Kirishima let his quirk ripple across his hand fingertips to wrist. He did it again, then a third time, turning his palm over and studying how the process looked. It took careful manipulation, but he'd learned to isolate the transformation, bringing it down to a one centimeter ring that wrapped around his hand. If he paused at the wrist, it was like he had a bracelet of calluses. If he continued the ritual, it was like a scanner at the grocery store crossed his hand. Overall, however, it was most like an arctic storm, with ice chunks bobbing and disappearing with the waves. Mesmerizing, in a horrifying sort of way. He'd grown used to the ugliness, by now, but many others might consider what he did body horror.
When the silhouette of his hand went a little fuzzy, he stopped and shook his head. He'd gone cross-eyed again. His left ear still rang a little, and he couldn't help but prod a loose tooth with his tongue. Tetsutetsu did a serious number to him, but in the end, grit, technique, and experience won out.
So, Kirishima thought, as he gazed out onto the Stage, how would he fare when Bakugo turned the three against him?
The match after Izuku's was unremarkable, even by the loser bracket's standards. Fifteen minutes to rest and recuperate, likewise, went by unnoticed. Kirishima chose to isolate himselfafter the first rounds ended, instead choosing to rest by the entrance to the Stage. He was just within the tunnel's shade, sat against the wall, with his knees pressed against his chest.
Kirishima wondered what Bakugo was doing, right now. Was his opponent mirroring him, sitting in the opposite tunnel's shade, popping firecrackers to pass the time?
He doubted it.
The dull echo of footsteps drew his eyes away from the Stage. Midnight's heels clicked with each stride, growing louder and sharper until suddenly coming to a stop beside him. He hardened his hand.
"Heyo, ma'am," Kirishima said, trying to sit a little more straight. It was hard, given the wall itself curved into an arch. His hand turned soft once more.
"Hello, Kiri! Are ya ready?" She asked, glancing out to the Stage. Though she stood still, her hair still bounced with her shifting weight, betraying her otherwise silent energy. He tried to ignore it; if he spent too much time considering her, she might misunderstand his attention. She wouldn't take offense, but he really couldn't handle any teasing right now.
One by one, he hardened his fingers, till what sprouted from his palm were little more than petrified sausages. It felt odd; like the intrinsic opposite of vaseline built up between his fingers. Sticky sand, perhaps.
"If I'm honest," Kirishima began, letting his fingers turn back to normal, "I don't think anyone can be ready for him. It's almost unfair, but I don't hold it against anyone. Misfortune is just a part of life."
The skin beside his belly button itched as it brushed his shirt. He stood, then, and dusted off his hands. What he felt wasn't fear before a superior enemy. Kirishima'd already knew that feeling, and it was something he reserved for life and death. It was a promise he'd made to himself, over the last couple months.
What he felt was… trepidation, he supposed. Could he even compete in this state? Had he even caught a single hero's eye? If he went out there and got clobbered, where would his highschool career head into?
So, color him confused as his spine straightened out and his shoulders pulled back, all on instinct. Midnight flashed him an apologetic grin, glanced him over, and nodded.
"It's good to see you're still determined, but you should definitely blame us," Midnight said, before patting him on the shoulder. "We—"
Midnight cut herself off as her eyes widened. Coughing into her fist, Kirishima watched as the tall woman stepped back and composed herself. Shaking out a suspicious pinkness in her cheeks, she restarted.
"You should know, if you're feeling down, that this is totally our fault. We mismanaged some of our assets, you see, and we had to totally rehaul the final event for you kids. In the end, it worked out better for literally everyone… except for you."
Kirishima blinked, rocking back and forth on his heels.
"Excuse me?" He asked. "Literally everyone... What?"
"I mean of literally everyone in the tournament, you got the short end of the stick. Going against Tetsutetsu, and then another blunt force operator? Everyone else's match history is far more balanced and varied, even considering possible injuries. When we reorganized, in order to get the maximum amount of quality matches, someone had to get a bad lot, and it just so happened to be you. To be honest, I don't know if I'm legally allowed to tell you that, or even if I should, but… I don't believe in bad luck, anymore."
Kirishima chewed upon that for a good few seconds, but his gut reaction was not changed by careful reconsideration. He decided very, very quickly that his situation royally sucked.
"That royally sucks, ma'am," Kirishima said.
Midnight closed her eyes and nodded.
"Yep," she said, popping the P. A hint of lilac hit Kirishima's nose as she turned and waved. The sweetness was an insult to the sour feeling spreading through him.
"Well, let me go announce your guys' match. You've always persevered. I bet you'll surprise even yourself out there."
With that, she turned and stepped out into the light, leaving him to—
"Oh! Wait a moment!" She said, spinning back around.
Kirishima had no idea where she procured it, but she suddenly shoved something small and cylindrical into his hands. Startled by her sudden proximity, Kirishima stumbled back, nearly dropping the gift.
Just barely catching it between his ring and pinkie finger, Kirishima suddenly realized with a pop that it was nail polish.
"I apprentice a couple of second year girls, and we like to have some girl fun sometimes. If you don't mind the occasional manicure, however, you're welcome to do your work study with me! So don't let the future bog you down. You've at least got me, if that's any comfort!"
A nearby speaker crackled to life, and Present Mic's voice filled the tunnel.
"Our fifteen minutes have passed, folks! Allow me to reintroduce our Midnight, and let us begin our next set of legendary battles!"
Midnight's eyes shot open.
"That's my cue! You don't have to accept, kiddo, I'm just reminding you: it's never that serious. Don't stress; you'll be fine."
With that, she turned back for the Stage and straightened her spine. Like a switch flipped, her whole silhouette changed, and when she left the tunnel, it was like all the warmth followed her, begging for her attention like desperate groupies. Kirishima swore he saw sparkles.
Swallowing his heart back down his throat, Kirishima forced himself to look at the little cylinder in his palm. It was a rich red; not quite ruby, with a dash of orange mixed in. Kind've tacky. It was just the kind of thing that might fit Nighteye's civilian persona.
And exactly the shade of his hair. He'd never really given a manicure a thought, but he'd read somewhere that it was healthier for nails to wear polish than not…
"—In the blue corner, we have Katsuki Bakugo, the blond war machine of 1Z!" Midnight said, her magnified voice bouncing off the tunnel walls as it echoed around the Stadium. Still slightly obscured in the tunnel's shadows, Kirishima more so felt rather than heard the crowd's ecstatic reaction. It quickly overtook Midnight's firm feminine voice, and surrounded Kirishima not with affirmations, but with thunder.
He started walking before she called his name. The sudden rays of sunshine made him want to squint, but he resisted the instinct with everything he had. Confidence, he'd realized, came from the heart—and Kirishima's beat hard. Nail polish in hand, he reached the first step leading up to the Stage.
"...And in the red corner, we have 1A's sturdy president, Eijiro Kirishima! Let's give ultimate offense and ultimate defense an anthem to clash to!"
The thunder from the tunnels felt like a tiny twister compared to the hurricane of being amidst it all. It seemed to him the Stadium itself was cheering, pounding, and screaming for him. He felt nauseous…
But more than that, with each clap, with each stomp, he felt his chest warm up. Instead of going up the stairs, he stepped into the brown grass. Finding the nook between the stage and the stairs, Kirishima carefully placed the nail polish in the snug corner. Then, he hardened his feet, grabbed the Stage's ledge, and hauled himself onto the arena. Halfway through, he unhardened his feet, and that little extra momentum gave him enough air to nearly meet Bakugo in the arena's center.
Kirishima nearly lost his balance in the process, and only maintained his dignity by landing in a kneel. His vision swam as he stayed there, but each clap, every stomp, and all the screams made the heat in his chest ramp up until he couldn't shame himself any further. He stood, and met Bakugo's eyes.
What he saw was nothing. There was none of the fire from the second round, none of the raw passion. His two red eyes didn't burn like coals; rather, they somehow felt cold. Almost empty.
A shiver crept down his spine, but the engine in his chest popped its top and squealed steam. Why did he feel so uneasy? Pain wasn't scary. Losing, with Midnight backing him, wasn't scary either. What was clawing at him?
Midnight turned to Bakugo, and asked if he was ready. Kirishima closed his eyes, but he still saw Bakugo nod in his mind's eye. Beyond that, though, he saw something else—broken stone, blood, and dark, writhing shadows. Of waking up under the sun, surrounded by medics and injured classmates.
Oh yeah, Kirishima thought, opening his eyes to meet Midnight's. It wasn't the pain, the injury, or the monster that kept him up at night.
"Are you ready, Kirishima?" Midnight repeated, her eyes lingering on him.
Kirishima glanced behind him, looking straight through the concrete to where he'd left the nail polish. He had no place to put that on his person, especially not in a fight against Bakugo. It'd just shatter after one attack. Likewise, if he got carted away on a stretcher, there was little chance he'd get it back.
He couldn't leave it there; it'd been a gift, after all. So, that left one option.
Turning back to Midnight, Kirishima puffed out his chest and slid one foot back.
"I'm raring to go!"
A smile split her face, and she nodded. Jogging to the Stage's corner, she raised her hand and chopped.
"Then let the second rounds of the third event… begin!"
Kirishima would have to leave here on his own two feet, no matter what.
Which, as a wall of pure force nearly blasted him off his unhardened feet, he realized might be harder he imagined.
"Die!"
[x]
Despite every fiber of Izuku's being urging him to sleep, he did not. His ears still rang with Recovery Girl's banshee cries, and his lips still burned with the sugary, half-empty drink between his legs. He didn't blame her, per say, as he had promised to be careful, but still. He wasn't concussed, and that was all that mattered to him. Still, she mended a minor fracture in his chest, and it'd taken what felt like a week off his lifespan.
Izuku was never big on fizzy drinks or sodas, but a single energy drink after his ordeal felt like a deserved treat. It was only after he drank half did he consider he was the last match in the event's rotation, and that he should've used his time to take a power nap. He would pay for that mistake.
So he slumped, wide awake, watching the proceedings with half-lidded eyes and a heart beating faster than a rock and roll drummer. It was an unfortunate paradox.
He sat away from the others; they'd naturally drifted towards the bottom rows as the fights grew in spectacle. It was obvious they didn't want to miss anything. Izuku was the same, but he maintained his solitude—but for one exception.
As Midnight announced the next fighters, Ojiro collapsed into the seat next to him. They did not acknowledge one another, but Izuku felt a slight tightness in his shoulders loosen. Ojiro looked healthy—and exhausted. He couldn't determine whether it was thanks to his efforts or Recovery Girl's.
Regardless, knowing the boy was both alright and held no grudge relieved him. It was a small weight off him, but he'd take every ounce he could get.
Especially, Izuku decided, as Katsuki took to the stage. He looked in a bad way; pensive, with tight shoulders and hands shoved deep in his pockets. It made him look more intense than normal—an impressive, if scary feat. Katsuki already looked like a solemn golem in his first match, with no care for fanfare whatsoever. This was a direct evolution; he looked leaner, meaner, and with even less sympathy for his opponent.
It was in sharp contrast to when Izuku first noticed him inside the tunnel. His shock was written upon his face so plainly he might as well have shouted "how are you standing?"
Izuku still didn't know what to think about it, or the current expression masking his inner thoughts. What cogs could be turning in Katsuki's head, now?
As Midnight asked the fighters permission to begin, Izuku's jaw creaked. With a twitch, Izuku realized he was too stiff. It took a concentrated, careful effort, but he eventually eased his tongue off the roof of his mouth, where it'd been pressing so tightly that he thought his ears might pop. It wasn't the only culprit either; though it shamed him, his physiological reactions were beyond his command.
When he released his seat's armrest, his knuckles felt swollen and hollow. It only took a single squeeze to pop each joint. His neck cracked as he turned to survey the crowd, and his entire spine went off like a firecracker as he squeezed his lats.
"Dude, are your bones made of glass? That's how you get arthritis, man," Ojiro said, shimmying upright in his seat. When Izuku turned to respond, his hip popped.
"Have you never cracked a joint before?" Izuku asked, eyeing the boy's coin-sized knuckles. Ojiro shook his head.
"Of course not. Stretching keeps me limber without all that nastiness. I'll never understand why people do it."
"Do me a favor and hold your fingers out, palm down."
Ojiro eyed him, holding Izuku's gaze for a heartbeat before acquiescing. Eventually, he held his left hand out at chest level—his non-dominant one, if his fighting stances held any truth. Gently, Izuku guided Ojiro's wrist so that his middlemost finger pointed straight at Izuku's heart. Then, mirroring him, Izuku opened his hand and let it hover a centimeter over the blond's own.
He looked between Izuku's hand and Izuku's face, scrutinizing him for any hint of betrayal—but Izuku was stalwart, and offered him nothing. After a second of tense silence between them, something flickered in Ojiro's eyes—realization. Like a viper, Izuku struck.
Clamping his fist around Ojiro's knuckles, Izuku squeezed, eliciting four delicious cracks and a terrified whine from Ojiro's throat. Izuku chuckled as Ojiro stole his hand back, clutching his fingers like they were broken. One might've thought they were diagonal, crooked, and zig-zagged with the way he cradled his hand, eyes glistening.
"The arthritis thing is a myth; there's no real harm in cracking your knuckles every once in a while. Once you reach level ten cracking like me, you don't even need a second surface to get that sweet relief. Didn't that feel good?"
"No! It hurts, you ass!"
Izuku searched, but couldn't find a single shred of guilt in his heart.
"Okay, well there's a trick to fix that, but I'm gonna need your other hand."
Ojiro hesitated, before suddenly throwing his head from side to side.
"Absolutely not falling for that again!"
"Fine by me, but it's your loss. Your other hand will feel funny now."
Ojiro glanced at the hand cradling his now-seemingly-broken fingers, his face a distraught mess. A million things clearly ran through his mind. Izuku felt like a telepath, picking out and deciphering each thread of thought with ease. Ojiro feared for his hands, but also feared the asymmetry, and now he didn't know which was worse. In the brief lull between words, however, it seemed he came to a begrudging conclusion.
Releasing his seemingly-broken fingers, Ojiro puffed up his chest, hyped himself up, and then crunched his right fist against his open left palm
One sad pop resounded between them, and then a second enormous explosion rocked through the entire Stadium. Ojiro yelped, and in his surprise, squeezed his fist a second time, releasing three solid cracks. The smile wiped itself off Izuku's face, even as pride colored his heart.
Kirishima slid back, arms crossed as smoke drifted off him. Katsuki had only raised a single arm, but it was smoking like pine needles in autumn. Before Kirishima could even move, the stage lit up again as Katsuki threw two more blasts his way. He remained stoic all the while, not seeming affected by his own power whatsoever. Only once Katsuki blackened Kirishima's half of the arena four times did he put his hand down.
He made no other movements. Katsuki didn't look winded, worried, or even intrigued. With all the smog, Izuku couldn't tell if Kirishima was still in the arena, let alone standing—and Katsuki couldn't either. Yet, he didn't seem to care.
The smoke lingered longer than it had any right to. Whatever easy breeze the day saw earlier disappeared, scared off with the nonchalant assault. It dispersed at an agonizing pace—but to Izuku's relief, it didn't last forever. A single gust of wind blew away what remained of the smoke, revealing Kirishima, kneeling before the Stage's border
Some of his clothes were burned away, but his modesty was safe and his posture was still powerful, despite the kneel. Each shoulder remained set, and with one swift motion, Kirishima stood.
His half of the arena was black with soot and messy with hairline cracks, but besides his clothes, Kirishima himself looked untouched. In a half-second, a shell of stone crawled out from under his skin and armored him. With all his stone-like weight, he cracked the ground with his leading foot and launched himself at the still-unmoving Katsuki.
Kirishima closed their gap like a wild gorilla, throwing himself across the stage without any grace. His approach came at an odd angle; Kirishima didn't let himself be predictable. He hurled himself in strange directions, veered off randomly, and sometimes grounded his stone heels to alter his momentum on a dime. What came upon Katsuki wasn't a sprinting man, but a thundering beast.
Yet, Katsuki still didn't remove his hand from his pocket. Kirishima crashed against him, arms outstretched, but instead of crushing Katsuki into a grapple, Kirishima turned white-hot and screamed. He fell back, landing so hard that the concrete tiles cracked under him. With each arm sprawled around him, Izuku could easily see the angry red handprint on his chest.
Katsuki did little more than raise his hand and blow off some smoke. He hadn't even stepped back. Izuku's feelings—a storm of crashing waves and deep depths—suddenly felt validated. This fight was… not good.
Kirishima stood, but before he could charge, Katsuki fired again. He fell.
Kirishima stood. He fell.
He stood again.
With each iteration, he looked worse off. He was filthy, by now—mostly soot, scrapes, and bruises. Parts of him were losing their edge; his stomach was bare, as was a spot on his forehead, and his right tricep looked smoother than normal.
When Kirishima went down again, some of Izuku's classmates stood. When he stood again, more echoed him. It was uncomfortable to watch, and more than a little disconcerting. Why was he doing this? Had the competition gotten to his head? How hadn't Katsuki knocked him off the Stage yet?
Some began murmuring about the ethics of the match—and as the match began to drag on, Present Mic began echoing their concerns.
"And Kirishima goes down again! 1Z's attack dog is certainly impressive, but honestly, I'm starting to worry if he's a little too impressive…"
Another explosion rocked the stage, and then another, weaker one. With each iteration, Katsuki's explosions grew a tad weaker—but as Kirishima's defenses fell away more and more, that became less and less relevant. If not for the soot and blood, he would be shining—smoother than the day he was born. The only armor still adoring his form was a gauntlet of flesh-colored stone enveloping his left hand. Kirishima raised it before himself, blocking out his eyes as if displeased with a too-bright sun.
In a sense, Izuku thought, Katsuki might seem like that from Kirishima's perspective. A second, irritating sun. One that flared up far too often, at that.
1Z and 1B began to stand and join a conglomerate of 1A students. Concerned voices struggled over one another—and then it happened. The first open question.
"Shouldn't someone stop this?"
Kirishima stood, and Izuku asked himself a question. Why? Kirishima was one of the most respected students in their year; more than that, he was liked, talented, and had a huge potential. What could push someone like him to… these extremes?
Izuku's pondering cut off as Katsuki unleashed another blast. It screamed through space and swallowed Kirishima whole—but something was different. On muscle memory alone, Izuku's eyes flicked back, searching for wherever Kirishima landed—but found nothing.
Kirishima was still standing, gauntlet outstretched before him, unhardened hand clutching his stomach.
His outstretched hand faltered, then fell to his side, soft. Each shoulder shook like autumn leaves, barely held together under Katsuki's onslaught. Likewise, though Katsuki was playing cool, his shoulders were also shaking–especially his outstretched arm's.
It must've been a cold shock to Katsuki's system as Kirishima stepped through that last attack. Katsuki's hand dropped as Kirishima drew closer, surprise coloring his face. It vanished a moment later as he flicked his wrist back out, launching another—stronger—attack.
Kirishima evaporated in light, but when it faded, he was still kneeling. He hadn't blown back, though he looked terrible. Blisters dotted his frame, and he was smoking like a chimney.
The audience held their breath as Kirishima struggled to his feet, said nothing, and renewed his march. Their gap was steadily shortening—but no man's land was still a dangerous place.
"Hey!" Katsuki yelled. "Go down!"
He fired another explosion, but just before contact, Kirishima raised his hand, hardened once more. Kirishima remained standing.
"I said go down!"
Katsuki fired again.
"You're not good enough yet!"
And again.
"Stop being a moron!"
And again.
Kirishima's arm seemed more red than his hair, angry and burned—but still hard. Only a few arm lengths separated them. Their red-headed president dragged an uncooperative leg behind him.
"Why is he doing this?" Shiozaki asked, looking across the aisle to where Tetsutetsu sat, hand on chin. "This is clearly a mismatch, and he'll be smarting for days! He should just forfeit."
Kirishima stood a mere handful of steps from Katsuki's outstretched hand. He was little more than a zombie, bent at the waist, wounded, and slack-jawed from his beating.
But, he was still standing.
Izuku's seat creaked as he leaned forward.
Kirishima had nothing to prove to anyone. Izuku couldn't think of a single person he needed to impress. 1A loved him. 1B respected him. 1Z acknowledged him. He had friends, prospects, and a future. He'd even protected Sero in the USJ, nearly sacrificing himself—
Oh.
Izuku felt all the waves churning in his chest suddenly crash into one another, silencing his entire inner world. A cold numbness spread through him, hushing the worried students and cheering crowd alike.
Kirishima only had one person to prove himself to.
Flashes of darkness commandeered Izuku's vision—monsters, false skies, and dark red blood. The USJ—a nightmare in every aspect. No one was prepared; they'd only been training for a handful of weeks, after all. Not a soul blamed them for their failings—yet of all the regular students, Kirishima hadn't faltered. He hadn't panicked, sabotaged himself, or put anyone in danger. Kirishima's bravery and level-head shined that day, leading him to save a life. It'd left him a hero…
And a casualty. Despite saving Sero's life, Kirishima'd effectively taken himself out of the action, leaving himself as Izuku's burden. It only registered in Izuku's brain at that moment that Kirishima probably felt more like the latter than the former.
He stood, and the world rushed back to him.
Maybe, he thought, as he spotted Shiozaki suddenly jump into the aisle, he would've noticed Kirishima's grief if he hadn't been so occupied with his own failings.
She nearly sprinted down the stairs, taking two or even three at a time.
"I'm going to ask them to stop before Kirishima gets—Ack!"
The girl's vines whipped to the side as she suddenly stopped. Though she was almost out of sight and some fifty people separated them, a single blackwhip sprouted from Izuku's palm to entangle the girl's elbow. Frozen dead in her tracks, she could do little more than try and fail to tug her arm free.
Hold her, Izuku thought. For a brief moment, it was all he wanted, all he thought of—all he was. All Blackwhip became.
She turned back to him red-faced, with eyebrows nearly touching her scalp.
"Midoriya? What are you doing?" She asked, shouting over the litany of similar questions between them. It wasn't strictly angry, but a clear desperation filled her voice. When he didn't answer, she tried to free herself once again—and Izuku had no power to keep her. Against his will, he felt Blackwhip bend and warp, untangling itself from Shiozaki's arm. It was a power struggle Izuku was growing familiar with—but for once, it did not come from Blackwhip's bullheadedness.
"Let her go, Midoriya. Can't you see that Kirishima's about to drop?" Reiko said, stepping into the aisle with her hands raised. Izuku felt her quirk challenge his own, running the length of his blackwhip and bending it to her will. It was an odd sensation, like she was a masseur rubbing a cold lotion into his arm.
He could've fought it harder, but his goal was achieved. With Reiko's temple vein bulging, Izuku's blackwhip seized up and unwound from Shiozaki entirely. A quiet command evaporated the whip.
"Kirishima will decide when he's done, Shiozaki," Izuku said. "Just sit down and watch. You don't have to enjoy it—just appreciate it. Him."
Those same eyebrows fighting to meet her scalp suddenly plummeted, and with a confused twist, she, Reiko, Izuku, and everyone else between them turned their attention to the climax.
[x]
He couldn't feel his left leg. His face felt like he'd taken a nap under the summer sun—swollen, dried, and burned. There was a hot brand pressed into his gut where his old wound was—and in the back of his mind, a dagger's point. If he stopped going forward, if he fell back even a little, it would slip into him and be his end.
Katsuki Bakugo's arm looked bad; it shook terribly, looking nearly as painful as the redness circling his palm. It was like someone used his hand as a coaster for boiling hot tea.
It flashed white again, and Kirishima batted it aside with his hardened hand. It was like backhanding a thunder strike, its force blowing through his body in one wrathful smite—but somewhere, deep down, he found the strength to continue. Kirishima was on a short fuse, but he was still burning.
He had no idea if the crowd was cheering or booing him anymore. All he heard was a thin buzz. His eardrums might've ruptured—he couldn't say. Blinking, a bright blue ate away at his central vision, leaving him borderline blind.
All temporary ailments, he reminded himself. His stomach was temporary too, he reminded himself. He wouldn't let these little issues turn him into a burden again.
One more step, he reminded himself.
Two more steps, he reminded himself.
His bones felt hollow; fragile like sugar glass. His skin was burned and aching. His senses were muted, from the burns to the blindness to the deafness. Bakugo might've been trying to tell him something, to put him down, but he heard none of it. Instead, as Kirishima forced his legs to take him one step further, he found himself in his own little world.
The USJ hurt so many people. His entire power was for protecting himself from harm, being durable—but he'd gone down from just one bad hit. Each blow from Bakugo was awful. They hurt like hell, slowed him down, and made him want to curl up and sleep. But did any hurt half as bad as a rock in his guts?
Kirishima looked to where he thought Bakugo's hand might be.
In his mind's eye, it shook, it ached, it hurt. Bakugo was making a statement, just as Kirishima was—but their goals were misaligned. One hand wasn't enough. If Kirishima truly wanted to see himself, one half-hearted attack wouldn't be enough.
The center of his blue-burned vision brightened, but this time, he didn't let himself be hit. Lurching forward, he avoided the explosion's brunt and fumbled about for Bakugo's wrist. Finding it, he shoved it away before using his other hand to rip Bakugo's pocketed hand free.
Holding the boy by both wrists, Kirishima planted his boot in the blond's stomach and kicked, sending him some indeterminable distance back. There was no grounding thud, no way to see where he was—all he knew was that Bakugo had let him.
"Don't be a coward!" Kirishima said, feeling the words leave his throat more so than hearing them. Unhardening his hand, he clapped both wrists together. "Give it all to me! I can take it!"
Kirishima abandoned all pretenses of aggression and held out his arms.
"Well? I'm waiting for it!" He said, screwing his eyes shut. The blue color lit up his eyelids like a lightshow, turning the normally black and purple view into a dazzling cosmic-esque view. He braced himself for something—anything, to happen, but all that changed was the color of his vision.
In the seconds after kicking Bakugo and closing his eyes, the blues faded to purples, and the purples melted into a brownish red.
A cool, solitary breeze chilled him, snaking across the bare skin that'd been revealed in Bakugo's onslaught. It might've been embarrassing, if not for the scorching feelings burning in his chest. Every second that went by was agony. It wasn't just because of the wounds, either—the anticipation of pain was something he'd never experienced before and would never wish on anybody again.
After almost ten seconds of silence, he opened his eyes in conjunction with the whine fading in his ears.
Bakugo stood across from him, ten paces away, with both palms facing Kirishima. In the corner of his color-washed vision, he thought he saw Midnight moving towards them, closely tailed by Cementoss.
That wouldn't do.
"You're not strong enough for this, Kirishima. None of your classmates are! He isn't!" Bakugo said, meeting Kirishima through his splayed fingers.
Kirishima's mania cleared instantly. It occurred to him what he was doing—what he was asking—in full. Bakugo's strength was titanic, and he'd only felt a portion of it. What he wanted was a mutilation he could take on—but maybe he couldn't. Maybe he still wasn't strong enough, wasn't brave enough, wasn't—
His desire sprang to life before his mind could betray him..
"You worry too much. Everything you've got!"
Both of Bakugo's palms turned white, then shifted to yellow in a heartbeat. The cement between them shifted, turning alive with Cementoss's quirk—but it was too late.
"It's your life to waste!"
[x]
The stage, for a brief second, was unrecognizable. Light—so much light—filled the Stage that for all anyone could guess, a second sun appeared before them. It was just as bright as Sashimi's blast, just as violent—yet so much more concentrated. Izuku felt no danger for the crowds, no need to save anyone. The only person in danger was Kirishima, and to Izuku's surprise, Katsuki.
Shiozaki screamed.
The light faded.
The stage remained, if in part. Half was black and cracked, but no worse off for Bakugo's full strength. Its whole brunt landed squarely on Kirishima.
Katsuki was kneeling, head slumped with upright-palms laying on the ground before him.
Izuku fell back into his seat.
"He's…" Izuku whispered, trailing off.
A gust of wind blew away the remaining smoke, revealing Kirishima.
"Unbreakable?" Shiozaki finished.
"Dear heaven, folks, Eijiro Kirishima is standing!" Present Mic said. "The match is alive!"
He was on both feet. Hard as stone, head to toe—except for his hand. It was burned a dark red. Izuku felt it give out in the moment of contact—just as he felt the rest of it come alive. Kirishima hadn't been unable to defend himself, he'd just been saving every bit of what he had left for one final moment.
The match was an ugly one, and Kirishima would be seeing a lot of Recovery Girl for the next few days—but it was alive. Victory wasn't out of reach. He could march on Katsuki and take advantage of his exhaustion, here and now, if he so wanted.
Kirishima's stoic posture shifted ever so slightly. The boy's neck armor faded as he turned to glance at the crowds, and for a brief second, their eyes met.
But that, it seemed, wasn't what Kirishima wanted.
Kirishima turned away from Katsuki's kneeling form, and began stiff, uncalculated steps in the opposite direction.
"Wait, am I imagining things, or is 1A's President—" President Mic said, before his mic crackled. Midnight's voice, a mix of stress teetering on pride, overcame his.
"Eijiro Kirishima forfeits! Katsuki Bakugo moves on!"
Kirishima stepped off the stage, grabbed something off the steps, and continued on his way. Ten paces from the Stadium's tunnel, he paused, clutched his possession to his chest, and collapsed.
Instead of being carried off on a stretcher, however, he took a medic's elbow, struggled to his feet, and left as such.
Izuku remembered finding him wounded in an alley. It was the first thing he thought of when he read Kirishima's name spelled out.
He wondered what he'd think of now that he'd endured this. With a quiet salute, Izuku prayed for his swift recovery, and to renew their friendship.
[x]
AN: Probably gonna be on alternating fridays unless god blesses me with more time and more strength. Idk why i thought making the third event so stacked with interesting matchups was a good idea.
review!~