Blossomed
She, easily, was the first thing his eyes adjusted to.
How could they not, when kind eyes were staring firmly back at him, when the berry tasting scent she perpetuated acted as an open invitation, when she herself was one of the first things he had truly come to know? Although his eyes acclimated to her presence so easily, being easy on the eyes was not a facet of the look she'd reciprocate back. Something about her always screamed, always lashed out and worked to pull you into its grasp, kneading your resistance as a baker would with dough.
"So, you're up. Kept me waiting, that's for sure."
Bakugo Katsuki was not speechless – he never was. There'd never fail to be one more jab or cutting phrase or exclamatory statement up to bat, waiting, waiting, then shooting out and oozing with all things seething. Oh no – on no account would you find the blonde and burning boy without a scathing remark; though some thought he'd be better without that tongue of his, ones who knew him best knew it was better this way.
He shifted his gaze away and upward, a vine cowering way from an inevitable bout of sunlight – the type that ripped through the sky and forced you to hold its hand. So used to burning others, others burning with flame akin to pity or resentment in reciprocation, the boy found that bracing himself was futile when it came to her. Scowl he would, scowl at the light and brilliance despite the overwhelming futility in his actions. He wasn't one to act desperately.
But this light, this girl – she was one of the first things he'd come to know.
Air mask on and all, Bakugo's face melted into a familiar scowl, one he saved for this particular girl, though he'd never known why. His words were blurred, but still clear enough for her to hear: "Oi. Don't look at me like that."
Faint smile, one he'd learned to hold on to and squeeze tight, tight enough to get every possible meaning and nuance out of. Her smiles – regardless of outward appearance – were heavy on the heart, dripping with a syrupy sweetness that would catch the words sitting on your tongue, and mangled them so all that would remain were tales of veracity.
She merely sat and smiled, yet Bakugo Katsuki felt himself ascending.
As he struggled with her smile's side effects, she struck, words barely above a whisper as she remarked, "Glad your heart seems to be intact. I still don't think you should push it, though."
"Don't tell me what to do. Like hell I'd listen to you." Funny, how he had laid back down as he uttered those words.
She was a liability – to plainly put it. A weakness personified, the epitome of vulnerability, the scratch on the surface of everything that could paralyze – this very fact had obstructed his view of her for so long, too long. A film had settled over his retinas – the aggregate of fear and ego – warping the image of something so bright and kind into one that withered all he was, bubbling up and up until he would boil silently, slowly, making sure he understood the extent of her brilliance. Some might have considered that pain contemptible, contemptible in the most excruciating way one could fathom.
However, Bakugo never could bring himself to hate the withering, the withering that pared him down to his unforgivable core. Deny he might the way his eyes reddened and the tip of his tongue sweetened when someone could see it in its entirety, that fistful of muscle which never failed to give him trouble.
His heart lay out in the open for a few moments, his gaze reaching for beyond the ceiling, hers reaching into his being.
A chuckle erupted from the girl's parted lips, and in that moment, a thunder clap would've had to take a back seat to her. She averted her eyes from the boy's battered image, speaking with a clarity that rivaled the skies, "What you did for Midoriya…it was beautiful, y'know."
"Ain't nothing beautiful about helping that useless idiot."
"Don't lie. Be proud of yourself," she said, breath fogging up on the window. "I sure am."
Spring was omnipresent; a hint of joy was the perfect complement.
There were blossoms on the other side of the window, quivering as a chilly breeze swept through them. On trees they'd huddle and chatter amongst themselves, waves of excitement passing over them as they guessed which blossom would fall next. Some were pink and some were white, all with centers that seemed to blush as the sun rose up and shattered the pensive sky every morning. And despite the fact that they'd fall every spring, the cherry blossoms still sprouted and chattered and blushed with all they had, over and over, to the very end.
From across the room, he could see her eyes stuck on the grounded petals; they lay, whispering sweet scents away into the dew-softened grass beneath them, the subject of the thickly coated smile she'd developed. It may have been an instinct of hers to preserve the cries of the fallen blossoms, to gather them and color the world with her sympathies because that was just the type of girl she was.
"You have a flaw," she claimed, gaze locked on spring's sadness.
She wasn't forlorn, rather, things longed for her and she knew it. Bakugo was experienced, considering the never-ending chase he felt she'd led him on.
It took all he had to respond, working his way through everything about her that disarmed him. There were so many things to say, things to say that she and she only would understand. Grumbling, as her eyes were averted from his heart, he went with, "You don't think I knew that?"
The way her eyes assaulted him was jarring, forcing him to remove his glare, sparing her from the pointless scorch intrinsic to impassioned eyes. "You sell your heart short, Bakugo."
"Huh? The hell does that mean?!" She'd worked the boy into a mess with in a single, glass staining breath; he finally brought his eyes to hers.
"I mean," the girl began, tone balanced in a nearly practiced way, "that you shy away from so many things because you think you can't take it."
Fury? Indignation? "Who are you to tell me who I am, huh? It's not lik – "
His gaze meandered over to the window her eyes had been fixated on in the previous moment. Bakugo didn't want to understand the mess she'd made of his heart; with the way his breath was picking up, it was hard to see the tree with the falling blossoms. Distraction – distracting – distracted – springtime had a cruel beauty, the type that latched onto you and whispered hellos and goodbyes into your ear, beckoning sleep and hiding the nightmares. And, mesmerized by the shower of blossoms, by the girl he knew so well, the boy could only manage to softly question, taken aback by what he knew and knew he could not fathom, "How are Deku and Todoroki, huh? Those morons better not have croaked."
The blossoms were tickling his face, spreading an undeniable blush and respite throughout his weathered body. Spring had its hands on him, soft fingers melting the front put on by the hurting boy.
"Todoroki's alright, a bit shaken though. That Dabi guy's announcement got him good," she claimed, tracing the lines on her palm with care. Kind eyes that Bakugo wished would not elicit such severe reactions from his body were focused on her hand with intent, sparing him no attention whatsoever. He couldn't help but wonder if things were better like that.
Past spring and all sugary wiles, Bakugo asked, feeling as though he had to shout past the sense of serenity that came with spring's color, "And Deku? What's his deal?"
Awake again he was once their eyes collided; a wetness in her eyes widened his own, tears never leaving the embankment, yet managing to soak him in sympathies nonetheless.
Refusing to peel her eyes from his, she took a deep breath, then spoke: "Izuku…he hasn't woken up yet."
A blossom fell with every word she spoke, and Bakugo suddenly saw the tree again, his breath having escaped him completely.
It was a bit warmer inside than it was beyond the window. The air thickened, and no matter how hard he tried to inhale, everything was running down his throat, plugging up his insides, suspending that interminable heart she claimed he had. To move, it was unfeasible with the words she'd uttered so clearly, so firmly, as though any attempt to argue against - to plea in opposition – would scream invalidation between each syllable.
"He can't...He-he isn't allowed to-to - !"
"Don't." She sent a smile to the boy petrified in a state of agony. "Don't talk. It's going to hurt us."
So much anger for the world and all the evils behind its upbringing, but Bakugo knew he would not writhe – not when she was the one holding the tears, the tears that stung like bullets and tore him up in the most painful manner imaginable. A complete and overwhelming liability she was, complete and overwhelming words she'd have to be liable for always jumping up and out from the depths of her mind, a mind no one dared comprehend. Her lips were hallowed ground, each word so concrete your heart couldn't help but feel heavy at the mere sight of her; the sight of her tears was always the last straw; her nails weren't painted anymore because she'd pick at them until they'd split and the paint's purpose would be null and void; and still with all there was to her, her complete and overwhelming heart was what you'd feel every time she'd burn you, burn her feelings and hopes and everything about her into you, smiling eyes and firm-eyed smiles the entire time. Always, she'd emanate a sweetness, so much so you had to stick to her, stick with her, believe in how and what and why she felt because everything about her was so insane you'd feel grounded for once. She was not like spring, with its sugar-coated whispers that masked the cries of a melting winter and cooler winds than people preferred and chattering blossoms which died on the daily – no not spring, not ever spring. There was no need for a new beginning with her, for everything began and ended with her smile and laughter, laughter and smile the two horsemen of her own delightfully destructive ways. She tore down walls, tore up hearts, and, nevertheless, you'd be the grateful one, glowing and smiling in a way that would never compare to hers.
The insanity that cloaked itself in skin and went by her name – she was his liability, was everything that made him want to cry ugly and stand proud all at once.
Or maybe, that's just what Bakugo saw. She was one of the first things he'd come to know, after all.
When his eyes truly opened again, past all the brilliance she emanated so easily, he realized she'd gotten closer to him, close enough to grasp for his hand. She was in his range, but painfully out of reach; Bakugo held onto her smile instead, every piece of it, hoping it had been meant for him to collect and treasure and put together and comprehend to the fullest extent. So, he did not grab her hand. His arms were full of tubes, anyways.
Filling the space between the two, the girl spoke words with perfect opacity, enchanting the most obstinate of beings, perplexing those who stopped believing in wonder, "Isn't it so nice out, though? Carnage breeds the most peculiar beauties."
"The hell are you talking about?" is what he barked out, but Bakugo – the boy who had been all bull and horns since the start – couldn't bring himself to not become lost in her forests of words she'd pick and pronounce the way people treated ripened fruit. A simple sentence on the outside was – without fail – loaded with her everything, the embodiment of how her mind clicked in that specific moment, more accurate than any photograph or fingerprint could dream to be. The words were so clear, so clear you'd be tricked into thinking they were transparent, that you knew her. She wanted it that way – he swore she did. She wanted the meanings to be so difficult to decipher that you would think the middle pieces belonged in the corners, that all words were superfluous when it came to her. To be overlooked – Bakugo swore it was her aim because it seemed he was the only one who noticed these things, despite how it burnt him so each time he'd glance in her direction.
But, to be fair, she was one of the first things he'd come to know. The others had it harder, though Bakugo found himself questioning his relevance from time to time. How could he claim he was the apple of her eye when she cultivated forests of appellations and pseudonyms and stanzas that could swallow his being in a second or less?
They watched the blossoms depart the aching tree rapidly, buildup from the chatter and blush of youthful petals too much for bark stained with the veneer of trying times. Leaves and blossoms expended themselves for the sake of the season, while the splintering wood that birthed them was forced to endure their deaths repeatedly, cyclically. Spring said to be happy, told the bark to be glad the blossoms would make their return come March every year, yet still, blossoms fell, still, nothing was promised.
Promises were what put spring in ruins every time it decided to come around. Bakugo didn't like the sweet whispers that invaded his ears and warped his eyesight so all he could see was the cheer and fantastical show of things it put on. Spring had its hands all over him, caressing the arms he tore up every time he used his quirk, pulling up the edges of his frown so subtly he felt as though he'd done it on his own accord. Though spring's renaissance of sorts was good at what it did, the boy couldn't bring himself to trust a season that superimposed itself over the heartbreak that defined winter – a collective of fissures upon fissures stuffed to the brim with agony and farewells, packaged neatly into the span of three or so months, a time when people far and wide would feel blue in the heart and knew exactly why. Thus, he frowned more with every blossom they watched fall.
"They're coming, y'know. The others are rushing down the hall for you." Ah, the words that brought on happiness without the hollowed niceties.
"And what will you do?"
"It's hard to say."
"Are you gonna go…see Deku?"
"No. I…I don't think that's necessary. You've taken care of him in ways I don't think I'll ever get to imagine."
Something about what she said always caught Bakugo's eye; there was a luster to the way she spoke that commanded attention the way a flower on the side of the road would.
"Bakugo."
The boy wanted to hear all the words she'd planned out for him, over and over again, remembering the emphasis she put on each word, pulling apart the cadence with which she spoke until he'd acquainted himself with every rise and fall in her breathing, but was reminded of the way time progressed as the door flew open, their traditionally raucous classmates in tow. Familiar faces – Bakugo found in that moment, he was learning to appreciate them.
"How are you feeling man?"
Finding comfort in the scowl his mother had given him, Bakugo shot his classmates a look meant to shake them up. Routines, he'd come to understand after entering high school, felt better after having departed from them a bit. To make up for all the smiling that girl had put him through, Bakugo snapped, "What's it to ya, huh? You lookin' down on me?"
"Glad to see you're okay dude." Every sound uttered was lacking in a charm the blonde had attributed to his classmates over time; the excitement teenage years brought most was absent from their words of relief.
Encounters were best kept clipped; sparks of passion and hope could only make ripples in water for so long before you'd be forced to look at your face again.
Those who had come to see the impassioned and burning boy quieted a bit, eyes shooting from one to the other and back again. It seemed that, by whatever terms that game of eye-tag settled, Sero was elected to spill what bothered their thoughts. The boy approached on Bakugo's left, the area on his right stayed inhabited by which the girl his thoughts clung to helplessly.
Sero pulled up a chair making a low screech across the floor that seemed to never end. A couple of meters at most, yet all in the room recoiled as though it had drawn blood. He didn't look up, but chose to spoke anyway, valuing his time and speaking at a pace most would have found discomfort in: "It was a rough fight for everyone. It wasn't something we should have gone through."
The type of quiet you'd feel beneath your skin – that could claw its way down your windpipe and stop your heart from beating, the type that made the boogeyman look like an old friend, freezing your passions and hopes and desires from the inside out, leaving victims without a trace of who they were or could have been at some point in time – set in, as whatever laughs they had managed to have rose up with the hot air in the room. Those who had come to see him wore a look adulterated by stomach-churning terrors, much like the ones he'd experienced facing the sack of skin with a quirk that ruined others.
And it felt like spring had its ten fingers down his throat all at once. Bakugo didn't want to remember how those spikes felt as they rearranged his insides. He was nearly hollowed out, nearly stripped of the life he had so much passion for; his classmates' eyes were colored with all shades of vacancy and horror, heart bearing wounds much deeper than ones of those physically injured; and through it all, she held turbid oceans back behind the thinnest skin on her body, waiting and waiting for a moment only she was privy to.
"We – we looked everywhere."
Bakugo felt her faint smile at his side, the ambiguity she'd cultivated reminiscent of the buildup to a joke's punchline. Imagining it did him no good, for the way her lips curved and rested on each other seemed to vary with each appearance, similar to how you could muse for hours about the color of a particular sunset, only to see a foreign sight the next night. It was wonderful – really – as she made sure to satisfy wonder whilst leaving it craving the next show of a smile she'd put on in time.
"They did. They really did." A quiver shook the tone that had held so firm before, the one Bakugo labeled definite and everlasting. He made to turn, to meet her eyes and confirm she was still everything he needed her to be, to stunt the anxiety beginning to boil over from within him and pour out as sweat, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder that wasn't hers.
Sero reached out, placing his hand on the shoulder of the boy everyone had grown to regard as temperamental to a fault. The boy couldn't meet Bakugo's eyes, instead looking straight ahead, out past the window and past the tree, gazing at something beyond what the blonde could see.
Bakugo shut his eyes with care – and all he could see was her. Was it the inside of his mind? Was this some sort of episode caused by stress?
He felt her smile on the back of his neck, but she stood before him proudly.
"Bakugo, did you enjoy when I'd tell you about my Sunday mornings when Mondays dragged on?"
"I guess. You were such a moron."
She grabbed his hand, careful not to move too suddenly.
"Of course, of course. I remember your eyes lighting up every time I mentioned the movies I would watch to wake the house up."
"Who doesn't like movies?!"
"Ah, so you did listen."
"Only for parts. And don't think you got some special thing with me, alright?!"
Her giggle shimmered, dusting their noses in a rose-colored glow, painting them in shades of bliss, of respite.
"I would try to get you to light up and loosen that scowl because I had this feeling there was this part of you that you couldn't hide. I searched for it and came up empty."
"Where are you going with this, idiot? Me frowning is not a whole lecture on my character."
Surely, she traced the lines on his palm, drawing circles upon circles of path, connecting every truth in his universe back to the way the indentations split in certain places.
"You need to let others see that part. You need to. You have a heart and it's the best thing about you, Bakugo. It's not your talents or spark – it's that heart you've cast aside for so long."
"Can't you see it? Isn't that all there is to it?"
Eyes that had always seen beyond the window, beyond the tree and the horizon hit his, and, remarkably, he didn't falter.
"Now show the world."
When had he opened his eyes? The room he'd been confined hadn't changed – walls were white, his classmates were there with their sunken eyes – and yet it couldn't have felt more different. Though Bakugo blamed it on the air his mask was feeding him, avoiding the thought wasn't feasible.
And Sero continued the tangent on which he'd begun. "That Gigantomachia thing was huge. You saw it – we all did."
Why is he going on about this? Did the room get hotter?
"Uh…so…th-this was hard for all of us, Bakugo. It-it – I can't do this. I can't – "
"Sero…Please. Please. No one else can – can do it."
What is it they want from me? I still have to pay a visit to Deku and – who turned the heat up in here?! I'll kill them!
"Okay. I've…I've got it. So, when we went back t-to help other pros and students assess the damages…we found a number of bodies."
What happened while my eyes were closed? When did this room get so crowded?
"The rocks and debris that thing kicked up – they were huge. And – and because of that…to get hit by one wouldn't have been…very…hard. A number of civilians were hit by chunks of building th-that went flying, including – "
Where did she go? Wasn't she at my side? Where's her smile?
" – who we found…who…who we found laying face down under part of a wall that…had fallen. M-man, we – we couldn't do anything to – "
The sweat was coating the neck she had been smiling on. It was washing away any trace of the girl whose smile he couldn't feel anymore.
"Where did she – where is she? Where did she go? Where? Wh – " – a new type of pity glazed the eyes of those who had courage enough to look Bakugo in the eye – "Why's the room so damn hot?!"
The forests, the sunsets, the shimmers, the brilliance, the smiles – all were naught with his eyes open and awake again, hoping to look beyond the window and find the place she'd run off to so quickly. He was trying to remember those last words, highlighting them over and over and over until his face broke, the ink to too fresh to handle impassioned cries, smudging what he saw and heard and wanted to feel, blistering his thoughts with the heat of anguished eyes. Everything about her was blurring at the edges, seams holding together all that had defined her pulling apart and reconfiguring her as another amorphous train of thought. Her words, her words, her words, her words, her words –
Whoever had put their hand on his shoulder pulled it back, muttering – he may have shouted – words that were not hers, leaving the room, and leaving Bakugo to himself and what he had left to cling to.
His eyes, puffy as they tried to hold back sweat's kin from staining his cheeks, found themselves drawn to the window next to his bedside, on his right, where he could've sworn she had been standing not fifteen minutes earlier. She was there, and she had been shining, gazing at the blossoms that chattered and blushed and fell only to have to do it all again in time. The pink and white petals remained, Bakugo observed through aching eyelids, still gossiping about which one would be next to fall and make the tree cry, carrying out the atrocities that were necessary for spring to flaunt its false promises.
No rock would be able to crush her, to grab hold of a girl so wonderful and smash her heart and soul into the cracks of pavement where people walked. No, it was unacceptable – but half-truths were in season.
Bakugo rested his eyes once the blossoms tired him, and hoped her face would be there when he opened them in a few hours' time.
…
Flakes of snow dripped down into their world from the sky's that night, and once the sun rose again, the blossoms that had fallen that day were long gone.
Author's Note: hi guys! just wrote this one shot bc it was on my mind! hope u like it!
