of the button she was endlessly pressing.

+Closing the compartment on the back of the synthesizer, she grabs the burnt battery and puts it inside her pocket. She nods at her friend and quickly brushes the black and white keys. Jirou lets go of her smile, her tired look coming back quickly.

"You can find a spare battery behind the stage. There's plenty of them out there. Bakugou bought some, just in case."

"How kind."

"I know, right ?"

+Momo laughs rapidly before letting go of the small electric piano, turning her back to the scene. She walks slowly, letting her hair sway elegantly, sweat cooling down the back of her neck. She throws quick glances at the curtains, putting them aside, and she walks backstage, switching the lights on as she spots the darkness surrounding the area. But the light is old, dim, even. The lack of luminosity obstructs her vision, and her eyes seem to slowly, really slowly, adjust to the darkness. Pupils bigger than usual, breath shorter, heart faster, she puts a frail hand on her neck, sensing her pulse. And, as she closes her eyes, waiting for the light to warm up, her heartbeat suddenly seems louder than the music on stage, than Jirou's voice echoing down the hallway to the open door. She feels the vibrations down her throat, she feels her upset stomach growling along the drums, her blood flowing with the bass, and her head dancing with the music they play, piano aside, like a masterpiece without a context, a painting without its painter, a philosophical text without its absurd yet understandable explanations. And, as the music fades away, her heartbeat slows, her breath comes back, and she welcomes the new air with relief. After some seconds of silence, listening to Bakugou's growl, she opens her eyes again. This time, the light is brighter, and the room isn't spinning anymore. Or her head. She doesn't really know. She coughs once, twice, then walks to the table, spotting the new batteries shining right under the light. She takes the old battery out of her pocket and puts it upright on the table, watching as it swings a little before finally staying in place, gaining its correct balance. Comparing the two batteries, the new one is rounder, seems more important and heavier on the palm of her hand, it shines properly and doesn't seem to have any defective part. The old one, on the contrary, has bumps all over, the logo is gone, it's darker, duller, and, as she witnessed, it's dead, it doesn't work anymore. It doesn't serve any purpose now, but Momo doesn't care about it as her eyes stay in place, witnessing the decay of an old, useless battery. And, soon, she finds her mind wandering, her eyes unfocused, her grip on the new battery tightening. But as her eyes tear up, comparing the dead battery to too many things, she coughs and walks away, leaving the dead battery and a shiny petal behind. But she can't help it. Her young mind is too frivolous, and soon, her thoughts come back, darker, with more to ask than to answer.

'Could I kill fear and nuisance with kisses ?'

She walks faster, hitting her right hip on a table. She winces, looking at the new battery she just let go of. She watches as it rolls to the side, bumping against the wall.

'Could I kill it with false love and granted affection ?'

She walks slowly, her hair still on her stiffened shoulders. Bending forward, grimacing at the pain in her chest and her right hip, she grabs the new battery and straighten her clothes.

'Would I still be able to wash my hands in the sink like before or would I only thinks about my chances of drowning ?'

She ignores the newly formed bump on the battery and walks out of the room, switching the lights off, leaving only silence and darkness behind her. End of the scene, she doesn't think about it anymore, and goes out of character.

+She climbs the stairs back to the stage, the white lights hitting her straight in the eyes. She blinks once, twice, then smile as Jirou scolds her for taking her time backstage. Momo apologies, ignoring Bakugou's insults. He growls like a beast and Momo can't help but hide a giggle as he hits the drums stronger than before, surely out of pure annoyance. Jogging to her piano, she opens the compartment and places the new battery inside. She closes it and places her fingers on the keys. Jirou announces the beginning of their song, one last try. The countdown starts, her voice rises up and resonates on stage, and, right before the piano's part begins, Momo coughs. She quickly covers her mouth before beginning her play. And if, only if, there are little bloody fingertips visible on the white keys, Momo just ignores it and whips it away with her sleeves at the end of their song.

One week before the festival

She coughs.

+The hall of their dorm is noisy. Really noisy. Maybe noisier than usual, now that everyone's present. They talk about everything, from the weather to their future, going through phases of doubts and hopes. Better be sure about everything. Momo tries to read through everyone's minds, but she doesn't need much effort. They're all stressed, hesitant, fearful of their next step. One where they won't fight for someone's life, but rather for their own reputation and everyone's entertainment. Seeing all of her friends happily chatting, moving everywhere in the room, waiting for the time where they would have to go to sleep, she wonders if her time here is good for her or not, feeling tired. Exhausted, even. She runs the tips of her index along her forearm, feeling every fiber of her skin, every pore of her being, and as her fingers moves to her shoulder, she shudders when she finally realizes it's not her skin that's so hard, it's her bone. She can feel it clearly, see it, even, and she wanders through her mind to see if she can remember the last time she checked her weight.

+She shakes her head and finishes her tea, remembering the name of the brand her parents brought from one of their trips out of the country. Silver Tips Imperial Tea. They showed, one day, with a golden box, round, made out of silver and iron and sprayed with golden paint. They talked to her about the country they visited, the people they talked to, the flavors they tasted, the business they created, the money they made. They described with an almost abnormal memory the landscapes they went through, the markets they walked out of. They explained the habits of the population, their different taste in music, their Gods, their culture, from their houses made out of soil and clay to their skyscrapers reaching for the moon, they even showed her pictures of the flowers they saw, the colors invading her eyes like the sun on a warm summer morning, and Momo, at this time, couldn't help but wonder what this expensive tea, so simply presented, tasted like. And now that she finally tasted it, yet so quickly gulped it, she thought of it as exquisite but plain. Flowers invading her tongue, flavors cascading down her throat, and a warm feeling stepping on her lungs and heart. She couldn't decipher some of the flavors, going from sweet to bitter, spicy, even, she couldn't make out the differences, and when their friends to whom she gave some tea told her it tasted like fresh herb and orange, she wondered why she couldn't taste it properly. So she drinks it quickly and puts her white cup in the sink, washing her hands before going to seat with the others. Midoriya looks at her and smiles. She smiles back, forgetting the strange taste on her lips and tongue.

"Everything's set up. The lighting is ready, the dance is almost perfect, and you guys are fantastic with the music." His smile becomes brighter, and Momo can't help but nod, all doubts forgotten. "It's gonna be the best show ever. They'll see."

+She smiles at him and reaches for her sleeves, tugging them down. He raises a hesitant eyebrow at her. She shrugs, he lets it go; they never speak about it.

"Do you feel ready, Yaoyorozu ?" His eyes wander around before setting his sight on Todoroki, not far from them, talking to a shiny Aoyama, surely about the set up. Momo doesn't ask about his thoughts.

"Yes. I guess I've been ready since the beginning. I can't let stress and hesitation doubt me out of this."

"I see." He sighs, looking past Todoroki, eyes wandering again. And, for the first time, he touches her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "It's going to work out, then." She can't help but agree.

+She stands up and goes back to the kitchen, followed by a curious Jirou. She takes two cups and pours hot water in it. Jirou sits down, taking one of the mugs in her hands. It's warm and her fingers soon become red from the liquid. She smiles bitterly at Momo, and takes the tea her friend is handing her. Momo sits by her side, waiting for Jirou to be finished with the tea.

"You'll drink another cup of it ?" She hands the teapot to Momo and sips her own tea, fully concentrating on the taste in her mouth. "You're not going to sleep."

"Jirou, it's tea, not coffee," she, too, sips a little of the warm liquid. It still tastes the same. She doesn't know if she needs to bring that up or not.

+They both silently listen to their comrades talking and watching the TV, drinking slowly. Their minds are elsewhere, and they both wait. For nothing, but they wait. Bakugou hurls something behind them, and the commotion suddenly becomes even louder, it's almost deafening. Jirou puts her cup down, observing the steam of her tea flying and disappearing in the air.

"So, what's your plan ?"

"I'll go through it."

"Through what ?"

"Through the concert."

"I wasn't talking about that."

"Oh."

+Momo laughs quietly, taking in the small smile of her friend. They both drink again, waiting for, maybe, the room to become quieter. Finally, Momo puts down her tea, too, and leans back against the chair. The hard wood hits her spine. It's uncomfortable.

"I'll go through the surgery, if it's what you meant."

+Jirou nods once, twice, thrice, before leaning back, too. She looks at the ceiling, and the room suddenly seems quieter.

"Will he like it ?"

"Sentiments and affection are to be put aside when it comes to this. I need to save lives, not waste mine." Jirou scoffs and, still looking up, she takes the mugs and holds it tightly between her palms.

"Will he like it ?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." And this time, Jirou hums. She understands.

"Will you like it ?"

"Jirou..." Momo gulps once, twice, and suddenly, the tea tastes like iron and carbon. Her throat itches, her lungs feel lacerated, her ribs mauling it with all their strength. "I won't remember it."

+Momo quickly sips her tea, but the taste is too much, she coughs. She bends forward, hiding her mouth in her elbow, and Jirou, alert, softly pats her back. It takes time, but Momo breathes again, and she sits straight, brushing her red lips with the back of her hand. Jirou leans forward, grabbing a small blue petal on her friend's elbow. Her silence speaks volume, and her bright eyes, looking deeply into the petal's fibers, shine with new light.

"It's the first time I see one. They're beautiful."

"They're terrible."

+Jirou puts the petal in her chest pocket and sits back, fidgeting with the mug's handle. Momo grips her mug strongly and sips her tea. A moment of silence. Then, nose still in her mug, smelling the country she didn't have the chance to visit and the blood she spat, still deep in her throat, she hums.

"But, you know, they taste good once washed down with tea."

One day before the festival

She coughs.

+It's a warm day. Not too much, but just enough. The wind blows a cold air she really likes, and the sun warms her skin, just enough for her cheeks to gain a nice pink color, making her dark eyes flash. She smiles as the wind blows through her hair, and she coughs as she puts them back behind her ears. She lets them fall down her neck and back, circling her shoulders, just for the day. She feels pretty, elegant, even, like the young woman she dreams of becoming, later, once her life's settled.

+Waking down the pavement, she only listens to the sound of her sandals hitting the ground and the chatters of the afternoon. The sun hits, the birds sing, her heart beats and her mind races with the cars in the street. She smiles as she spots the flower shop at the end of the street. Its pastel green color shines brightly and the sun's reflection blinds her, she has to squint in order to see the sign, a red and pink flower, as simple as a child's drawing. She walks faster and quickly enters the shop, finally letting go of her hair. They fall back on her skin like heavy rain, and in the fresh flower shop, where water drips from the ceiling to the flowers hanging around and the humidity feels strong and cold, she welcomes the warmth they offer to her upper body.

+She throws interested glances at the different colors, the many variety of flowers, some long, some colorful, some elegant, some even sleeping, it seems, closed to the commotion of the outside world, peacefully waiting for their time to blossom. They seem purple, but Momo can't see through their shells. All she knows is that they'll be beautiful, once out of their cocoon.

"Hello, miss, do you need any help ?"

+Momo turns around, planting her eyes into those of the woman talking to her. She's tall and arbors a beautiful smile on her face, letting her teeth show through her purple painted lips. Her green eyes are beautifully framed by light brown hair. She wears a simple pink dress flowing down her thighs, and her white lady slippers look like cotton candy. Momo smiles back at her.

"Hello, I'm… Actually searching for flowers to decorate a stage or tables, maybe. I don't really know what their goal is with the flowers. I just know that they have to accord with white."

"So, white and yellow flowers are out of the equation then. Pink too, I guess..." Her eyes wander in Momo's own dark eyes, and for a moment, her face lighten up. "Follow me," she sweetly says, turning her back to Momo, leading the way.

+Momo follows her through a maze of flowers, water and colorful decorations. At the back of the shop, the smell seems stronger, mesmerizing, even, and Momo looses her focus in the different flowers blurring the side of her vision. The lady stops, then, and takes some flowers in her hands. She's delicate, her fingers lace with the petals. Momo can only think about the sweetness of the petals. She wonders, for a second, what they would taste like on her tongue, washed down with the tea she can't remember the name of anymore.

"I imagine you'd like red or blue flowers. If it's for a festival of some sort, they tend to strike the most. They take the eye, you know. I would say, maybe, Tiger Lilies, Morning Glories. I would have liked to show our new arrival, Forget-Me-Not's, but they wouldn't shine through the mass," she looks deeply into Momo's eyes, a light frown on her face, "and it would have quite cliché."

Momo breathes deeply, her back stiffening. "Sorry ? I didn't catch what you said."

"Oh, it's nothing. I tend to loose my focus when I talk about flowers. What a job," she stands up, straighten her clothes, "so, would you like one of those ?"

"Well, Tiger Lilies are really beautiful, their red is absolutely majestic, but I'll take the Morning Glories. The red ones are really elegant."

"Oh, those ones are quite different, they're Ipomoea Quamoclit. They're beautiful indeed but still, what a choice."

+Momo doesn't ask. She just follows, smiling when the lady turns around, but the atmosphere seems heavier, and the humidity filters through her skin, blocking her pores. Momo sweats, the smell of the flowers around her becomes too much, she feels dizziness taking over every inch of her senses. After that, her trip becomes a blur. Two flower pots in hands, the red petals, bright like fire, overwhelm her memory. When she comes back to the dorms, it's almost dark outside, and the money she had is still deeply secured in the pockets of her jeans. She doesn't understand what happened, but she doesn't ask, doesn't complain. Her lungs fill with fire, her throat hurt deeply, more than ever. She puts the pots on the kitchen table, grabs a glass, fills it with water and empties it on the spot.

"Yaoyorozu ?"

+The new voice startles her. Putting the glass down in the sink, she turns around, hands strongly gripping at the chair in front of her. There stands Todoroki, eyes small, hair wet, pajamas on. Not strong, not beautiful, but his usual self. It has nothing intimate, nothing out of the ordinary, and Momo finds herself hating it, the lack of intimacy.

"Didn't Kendo ask you to buy blue ones ?" He innocently asks, pointing to the two pots full of red flowers. Momo clenches the edge of the chair a little more, feeling judged. His eyes shine, and she regrets not buying the blue Morning Glories. Maybe their exchange would have been easier and shorter. Maybe not even existent.

"They were too expensive," she answers. She ignores the feeling of the money against her thigh.

"You could have created money, right ?"

"You know I don't function this way," she doesn't accuse him, but her annoyance echoes against her tongue, and Todoroki simply nods, hiding a yawn.

"Yes, sorry."

"Don't be."

+For a moment, he stays there, silent, looking hesitant. Momo begs silently. For him to go away, for him to ask, for him to even plead, for him to apologies, but her prayers stay silent. She grips tighter, he stays still, they both look at what they find, surely, interesting in the room; Momo finds herself sorry for thinking he would look at her.

"They're pretty," the silence is cut, and it seems like his words become a blade she badly wants to avoid, "but blue ones would have been pettier."

"You think so ?"

"I'm not lying."

"I never said you were."

"Then stop looking at me like that," his voice is dry, and Momo shivers. He takes one last look at the flowers and the table and leaves. The blade cut through.

+Momo coughs. Her throat is dry, and she feels blood spilling on her hands. She sits, tries to breathe, but she hyperventilates. No one's there, she's alone, with the flowers and with her thoughts. She breathes again and again, her heart beats faster, her eyes react badly to the light, and her hands shake. Petals spill on the floor, cutting her lips and tongue. She quickly stands and empties her stomach in the sink. Her sobs are muffled by the flowers in her lungs, and for a moment, she fears the stems of the flowers are already surrounding her heart. Her aorta seems completely filled with stems, and every valve of her beating heart seems to be full of seeds and petals. Whole flowers took over her mouth, and it hurts like never before. She coughs, heavy dries, spits them one by one. She waits for it to end. It lasts, it hurts, and she finds herself praying for Jirou or Miroriya to come help her, because they know, and the ones who know can always help. But no one comes, and she ends her pain alone, drying her mouth above a disgusting sink. She throws the petals in the bean, covering them with tissues and paper towels, and she cleans the sink, being careful not to let any sign of her meltdown.

+Looking at the flowers on the table, their red color suddenly seems too strong. She finds them ugly, and she suddenly hates the lady who sold them to her. Her words, her gestures, his own words, his own gestures, she hates them all. One by one, she tears the petals apart, throws the pots outside, by the window. The flowers fall and the pots break. The flowers in her hands seem to scream, but no care in the world goes through her mind. Her eyes flash with rage. She screams at the petals in her hands, accuses them of all her pain. Jirou enters her vision and hugs her, soothing her, stroking her. Momo falls on her knees and lets her tears slide down her red cheeks. Her friend's words go unnoticed, but Momo thanks her anyway. Because, looking at the teared up flowers in her hands, she finds herself willing to tear up the flowers in her body next.

Day of the festival

She coughs.

+The performance is overwhelming. The drums beating all throughout her bones, the piano echoing between her muscles, the guitars rocking along her movements, the bass marking her white and black keys, and Jirou's voice, as thick as blood, beautiful and strong, light and sharp, the music they play feels nice, feels amazing, even, the best they've ever played, and Momo can't care enough about the public, about the set up they took so much time putting up in place, in the right and perfect order, millimeters by millimeters, so that the lights can shine everywhere, on every bit of skin, so that the colors hit the public right in the eyes, so that their silhouette become a part of their melody. She can see them dance, rock their heads along the rhythm they create, and Momo feels powerful, stronger than ever. Stress gone, fear gone, pain omnipresent but part of her, her fingers play and move like never before. She feels good, so good, the overwhelming feeling of being here, on stage, being part of this temporary band, Momo can't help but feel better second after second. More than a hero, more than a savior, Momo can finally feel like a normal teenager. And here, on stage like behind, like above or under, she knows, deep down, they all finally feel like the others.

+The pain, she thinks as her fingers dance above the two-colored keys, the pain feels like hell, but despite the heavy burning sense in her throat, she could almost sing with Jirou and move like Bakugou. She could almost smile like Kaminari and concentrate like Tokoyami. She could almost do everything all at once, be just like them, dance just like them, she could almost enjoy the performance fully, it could almost be perfect, but despite the music they're playing being louder than her thoughts, she can't help but think about the pain that awakes, every second, deep in her lungs and stomach, that laces its deadly petals around her own beating heart. She moves her whole body, but she can't breathe. And, as her fingers hover above the keys she has to play, the keys she knows by heart by know, she can't help but compare the pain in her lungs to the pain in her fingers. It's a lesson she takes in, one she gulps with more or less pride, more or less regret. The tips of her fingers burn as they hit the cool material of the piano, and her lungs burn like they've just been thrown in a fireplace. It hurts, but she does with it, and as she spits flowers after flowers, tries to chew and swallow them down, Momo smiles and moves, dances like crazy with the others. She enjoys it, she feels free, and the music, loud and clear, lulls her to no end. Jirou turns, smiles, and sings her last lines. It's the end of their song, the lights move faster, the bodies dance and waltz, the visual effects flicker, fire explodes all around the stage. Screams and claps, it all resonates with Jirou's voice, and as the climax hits and lasts, Momo coughs harder, last petals inside her tired lungs colorfully gushing out of her mouth. She suffocates and hides them behind her, wiping away the blood in the corner of her lips. They're blue, beautiful, truly, but they don't taste that good if not washed down with tea.

One day after the festival

She coughs.

+The lobby isn't as crowded as usual. The night being almost here, it's a relief for both of the girls to see that, for once, almost everyone is out of the dorms or at least in their rooms. The silence that surrounds them is refreshing, welcomed with open arms. And, even if they find themselves being the only ones in the kitchen, they slowly and softly whisper to each other, heads low, fingers lacing the cups of tea they hold. The tea is a different one. Less exotic, if Momo remembers well, it's a peach tea, with linden aftertaste. The tea, color of the dawn, is soft on her tongue. And the warmth of the liquid eases her throat a little more, giving the chance to her breath to sound a little healthier. Her breathing, erratic this morning, now sounds calmer, less frantic, and Momo can't thank enough the burning liquid that goes down her mouth, burning her lips, gum, tongue, tonsils and trachea. She feels it behind her sternum, cooling down her stomach. It's liberating and reassuring, knowing that she'll feel better tomorrow. She smiles at Jirou and takes another sip of the tea, delicately putting down the mug. The little 'tik' of the white porcelain against the table is almost as inaudible in her ear.

+Behind both of the girls, the TV plays, and light footsteps tip-toe above their head. Small giggles, inaudible words, every sound seems calculated, put in place and time with a delicacy never seen nor heard before in the dorms, and the two friends find the peace absolutely charming, if not entertaining. They could stay there until morning, even, if tiredness and duties weren't in the way.

+Jirou drinks her tea quickly, finishing it with a sigh. She pats Momo's shoulder before leaning against the white wooden table. Face down, nose crooked between her elbows, she softly murmurs.

"The perf', yesterday, it was mind-blowing," she whispers a little and Momo nods, "you know, I could almost do that as a living."

"Playing music ?" Momo asks, cup strongly gripped between her two hands, "It suits you. You'd be good," she says softly, a fond smile on her lips, "the best, even."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere," Jirou laughs, and Momo finds it oddly satisfying, "but thanks. We should do that again. Just us."

"A guitar, a piano, and two voices. That would be nice."

+They both nod again, and Jirou sighs, head tilting at Momo's direction. Her look is tired but she smiles a little. Momo finishes her tea, but keeps the cup between her hand. The china is still warm, she likes it. She coughs a little as her throat cools down, and her tongue suddenly feels dry. Jirou frowns.

"So you'll go through tonight ?" Jirou asks, wonder and concern deep in her voice. Momo nods.

"The appointment's ready, everything's in order. So yes," she mutters, and Jirou can hear the hesitation, the shame, and the whistle of the petals stuck in her lungs. It must really hurt, she thinks.

"Do you want it ?" They both have this feeling of déjà-vu. They both take a deep breath, at the same time. The TV behind them switches off and the footsteps stop. It's calm.

"I need it, Jirou," she wants to be reassuring, but she can't talk about the feelings that dangerously lie deep withing her guts. She puts the mug down, the porcelain now being cold.

+And now, silence completely takes over. A voice resonates at one moment, but nothing more than that. Just their thoughts, so loud, and their breathes, Momo's respiration whistling, louder and louder by every second. Jirou leans back on her chair.

"I still think they're beautiful."

"Todoroki found the ones I bought too bright, too red. He would have preferred blue ones."

"He would have found them beautiful, too. You should talk to him before you go."

+They stay there for a moment, complete silence blinding their sight. Momo thinks, too fast, but Jirou thinks, too, and she can't help but go against her friend's judgment. The flowers, blue like the sky yet deep like the sea, marking time, ticking down the days left, she can't help but find them mesmerizing. They're gorgeous, with rich hues of blue and purple and pearly white at the tip. They look stunning, and despite the heavy meaning they bare and the surreal name they have, Jirou can't do anything but like them. It's no good for her friend, but…

"I'll go now," Momo says as she stands up. She puts the dirty white cup in the sink, puts on her coat, takes her bag with her, and puts on her shoes. She breathes heavily and, turning back one last time to Jirou, she smiles brightly. "See you tomorrow."

"… See ya."

+Jirou stands up too. She waves at her dark-haired friend before climbing the stairs. Momo breathes a little more, waiting for her friend's footsteps to disappear, before walking to the exit door. But just as she gets a hold of the handle, a voice, clear as day, interrupts her movements.

"You're leaving now ? It's almost curfew, you know."

+Momo turns around, breath short, eyes wide. Here stands Shouto, pajamas on, hair put back on a small, useless ponytail. He looks exhausted with his glass of water in his hand. He waits for her to say something, but she can't talk, hands shaking, sweating like never. She can't look him in the eyes. Distress written all over her body, she feels guilty. Guilty for lying, for hiding, for running away. She wants to speak, to explain everything, to beg for something she knows she can't have, but her voice is cut, completely, and the pain shooting everywhere in her limbs, in every vein she has, blinds her thoughts. She panics silently, tries to hide the shame and culpability she feels. Every pulse of her heart hurts, she wants to cry, but no tear comes out. Instead, it's a heavy and shaky sigh that exits her mouth between her gritted teeth. She looks down, then up, then sideways. Shouto stands, patient, soft, even. He seems calming, lulling her into confidence, and she wished to be in his arms. A slight sob escapes her mouth. She coughs and bends down. Shouto frowns and puts his glass down in a hurry. Water drops down his fingers.

"Yaoyorozu, are you alright ? Do you need anything ?"

+She coughs and coughs and coughs. Regret screams in her eyes and, taking her breath back ever so slowly, she regains her composure. It's fast, too quick for his eyes, but a petal falls at their feet. She stands up, trying to straighten her back and clothes. His frown increases, his eyes try to pierce through her being. But she shakes her head and smiles, a little, she tries. She can't do it. She nods.

"I'm fine," she breathes heavily, and her throat whistles again. She curses under her breathe. "It's just a cold, I'm going to the doctor right now. Just a precaution, to be sure. It's nothing. It's alright. It'll go away."

+He doesn't move, doesn't blink. They stare at each other. It's too dark to see now, but no one moves to switch the lights on. Shouto sighs.

"It's quite bad for a cold, you should have gone sooner."

"I believe you."

+Another moment of nothingness. It's awkward, tension clear in their eyes, and Momo would have liked it to be different. Another time, another feeling, another reason. Another kind of relationship. She loves him. He doesn't.

"I should go now. See you in class tomorrow."

+She bends down and smiles. He does the same. She turns her back to him. It hurts all over. She breathes in as much air as she can. And, as she grips the handle again, his hand grips her wrist.

"Tomorrow, I'll have something to say to you," Shouto whispers, voice unsure.

+She nods, not looking back, then leave. The door closes behind her back. Shouto looks down for a second, spotting a petal at his feet. He's sure the flowers from two days ago were red, but the soft blue the petal arbors is beautiful, he thinks. He sighs and, looking back at the door she just closed, Shouto can't help but think that her silhouette's never looked so frail.

Two days after the festival

"For tomorrow, I'll want you to prepare your equipment. Understood ? And no one misses class. No excuse will be accepted," Aizawa seriously orders, eyes already looking at the door. The alarm rings for the end of the morning classes. "You're dismissed."

+Everyone stands up and leaves, chatting loudly. Shouto pays close attention to everything, waiting for everyone to leave. He organizes his books, closes his bag and puts it on his table. He watches as Jirou waves at Momo before going. For a moment, he thinks he sees pity in her eyes. He doesn't move, doesn't ask. She fakes a smile and leaves.

+The tension is back. The heavy atmosphere, the pressure of his next words, everything is back, everything weights on his shoulders. He looks right in front of him, waiting for Momo to be finished with the cleaning of the black board. He depicts her every move, watches her carefully as she cleans the board. She's beautiful, he thinks.

"Excuse me," she says, looking back at him. He sees many things in her eyes, but he can't understand it. "Do you need anything ?"

"Can I talk to you for a moment, Momo ?" He frowns as he sees her discomfort. She nods.

+She comes closer to him, fidgeting with her skirt. He grips at his sleeves and sighs.

"Momo, I-"

"I'm really sorry, but..."

+Everything is different now. The lights are too bright, the mood is uncomfortable, her smile is too false, it's lying to him. She seems different from yesterday, from ever before. She's on her guard, she seems serious but curious, too. She looks guilty, tired and uncomfortable, almost out of place. Shouto can see the small lines on her lips, pink scars almost invisible yet here, and he doesn't know why. His mind races. She looks straight at him and, smile too false, screaming in the silent room, she continues :

"Do we know each other ?"

Three days after the festival

He coughs.