Mechanical Love,
or Something like that
"So," he said, eyebrows knitting together, "why? . . . Just, why? That's all I'm asking — nothing more, nothing less."
"Uhm, well, you seeee . . ." she coughed into her fist, eyes going anywhere but his own. She scratched her head, dirty fingers slipping through her — equally dirty — pink locks and wriggling within.
She was sheepish.
Honestly, Izuku Midoriya was surprised. Never once had he seen his classmate, and currently "Partners in Crime" — as she dubbed — Mei Hatsume, expressing something other than narcissism and egotism.
He suppressed a scowl.
This was a nightmare.
Nay.
A tragedy.
"Oh, I'm looking alright," he said through gritted teeth, "looking at my burning and crumbling dreams! . . . Literally!"
His latest invention, his greatest, was currently smoldering and melting in a heap of fire. It was a head-piece, akin to Support Express's top of the notch VRs, but way more advanced. Really advanced. For countless days, countless months after he'd been accepted into U.A.'s Support Course, he'd programmed something spectacular, something revolutionary — a visual-detection & highly-detailed analysis of one's own Quirk.
By just looking at someone for less than five seconds, the device could analyze the DNA structure of one's own hair or skin, go through a plethora of complex pre-programmed statistics and diagnostics, and finally get to the part of the Q-X for a solid identification of their Quirk's intricate profile.
Q-X is a third strand in the double helix, going straight between the G-C and A-T. In The Emergence of Quirks — two-hundred-plus years ago — scientists had figured out the anatomy of Quirks a mere three years after the founding of the "QRA" (Quirk Research Association), and subsequently, after the symptoms of Quirks first burgeoned forth around the globe.
Back then, it took three years to diagnose a Quirk. Even now, centuries later, it took doctors two hours of tests and X-rays for the same result — he'd done it in less than five seconds.
And it was turning ash right in front of his very eyes.
His future company. His luxurious lifestyle. His one-way ticket to being recognized as a genius — and the blissful ignorance of the fact that he was low in the social hierarchy as a Quirkless . . . gone. Just like that.
He could begin anew, trace back his steps in meticulous observation to reconvent the invention again, maybe make it even greater than it was now — but he couldn't.
He just couldn't.
It was too much work. Too many moons, too many suns, too many sleepless nights and days . . . and too many blood, tears, sweats, mental and physical breakdowns.
He was tired.
Thrice mentally, physically, and of her.
Speaking of which, she just slightly smiled and waved him off. Like she didn't just hurt him in more ways than one. His fists clenched. His jaw locked and ticked every so often. His tense-lips were pursed in a frown, but it was slowly trying to part into a scowl.
"Well, what can I say? Accidents happen! Anyway, I gotta go see about Baby #182! Her post processing must be finished by now!" Mei said awkwardly, turning her heel faster than was necessary.
He took a deep breath, and he realized it was much heavier than normal. Like swallowing a glob of lead. It went down his throat very slowly, but once it reached his stomach, it digested faster than he could rationally think of his actions clearly.
He dashed after her, grabbing and harshly clamping down on one of her arms. She stopped and yelped out in pain. Deep within him, he winced and felt shame that he caused her pain — but his anger overpowered that shame.
"Six months! One-hundred eighty-two-and-a-half days! All that progress, gone! Fucking gone!" he screamed, loud enough to rattle even his own ears. "Do you think you can just put it off as just an accident!? Accident!? Give me a break! That's bullshit and you know it! You're just jealous! You've always been!"
As he yelled, he yanked her closer to himself. Their faces were inches apart. If he wasn't neck-deep in a sea of red, he might've blushed crimson by the proximity of their lips. He didn't, however. He was used to this kind of closeness — a habit he had to pick up to save his dignity, as Mei had no knowledge of personal space.
Again for the second time that day, Mei was conveying emotions he hadn't known she could. Visibly, she was biting her lip. And more visible to his own eyes were hers; as prickles of tears were welling up at the corners.
He faltered, genuine confusion washing over him. So did the regret. And the guilt.
Oh, crap . . . he thought, his grip loosening, oh, crap crap crap! What? Why? Why now? Is Mei actually crying? What? How? Wasn't she just an insensitive narcissist? Holy shit! What am I doing?
"I—I'm s-s–sorry," he said, letting her go and taking a step back, "I—I—it was my f-f-fault! S-s—sorry for la—lashing out! A—are y-you . . . you o—okay?"
She just stared at him, holding her arm — which was red — close to her chest. He noticed that her eyes — glossy and tears actually falling — zoomed in-and-out quickly, a tick that he picked up being a sign of sensory overload over the time he knew her.
His stomach twisted into a spiral.
Finally, she moved. Not toward him, but away.
She sniffled.
It twisted to the point that he grabbed his abdomen.
She moaned quietly, clearly suppressing a sob.
It felt like he was stabbed. His fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt.
Her lips quivered.
"I—I'm s-s-sorry."
He wanted to hurl. Her voice was so quiet, so broken, so unnatural of her. And it was all his fault for getting emotional. Despite the threat of bile bursting through, he tried to dismiss her apology of being unnecessary — he was the one supposed to do the apologizing.
"No. I—it's not your fault! I should be the one to—"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Mei said, curling in on herself.
"No, don't do that! It's my fault! Alright! I shouldn't have touched you, or said anything that mean to you!"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Please, Mei," he said desperately. The heat was unbearable. "don't do that. Don't say that."
She continued to repeat the words. As painful as it was, Izuku moved toward her despite his better judgment. And judge it did. As he inched closer to her, Mei flinched and took a step back. Then another, and another, and another before she ran out of the classroom all together — repeating 'I'm sorry.' all the while.
He wanted to chase after her, but he kneeled after the first step.
He fucked up, and the way that his stomach killed itself and made him curl into a fetus, his body knew it much better than his mind.
Can this even be considered a one-shot? Idk, never read much of em. I wanted to add more to this, but I couldn't find a work-around. I'm bored and the world is ending soon anyways, what do I care?