Katsuki kept his hands deep in his pockets, away from prying eyes. He stood close to Midnight, trying to look anywhere except his opponent's eyes, and the silver gleam peeking through her hair.

The match following Todoroki and Izuku's was disappointingly short. Katsuki hadn't known what he'd expected—Honenuki's bout was doomed to be quick, especially against a lesser opponent like 1B. Really, he should've spent more time preparing, rather than lamenting his lack of preparation time. Even at the country's best school, he was a Grade-A dumbass.

Now, only six meters separated him from Uraraka, and he still couldn't pull out his hands.

Or… couldn't wasn't entirely right. He could certainly pull them out, but then everyone might see how they shook. How they quivered. How he trembled.

Not even the ten minute intermission between Honenuki's match and this had been enough—not nearly. Katsuki was beginning to think there wasn't any amount of time that could've helped him.

"Do you accept the terms of the match, Katsuki Bakugo?" Midnight asked, pushing her microphone under his nose. He kept his jaw closed. If he opened it even a little, he might bite a chunk out of the offending device. Dipping his eyes, he gave her—and his opponent—a nod.

Only two matches remained after this. Tokage and Izuku, then whoever walked off that stage versus him.

A headache immediately bared its teeth. Katsuki tried forcing it away, ignoring how his better instincts cannibalized the raw arrogance in his thought, but he still ached. It was stupid to assume his victory before the match even began. Hell, Uraraka hadn't even agreed to their match yet, though with that gleam in her eye… she would.

His forefinger twitched, deep in his pocket.

He shouldn't count her out. From everything he'd seen, Uraraka was a capable girl with a predatory streak. In his peripherals, he could see it—her intense stare, her narrowed eyes, her bent knees and empowered posture. If she put her mind to it, she might've been able to give him trouble.

That is, if she wasn't wearing that silvery earpiece. Her hearing aid.

Katsuki's knuckles cracked in his pockets.

All it would take was a single pointed attack, and she'd go down. Sound-sensitive as she was, someone had already almost beaten her in a similar way. The earlier rounds made her critical weakness clear enough.

Really, it would've been child's play for him. Manipulating Explosion to be louder was the very first thing he learned. He simply needed to hit harder.

But, even as the thought crossed his mind, a weakness infected his hands. Each fists, squeezed so tightly, went slack. His tongue tasted like TV static. Something pinched in his chest; a reminder of the pain he was capable of inflicting so easily. A sound echoed in his ears—a dull crack. Izuku's skull, cratering the Stadium's stone walls.

When he swallowed, it was like choking down half-dried cement.

"And do you, Ochako Uraraka, accept this match?"

Her voice chimed through his turbulent thoughts with cutting ease, striking him frozen.

"Obviously," she said.

It would be so easy to raise his hand and end her. Uraraka had none of Kirishima's defenses; it would be like snuffing out a candle.

But… what if it wasn't?

What if Uraraka withstood a powerful blast, endured the burn, and powered through the deafening sting? What if he had to strike her again, and a third time, as he had with Kirishima? What if her tenacity and fury outstripped her body's?

What if his instincts took over, and he nearly killed her? What if he lost control?

As Midnight raised her hand, Katsuki grew more aware of the pinch in his chest. With each beat, the pain grew worse, and each beat was faster than the last. Blood replaced the crowd in his ears, light and quick.

The concrete between his feet was rough and multicolored after scores of abuse. Cementoss hadn't needed to smooth a fighter's recklessness for several rounds, and that allowed the previous fights' imprint to shine. He saw Todoroki's scorch marks, Honenuki's melted-and-solidified remnants, and burned rubber from abused sneakers.

A rage overcame him as Midnight's hand hovered in the air, poised to fall. What was taking her so long? Why draw out his agonies? Why let him squirm when he—when everyone—knew how this would end? It was as though she moved in slow-motion.

Her wrist twitched, and suddenly, a thought struck him. His mouth opened on its own accord, the words already half-out before he could stop. If he really was sick of hurting people, then he could just surrender.

Yet, as Midnight's wrist fell, a surrender did not leave him.

"Fuck you!" He yelled—to Midnight, to Uraraka, to the crowd, and to himself.

Then Uraraka crashed into him, and their fight began.

[x]

Izuku's ears were assaulted before he managed to protect them.

"What in the name of heaven are you doing back here, boy?" Recovery Girl asked, the paper-thin skin on her dainty hand betraying the iron grip on her cane. A few assistant nurses paused as he stepped into the clinic, glancing at their commotion, but turned away soon after. "I should shackle you to my desk, and never let you out of my sight again! What's wrong this time?"

He took a moment to swallow his surprise, and raised his hand for surrender.

"D-don't worry ma'am, I'm not hurt this time… I just wanted to check in on the others."

Recovery Girl's entire face pinched with her squint. The hollow tap of her cane consumed every other sound as she shuffled towards Izuku, looking him up and down—as if expecting his health to be a facade.

His breath caught as she got within an arm's length. Izuku held perfectly still, as a statue might under inspection from its sculptor. He didn't breathe, his heart didn't beat, and no draft ruffled his hair. For all of five seconds, he was a mannequin under her scrutiny.

Then, her cane cracked against his shin and he fell to a kneel. Now eye-level, Recovery Girl pinned back his bangs and revealed the new, pinkish scar adorning his forehead.

"Are you certain you're alright? No dizziness, no tightness of skin, no lingering pain?" Recovery Girl asked, peering so close to his face that Izuku could smell the mint on her breath. Closing his eyes, he nodded. He'd nearly forgotten about the additional disfigurement. It didn't hurt, but the reminder was like a beacon for his brain, accentuating his newest flaw.

"You're the best there is, ma'am. No need for another check-up… please," Izuku said, and the quiet request seemed to land. Without ceremony, she released him and shuffled away, onto the next ordeal.

Izuku struggled to his feet and limped after. She led him across the clinic, to the bed furthest from the door. Just before reaching his friend, he paused by an occupied bed. It was another red-head. A familiar one. Yoru Sashimi was awake but said nothing, and Izuku soon hurried along, unwilling to consider his empty stare a second longer. He hadn't even blinked at Izuku's passing.

Kirishima was a spectrum of colors, but most prominently, red. Greens and purples dotted him, alongside browns and yellows, but his skin had taken on a burnt hue, like he'd gotten a terrible sunburn. It clashed with his hair dye, and Izuku wondered if his burnt hair was the source of the metallic smell wafting off him.

He'd been staring up at the ceiling when they'd arrived, but their eyes met as he arrived.

"Don't waste our oxygen for too long. Your next appointment could be soon." Recovery Girl muttered, before shuffling off. There were a few other filled beds to check.

"Hey, man," Izuku said. "You can talk?"

Kirishima let out a slow, pained exhale, but the smile that curved around his lips was all Izuku needed. Through cracked, dry lips, Kirishima chortled.

"Yea, man. I can talk."

"Cool."

"Mm."

"..."

Izuku scratched his ribs. He'd hoped Kirishima would've been awake, but hadn't honestly expected it. The kind of beating he took deserves a nap, after all. Now, despite getting what he wanted, he didn't know what to say.

But, the silence wasn't that bad. Kirishima began humming some familiar tune, interrupted every few seconds by a stifled breath. It was a nice, quiet moment. Whirring machines smoothed out the far-off crowd's rumble, only interrupted by medical beeps and Recovery Girl's tapping cane. With the sterile cleanliness of the clinic mixing with Kirishima's crispy hair, Nighteye's training grounds crossed his mind. During lunch breaks, at least one of them would clean the machines and spritz some air freshener. If they didn't, their sweaty stink clung to every surface.

It'd been his second home growing up, but it hadn't felt so homely in recent months. He could still hear it—Gran Torino's gruff voice, grinding against Set's unapologetic giggle. His own voice, a raspy little chime bounced between them. And, of course, at their heart was Nighteye's firm, quiet conversation.

Nighteye was business first, but it was his table they sat at, and he sat with them. They'd been a good team… even if it'd been weak of Izuku to include her.

Izuku fished around for a stool, and pulled up beside Kirishima. Banishing thoughts of Setsuna, he finally found the words he should've arrived with.

"I'd just… I'd like you to know it wasn't necessary. Bravery is measured by quality, not quantity. What you did, you did immediately and without thought. You have everyone's respect."

Kirishima's humming slowed to nothing. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, but as he made to speak, a dry cough betrayed him. He hacked into his fist. Izuku leaned forward to help, but Kirishima shooed him away as the cough died.

"Y-you—you can't," Kirishima rasped, choking down air between each word, "understand. Ya j-just—can't. Not you."

Izuku glanced at the water at Kirishima's bedside desk and passed it to him. He waited as Kirishima took his fill, before taking it back.

"What are you talking about?" Izuku asked, when Kirishima's breathing evened out.

"You just don't get it, man," Kirishima said. "I'm not like you."

Izuku blinked at him, raising an eyebrow. He made a show of looking Kirishima up and down.

"You mean beaten up, all the time?" Izuku asked, eyeing his burned and bruised skin.

It didn't elicit a laugh. Kirishima chewed on his tongue as he looked away, studying the foot of his bed.

"C'mon man," Kirishima said, "neither of us want me to spell it out. So, why are you here?"

Izuku's stool creaked as he leaned back.

"As I said. And I wanted to check on you, obviously. You went against Kac—Katsuki, after all."

Kirishima kept his eyes on his toes, but perked up with his stutter.

"And?"

"...And? That's it. I just—"

"What does that even mean, Mido?" Kirishima asked, twisting in place to meet his eyes again. "What's so important about Bakugo to you? What do you mean "after all?"

"I-I just…" Izuku stuttered, leaning back. "H-he's formidable. Tougher than anyone else. Making your stand against him must've been scary, y'know?"

Kirishima neither replied or looked away. Izuku squirmed under his gaze as it transformed into a sort of staring contest—one he knew he would lose. It only took seconds for him to crumble. Looking for help, he glanced to where he'd last seen Recovery Girl, but no dice.

She'd moved on without his notice. Turning a fraction, he saw a sudden vacancy of bustling nurses. Against his will, Kirishima's big, inscrutable eyes drew him in. Despite Kirishima's bed marking the clinic's furthest corner, Izuku felt claustered. Against Kirishima, he was alone and cornered.

He cracked, and his forehead dropped into his hand. A long sigh escaped him, even as he could practically feel Kirishima's triumphant smile.

"..."

What was there to say?

"Don't give up now, dude, I can feel the deets just around the bend. Spill."

Everything, nothing, or something in between?

"Bakugo… Katsuki… Is very talented, and very much despises me… for reasons I can't get into." Izuku said, after a time. He reached deep down to find the words, but even with his efforts, he only managed the few. "I… I guess I… wanted to see what you had to say about him, after your match, since… regardless of if Setsuna or I beat the other, we'll be facing him in the finals. I just… I don't know."

It was a weak response, and Kirishima didn't hide his disappointment, but he didn't complain.

"That makes some sense, but what about Uraraka? So far as I see it, Katsuki was pretty arrogant and flippant in our match. If Uraraka plays her cards right, she might, y'know, pull something off…"

Pouncing on the slight subject change, Izuku straightened.

"That girl is a treasure. Gold in human shape. She'll be viscous and clever, but neither are enough to overcome the mountains between them. He's simply beyond her."

Kirishima slowly nodded, though something in his expression gave away a small doubt. Quickly, Izuku tacked on a clarification.

"He's not perfect, obviously. He lost to Snipe in the Colosseum, and he was sponsored, rather than apprenticed—but… that's the scary part. Everything he does comes straight from the heart. His talent… his passions… his grudge… Kacchan is not built like normal people. He's more. Bigger."

Izuku took a deep inhale and held it. He fought the way it tasted like copper, and chalked it up to Kirishima's metallic stench.

Kirishima spent a long while thinking over his words. Each second of continued silence was a worse pain, but Izuku could not physically interrupt it. His throat had closed until further notice.

The red-head sank into his cushions and studied the ceiling, stretching in tiny ways to avoid agitating his burns. His empty expression left nothing for Izuku to interpret.

Kirishima only spoke after Izuku's peripherals turned dark, and his vision swam.

"Fair 'nuff, I guess, but if I'm honest, you might have your head on backwards. All due respect, that guy I met in the arena wasn't the "Kacchan" you described."

Izuku choked, not having noticed the nickname. Oxygen filled his lungs as he hiccupped, saving him from suffocation even as he wanted the embarrassment to kill him.

"...Regardless," Kirishima said, eyeing the way Izuku massaged his throat, "we both have bigger issues."

"Like?" Izuku squeaked out.

"A match with Tokage stands between you and Bakugo, and I'm stuck in bed. Shiozaki will need help organizing 1A without me. By the powers invested in me by you, go help her."

Izuku winced, thinking about 1A's Vice President. She was probably mad at him for stopping her from helping Kirishima. No need to mention that to Kirishima, he thought.

"...If I originally invested you with the power, wouldn't that mean you wouldn't have the power to invest in me? Or does investing in you mean divesting myself, and if so, would my power leave immediately or gradually? Is there a period where we both have the power? Or—"

"Don't meta-game this, man. I'm gettin' kind of tired, so just promise me one thing," Kirishima said, interrupting him. Izuku zipped up and paid attention, carefully keeping his mind distraction-free.

Kirishima wheezed into his fist before leveling Izuku with steel in his eyes.

"You," he said, "beyond all this crap, are a little odd. That's okay, though—so is she. Promise me you won't waste either of your times pretending you're not. Now shoo, and don't let anyone visit me. I know how I smell."

Izuku nodded, mute, and replaced his stool where he found it. He waved Kirishima goodbye and headed out, his mind in silent turbulence—until Kirishima's voice chimed through one last time.

"Oh, and regardless of who moves on, make sure the victor whoops Bakugo's ass! I'm dying over here!"

"And whose fault is that?" Izuku snorted, though he doubted his friend heard him. Throwing his hand over his shoulder, Izuku nodded to a returned Recovery Girl and left the clinic, one destination, one person, in mind.

[x]

What the fuck was going on—

A flash of off-white pink struck his cheek, snapping his chin aside before a second flash whipped him the other way. Clenching his teeth, he ducked under Uraraka's hooks and raised a tight guard. Stepping between her legs, he rammed one open palm against her stomach—only for her to not even budge. His hand didn't meet hard, toned abs—her athleticism didn't match how soft she was. Unmoved, she used his lapse to spartan-kick his ribs.

He caught himself before he fell, and barely avoided a follow-up spinning heel. Rage met the pain in his chest and doubled it, but no matter his heat, he didn't let his fuse light.

Blowing her to smithereens wasn't an option. Using her pain against her and abusing her weakness was out of the question. Katsuki Bakugo needed to draw a line somewhere, and it was here. He was sick and tired of being the worst.

It was just unfortunate that Uraraka, apparently, was the last person he could afford to handicap himself against.

She was a unique case amongst 1A. With all the raw attitude and vengefulness powering her every blow, she'd fit in better with 1Z than her own class. He'd known that. He'd seen it in her match against Tokoyami and the multi-limbed guy. He'd accepted the risks, and still decided to stay his path.

What he hadn't expected was finesse. Her fluidity. The girl who'd beaten Tokoyami senseless was a rabid dog, preening to tear out their prey's throat. She'd go for the eyes, she'd clamp down on her opponent, wouldn't let go, and shake until it broke and died. It was Uraraka and Uraraka alone to soundly defeat her assailant in the USJ, and it spoke highly of her capacity for violence.

But, by measure of a person's entire potential for violence, she stood a little short for him. Katsuki knew how to pulverize. He was intimately familiar with destruction, combustion, and disassemblement. Every cell within him was programmed with the genetic knowledge of power—a knowledge he'd welcomed for over ten years, now. After a certain point, even her superb instincts should've fallen short against him—but they hadn't.

She was smart, it seemed. She was viscous, it was true. But… they were attributes that didn't overlap. She was yellow and blue, but she wasn't green. Hadn't been.

But she was now. Something inside her during her fight with the black-feathered boy must've clicked.

Uraraka rained a hail of ugly blows on his guard. A poorly aimed punch, a short-winded palm, and an nonoptimal elbow left bruises on his forearms. She favored her right side, but she didn't neglect her left, at least maintaining a guard at all times. Nothing she did was streamlined, efficient, or particularly powerful—but nor was it sloppy, or risky. A little heavy on her feet, she moved quickly in straight lines and didn't linger, so even as her attacks consistently landed, Katsuki's counters rarely did. In and out, back and forth, tug and pull—she had good rhythm, and what she lacked in strength she made up for with purpose.

She was purposefully aiming at his guard, now, her eyes set and steady, rarely blinking. Her focus was a scary thing—across the boundary of her relentless offense, her face didn't emote. Blocking, dodging, and periodically countering, Katsuki felt as though he was standing opposite a wolf with only the cross-wire fence to separate them. It didn't snarl. It didn't prod the flimsy fence, or gnaw at its iron wire. It didn't drool.

It simply stared at him, hackles raised, with hungry yellow rings circling its dilated eyes.

He ducked under a wide swing and spun away from a heat-seeking knee. Planting that foot, she pivoted and swung her other leg against Katsuki's head. Though he raised his guard, it sent his wrist slamming into his ear, stunning and nearly tipping him over.

The pain jostled his carefully withheld rage loose, and before he could stop himself, he knocked away her lazy attempt at a punch and shoved his palm into her nose. Blood pounding in his ears, it would've been so easy to pull the trigger, to light the fuse. Screw this, his chest screamed, and screw her.

Before he could, however, the rancid smog of adrenaline faded by a hair. Still viscous and thick, he nearly went through with it anyways, but his hand suddenly cramped, and closed. She didn't hesitate to shove him away, getting the fist out of her face.

Despite nearly losing her skull, Uraraka remained unmoved.

Wrestling back his fragile control, Katsuki marveled at her method of shoving him. She hadn't been gentle, but she hadn't been trying, either. Not a single one of her fingertips touched him.

"Too scared to hit a girl, Bakugo?" She asked, speaking for the first time. Katsuki's teeth ground together. "Where's all that carnage you delivered in the Flag Battles? Tired? Quirk take a walk?"

Katsuki kept his mouth shut and fists holstered—but ready. Her voice was dry and interspersed by heavy mouth breathing. She was getting tired, but she wasn't worn out yet. He half expected her to loll out her tongue and start panting—but the wolf was stoic. In moments, she composed herself again.

He took a shuddering breath, and lunged forward. Uraka didn't rise to his challenge, stepping back in tandem. They did a sort of dance as he changed their pace, determined to put an end to it. Though his hands shook and his heart beat hard and his mind was alive with conspiracy, he knew one thing: through some logic or another, Uraraka was pitying him. There was no other reason for her to boycott her own quirk, when he himself wasn't nearly as disadvantaged.

Katsuki was abstaining for her sake, as hard as it was—but the way she had so effortlessly relinquished her own win condition in favor of matching his simple fisticuffs infuriated him. He rushed her down, assaulting her defenses head-on. If she was going to further handicap herself, then he wouldn't abuse her shitty footwork.

He wanted to beat her at her best, without compromising her weaknesses. His dream was to see her walk off this stage with just the handful of bruises he was willing to dispense.

So… why? Why would she match his handicap with her own, when she was already a step behind? Why did he struggle to turn off his instincts, when she could so effortlessly ball her fists and swing without care? It wasn't supposed to be an MMA fight, yet here he was, exchanging punch for kick and elbow for knee with a woman who he could've brought down in a heartbeat? Why did she make it so difficult, and why did he feel this way?

His frustration was only continuing to grow, and with it, a tiny, shameful little whisper.

He liked it, and that repulsed him.

[x]

Setsuna cursed herself for chewing on her nails. There was exactly a single chip in her right ring finger, and it was so small it didn't even snag on wool—but it was there, and it refused to let her forget.

She didn't understand her nails, or her hair, really. With her healing factor constantly regenerating her tiniest of injuries, why wouldn't they heal her chipped nail? It regrew her toenails when she'd needed a new foot, but it turned a blind eye to a chip? Her instincts told her she could regrow a nail if something pried it from her fingertip entirely, but her instincts also explicitly forbid her from testing that.

Then there was her hair. Her curls never seemed longer in the morning than they'd been before bed. Setsuna didn't shave often, but neither did she need to more than any other girl.

It's not that she wanted to grow hair fast or trim her nails everyday—that sounded like a pain. She simply did not understand why it wasn't the case.

She ran her tongue over her teeth. Then there was her grin. That one, even more than her healing factor, felt like a mystery. Neither of her parents had anything similar to what was in her mouth. None of her aunts, uncles, grandparents, or cousins had canines for incisors, canines for molars, or canines for canines. Setsuna was the only Tokage with shark teeth.

It wasn't necessarily a bother, but right now, with the compounded pressure of nearly four months of stress sitting on her shoulders, it, and her chipped nail, nagged at her.

A soft nudge pulled her from her thoughts. Yaoyorozu held out a tiny silver device, eyeing her hand. Fingernail clippers, magicked from her kneecap. Setsuna could still see the bright sparks of her quirk fading.

"Dear heaven above, bless this girl," Setsuna muttered as she trimmed her ring finger down. Yaoyorozu giggled, placing her palms in her lap. She took periodic glimpses at the ongoing bout.

"I saw you staring at it, and I would hate for it to snag during a fight."

Setsuna smiled and nodded, but kept quiet. The mention of her upcoming fight immediately set her thoughts back nearly two hours, when she'd come close to sobbing in the bathroom. Though it'd looked close at several instances, she reminded herself that things did, ultimately, end up as she'd designed.

Izuku pulled through against Ojiro, and then Shoto, too. That was a miracle she struggled to shrug off as small, even knowing their historical hierarchy. Shoto was better than ever, and Izuku…

Well, her boy had needed help for some time. A conversation was long overdue, and Setsuna had been preparing for it since the USJ. She reminded herself that she was better than ever, and equally experienced. Hell, she was stronger than ever, even stronger than Izuku. Never again would he be able to break out of her noogies.

Yet, as she studied the newly trimmed finger, her stomach soured. It was on the same hand that Sashimi nearly burned off. With Recovery Girl overseeing her own natural healing factor, the limb was back to normal, barring the dry skin. She desperately needed some lotion, but that was the last thing on her mind.

It was strange how she could prepare for months, and still feel so underprepared. It wasn't—it shouldn't be—some life changing, pivotal moment. They just needed to fight, air out their problems, and then rekindle what they had. It was supposed to be simple.

But the longer that things stayed the same, the more she feared change.

With practiced, deft movements, she trimmed down every other finger to the same, stubby length. She spared all else little attention, instead dedicated to mastering every curve. It was vain, she knew—but leaving her nails boxy after everything felt wrong.

Setsuna wasn't stupid. She knew she looked a little mannish now, with her pallor, papery skin and broader shoulders. Sue her. Carving out time for skincare was a luxury for people without problems.

It was a lame excuse, even in her head. Her chapped lips stuck together just as every blink felt like a weight on her eyes. She was always sore down to her bones, and today especially she felt particularly achy. Only part of it was from overworking herself.

Halfway through her sporadic manicure, she pressed her completed hand against her stomach and closed her eyes, imagining the pain siphoning away. She took a deep, slow breath and held it.

What was Izuku doing right now? He wasn't sitting nearby, with the other competitors. He'd skipped off somewhere when she hadn't been looking. Maybe he'd called Inko? Or he was speaking with a teacher. Perhaps he was getting food—and oh god, she thought. Food. Setsuna wasn't sure she could keep anything down in her condition, but by the lord of heaven, she wanted to.

A fantasy tickled the edge of her attention, drawing her in. Her and Izuku—Shoto might've been there, and Yaoyorozu, too—outside a comically mundane food stand. American-style hotdogs. True luxury. Her, eating a hotdog. Him, giving her his half-eaten hotdog. Shoto kept his, but Yaoyorozu ordered two and overestimated her ability, so Setsuna finished the second off.

She sighed, and opened her eyes. A stupid little dream, but it left her feeling floating and warm—as warm as she could get, at least. Unfortunately, she was still hungry, and she was still scheduled to pulverize her best friend on live television—specifically, the one she'd kissed on that same television.

"I don't know, Yaoyao," Setsuna said, returning to clipping her nails, "I just don't."

Yaoyorozu's eyes lingered on the ongoing match between Bakugo Katsuki and Ochako Uraraka. It wasn't something Setsuna wanted to watch, but it appeared intriguing by the measure of Yaoyorozu's wide-eyed focus.

"Is… Is that so?" Yaoyorozu replied, her eyes darting across the arena.

"Mhm. I feel like such a nervous wreck. My life is a big ol' mess."

"I see," she said. Setsuna narrowed her eyes.

"I'll have to fight my oldest friend. He saved my mom's life, once."

"Indeed."

"And I kissed him on live television. His mom's reaction must've been so funny."

"I suppose so."

"Maybe I did it because I'm on my period."

"You could say that."

"I'm pregnant?"

"Perhaps…"

With a huff, she gave up, defeated. Feeling resigned and done with her nails, she finally looked at the match that'd enthralled her very conversational companion. Perhaps Yaoyorozu was correct, in her faltering attention: now was not the time to vent. In only a short while, she'd go through all the venting she'd need. She may not feel it, but she'd prepared for months. Nursing her anxiety was counterproductive; now was the time to cast out her distractions and focus on the moment.

But, as she cast her eyes on the arena, Izuku slipped to the back of her mind, and a thunderous smite replaced him.

[x]

Every nerve in his body felt charged with a million volts. Fire ran through his veins. His muscles were boiling and his bones were melting. Deep within his chest, his heart had transformed into a tortured hummingbird, beating so pathetically quick that Katsuki could no longer discern between his pumping blood or seizures. His hands shook with the impermanence of an autumn leaf, set to blow away in the wind any moment. Each breath was an equal struggle, coming thin and leaving thick.

All over a single fight. Insanity, he was sure, must've already set in. Ochako Uraraka was getting better.

Slowly, over the course of their inane brawl, the way she held herself warped. Her knees bent lower. Her heels rarely stayed in place long. It was like someone had oiled her rusty joints. Katsuki caught himself on multiple occasions striking out at thin air. Some invisible force had grabbed her shoulders and pulled them a half-inch back.

The blade of Katsuki's foot sought her neck—but instead went soaring over her head entirely. Having ducked low, she brought both knuckles to her jaw and stepped into his guard. When she struck his chin, his vision blacked out.

Why? Why!?

He woke back up on his feet, both her wrists in his grasp. With a start, he released her, but the damage was done. Eight purple crescents adorned her like bracelets, and his fingers hurt. Katsuki squeezed her with all his strength in his brief blackout, he knew in his heart he'd only done it for one reason: to hurt her.

The realization killed his momentum, but not hers. Uraraka's hungry, wolfish stare never faltered, even after he must've overpowered her. He didn't remember it. It wasn't what he'd wanted. But there was no denying his slip up.

His chest was screaming to hurt her, and he'd let her give him the opportunity. Raising his guard, he let her weather him with attacks, too full of energy to reply. He felt like a monster, something less than human. This wasn't what he wanted, and—

A spike of anger took him before he could stop it. Though she'd refined her technique in mere minutes, it didn't compensate for the decade between them. She didn't even make a mistake herself, he forced her to make one. She swung at his shoulder, but with a single back-step, her fist cracked against his elbow. The wolf blinked. Katsuki pounced.

He threw his entire weight into her jaw, and she crumpled.

The fugue cleared, and he dragged himself away. Their roles reversed. Now he was breathing like a rabid dog, never able to get enough air. Something was lodged in his throat, something hard and sharp and heavy. His heart, half-vomited up. Midnight appeared to check Uraraka over, tentatively glancing at Katsuki. He didn't know when he'd started walking, but now that he was moving, he couldn't stop. If he had the room, he would've broken into a sprint. As things stood, he prowled around the girls, watching with a heavy heart.

After a few seconds, Uraraka pushed Midnight off her, and stood by herself. The crowd cooed, like she was a baby taking her first steps, and not a girl seemingly determined to make him kill her. She shuffled awkwardly as he circled her, hands deep in his pockets.

"You bitch," he uttered, some of that magma in his bones spilling from between his teeth. "Do you think you're better than me? Did you think I needed your pity? Well I don't!"

The wolf licked her muzzle. It was matted with blood, still dripping from her lip. Her teeth must've cut her cheek open.

Uraraka's face, stone cold as it was, twisted into a smile. It might've been cute. She was a cute girl—a very cute one. Nearly enthralling.

But the red-stained teeth ruined the effect.

"I didn't catch that," Uraraka said, offering him her profile. She drew a finger around her ear's curve, accentuating the hearing aid. "Mind repeatin' that for little ol' me?"

"You know damn well you heard me!" Katsuki said, ignoring how his own nails dug into his thigh through his pockets. "Why don't you stay down?"

The wolf pretended to think it over.

When the act dropped, Katsuki tensed, but what came next surprised him more than any punch or kick.

"Katsuki Bakugo, Ground Zero, you'll never be All Might."

The crowd faded to a muted squeal.

"I don't want to be. I never did," he hissed, pulling his hands out. He'd tried so, so hard to be the good guy. He was faltering. "He's a dead moron. A dead fucking moron! I… I hate him. Who are you to tell me that shit?"

The wolf rubbed her wrists, where his fingerprints remained.

"Just because I'm deaf doesn't mean I can't hear horse shit, Bakugo. It hit me some time ago—I can't stand you, not one bit. Something about you makes my ears ring and my stomach hurt. Maybe it's the smell."

"Shut your trap," Katsuki said, slowing his pace. She regarded him like he wasn't there; like a pig, snorting in his mud-pen.

"You're not like him. You're not like him at all," Uraraka continued, glancing out at the crowd. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't seem to find. With a sigh, she slumped her shoulders. When their eyes met again, Katsuki stopped in his tracks. Narrowed with focus, her fighting eyes, he clearly saw, were different from her normal ones. Those things were like teardrops, half-lidded and unmoving. He hadn't noticed when the switch flipped, but it had. Now they were softer, rounded. Familiar. She bat her eyelashes in the wind.

Between her blinks, he thought the sun caught a jade glimmer around her pupils.

His fingertips tingled with pins and needles. The fire in his chest quieted but for a single prick.

"He's so… close," Uraraka said, all the fight drained from her shoulders. He took a shuddering breath. An inkling of understanding darkened his mind. "It's in him, Bakugo. It's something woven into him—the same cloth, cut from his. It's so easy being near him that I nearly mistook him for All Might's kid… But you're different. It's like someone took that cloth and scrubbed it with steel wool. The material is the same. The texture is intolerable. You're just a liar. He's honest."

A cool drop of sweat rolled down his neck.

"Back home, my folks are scared. Everyone has been. All Might was the only big name who ever graced our little town. But when I think of Izuku… I feel hopeful, and I know he makes other people feel the same. It's an aura he radiates, something he could bring anywhere, even my dinky little town," Uraraka said, her expression soft, despite the blood staining her chin. Then the wolf blinked, and she returned to the rigid predator he'd been wrestling.

"But you'd bring nothing but trouble, I think," she finished.

His mouth opened. She froze. He didn't hear the words he said. The blood pounding in his ears overshadowed everything. They came without permission—but he knew how they felt. His tongue made all the agonizingly familiar movements. It tasted like rotten eggs and poison.

Uraraka's eyes changed again as he raised his hands. This wasn't the fighter, the wolf—or the wistful lover girl. This was a scared, confused child.

It was a lie he spoke. A lie he knew was a lie, one he'd known the truth of for years—but one that he simply could not let go. It plagued his mind, poisoned his nightmares, and put his tongue under a spell he, at that exact moment, suddenly lost the strength to resist. No one else heard him—not Midnight, not a camera, and not a spectator in the Stadium or across the planet.

While the whole world watched, Uraraka's whole world cracked.

"You realize," Katsuki whispered, glaring at her between his splayed fingers, "that "aura" Izuku radiates is just fear? The thought of getting caught cripples him. He knows, better than anything, that if someone figures out he killed All Might, that there isn't a single sick fuck on planet Earth who'd stay by his side."

Once the words left him, that primal rage burning inside Katsuki's chest grazed his fuse. Every milliliter of sweat lining his palms sparked, and the arena before Bakugo vaporized. Before the light overtook them both, Uraraka's expression burned into his mind. Hollow, stupefied recognition. He would never forget it.

[x]

AN: We're closing in on the finale. Strap in.

review!~