Setsuna woke up at 4:23, but she did not rise until 4:29 a.m. In those six minutes, her entire tomorrow unfurled before her, and she lived through it as a memory—not an exhaustion-induced vision.
In it, she woke up early, bruised and battered but refreshed. It was as though she'd enjoyed the perfect, crystalline spring water of the fountain of youth. There was new life in her step—easier and cooler and brighter. Her breakfast was delicious—and she shared it with another. After she showered and the clock striked six, they would head out, back for school, and enjoy a long, quiet train ride. They wouldn't talk—they wouldn't need to.
They would be comfortable and quiet and life would be both back to normal and newly serene. Right before they reached U.A.'s gate, they would share something, and she'd carry it with her for all her days.
At 4:30 a.m., she dismissed the vision as a half-dreamt fantasy. Setsuna was not Nighteye, the prescient superhero and teacher of Izuku Midoriya. She was just little Setsuna Tokage, nothing special. Slipping into a boiling hot shower, she closed her eyes and allowed the heat to strain the images from her mind. They were lovely, but they curled her stomach. Today, of all days, she could not afford distractions.
As the shower progressed, however, she began to feel another, less soothing heat. It didn't come from her showerhead's liquid-fire. It came from down, down, down and within. With a sinking feeling, she sniffed once. Hot steam choked her nostrils, but copper lurked beneath.
Rubbing her eyes and blinking, she couldn't help but hope her situation was just another half-dreamt vision. Unfortunately, the red stream was as real as stabbing pain in her navel.
Letting her head fall back, she let out a single "Damn," before wringing out her hair and kicking off the hot water.
Twenty minutes later, her situation under control and dressed, she sat at her bedroom's desk. With vials and brushes spread before her, she pondered which to use. She would be on live television, today—national news—and would most likely reach the States via the internet not much later. On one hand, she wanted to look her best. If, in ten years, she looked back and saw what today's Setsuna saw in her mirror, the shame might kill her. On the other hand, she really, honestly, could not find a fuck to give.
A static shock attacked her fingers when she grabbed a brush—almost like every electron in her room scolded her for even thinking about it. Still, she powered through it. Her makeup remained forgotten as she watched herself in the mirror, working through moist knots.
The Setsuna looking back was somewhat unfamiliar. Her expression wasn't different, or alien, or foreign—just surprising. Each brow pinched a little bit more, her under-eyes were a tad darker, and her lips seemed paler than normal. She almost looked mannish, if she squinted. The ruggedness befit a more masculine face than her more slender, feminine one.
She told herself she was still tired—her room was still dark, and she was just seeing things. That would be a lie. Setsuna was well aware of the stress eating at her. It showed in every corner of her face; it had for almost four weeks.
Could she really do this? Despite the near-unimaginable torture of this month's training, she found she was still scared. The realization made her even more hesitant. If she still had the energy to be nervous after the hell she put her body through, had she truly trained enough?
When she deemed her hair managed, she slipped on her dress shoes. Ignoring her makeup, she left her room for the hatch. Popping apart at the knees, she dropped into the grocery store that comprised the first floor. Spotting her father, she drifted over and kissed him on the cheek.
"Why are you up so early?" She asked, concern worming through her chest. "You should be sleeping.
Her father smiled, his thin, aged face creasing with the gesture. Crow's feet and laugh lines were only among some of many such indicators. He was a happy man—a proud one.
"To see you off, silly girl. You think I'd miss you before your first Sports Festival?"
"Mom seems to be," Setsuna said, looking everywhere but his face. Her ears felt a little warm.
"Momma is saving her energy for the celebration afterwards. Actually…" Her father's earnest smile waned, and was soon replaced by a guilty grin. "I might have pinkie promised her that we'd see you off together. Wouldn't it be a real shame if she knew I broke one? They're sacred, after all."
Maybe it was still morning grime, but the gears in her brain didn't turn until a few seconds passed.
"You… what? Why are you letting her sleep?"
Her father's guilty grin faded as his face relaxed. For once, the only notable creases on his face were on his forehead, where his brow began to lower. Dropping his voice an octave, he cracked open his eyelids and gave her a sharp look.
"Because I need to tell you something, love, that she wouldn't understand. You love the boy, right?"
Despite the morning grime, the gears in her brain didn't even hesitate. She nodded.
"And we both support that, especially your mom. Izuku is a phenomenal kid, and I couldn't imagine handing you off to anyone else."
Heat flushed her cheeks as she slapped her father's shoulder.
"Dad! Don't say stuff like that!"
He took the blow with ease, but he did not smile like she thought he might. Catching her wrist before she could retrieve it, he reached out and took her other one alongside it. With great care, he pulled her down so they could see eye to eye.
"It's our truth. The problem is, honey, that your mother doesn't have the heart for what you have to do today. Your mom and I had spats, back in the day, but they were always solved by great patience. We were normal, though—not like you. I love Izuku like a son, but we both know the answer to your current problem isn't solvable via great patience. Otherwise, it would've solved itself already, right?"
Her stomach did a flip in her stomach, hearing the words.
"I-I didn't… know you knew. About what he's going through."
"About what you're going through, too—and yes, I know. He's a man, after all. It's not hard to read good men, my darling. They're foolish and stubborn and uncompromising. If they're normal, all it takes is a sweet touch and careful consideration. If they're anything more, like Izuku, you'll need more than just great patience. You'll need great effort. So, while my wonderful partner might advise an earnest discussion, I think you already know exactly what you need to do. So, know I support you entirely."
Slowly, working around the period pains and the anxiety, a smile wormed its way up and onto her face. Gran Torino's words from the start of this long endeavor resurfaced.
"Knock some sense into him?"
Her father's smile returned, his crow's feet as deep as ever. He nodded.
"Knock some sense into him. Don't tell mom I said that."
"I promise," Setsuna said, holding out her pinkie. "And unlike you, I'll keep this one. They're sacred, after all."
Her father barked out a dry laugh and hooked his pinkie around her own.
Willing her calves to meld back with her knees, she dropped to the floor. Giving her father one last hug, she left the house with a newfound determination and pep in her step.
She made a promise, too, after all—even if it wasn't with her pinkie. To pick him up the day he finally broke, instead of bent.
Setsuna would put everything on the line for him, because he would for her.
She would not let her partner go without a fight.
One deep inhale. One slow exhale.
And then she started running. She had a train to catch.
[x]
Shoto failed his only objective that morning: escape in anonymity. In fact, his failure transcended mere "failure." To say things ended up "catastrophic" could be an understatement.
So, here Shoto sat, in his living room, at six in the morning, his head hung low in shame. Across the low-sitting table, Enji Todoroki stared at him. His thick, corded forearms bulged as he crossed them.
"You will do well."
Shoto sighed.
"Yes, sir. I will."
"You will try hard."
"Yes, sir."
"You will bring honor back to the house."
Shoto bit the inside of his lip. He did want to try hard. He didn't so much want to do it for his "house." Still, he nodded, and waited for the next irritating command.
"Your mother will be watching."
"Yes sir," Shoto said, using every ounce of his strength not to roll his eyes at this waste of time. "I will—wait, huh?"
"Yes, she will be. Fuyumi has informed me that she's quite excited. It is all she's spoken of for weeks."
Shoto tried to meet his father's eyes, but found they too were cast aside. His father said nothing more, and just let the fact simmer.
After a stretch, Shoto deemed himself dismissed. Rising to his feet, he grabbed his bag and made his way to the mudroom. Out of sight from his father, he slipped on his shoes and slid open the door. Before he could escape, his father's rough cadence to disturb the house's peace one last time.
"I…" His father began, before trailing off. Shoto hesitated, tempted to just leave and pretend he hadn't heard, but something glued him in place. It might've been curiosity—it might've been habit. "Don't care how you do it. You're well past needing to make me… proud, Shoto. I only ask for great effort for your own sake. Scale that mountain. Find your Everest."
Shoto did not reply. He simply closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the doorframe, and sighed. Said the country's greatest hero. A moment later, he closed the door behind him and began the long, winding path down to the city at large.
He received abnormal stares on the train, as was common enough—but the knowing gleams made them strange. Did people truly care about the Sports Festival so much? Or was it their curiosity, given his role within such an event?
They were like sharks in the water, sniffing out his indecision. The feelings his father imparted onto him were certainly crimson, in his opinion, so perhaps it was appropriate.
"Find your Everest," huh?" He said, rolling the idea around.
Regardless, he was happy to disembark at the station, freeing himself from the attention. While he did get the occasional directed glance, the walk was far more peaceful.
And a little lonely.
He checked his phone, sliding open the messenger app. Throughout Izuku's radio silence, he never quite stopped messaging his friend. The fact that he never replied did not cow Shoto. It was more of a personal diary entry than an attempt to communicate.
Shoto: Today is the day. My father gave me a whole spiel and everything. He told me to "find my Everest." Seems like some fatherly crap he made up on the spot. I guess he's been trying harder to parent me, but he's just so big and important that every piece of little advice he gives falls flat. How is the greatest hero supposed to find time to be a great dad, you know?
Shoto did not expect a reply, and he was not surprised. A little red mark appeared next to Izuku's raw number, indicating he was messaging someone who did not recognize his contact. He didn't know when it happened, but Izuku must've deleted their connection. It left him feeling a little lost. Maybe Sesuna could explain it to him, but she'd been too busy training to talk recently. Bothering her seemed like an unwelcome distraction, but he was patient.
He could wait until she had time—presumably after the Festival. So, till tomorrow.
When he arrived at U.A.'s gates, however, that patience turned on its head. There were crowds—large ones—hugging the entranceway. Of their existence, he was not surprised. Of their contents? The people of subject? Shoto was flabbergasted. While the obligatory reporters, fans, and parents lined the spiked gates, the crowd that got his attention was composed of students. Half of 1A was swarming a single, green haired girl.
His heels picked up their pace as he got closer, recognizing the mob for what it was. By the time he was in earshot, he rammed into the crowd like a battering ram. Reaching the center in a matter of moments, he nearly tackled Setsuna to the ground. She jerked at his touch, but relaxed a moment later as Shoto began shooing off 1A. The students stepped back, but did not leave. He recognized a few people in the crowd, but he had few names for faces. It took all of his available brainpower, but he was able to—just barely—recall overhearing one red-headed boy's name.
"Kirishima!" Shoto said, pointing at him with one arm and covering Setsuna with the other. "What's the meaning of this? If you're starting a fight, do it during the festival, where it's fair. Ten on one?"
Kirishima, the one indicated, went bug-eyed at the accusation. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was the vine-haired girl beside him who spoke. Immediately, she raised her hands in surrender, and urged her class to take another step back.
"No! No fighting, we're only curious!" She said, before looking at Setsuna. "Sorry for crowding you, Tokage, but we really need to know."
"Know what?" Shoto asked, when Setsuna failed to answer.
"What happened to Midoriya?" A tall, masked boy said. Looking at him, Shoto couldn't recall his name, but something about his slow, careful eloquence contrasted against his wide frame reassured him. Slowly, he lowered the arm covering up Setsuna.
"What do you mean?" Shoto asked.
"He has a gnarly shiner, dude," Kirishima supplied, before sucking on the inside of one cheek. "Plus, y'know, the other stuff."
"The other stuff? What?" Shoto asked again, feeling like he bit off more than he could chew in rescuing Setsuna. Then again, she looked shell shocked. They had a competition in just under two hours—they didn't have the luxury of stressing out. Better he bare some of the burden than let her suffer.
"Midoriya isn't good, dude! I've barely seen him, since… y'know… and when I waved at him this morning, he just glared at me like I was some freakshow?" An electric blond said, acting out the exchange with pinched brows and energetic hand-gestures. Before Shoto could digest that, another voice chimed in—one so quiet he barely even caught it.
"Midoriya has gone cold turkey, and Mr. Aizawa won't tell us why," A bird-headed boy said, his human-like eyes staring over Shoto's shoulder. "We know he knows, but he deflects all our questions. I too saw Midoriya this morning. Though I didn't greet him, I was near him long enough to observe what I suspect were more bruises ringing his collar. With Mr. Aizawa not helping, our options are exhausted. Right now, before the Festival, feels like the last chance we'll get to figure out what's wrong. So, we hoped his friend could tell us."
Turning to Setsuna, the bird-headed boy bowed deep at the waist.
"Sorry, Tokage. We got ahead of ourselves."
Setsuna licked her lips, and only now did Shoto notice the deep, purple bags under her eyes. Instead of just standing there as she'd been doing, she shook her head.
"No, I understand… but I haven't spoken to him since the USJ. I don't think…"
"I haven't either," Shoto said, finishing where Setsuna's sentence trailed off. Looking around, he saw a few surprised faces, but many just frowned even deeper. "But that's no reason to crowd Set like that."
He gave the crowd a firm glare, but a soft hand on his shoulder eased him.
"No, no, Shoto. It's alright. You know I would do worse if the situation was reversed." She said, whispering in his ear.
"So…" Kirishima said, his strong features settling into an even stronger frown. "Not even you two know? Damn…"
Neither Shoto nor Setsuna said anything, instead allowing the crowd to fall into silence. In the back of his mind, Shoto was aware that reporters were beginning to gather around them, but there were so few and so unobtrusive that he didn't say anything.
The first person to break the silence came as a surprise. Shoto failed to identify the speaker. It was as though the voice came from thin air.
"What will you do?" The voice said. 1A parted as a girl pushed her way into the crowd—or, at least, Shoto assumed they were a girl. Collar up, there were no hints towards their gender whatsoever. It was just empty space. From the way everyone turned to Setsuna, however, he guessed the invisible girl was looking at her. Stopping just short of them, she repeated herself. "What will you do?"
Setsuna sucked in a near-inaudible breath, but it was sturdier than the others. With a careful, unseen hand, he reached around and supported his fingertips against her back. He gave her a small, encouraging shove. Though Izuku was probably his best friend, he knew that he was not Izuku's. That was Setsuna. Maybe that should've been upsetting, but he couldn't begrudge them for being in love. Shoto figured that would make him a bad friend.
And he hated being a bad friend. Once, he might not have cared, but those times were long since past. So, he gave Setsuna all his support in Izuku's absence, and the smile she briefly returned him confirmed it was the correct choice.
She stepped forward, and placed her hands over the invisible girl's shoulders. Shoto stepped up with her, but reframed from touching her. The girls seemed to share something apart from him, and while he felt like an intruder, he was no more intruding than their ten and growing spectators.
Setsuna whispered something unheard in the girl's ear. Pulling back, her face came away more serious than it was moments prior, but also more clear—like telling the girl something lifted a weight from her shoulders.
"Thanks for being concerned, guys. I know he appreciates it, even if he doesn't show it. Rest assured, we'll… talk… to him."
Shoto almost frowned, but configured his expression at the last second. That's all he'd done this last month—talking. To no response. Still, something in her voice gave him an odd hope.
Before 1A could ask for her clarification, the dam broke. Reporters surged through their ranks, and Shoto found himself on the business end of more than one microphone.
"Hey, you're 1Z, right? Are you here to challenge your juniors?"
"1A, what's your opinion on competing with 1Z? Do you think any of you have a shot at stealing a spot?"
"How does it feel to be responsible for the crime drop in recent weeks?"
"You're Endeavor's son! What's that like? Does your father have big expectations?"
"Enough!" A shrill feminine voice announced, momentarily freezing everyone in the crowd. For a moment, he thought the authority belonged to a teacher—but in fact, it was not. An elegant brunette leapt into the crowd and began pulling students through the gate, saving them from the oppressive reporters. "Do not bother the students before their Festival! You may ask questions afterwards! Sorry, thank you, goodbye!"
Pale, nimble fingers snatched his and Setsuna's elbows and heaved them out. Moments later, on the other side of U.A.'s gates, Shoto found himself free and safe. Yaoyorozu dove back in a moment later and pulled out more and more of 1A—but by then, the floodgates were open. The class scrambled after them even without Yaoyorozu's influence, and soon, the gates were far behind them, their mingled classes migrating as a group. Talk of Izuku faded. Soon, the reporter's questions began to set in.
Reminders of the Sports Festival brought a new, tense energy among them. It was powerful enough to cause an awkward stir. One girl—brunette, bob cut, odd device hugging her ear—reached out to pinch a crease on Setsuna's uniform.
"Hey," she said, and her tone sounded odd, like cotton balls sat under her tongue. "Thank you. For, y'know, Izuku. But… don't think that we're going to go easy on you guys for it."
Shoto raised an eyebrow, but Setsuna just chortled and eased the girl off her uniform.
"Of course not. I would've reached out to him anyways. Please try your best."
The brunette nodded, and rejoined the buzzing 1A. They reached a fork in U.A.'s path, one for the main building and one for the dedicated Z complex. The crowd hesitated. Shoto did not.
"Good luck," Shoto said, and turned down his path. His decisiveness seemed to jumpstart everyone else, and soon Yaoyorozu and Setsuna followed behind, waving goodbye. He slowed, letting them catch up, before springing a question on them.
"Who was that brunette, and why did she call Izuku, Izuku?"
Setsuna shrugged.
"Uraraka. Don't know her well. I think she might've been a part of that big fight with… Darkshadow? They've been close since school started."
"Hm," Shoto hummed, expecting that to be the end of things—but he was incorrect. Yaoyorozu shifted beside him, awkward, before seemingly some invisible dam broke.
"It was myself and Iida who… er, saved her, at the USJ. But, I suppose… oh, heavens, how should I put this? We saved her from herself, rather than from the Crow."
Both Shoto and Setsuna turned to Yaoyorozu in sync.
"Ahem," Setsuna said, coughing into a fist. "Elaborate."
Cheeks tinged pink, Yaoyorozu nodded and studied her skirt as they walked.
"From what I've been told, her captor was a man named Nemoto. He tried to torture and interrogate her. He was asking after Midoriya, for whatever reason, but she refused to give him up, even under torture. After a way-too-long time, she finally turned the tables and managed to tackle him…"
Yaoyorozu's fingers balled up her skirt.
"She almost beat him to death, after that. I had to pull her off him before she really, actually murdered him. Uraraka is a rescue type, yes, but she can take and dish out a serious beating. When it was all over, her blood was indistinguishable from his. So, she's more than just a concerned bystander. Really, Uraraka is incredible, despite that soft appearance. She bled for him."
Shoto whistled. He hadn't known that anyone in 1A was that hardy. It didn't concern him in regards to his performance—he was confident that there would be little competition in 1A. Setsuna clicked her tongue.
"Then we're sisters in that regard. I should thank her later."
Yaoyorozu's chin popped up, her eyes wide.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I almost forgot about your own injuries in that battle. You were hurt protecting him?" She asked, something wavering in her voice. Shoto couldn't decide whether it was concern or awe.
Setsuna kept her eyes straight ahead.
"It wouldn't be the first time. I lost a leg for him, once."
Yaoyorozu's eyes flicked down to Setsuna's pale ankles for a slip second before returning to her eyes.
"Uh… leg?"
At that, Setsuna turned and offered a shark-like grin. There was honest humor in her expression, but also a subtle, forced mirth that Shoto doubted Yaoyorozu picked up on. Something heavy was bugging her, and Shoto was relatively certain he knew what—who—was on her mind.
"I got better."
A small chime of laughter rang from Yaoyorozu's throat, and Shoto couldn't help but appreciate the musical lilt to it.
Her laughter filled the silence between them as they reached the Z building. Despite himself, Shoto felt his cheeks tug into a smile. It was a welcome distraction—and quite the beautiful song. As they reached the 1Z doors, however, and Shoto opened the door for his female companions, the most shocking scream disrupted the song's tail end.
"You'll never fucking understand, goddamnit!" Bakugo snarled, his voice nearly cracking with the emphasis on each curse. That, despite its abruptness, was not what shocked them, however. It was who he said it to.
Fist balled, Izuku spun away from Bakugo's curses with a pale, unseeing expression on his face. Shoto froze. Yaoyorozu froze. Setsuna froze. Izuku didn't even notice them, despite looking straight at them. It was like they were invisible. Bakugo breathed like an overheated dog, his face contorting and furious. By contrast, Izuku looked like a porcelain angel—all except for the dark shiner swelling around his eye.
Without so much as a glance their way, he walked past them and out the door. Each movement looked uncomfortable—mechanical, without the oil to grease his hinges.
Before Izuku could get far, Setsuna leapt into action.
"Izu!" She screamed, waving at him, despite his turned back. "Izuku Midoriya, what the hell is going on? Where are you going?"
She took a step towards him, but Shoto caught her elbow before she could break into a chase. There was something off about his exit. He doubted even her concern could shake the funk off him. Shoto recognized the empty look in his eyes better than anyone.
Setsuna glared at him—but her wrath quickly shifted. Tearing herself free, she marched up to a slowly-calming Bakugo and got right up in his face.
Shoto blinked, his fingers twitching in the same position he'd held her. She'd overpowered him. Comedically so. It took his brain a second to comprehend and catch up. With two heavy blinks, his eyes jumped and followed her.
She couldn't have done that before. What kind of training did she do…?
"What the fuck was that, Bakugo? What the fuck. Was that. Just. Now?"
Setsuna was so close to Bakugo that she could have bitten off his nose, if the urge so much as overcame her. Shoto's fingers twitched again. If whatever monstrous strength in her arm translated to her jaw's strength, then she could do it with ease.
To his credit, Bakugo neither cowed, nor retaliated in kind. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, gathered himself, and squared his shoulders.
"None of your business. Your ass wasn't supposed to see that."
"See it? You mean hear it? Because I'm pretty sure half the fucking country just heard you curse him—"
Yaoyorozu slipped past Shoto and pulled Setsuna back by the arm. She let her.
A vein throbbed in Bakugo's temple. For a moment, Shoto thought he might blow up on her. After a few seconds, however, he tore his eyes away, slouched, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He glanced in Shoto's direction before meandering off towards the elevator. Bakugo did not wait for them. With a single button press, the doors closed on him and he disappeared.
Now alone and silent, both Shoto and Yaoyorozu listened to Setsuna's heavy, irate breaths. One step at a time, Shoto approached Setsuna from the other side and placed a hand on her other arm. He felt a shudder ring down her spine.
Straightening, Setsuna calmed her erratic breathing and sighed. Shoto and Yaoyorozu released her. Even when she appeared relaxed, however, Shoto noted her stiff fingers and tense jaw. He wriggled his nose, and hoped she wouldn't bite it off.
"Let's go," he said, his voice soft. "We can talk about it later. Whirlwind's waiting."
The girls nodded just as the elevator pinged, announcing its return.
When they exited the elevator, they found a very, very quiet wreck room. No one seemed willing to mention, or even acknowledge, Bakugo's outburst down stairs. Instead, the final three slotted in with the six, and they gathered around Whirlwind.
"Today we are challenged," Whirlwind began, his voice thick and grave—but somehow eloquent. Somewhat like Shoto's father, but without the harshness. "By the very school that nurtures us. As the pinnacle of U.A.'s first years, we are what others strive for. The Sports Festival is a competition designed to more accurately place you among peers. Performance is everything—it can make or break your academic future. Winners join better classes, losers are bumped down. Just because we are the best, however, does not mean there's no more room for upward movement. Do not think that means you can only go down! Do your best, Cadets—find a reason to win. Because winning means you are better. And being better gives you opportunities you wouldn't otherwise have. If you haven't found that motivation, you have an hour. Find it. That reason to fight. To struggle. Find your Everest. Remember—the first two rounds are for weeding out. The finale will always be a fight. Make sure to bring your tooth and nail."
"Yes, sir!" 1Z said. Shoto joined the chant, like everyone else, but he felt left out. His mind was far away, in his traditional, fireproof living room. Why had Whirlwind echoed his father? Were they in cahoots? Was it a coincidence? Was it the Baader-Meinhof-Phenomenon?
"Oh, and if any one of you drop before the third, you're all on cleaning duty."
Shoto wrestled with those questions as Whirlwind dismissed them to their locker rooms. He fell in step before Honenuki and Iida and just behind Bakugo. He followed him across the large room, slipping into the elevator right beside them. Both boys found comfortable spots in the back as all the boys squeezed in the one elevator. They did not acknowledge the other.
Shoto was Heatseeker. He knew that, now—he'd found it among the many, many broken fabrics of his subconscious. On a deep, fundamental level, he wanted the world to be a kinder place. One where the injustices his family suffered could never happen again. But that was a reason to work. Not to fight.
What reason did he have to harm another person? To compete?
Questions clouded his attention like relentless mosquitos. He wanted to slap himself on more than one occasion—all the way until he was half-dressed and slipping on U.A.'s gym uniform. Like a toddler gaining consciousness for the first time, he let the top hang awkwardly off his arm as he grabbed his phone. Turning to a corner, he swiped open the messages to Izuku.
He recognized that look in his eyes—trauma had many dialects, but Shoto was fluent regardless. Perhaps Shoto didn't have a reason to fight. His motivation always lay with family, with helping people. Battle—that lust for success his father nearly destroyed his family for—was rarely the true answer in his book. For once, however, the Venn Diagram of "family needing help," and "fighting is the answer," seemed to be a circle.
While he wasn't privy to the drama between Setsuna and Izuku, he did know one thing. His friend loved to fight, and he needed cheering up.
Shoto: Hey, I know you're having a tough time right now, but I've given it some serious thought. Whirlwind said the same thing as my father. I'm not interested in the win, but it'd be a waste to not challenge myself. If there's any mountain I want to climb, any challenge I want to take, it'd be you. You'll be my Everest, today. Good luck, Izuku.
Shoto did not expect a reply, and tossed his phone into his locker.
So he was shocked when his locker buzzed, echoed by the thin metal chamber.
(Unknown Number): Do your best.
[x]
"What the fuck?" Katsuki asked, staring at Dek—Izuku. "Who fucked your face?"
Katsuki hated himself.
Scrambling to stand, Izuku recovered his footing. His bag still lay on the floor where he dropped it—of course, thanks to Katsuki's poor self awareness. They turned the same corner and wham—they both went teetering. Except, of course, it was Izuku, so he tottered as well, and tumbled to top it off. And of course, instead of reaching out a hand to help him back up, Katsuki just froze, too shocked to move, as Izuku regained his bearings
And, of course, when Izuku finally retrieved his back and met Katsuki's eyes, he couldn't help but point out the obvious—the purple ring around his eye.
At least Izuku seemed as tongue-tied as him. He opened his mouth, almost as if to scream, but no complaint berated Katsuki's rude ears. Instead of a gale, Izuku released a breeze.
"Sorry," Izuku whispered, sidestepping around Katsuki. "Wasn't paying attention."
Katsuki couldn't help but roll his eyes. Clearly, Katsuki couldn't have been paying attention either, otherwise he wouldn't have shoulder checked the amputee. That'd just be wrong.
It was weird seeing Izuku walk past him. That brat he'd hated with all his heart back in preschool was gone. Now he didn't even feel annoyed—just a weird sort of heat. The boy in the river was gone, and not even his silhouette remained. Why would his chest feel so hot if he had no reason to hate shitty Deku anymore? Why would he be angry if shitty Deku wasn't even shitty Deku anymore?
Why was he so, so angry? It was beyond him.
As Izuku walked away, Katsuki watched the way he drifted the path from side to side. It was like trailing behind a drunk driver. He frowned. The Sports Festival was only an hour or two out. Did he get any sleep?
Something shifted in his gut. A decisive puzzle piece—a willful, spontaneous part of his soul—urged him to break his no-contact rule.
"Hey!" Katsuki called out. Izuku froze mid-step. It was impossible to miss the way his shoulders curled inwards. Slowly, he turned, but his eyes remained downcast.
"Yes?"
Katsuki didn't know what compelled him to do this—or even where he found the courage. In the corner of his eye, the Z complex crowned a rolling hill across campus. It was eerie—quiet and empty. Most U.A. students weren't even at school yet. Only Katsuki's class should be in their building. Despite the empty campus, however, it was almost claustrophobic—like the tension for today's events choked the very air.
Or maybe that was just his indigestion, talking to Izuku. The boy just stared at him, his eyes wide and stupefied as Katsuki caught up to him.
He meant to say "walk with me," but it came out as him shoving Izuku towards the Z complex. Izuku made a sound of protest, but followed anyway. They were both at school incredibly early. He had no excuse not to walk—punctuality wasn't a concern yet.
The walk was tense. Despite Katsuki's insistence on bringing Izuku with him, he hadn't yet figured out why. Was it the tightness in his chest? Was it the curiosity, to see if the old Deku still lurked in this sketchy amputee?
Maybe he just wanted thanks for saving his ass at the USJ. Katsuki decided that must've been it. No other reason made sense.
Then again… a weird sort of pity filled his chest when he thought of that day. And anger. Always anger. That ginger knockoff bitch put his hands on someone he knew. This thought alone made his blood boil. With occasional glances, Katsuki assessed Izuku.
He seemed to have recovered. Whatever damage that man did, it hadn't been very physical. As broken as he'd looked back at the USJ, his health seemed back at it's peak—though there were signs. Besides the shiner, there were bags under his eyes. His skin, too, seemed worse off—more papery and pale, almost translucent. Despite his persistent lopsided-posture, his shoulders slouched an abnormal amount.
Katsuki didn't know this person, he reminded himself. This wasn't his little punching bag anymore. He had no way of knowing what Izuku's new "normal" looked like.
Despite all that, this didn't seem to be it. Even if he'd healed the physical damage, the USJ seemed to have left a deeper mark. It wasn't hard to imagine the culprit.
Still, a little human compassion went a long way.
He meant to ask him if he was good. How his wounds healed. If his recovery went well. If his classmates were anything similar. If his training in the intervening month since their last meeting went well. Hell, he even wanted to congratulate the guy. Even if Katsuki saved Izuku, Izuku saved Tokage, and a bunch of other small fry. Izuku might've been a big fish in a little pond, but he put that to good use. 1A was alive because of him. Instead…
"If you're trying to get into 1Z, you should give up."
Katsuki did not take another step forward. He was so dumbfounded at his own tongue that his knees locked up. Instantly, he knew he hit a nerve. It was a nearly invisible tick—a quirk of his eyebrows. They pinched, just like they did when they were kids—Katsuki cursed. He didn't know this person. If he kept comparing him to little Deku—
"Can't," Izuku said, stopping in tune with him. His eyes focused straight ahead as he spoke, reminding Katsuki of a robot. His voice, too, came out as though through a rusted, ancient speaker. It was little more than a hollow whisper. "I'm career oriented."
"Bullshit," Katsuki said, before he could stop himself. "You're "hero" oriented. Well, you got your wish last month. You saved a bunch of weaklings. Quit while you're ahead, you're good where you are."
"Can't," Izuku repeated. Katsuki could almost hear the rust and grime break apart as the gears inside Izuku's knees began to turn again. He took a step forward, and Katsuki found himself following, not leading. Their destination was less than a minute away—but every second felt like twice that stretch.
"You broke up with your girl. She's in 1Z. It would make things weird."
Katsuki wanted to scream. Why did he keep talking?"
"She was never mine. I can be cordial."
Katsuki scoffed, momentarily forgetting his shame in Izuku's absurdity.
"Not yours? The fuck do you mean? You don't have a clue what you fuckin' meant to her, do you? You had her wrapped around your finger. The fuck was even up with that?"
Izuku momentarily misstepped, but recovered before he fell.
"I helped her get into U.A.; I think she was just thankful."
That gave him pause.
"You did what? The fuck?"
Izuku peered over his shoulder as they approached the Z complex. His eyes had a flat sort of texture.
"I'm the reason she got into 1Z."
"You…"
"Trained with her. Got her an instructor."
"...And you're just happy to leave her now that you're here? What kind of asshole brings a girl all the way to the cusp and just… lets her go?"
That same, willful puzzle piece cracked down the middle. There was something fundamentally wrong with this newfound information. A memory, deep from the bowls of his skull, began to drip feed into his consciousness.
Izuku didn't say anything. He just turned back around and pushed through the twin glass doors. Neither knew why he was here, and it was beginning to grate on Katsuki's already frayed nerves. He'd been the one to bring him along, but it was Izuku who crossed that gap.
The boy spun in a circle, studying the lobby. So far as Katsuki was aware, this was the first time he'd stepped foot inside the building.
"It's empty."
"Don't be a fucking nitwit," Katsuki said, shoving past him. "Everyone's upstairs."
Izuku's slow spinning ceased.
"...Everyone?"
"Fuck no. The girl isn't here. Or the other one. Or the half-and-half."
"...Okay. Well. Why am I here?"
"Because…" Katsuki began, before feeling that molten heat in his chest bubble. Why was he here? What on earth was Katsuki accomplishing with this? He'd told Tokage himself—the best medicine was to piss off. Nothing changed from then to now. Yet, here he was.
Then again, something definitely happened between knocking the guy on his ass and walking him here. That pity—that guilt for the USJ—melted.
"...You don't know when to fucking quit, do you?" Katsuki finished.
Immediate sidestep. Pinch brows, glassy eyes, loose jaw—recovery, hard blinks, pupils dilating. It all happened in a fraction of a second—but Katsuki knew where to look.
The pity merged with the underlying anger, and suddenly a shitstorm of syllables flooded outwards. Words he cobbled together, rather than said.
He remembered seeing a little shrubbery on the playground—Izuku's green scalp—playing with an action figure. It wasn't one he recognized at the time. In his eyes, it was american-made, with blond hair and a crimson cape in the western style. He'd prided himself, in the moment, for recognizing that fact. In retrospect, however, it was obviously All Might. Izuku introduced the hero to him later, and that became his nexus moment—the exact millisecond his life path changed.
He supposed that Midoriya's nexus moment with All Might was a tad more unsettling. The lava pool within swallowed any pity those thoughts generated, however. Guilt, something he'd wrestled with for years, was likewise devoured. What Katsuki released wasn't venom—it was magma. Hot garbage.
"You… You did it again… You made another one, but you can't—won't, see it through…" Katsuki said, feeling his cheeks flush and his heart rate rise. A small pop alerted him that his quirk misfiring by his hip. Izuku took a step back. "You… I can't believe it, you fucker."
"I…"
"How… How dare you? Is this how you get your kicks? Setting people up?" Only to disappoint them?
It was Izuku who brought All Might into Katsuki's life. It was Izuku who was there when he left. Katsuki hadn't had an easy night's rest since. Ever since that day—ever since that nanosecond Katsuki recognized Izuku on the news—everything went wrong. His life went off course—off the path Izuku started him on.
"You don't belong in 1Z," Katsuki spat. Please, get away from me. "Stay in your pond, and out of our way. If you're too wuss to even own up to your girl, then you don't have what it fucking takes. You'd just get in our way. Again."
He might as well have shanked Izuku, watched his blood drain, and then slammed his chest with a wrecking ball. For a dull, empty moment, Katsuki genuinely thought he killed the boy with words alone. Then his jaw moved. What leapt from his throat was less words and more air, but Katsuki heard him clear as day.
"You… think I killed him." Izuku said. Every ounce of pain he just inflicted on Izuku felt like it rebounded with twice the force. No! No, he didn't! So many conflicting feelings warred in his chest that he felt his ribs might crack. Why couldn't he just say what he meant? Words failed him. They always had—for six years now.
For a brief, disturbingly clear second, every ounce of Katsuki Bakugo wanted to tell Izuku that he didn't believe he killed All Might—but his mouth moved independently. Ideas, feelings, facts—they all melted together into a foul damascus blade of negativity, his tongue a treacherous swordsman.
"He's fucking gone, Deku! You can't own up to anything, can you?" He said, his voice rising in pitch. Whatever friendship they had as children died long, long ago. Katsuki's stakes in his personal life were non-existent. Why did Izuku abandoning his friend anger him so much?
In his frenzy, he did not notice the slowly approaching shadows over Izuku's shoulder. He took another step back towards the door.
Izuku seemed to curl in on himself, yet he didn't move an inch. He didn't even blink, throughout Katsuki's barrage. It made him even more angry.
Why? Why couldn't he just say what he meant? Why did all these feelings bunch up his tongue, befouling his every intention? When did he become this way? Why? How? It happened at the USJ—hell, it happened on that stupid train. Everywhere he went, Katsuki failed.
Why?
He was a shaken soda can, already bubbling—but he only exploded once Izuku uttered the one thing he shouldn't have.
"You're right," Izuku said-whispered. He was no longer with Katsuki. Current Izuku was as far from Katsuki now as little Deku was, lost in his own world. "I'm sorry I took him from you."
No! Katsuki screamed internally. Why? Why, why, why? What was so broken in him without All Might? Was he truly so pathetic that a parasocial relationship was enough to break him?
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the answer. Standing there, his fists balled and tears threatening his cheeks, he felt like a fool frozen in time. Every ounce of air choked him, suffocated him. Standing there, speaking, just hurt. He couldn't do it.
"You'll never fucking understand, goddamnit!" He screamed, finally admitting it to himself, Izuku, and to his dawning horror, the audience.
The girl did not take it kindly. Izuku looked like someone shot his puppy. She tried to follow Izuku, but everyone but her realized it was hopeless. So, she sicked herself on Katsuki, glaring at him with every atom constituting her face.
He couldn't meet her eyes—not really. Katsuki looked at them, but that was different from meeting them. If irises were windows to the soul, then Tokage shut her blinds.
Katsuki left as soon as he could. Rushing into the elevator, he slammed the "up" button and didn't breathe a single breath until both doors slid shut.
His back hit the elevator's wall with a dull thud. It took all his strength to not fall to his knees.
What kind of hero was he? Who was Ground Zero? Why couldn't he say what he meant? Why couldn't he be who he wanted to be?
…What kind of hero did he even want to be?
Katsuki stretched his fingers out, but they only caught thin air. He knew, once, but that fled him with All Might—alongside a host of other things. Dignity, he supposed, was one.
Soon, he joined 1Z and listened to Whirlwind's speech like a good little Cadet. He was first out of the meeting, first into the locker room, and first out.
This was not because he was excited for the Festival, or scared of facing his class, who most certainly heard his outburst. It was because he needed one last moment. Slipping away from the locker room, he found himself alone, back in the lobby, wearing his U.A. issued sweats.
With nothing better to do, he began to spin in a circle, looking around the lobby with new eyes. He couldn't seem to find it—that thing Izuku saw. How on earth could he see this room as empty? Energy and dreams filled the room to bursting—the kind that pressed so painfully against Katsuki that he grew nauseous.
The Sports Festival. Something he'd looked forward to since he began this hell-carved road. Why had he wanted this so badly? Now that he was here…
He felt nothing. Katsuki trained like hell for the last few years, but now, he just didn't feel that same passion. Being a hero was something Katsuki did because it was decided. Not because he wanted to. When did that happen? That decision, that loss of passion? Was he really so pathetic?
Questions. He had more of them than answers—by a thousand magnitudes.
When 1Z began to trickle back into the lobby, Katsuki naturally found the furthest corner from the largest group—but even that couldn't get Tokage's eyes off him. Her glare remained as constant as the northern star.
When everyone gathered, it was not Whirlwind to send them off. It was Hawks.
"You brats ready?" He asked, moments after arriving in an elevator. His patience disappeared in heartbeats. If he was any older, it might've come off as disrespectful. As it was, it was just insolent.
No, Katsuki thought. He felt drained of all emotion—or whatever lurked in his chest. Of Whirlwind's most imperative orders, Katsuki was at a total loss.
When 1Z headed out towards the Sports Festival Stadium, Katsuki followed. He did not lead the pack. Instead, he lingered, and wondered where his tooth and nail went.
[x]
AN: And the first chronological day of this finale arc begins. i liked the setsuna section a good bit, and I think I enjoy where katsuki is going. hopefully i stick the landing, but college is already kicking my ass lol
review!~