There is a space of time in this universe when between putting the kettle on to boil and its click of completion that a yawn of quiet contentment leaves the mouth of one, Uraraka Ochako. In the brief minute, minute and a half it takes for electricity to heat and bubbles to form, she brushes her hair, preps her small pink coffee cup and puts on the soft serene voice of the News cast from her phone.
She pours herself a quiet cup and pulls the curtains away and opens her dorm door's window, watching the dawn touch a grateful morning.
It's a habit developed from her family.
Construction, as old as humanity, as old as creativity, builds before sunrise. As long as she can remember her father and mother rose before the sun and rose her with it. In their kitchen, a small pink cup (the same cup as she holds now with its re-glued handle and faded colour) was placed in her small child-sized hands as she received warm tea and kisses on top of her head. She remembers the mornings of sleepy silence as the family shared moments with the pink and pastel blue hues of the sky before the inevitable rush of life and the sound of birds called all to action.
So, she honours them as best she can, as early as she can, with the knowledge that somewhere, far away, in a familiar window her family is doing the same and thinking of her…
…and takes another small sip.
Every day he rises before dawn touches the cold earth.
Heroes are made from effort and grit and when Bakugou Katsuki decided he was going to be the very best of them he chose to work before even the sun decided to.
It's a brief run around the dorm complex, stretching, training in the school's twenty-four-hour gym before a run back, a shower and his own morning rituals. The air is always cold and fresh and sometimes wet with dew. The bottoms of his running shoes are covered in wet grass before he enters the gym and when he leaves it, even in summer.
Like every morning, he runs back as the light begins to touch the land.
As he curves the corner a strong autumn breeze catches the edge of a kicked-up leaf and soars overhead, drawing his eyes to the third floor of the dorm and a familiar window.
She's there, like always, staring at the sunrise a small pink cup in her hand and the softest of smiles on her face. He hears her radio and as he subconsciously slows his jog he can't help but let his eyes follow up to the face painted in soft orange light.
Her hair looks likes new copper. Her smile is sleepy and deep in thought, like she's lost in a memory. She holds this small cup, just like every other morning and stares out to what he's sure is a nice enough view. He looks back down and continues his jog back.
She doesn't notice him.
(She never does.)
The jog turns into a run.
Then one day, a particularly cold day, after a particularly brutal day before, she's not there.
Classes for hero work are rough and the classes the day before had pushed many including her to their limits. The day before's involved a Swamp Rescue. Many got covered in mud or slime or nearly eaten alive by insects and it was so gruelling, especially in the growing cold, that it wouldn't surprise him if the rest of his classmates pushed the snooze button more than once that morning.
Not him though.
Evil doesn't take a break and there are enough bastards out there that the more endurance he has, the faster he'd become the world's number one hero.
Yet something doesn't sit right in his gut as sees the autumn sun hit her window and it closed and the blinds drawn as if in defence against it. He can't avoid the unease that strikes him, no matter how much he pushes it down as he walks step after step to make it to his own room on the third floor and reaches the landing.
Then he hears it.
A cough like death.
It's muffled and if it weren't for the early morning quiet, he probably wouldn't have heard it. But he does and it sounds strangled choking, struggling for air and life and it chills him because it sounds like someone is dying. It sounds like something trapped in muck.
It's not the kind of noise he likes to relive.
Another one echoes through the corridor from the right-hand side of the hallway and it's not hard to follow it and realise it's coming from her door.
He doesn't even realise he's knocked until he lifts his knuckles away from the wood.
Silence.
Then at last the door opens slowly and a very sick round-faced girl looks back at him.
Her hair is at all angles and she wears an oversized t-shirt and a pair of polka dot pyjama pants that seem to have seen better days. Fluffy socks with (fucking) cat's paws at their toes peak out the door and he can't stop to consider how ridiculous it all is because she is red and woozy and shivers as she pokes out her head. Her brown eyes are near unfocused except when they widen to realise who they're looking at.
"Bakugou?" she whispers, but its faint and puts enough pressure on her throat that she starts coughing into her sleeve again. Her hazy gaze blinks up at him as if she's having a fever dream.
He's grimaces.
"You should go fucking see Recovery Girl," he states. No room for argument. She blinks at him before flushing (further into fever? It's hard to tell.)
"Oh!" she mumbles. She glances around the hall to see if there's any more movement. She lowers her voice, "Sorry, did I wake you? I know it's pretty—" She almost crumples from the weight of her next few coughs.
He restrains a hand.
"I was already awake," he grunts. He's finding it difficult not to physically reach out and take her to the damn nurse himself. What kind of idiot was this girl?
Yet, somehow, Ochako recovers to give him a weak smile.
("No, you idiot. You don't give those to me.")
"Yes," she says absently. "You would be up and about, wouldn't you?" Her eyes are glazed and she sways a little, four fingered grip on the frame of her door slipping slightly.
"What's that supposed to fucking mean?" he growls, wishing more than anything that the idiot girl in front of him was in fucking bed, or in the nurse's office, or a goddamn hospital. How in holy hell was she still standing?
"Well Bakugou works harder than anyone, right?"
She smiles to the floor she's started staring at, failing to see the flinch and flush of the young man's cheeks. Ochako's whole body sways as she turns her head and examines a small lint patch in front of her doorway thoughtfully.
"…Except maybe Deku."
"JUST FUCKING SEE THE NURSE ALREADY," Bakugou thunders making her bolt straight and meet his gaze in surprise (and probably waking the rest of the floor.) He growls and aggressively juts out his chin and she is honestly too sick to notice the body language. "Don't bring your diseases into class, idiot. I don't need any more dead-weight in the damn classroom."
She absently waves away his anger and squints at him dizzily.
"I'll see her when she's awake," she smiles, coughing a little. "Thanks for worrying about me."
The words are jarring and disarming and he doesn't like them at all.
"I'M NOT FUCKING WORRIED."
Ochako misses class for the next two days and she isn't the only one.
It seems that anyone who had consumed any of the swamp water had become violently ill over the next couple of days. Jirou, Mina, Kaminari and Shouji were some of the others and Aizawa lets the homework on their desks stack along with the pile on Ochako's.
"Sickness is just like their future employment," he says, "just another enemy to fight."
The class winces.
It's a Wednesday when he's jogging back from the gym, shoes wet with dew, when he sees her.
She's leaning against the sill of her balcony, cup to her lips. She has a faraway look on her face but this time as he slows down to look up, to catch the words of the radio, the faint scent of coffee and see the dawn warm the building in light he finds his gaze met. Eyes glinting with the pastel shades of the sky, Uraraka Ochako, sends a smile so brilliant it could compete with the sun rising behind him.
(He doesn't notice his breath catch.)
Slowly, with a falter in her grin and a little hesitation, she gives him a small wave.
In what feels like eternity later he nods back.
Her hand retreats.
He jogs back to the dormitory.
Just the start of another morning ritual.