And thus, a month of espionage followed.
Setsuna figured him out by the end of the Assembly's school week. While Izuku first thought simply not reaching out to his former friend would be a solid way of keeping his distance, she soon proved him wrong. It felt as though she was everywhere. He saw her in the halls, in the lunchroom—hell, he even saw her peek through 1A's homeroom door. She knew his schedule better than he did, it seemed. The only reason he survived that first week was thanks to his dual enrollment at Shimisuka.
It was the only place he was safe.
Perhaps, if he was a stronger person, he could've tolerated her appearances.
But he was not.
Izuku innovated as fast as he could. He began taking new routes down the halls—and when she discovered those paths, he began alternating them on irregular rotations. One excuse became two, and two became three, and four became the norm. From that week onwards, Izuku no longer ate lunch with his friends in 1A. Setsuna escaped from the 1Z building on the regular, often just to visit the lunch room. Instead, Izuku took up sharing his lunch with Aizawa in the teacher's lounge.
It was an inverted war of information—one Izuku fought to maintain his ignorance. The less he saw of Setsuna, he reasoned, the easier things would be. If he continued to pine, the break would only grow more difficult.
When Izuku was at home, he was afraid. He couldn't help but think of his former friend, and her threat of breaking into his house. She once claimed to have no reservation for breaking and entering—but that wasn't what worried him most. What truly scared him was her arriving at his front door, and his mother letting her in.
He wrestled with this fear for the entire first week, but when no beautiful green-haired girl showed up, he slowly relaxed. Sure, yes, she may be hounding him at school, but it seemed she was respecting him to a certain point. Izuku loved that about her—
It was halfway through the second week when something changed. Unfortunately, nothing changed with Setsuna, but it was a welcome change nonetheless. It was a day in which he spent his morning at Shimisuka. Perhaps it shouldn't surprise him, but with nearly all his notifications muted, the gossip failed to reach him before he arrived.
Slipping through the cafeteria, Izuku kept his head down. His face flushed with the small attention on him, as it did everyday. The table he used to sit with openly stared at him. Each of their eyes buried deep into him, either confused, concerned, or slighted. Izuku hadn't managed to hold a real conversation with any of them since the Assembly.
The only person he met eyes with was Lunch Rush. As much as Izuku wished to shrink in a ball and hide, he couldn't ignore the generosity of the man. His food was magnificent, and Izuku knew he'd feel worse if he disregarded the man's efforts. Lunch Rush gave him a slow, purposeful blink, and Izuku felt reinvigorated to shuffle out the cafeteria and down the hall.
He passed Snipe on the way, and the america-loving hero gave him a proud head-bob. Izuku tried to pass it back, but he felt as though he'd miss timed it. Something constricted around his heart when he glimpsed a particular swamp-green bouncing down the hall, but he lost her by slipping into the nearest room. Luckily, it happened to be his destination.
Meandering through the quality leather couches and paper-cluttered cubicles, Izuku found himself setting down his lunch tray beside Aizawa's wheelchair.
He nodded a greeting and broke open his chopsticks. Neither stick made it so far as a single rice grain before he did a double take. Aizawa's chair was empty, and the man himself was stretching next to a nearby window. Standing, Izuku caught Aizawa's attention as he came out of a toe-touch. There was a small grimace lacing his cheeks when he caught Izuku's eye, but it soon morphed into a faint smirk.
"Back on my feet, as I said. How's your throat?" Aizawa asked, ceasing his stretches to collapse in his wheelchair. When he saw Izuku's questioning look, the disheveled man grunted. "Comfy thing."
"...Still tender, sir." Izuku said, half-whispering the half-truth. Though his throat, alongside his ribs, were technically healed, he was still hesitant to start shouting. It felt as though if he raised his voice enough, he'd start coughing blood again.
Aizawa nodded, and began munching on a protein bar he pulled from nowhere. The man didn't even drink anything with it—just ate the crumbly thing dry. Izuku picked at his rice and eggs with all the enthusiasm of a bulimic. It did not take Aizawa long to take notice.
"Kid," he said, grumbling. "You're not a bird. What's making you eat like one?"
Izuku sunk his chopsticks into the center of his bowl. He watched the soft, fluffy rice part and allow one of the sticks to fall over. It made a dull clink against the ceramic bowl's rim. It still smelled hot, as though he sat next to a cracked oven.
"I… don't think Nighteye can teach me to fight." He said, after a long moment. Aizawa just raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to continue. Izuku rubbed ginger circles around his adam's apple, already feeling the strain. "He's the best fighter I know, but… he's like me. I guess you remember Nedzu's theory on my quirk?"
"Temporary quirk title: Chimera. Tentacle-like whips, gaseous camouflage, and suspected sixth sense." Aizawa said, not missing a beat. As the words left his lips, however, his eyes narrowed. "Sixth sense, huh? I think I understand."
With a heavy nod, Izuku acknowledged him.
"Yes," Izuku whispered, pausing to wet his throat. "For danger. It's… potent, and it's the reason I can fight at my caliber. I know how much and what kind of danger I'm in. It works both ways, too—I can feel the danger others are in. I know what kind of hits will hurt the most, do the most damage, or whatever… When I'm in the groove, that ability makes most of my decisions. It's just up to me to follow up. It saved lives in the USJ… but it almost got me killed. Multiple times."
"Over-reliance?"
Izuku started shaking his head, paused, and ultimately nodded.
"Abusing it can fry me like a bad high—or shred my neurons like an aneurysm. I can't not use it—and I never will stop—but when Dark Shadow went out of control… when they erased my quirk… it was like fighting blind."
"And since Nighteye uses his prescience to dictate his own decisions in a fight, you think that his reliance translates into an inability to teach you real martial arts independent of your quirk."
Izuku started shaking his head, paused, and ultimately nodded.
"...When I was younger, before I had a danger sense, I struggled a lot. He made me good, back then, but not good enough. I had good reflexes, but I struggled to make decisions. That became a null factor with D—er, the sixth sense, so I'm afraid I'm rusty on the good ole fashioned way."
Aizawa's hand drifted down to his gut. Something rolled around his brain behind his eyes, but Izuku couldn't tell what. Izuku remained on edge, however, given the truth he'd just revealed. Already, he could feel One for All constricting his already tender throat.
"I'm not stupid, Midoriya. I understand hints when I get them."
Izuku's eyes shot open. Half-standing, he waved his hand in front of his face.
"No no no! I wasn't trying to—You're hurt, and I don't deserve any kind of special treatment—"
"I'm not allowed to play favorites, Midoriya," Aizawa said, stopping him in his embarrassed panic. Izuku flushed and slowly sat back down. Before he could apologize again, however, the man kept going. "But I don't have a favorite, so I think that caveat skirts that barrier. We begin next period."
Izuku's jaw opened and closed like a fish. After a moment, he realized this was the real world, and he nodded. He attacked his bowl with renewed fervor, gulping down rice and yolk and sliced chicken strips by the bulk.
Ten minutes later, Izuku left the teacher's lounge with newfound pep in his step. His muscles—things he hadn't used much in the intervening weeks—felt spongy and hungry for quality use. Stepping into 1A's Introduction to Heroics classroom, he smiled for might've been the first time in weeks. He wasn't happy to be in class, but he was excited. Enthusiasm curbed the dull ache of his classmate's lingering eyes.
By all accounts, the class wasn't special. They suited up, went to Ground Beta, and went through standard exercises. There was little innovation in the class, which was unfortunate, but understandable. Not only was Aizawa still on the mend, the Sports Festival was coming up. It was U.A.'s most individualistic season, when staff encouraged students to advance their skills on their own time. Being such, most of Introduction to Heroics was on broad fundamentals and theory. The actual class training was more a formality than anything.
It didn't surprise Izuku much, or change anything, really. Izuku already took 1A's courses as more suggestion than law, and saved his energy for Nighteye after school. Today, in that way, was no different. Aizawa's training was not ruinous, taxing, or even difficult. Just painful.
While 1A spread out for individual time, Aizawa pulled Izuku aside. They were in a wide alleyway, some six meters wide and fifteen meters long. There was some artificial litter and a dumpster, but other than that, it was a wide, private area.
"So," Aizawa said, standing with his left hand over his gut, "what's the most important thing in a fight?"
Izuku's first thought, of course, was "having two arms." Unfortunately, that defeated the purpose of special training—and, unfortunately, it wasn't as much an option as in previous months.
Before the USJ, Blackwhip behaved itself well enough. Sometimes it got a little rowdy, and he needed to wrangle it, but it was obedient overall. Afterwards, however, that changed. It was in a constant uncontrollable state. It lashed out always, did the opposite of what he told it, and was a general public nuisance. Everytime Izuku used Blackwhip in the intervening weeks since the USJ incident, he only avoided disaster by manhandling it with Smokescreen. Once, at home, he tried summoning Voidlimb, and nearly tore the drywall from his bedroom.
Whenever he asked Five for an explanation, the large man would only cross his arms and grunt "you already know why."
Izuku did not, in fact, already know why. He only understood it as another obstacle.
He explained none of this to Aizawa. Instead, he gave the man the best answer he could.
"To always remain far enough to observe and close enough to act. The sweet spot, I guess."
Aizawa did not react but for pinching his shirt under his fingers.
"Wrong. Pace. Flow. Rhythm. These things are flowery, but all ultimately lead to the same destination: Control. Control, Midoriya, is the most important thing in a fight. How do you get control?"
For a moment, Izuku was taken aback. Of all the responses he could've received, that was the least expected. He did not prepare himself for rejection. The sweet spot had always been Nighteye's answer. Izuku thought the question was rhetorical.
"Uh… I—"
"Are you aware that people breathe?"
"...Yes…?"
"Wonderful. You're 2% of the way there. Defend yourself for fifteen seconds, and then I will defend for another fifteen. Do not hold back because of my injury."
Without a moment's delay, Aizawa sprung on him. He did not move like a man with shredded organs. In a blur of dark movement, he swung his heavy-set boot straight at Izuku's cheek. Izuku managed to dodge that one, but he would've taken the follow-up leg sweep if not for a spark from Danger Sense. Shoving himself away, Izuku attempted to breathe and suppress Danger Sense, but before he could, it went off again. Aizawa's flat palm met Izuku's ribs, right where Sashimi broke them, and the wind abandoned his lungs.
His back hit the ground, hard, but he managed to roll away from a stomp. Popping up, he tried to choke down a gulp of air and failed. He gagged at the same moment Aizawa's heel met his hip square. The impact hurt, but the shock allowed a precious mouthful of oxygen to squeeze down his throat. With Danger Sense now suppressed, he barely managed to duck under another roundhouse and backstep a follow-up butterfly.
The following few heartbeats were a wild flurry of hail marys and prayers. Without Danger Sense, Aizawa's speed almost felt uncontestable, his fists unavoidable. Adrenaline and shame alike flushed his cheeks as he remembered how well he'd defended himself against half a dozen monsters with comparative ease—and now, he couldn't even pretend to. Aizawa was the real monster between them.
As Aizawa's assault crossed the ten second milestone, however, Izuku felt something shift. Like dumping his brain in a bucket of electrolysis, he felt a rust he never noticed before breaking off. Even without Danger Sense, his eyes automatically noted the way Aizawa's shoulders twisted. He saw the way his palm flipped face up, and how his front heel swung out and slid forward. Like a hawk, he watched Aizawa's punch rocket past his cheekbone in high definition. Before that movement ended, Izuku saw how the man's left knee twisted inwards and how his weight shifted in his hips. All it took was a light shove to push the knee off-course from his gut.
For the first time in maybe years, he felt entirely aware of his opponent—without his quirk's benefit. Best of all, it'd only taken a few seconds of intense scrutiny. There was still a month until the Sports Festival—if it only took a few seconds for this, surely a month would bring around astronomical growth. Maybe even enough to leapfrog to a whole new stage of power. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to cut her out entirely—
When that fifteen second mark hit, however, Izuku's hope shattered like sugar glass. That brief sense of absolute awareness faded in a blink, and he realized he had no idea what to do. Without reaching into Aizawa's head with Danger Sense, he had no idea where he was most vulnerable. Maybe his gut? He was injured, but not only did that feel low, it also felt stupid. He was as nimble as any olympic gymnast, even with his new scar.
Izuku hesitated, and Aizawa did not appreciate it. Despite saying he would remain defensive, when Izuku failed to make a single attack within two seconds, his palm struck out like a viper. Izuku saw it and dodged, but even while Aizawa was off-balance, Izuku hesitated. It took him all of a half second—far, far too long for an opponent like Aizawa—to decide on Aizawa's lower ribs. Lunging forward, Izuku slipped through Aizawa's defense. Thinking he was home free, he punched—only for Aizawa to step aside one half-quarter second too early.
Immediately, Izuku sidestepped, expecting a counter attack—only for one to not come. Sucking in a sharp, wary breath, he scrambled to re-erect his guard—only for Aizawa's boot to plant itself firmly in his gut half-way through.
That was the attack to end their planned thirty second engagement, eleven seconds earlier than necessary. Aizawa said nothing as Izuku gathered himself, brushed off his school issued pants, and rubbed his gut.
A month ago, Izuku fought Aizawa for several minutes in a quirkless stalemate. This time, it lasted less than half a minute. The realization felt cold, and Aizawa recognized it in his eyes. He answered the silent question without leaving a shred of doubt.
"I'm trying harder and you're not well. In several categories." He said, raising up his hand. One by one, he dropped fingers. "One: You were constricted by rules. Two: Quirkless fighting isn't your specialty. Three: You disassociated mid-fight. Four: Your confidence is shot. And, of course, five: Your injuries are stifling your breathing. Or you're just bad at breathing. Haven't decided."
Izuku lowered his hand from his gut, mirroring Aizawa. The man released his gut a while ago.
"So…" Izuku began, somewhat confused under the onslaught of criticism and analysis. "My head wasn't in the game? …And I'm… injured. That's why you decimated me?"
Aizawa's face morphed into slight disappointment.
"Yes, but that's not what matters. Your breathing, Midoriya, is the most important part. Control. Pace, flow, rhythm. I led you on a string, and in this instance, I used your breathing to do so."
Izuku blinked, and Aizawa allowed him a moment to think. He recalled the fight, trying to remember when and how he breathed. As he considered the fight, he found his hand massaging his throat. It was rather sore after the quick, hard breaths.
Ultimately, he came up blank. The whole experience was a blur but for the brief clarity in the middle.
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not following." Izuku said, after a moment of intense concentration.
Aizawa's weight shifted from right to left. Something indescribable passed through his eyes. In the far distance, someone whooped and exclaimed something funny. Aizawa didn't even bat an eye as he focused on Izuku.
"...Think of it this way. Nighteye is a mathematical man. He calculates every moment to maximize his prescience. He figures out the best way to react in any given situation and he's damn good at it—speed and efficiency are his bread and butter. What I'm telling you is that if you ever want a chance at being better than him, you can't be like him. You can't counter every attack perfectly like him, even with your danger-sense thing. While you get an advanced warning—he gets to live fights twice. These things are simply incomparable."
Izuku blinked.
"I never said anything about being better than Nighteye, sir. I don't think that's possible. Or, at least, not a realistic goal."
"You're mistaken, Midoriya. You did say that—and I have nineteen witnesses."
It took several seconds for the implication to dawn on him, but even then, Aizawa beat him to it.
"Nighteye and I are peers, Midoriya. We're nearly identical in terms of overall skill, efficiency, and attitude. You promised to surpass me, and you won't be able to do that without surpassing him as well. That is, unless you want to go back on your word?"
The sheer weight of his promise settled on his shoulders as it dawned on him. Perhaps on some level he knew that day would come, but a simpler, large part of him never consciously realized it. Nighteye, he supposed, was never the summit of skill and power. The thought was a hammer blow to his chest as he realized, with dawning horror, that the true summit probably wasn't even Endeavor. It was more likely something invisible, something unforeseen and beyond even the Hellfire Hero.
His hand curled into a fist, every callous and scar burning in his mind.
"No," Izuku whispered. He wondered if he was making a mistake. It didn't feel like he could surpass someone like Nighteye—especially after being manhandled in thirty seconds. Still. "I don't want to go back on my word."
"Wonderful. You're 3% of the way there. So, if you don't want to go back on your word, then listen up, Midoriya. You're good, but your fundamentals are all wrong. Let me show you a better method to fight… And let's start with your breathing."
[x]
Oh my God.
He's the Ninth.
The moment of his old realization rang in his head as he watched the girl work.
Sorahiko was an old man, and old men reminisce. It's all they had, he thought—or, at least, it's all most of them had. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't just gum down pastries and take ginger sips of cocoa. Instead of a wonderful retirement filled with innocent grandchildren and relaxed reading, he was stuck here, settling a lover's quarrel between brats.
"Quit dawdlin', girlie! Push! I said push, damnit!" Sorahiko shouted, seeing the girl sag in place. If he was sweating, she was melting. She lay on her back, all limbs missing, as she tried lifting heavy debris with her individual floating pieces. With her face beat red from sun exposure and effort, she looked like an overbaked potato.
When Sorahiko was a brat, he'd taken a girl or two down to this beach, but it'd never worked out. Now, that was a pipedream for him. Not only was he a wrinkly old sac, the beach was a damn wreck. For miles, end to end, garbage dunes stunk up the city coast. It was a lost cause to clean the thing, but that made damn good camouflage. Anyone could cut a little loose with their quirks here, and not even law enforcement would bat an eye—especially since they refused to enter the dunes anyways.
It wasn't the girl's first time at this beach, either. As far as he was aware, the girl used to run herself and the boy ragged down here. At least, they did before Izuku welcomed her into their fold.
He respected the boy's balls to try and bring her here despite the garbage. Thirty years ago, it might've even been romantic. Their warehouse, however, was ultimately the better choice. Better teachers, better equipment, and for gods' sake, air conditioning.
"Did I hear you say you're a quitter, girl? Do you really wanna let that brat do whatever he wants? I said lift! Push! Press!" Sorahiko continued, seeing the floating debris sag around them. It'd only been two weeks, but the strength behind her telekinetic limbs was already notably better. After her shoulder healed, she'd been nothing but diligent, and Sorahiko respected the hell outta her for it.
Whereas before she could only lift half a car, now Gran Torino's horizon was filled with the almost complete component list. Axels, an engine, four wheels—two with full rubber—eight car seats, and a half-rusted body frame encircled their little clearing, and he knew she could lift more.
"We both know he's only gonna train himself ragged without you to distract him! If you want to let him widen the gap, then keep doing what you're doing!"
"Shove it, old man!" She bit out, and he let the insult glance off him. The debris lifted higher nonetheless, and more at that. A transmission joined the disassembled floating car. She was a tough one, with a weakness for the kid.
The Ninth.
…
Oh my God.
"You're not much of a girlfriend if you're just sitting on your ass, letting him act stupid!"
He thought back to that time, seeing the little boy's unique disposition. Sorahiko rarely saw that kind of intensity in anyone except veterans. Only people who saw real shit acted like that. Kids grieve differently, he knew, but that one…
"Hah!" Setsuna screamed, and a garbage dune rumbled as, to Sorahiko's shock, she pulled out an engine hood, a converter, and two bumpers. Sorahiko didn't know much about cars, but he thought he knew a full car when he saw one. In one great shove, she lifted the whole car another few feet into the sky before all at once, she went slack.
The car parts crashed into the dunes with a sickening screech. Setsuna's limbs flew back to her torso in bulk, all unharmed. Sorahiko tossed her their water, and she caught it with shaking fingers.
She savored her drink for a long moment. He thought she might call it quits then, but she did not. It was nearing sunset, and she was still working. Reaching out an arm, her hand leapt from her wrist like a grappling hook. It grabbed a half-empty bottle of sunscreen before returning. With five quick wipes, she reapplied a layer and made herself comfortable in the sand once again.
Her limbs did not smoothly break away like usual. Here, they shook and trembled and made the process look rather painful—but she broke them away anyway, and commanded them like any other exercise. She lifted the same parts with the same pieces and began her telekinetic reps once again. If her body was conventional, Sorahiko would've stopped her training an hour ago. This kind of intensity would destroy a normal girl's body—hell, even Toshinori didn't train with this kind of reckless abandon. Yes, Sorahiko ran him ragged, but only to his limits. Setsuna didn't seem to have them in the first place.
And yet, it wasn't her regeneration alone that allowed her to push forward like this. Regeneration did nothing for her in the moment. High intensity training was difficult—too difficult for most. Maxing out was something reserved for shows and bimonthly screening—not everyday workouts. It wasn't just physically dangerous, it was emotionally distressful. Most people couldn't muster the courage to push their limits a single time, and here the girl was, doing it multiple times a day, everyday, every week.
She was a specimen—a good spirit with an unbending will and a special body. Whatever designed her, they did it with incredible ingenuity. Setsuna was built to be better.
And here she was, training herself to death over a boy.
He'd call her a fool, but that would be hypocritical. Sorahiko would do nothing different in her shoes—and he made sure it stayed that way. The boy specifically asked him to train her, and train her he god-damn would.
The thought had crossed his mind, yes, of fixing the whole issue. Izuku would not tell the girl the truth, and it was impossible for Nighteye. Those boys still grieved to this day, and it blinded them. Sorahiko, on the other hand, held none of their reservations. Nothing held his tongue, and neither could complain if he chose to act on that. She was his student, and he would tell her if he wished. It was his right.
And yet, he had not. Maybe it was a little cruel, and a little foolish…
But he felt something. This childish drama felt like the end in a beginning. If he came out and explained everything, then neither child would truly get the chance to grow and learn from it. Solving the problems of the younger generations was no longer his concern. No, he was a teacher. He'd been such for forty years. It was his nature, now, to teach, even if he hadn't always been so benevolent.
He would give Setsuna the tools to solve their problems, even if it was a little cruel to keep them apart.
"Good lord girlie, is this all you got? Are you even trying?"
Even though he was training Setsuna to whoop Izuku's hindside, he hoped it didn't come to that. As much as that boy got on Sorahiko's nerves, he'll never forget the grief in his eyes.
If they were lucky, Izuku would come to his senses before it came to a fight…
Oh my God.
He's the Ninth.
Sorahiko listened to Setsuna's labored breathing as she lifted the car once again.
He missed Toshinori, but things could've been worse. That ole brat's successor might not've had such a good friend. Without her, he never would've gotten this far.
The car sank low, and for a moment, Sorahiko thought she might drop it, that she might have finally grown too exhausted.
But, like the sun in the east, it rose again, and again, and again.
Sorahiko's lips curled into a smile.
…But if he didn't, then that was alright. Setsuna's resolve was obvious, and Sorahiko knew Izuku's was slim. She would get through to him, even if she had to bulldoze him to manage it.
It wasn't even in question.
[x]
Fear.
Boom.
Green eyes.
Ka-boom.
The punching bag swung up nearly ninety degrees. As it fell, Katsuki met it with two successive blows. It surprised him, the leather's durability. For all of his life, he'd never had a punching bag hold on for him like this. Usually the face-level was thin and torn after only a few sessions, but this was still his initially-issued punching bag. Katsuki used it almost everyday for the last two weeks and it was still strong.
He would suspect foul play if not for the little details. No one was replacing his punching bag when he wasn't looking, and he was sure because of the small burn he left on the bottom side. It wasn't enough to damage the punching bag's integrity, and it made a good mark on his territory.
Katsuki enjoyed the way the punching bag bent around his wrapped knuckles. Each blow he delivered was almost like a hug for his extremities. The dull kinetic echo raced up his arms in a softer, less intense imitation of his own quirk. When he went long without it, or his shoulders were stiff, practicing his punches was a good way to tide him over or loosen him up. It was his favorite activity.
And his favorite excuse.
One of the other students, the tall speedster with blue hair, passed him by.
"Hey, will you please spot me?" He asked. Katsuki's fist stopped short an inch from the punching bag's seemingly impervious skin. Pulling back a bit, he extended his fingers and pressed the middle one against the bag. His eyes glided over the tall boy's shoulder and spotted someone sitting alone.
"Ask the mud guy. He doesn't look busy."
The speedster glanced over his shoulder, turned back to Katsuki, and nodded. The moment he turned his back, Katsuki snapped his extended hand into a fist. The punching bag flung backwards. His boot caught it on the return, and the impact echoed around the wide-open 1Z private gymnasium.
His hits felt good, but no matter how many, or what quality, they didn't erase the tug in his gut.
Seeing Deku… or, rather, Izuku, so beaten in the USJ stirred his gut the wrong way. It highlighted memories in his mind he wished stayed dull and ignorable. He still remembered being on the couch, watching the news, and seeing his classmate sitting next to All Might's body. Katsuki still remembered running into him, years later, on the train.
He still remembered what he said—what he said to him at the USJ.
Boom.
He never knew what to say. When he saw Izuku in the 1Z colosseum, he was so dumbfounded all he could do was stare.
Boom, boom.
Some ruckus stirred up across the gymnasium, but Katsuki just kept hitting his punching bag.
Maybe it was for the best. Whenever he did speak to Izuku, he somehow always screwed up. That tired, yet sharp pinch in his chest warped his words as they escaped his lungs, changing and poisoning them as they came out. Likewise, no matter what he attempted, he always somehow put people off. Even when he'd tried to give Setsuna earnest advice, it seemed he screwed up.
She hadn't talked much since. To him or otherwise. It didn't even seem that she talked to Todoroki much.
It wouldn't surprise him if she despised him just like her boyfriend.
Boom, boom, boom.
He let one last kick fly out, but when he hit the bag, something felt different. When it swung back, the air didn't part the same way. It was almost as if the air grew a smidge more firm.
When it fell back, he caught it with a single outstretched hand. The breath in his lungs felt a little heavier and a little more sturdy, and with a sudden realization, he spun around.
Everyone crowded the elevator, but none were tall enough to smother the newcomer's silhouette. He was tall and broad and stone-carved and looked… tired. But alive.
Whirlwind was back.
Katsuki took a step towards the crowd, but didn't take another. It almost felt wrong to join the small sea of faces. They all just felt so… excited. Relieved. He guessed he was pleased, too, but his own excitement seemed to pale in comparison. So, he remained by his bag, an awkward observer until Whirlwind laughed and waved off the attention.
"Thank you, Cadets, your well-wishes are appreciated. But you still have thirty three minutes of this session left! The Sports Festival isn't getting any further, and if we're shown up by our juniors, then I might as well have just died. Get back to work!"
All at once, Katsuki watched the clambering, excited students snap to attention. They peeled off Whirlwind in droves, returning to their training invigorated. Katsuki just watched.
What was it that motivated these guys?
Katsuki's hand curled into a fist.
What was it that motivated him? Ten years ago, he might've said "to become the strongest," but… that was ten years ago. The strongest was dead, and he carried that knowledge in his chest everywhere he went.
He turned back to his bag before he drew Whirlwind's eye. Katsuki rested his hand against the bag and studied the curve of his arm, the definition of his veins.
If he wasn't fighting to be the strongest… then what was this training for? For a moment, back in the USJ, he felt a spark of something alien in his chest. It was an exhilaration, an excitement, or something similar… but before he could define it, it disappeared.
When he punched the bag, it felt good. Like a dull echo of what slipped between his fingers.
Perhaps he would find his answers in the Sports Festival.
[x]
AN: I thought it would've been really funny if, in response to Izuku's concern about favoritism, Aizawa said "well, my favorite is asui, so this doesn't count," or some shit. Got me laughing, but it really just didn't fit. Update, almost at the first sports festival event. Very scared to write it, since I got no ideas on how it'll actually play out till its on paper. I intend the first event to only last a single chapter, though, and slowly take more and more time per event until the finale.
review!~