Chapter Text
[13 Years Ago]
“Okay! We made it! We’re home!”
Using every ounce of care and motherly vigilance she can muster, Emi sets her son down with a feather-light touch, as though a half dozen bags of varying sizes aren't hanging off her frame. Thin straps dangle at the last curl of her fingers and dig into her shoulder blade. Only when he shuffles away toward a colorfully-cluttered corner of the room does she feel safe to unload.
Condensed and sorted into carriables, the day collapses in a heap with her. Groceries, laundry, mail, more groceries, an emergency gift for a rainy day, and some buckle-riddled carrier meant to comfortably hold a child. Meant to. A job not so easily accomplished when said child insists on getting a good look at everything and everyone.
How this frequent attitude of wonder toward life looks on his face is priceless. Still, considering Emi’s job, the irony of walking around looking like a woman wearing a busted straight jacket is not lost on her.
Sliding a heavy delivery box out from the doorway, it finally shuts with a whiny creak and a vibrating kick for good measure. There’s no damage she could do now that hasn't already been done by a previous tenant, and she’d be lying if she said it doesn't make her feel better.
“You wanna help me put it together, gag?” She asks rhetorically with a cocked brow. Izuku busies himself with a scruffy, stuffed bunny, one of a scant few holdovers kept from Emi’s own childhood, complete with a library of mouth sound effects inherited through her puppet shows.
If she’s a good joke, that makes him her lovable little gag.
“Yeah, me neither,” Emi shakes her head, sizing up the Fukukado family’s first ever new piece of furniture—or at least the box it ostensibly sits within—bought to replace the busted recliner that used to mirror her couch. Similar in style to an Adirondack chair but with a distressingly long list of parts; likely packed with hieroglyphics for instructions and the solar system’s most obscure type of screws. Perish the thought of using a normal crosshead. That would be much too convenient.
She sets it aside for now.
Things seem to glide by as she takes a peculiar enjoyment from the mundane sorting process. For once, Emi actually has enough time to get everything done, and that includes sleep, so long as her body keeps pace as the mind wanders.
Sometimes that wandering has her bushwhack through a disquieting jungle of thought and leaves her reflecting on whether she’d somehow hopscotched her way through a few big milestones in life to end up where she is, but the little boy that has her turning to check on him every eleven seconds is worth way more than whatever choices polite society deems important.
They've been wrong about plenty before, and misplaced priorities are a breed of mistake Ms. gosh darn Joke refuses to make.
Muttering her way into a tired genre of argument customarily reserved for showers and long train rides, its re-ignition makes swift work of their homecoming chores, but playing both sides leaves her dissatisfied. There’s no winning without also losing.
Those drawbacks of her vivid imagination are repelled by measured breaths. Emi’s had plenty of practice taking care of herself, now she just happens to have a +1! It’s like the world’s longest party! And while a few neighbors were initially put off by her—for lack of a better term—silliness, she’s proven capable of not burning the place down.
So the Fukukados have already exceeded those insultingly-low expectations.
Plus, having Inko close by does them all good. Ever since they met, she has been the definition of welcoming and kind, even when Emi’s reception to her niceties was briefly, decidedly less so; the associated memories of which require an audible groan for Emi to drown out whenever they come up.
The younger woman’s been wound up on more than one occasion at how a person as emotionally-intelligent as Inko can be oblivious to what Emi would describe as some pretty darn transparent cues. It continues to boggle her mind that Inko could get this far in life and still react with genuine shock when she’s told that a person lied.
Everyone’s blind to something, she supposes.
Bookended with Inko’s helpful attitude and sage advice, the idea that Emi’s major complaint is that she’s too trusting feels downright silly. Not the good kind of silly, the I’d die before ever saying this out loud kind.
With everything put away through varying levels of effort—fruit and yogurt in neat rows next to a mountain of sugary crud she shouldn't have bought but wouldn't be returning, clothes tossed haphazardly in the vague direction of her closet—Big Fukukado finds a comfortable spot on the floor next to Little Fukukado, who offers up his All Might plush with such unstintingly large eyes that she can’t help but accept it and the proposal of play it brings.
“Why, is that Izuku?” Emi asks with a hand over her mouth, using the deepest voice she can as ‘All Might’ flies toward Izuku. “I am here!... To get your autograph!” She gasps, and Izuku giggles, “Do I see a rabbit in need of rescue?!” She points the plush’s stuffy arm toward a fabric picture book covering another toy. Tragically—for the hapless bunny, anyway—that’s as far as the story gets before their doorbell rings.
“Emi?”
Oh no. Had she gotten the dates wrong? Was that today?
“Are you home?” asks a distinctly sweet voice, and is met with silence. Emi’s head hangs low as she processes the situation.
“Do you think we should wait inside,” the kind voice considers quietly with a jingle of keys, “or would that be creepy? Let’s go back to my place. A little stairs never hurt anybody,” but she gasps. “They probably have though, haven’t they? Okay, from now on try and be extra careful on stairs.”
“For fucks sake, she gave you a key, didn't she?” complains a rougher voice, surprisingly without a hint of detectable malice behind her grouching. “It’s too damn hot out for this shit. Just open the door before we both boil alive or that jackass comes back and gives you rabies.”
Jackass? Rabies? Oh.
“Don’t be mean. Lily never hurt anybody.”
That confirms it. The black cat, Lily—formerly Lil’ E.—formerly-formerly Lil’ Eraserhead—is harmless, but Emi can’t begrudge the stranger for her trepidation. Lily has never had the friendliest resting face.
“I will punch a cat if I have to, Inko. I’ll do it, no problem. But if you would pretty please turn the fucking key, I won’t have to.”
A high-pitched squeak and frantic key-turning has Emi looking up at Inko and an exceedingly attractive blond. Skin silky smooth, practically glistening, high cheek bones and a killer sense of style. How a parent stays looking like that is confounding. Given the choice, Emi would stick with her scars, but hot damn.
Really, the woman’s only visible imperfection is a pair of red irises, but at least they aren't too bright.
The smirk on her face contrasts Inko’s look of sheer horror at the mortifying possibility that her best friend’s foul language had been heard by Izuku’s young ears. She can’t seem to get her mouth working properly to squeeze an apology out.
“Um. Hi?” Emi gives a small wave, now singularly tuned in to the disorder of her apartment and the poor time management skills that lead to its current state.
In all fairness, her plate is fuller than full. It’s only natural for some things to spill over the sides. There are worse things to fail at than organization. But she doesn't feel like being fair.
“Fukukado, I presume?”
Pulling a face, she gives a weak wave in return. Izuku garbles with interest, slowly tumbling over his mother’s leg.
“That’s us,” Emi nods, sizing the stranger up from the floor while her son keeps wobbling his way forward, ever curious, “which makes you Bakugo, right? I've heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I assume.”
“Your ears would burn,” Emi snickers. Standing back up, she does her best not to grimace at the sorry state of her home in front of a guest, or, more accurately, this guest in particular. A "normal guest" can buzz off, but if there’s any first meeting worth the extra effort, it’s with Inko’s best friend.
She owes her as much. Trying to keep favors evenly matched with that woman is like playing tag with a train.
Scanning the room for something to say, Emi realizes she’s still holding Izuku’s plush All Might, one of many toys and blankets and books and learning tapes that have transformed what had once been mistaken for a small apartment into its true form as a large playroom.
“So. This is... Everything. Make yourself at home. The bathroom is that’a way,” Emi jabs a thumb at the only two doors, “It’s the one that looks like a bathroom, so, if you walk in and see a bed, you've gone the wrong way. Uh. Also, there’s a slim chance that I maybe, possibly, conceivably don’t have enough seats?”
The unassembled chair’s box continues to irk Emi.
“Oh gosh, bless your heart, Emi, you could've called if you’re too busy. We’re happy to reschedule!” Inko pleads, voice returning at last, her hands wringing like the poor woman’s trying to start a fire. Accommodating could be her middle name. As much as Emi wanted to make things flawless, at this point she’d settle for just getting Inko to relax.
“It’s finer than fine, I was just caught a little off gua–”
“Really, though!”
“I don–”
“It’s no trouble!”
“Bakugo,” Emi gives up the direct strategy of putting her friend at ease, “from one mom to another, help me explain to her that it would end up looking like this either way,” and even as the words leave her lips, she wants to rewind them.
Bakugo nods with a noise of definitive agreement and gives her a pat on the shoulder, but winces almost immediately thereafter, having fallen into the same verbal pitfall as Emi had seconds prior.
They say it’s the thought that counts, but never how much.
If Emi’s own guilt and Bakugo’s tightening expression don’t make her feel like enough of a terrible friend, watching Inko unconsciously coil her fidgeting hands over her lower gut does.
Their conversation’s hero makes himself known by the shivery jolt that shoots through Bakugo’s features until she’s stiff straight, shoulders snapping up to her ears.
Never one to leave a question unanswered, he has locked his mouth around her unblemished calf.
“Izuku!” Inko snatches him up, a giggle sneaking its way past her red cheeks. Wiping the boy’s face proves to be a war of attrition when he insists on hugging himself into her collarbone with a slurred “Inky!”
His mama on the other hand, tosses out any pretense of formality or good manners by breaking out into a side-splitting laugh. Contrary to her knee-jerk reaction, Bakugo joins in as well once she sees that Inko is also chuckling despite herself, though neither can match the volume of the Fukukados.
“Glycerin sweat,” Bakugo squeezes out an explanation between short breaths, pointing to her outstretched arm, which Izuku then tries to latch onto; this time he’s intercepted by Emi. As funny as that was, she’s got a pretty strict policy of not feeding her child other people's bodily fluids.
“Inko, why didn't you tell me this kid is cute as fu–” “FUN!” Inko cheeps over her best friend in the name of censorship. She shoots an apologetic look toward Emi, who snorts in response.
“You’re not wrong,” Emi shrugs, laughter dying down.
“I see we have an All Might fan,” Mitsuki gives an exaggerated gasp at the sight of Izuku’s itty-bitty shoes covered in cartoonish Pro Heroes and the All Might cuddly Emi hands back to him.
“I guess?” Emi raises a brow and plops both Izuku and herself down onto the as of yet unopened chair box, having wrangled him from getting more sweat and saliva on Inko, “but what kid isn't?”
Having acclimatized to all things hero-ing, it could be she can’t see the forest for the trees, but calling a kid who can’t put together an entire sentence an outright fan of anything seems generous.
“Stupid ones,” Mitsuki wipes a sleeve over her leg from her place on the couch. “My little guy is already obsessed.”
Emi hums in understanding, keeping her doubt unspoken.
She chalks it up to the big smile and colorful costume. Plenty of young kids have their ‘it’, and everything being equal, All Might isn't the worst to be infatuated with. His image is so pervasive it dominates much of the children’s hand-me-down store nearby, more so than even dinosaurs or trains, and if that isn't a testament to his ubiquity, Emi doesn't know what is.
The only way he could be more popular is if he had his own line of dinosaur-themed trains. As this is the man with his own brand of sock garters, it wouldn't surprise Emi if he does.
“I think it’s scary,” says Inko, doing her best to clean up the aftermath of a hyperactive child hurricane despite Emi's protests.
“Eh, Katsuki can handle it,” Mitsuki waves away her friend’s concern.
“And Izuku’s bound to learn more eventually,” Emi replies with a voice both apprehensive and resigned. Two discordant halves of parenting meet inside her and respectfully shake hands before beating the daylights out of one another.
Breaking news: the world is a scary place. Delaying it is one thing, but there’s no way to hide that fact forever. Every step forward adds another thousand contradictory questions, leaving Emi feeling almost as if she knows less than her boy.
Given that she literally has a jar of honey in the cupboard older than he is, it’s safe to say that particular worry is less than rational.
So long as she can walk the tightrope of defining “age appropriate”, that would be enough. For now it is just stuffed heroes and music blocks and other colorful, professedly constructive toys. It’s not as if she’d go turn on disaster footage for a kid who can barely talk.
“That’s exactly what I think,” Mitsuki agrees firmly, “If he wants to sit with Masaru while he watches the news, who the hell cares? It’s what he likes! And he ain't cryin’ about it, so it’s fine.”
… What.
A knock at the door takes Emi away from what might have ranked in her top ten strangest discussions if she’d only had the chance to play it out.
“Excuse me,” a young, heavily accented voice on the other side of her door speaks tentatively. “I saw.. beautiful woman earlier, who– she had the.. Um. A face that causes a scare? Yes? And I am.. of the wondering if you need help? Please tell this answer to me so that I will do many– er, much protection for you from the dangerous woman.”
Good, this conversation again. After letting Izuku cling to Inko like a koala and dragging her feet toward the muffled voice, Emi has to remind herself: happy face. Or closest as can be.
“For the thousandth time,” Emi’s tone as she cracks the door open is to the point and professional. An on-work spiel that shouldn't need repeating.
At her doorstep stands a lanky young foreigner wearing ill-fitting clothes, apprehension, and good intentions.
“I. Am. A. Hero. I do not need you to defend me. Please stop. Pretty please. It’s getting old. Also, the word you’re looking for in Japanese is frightening. Please stop. Are we clear?”
“R-right. Yes, we’re clear. Sorry, Emi,” he speaks sloppily, giving her an awkward bow.
“Fukukado,” Emi corrects him with a voice like a flat-line, irritation slipping further through the cracks.
“Sorry, Emi Fukukado.”
“That’s not–” Emi smacks her forehead and presses the cracked door shut with her weight, “Goodbye!” she says to the door, hoping it’s the last interruption.
“Sorry about that. He’s just a foreign student renting a few doors down. The guy means well.”
“I never knew you spoke English so fluently!” Inko practically glows.
Emi shrugs, because why would she know? Where would that have possibly come up?
“It’s not that big’a deal. I grew up around it. Sure, it comes in handy to give tourists directions,” she stretches in her seat awkwardly, “but other than that, it’s only useful when Izuku and I are alone. I just try to pepper it in and hope that big noggin of his is absorbing a word or two.”
“My English might be rusty, but,” Mitsuki interjects, “did you say you’re a hero?”
“You didn't tell her?”
“No, I– I just said you were in civil services,” Inko rocks on the balls of her feet when she has to set the restless Izuku down, “I don’t know all the ins and outs of your work, s-so I didn't want to overstep my bounds.”
“I wouldn't have minded," it almost comes out as mound, "but as always, you are so sweet it puts pastries to shame.” Emi throws her a cheesy wink, giving rise to a prominent blush on Inko’s face, half-blocked by her hands. “But yes, it’s true. I’m a hero. Well. Technically I’m a sidekick. But mark my words; I’ll be a Pro faster than you can say ‘stage presence’.”
“That explains the...” Mitsuki gestures loosely over Emi’s body, much to her confusion, before Emi realizes she was talking about the bruises stippled on her thigh, and the larger one that has blossomed around her bicep. Nothing more than a little mishap at work, fading fast over the prior week. Not even worth bothering a support hero about at the time.
“Oh. Yeah.”
To her, they don’t even register as unusual. Emi is a sidekick. Before long she’ll be a full-blown Pro Hero. She’s spent her whole life becoming conditioned to ignore pain.
“So are you going to be the next All Might, or what? Will I hear people shouting your name from the rooftops?” Bakugo asks, flashing teeth.
“I’d prefer to hear laughter, actually,” Emi shakes her head. “I just want to be the best Ms. Joke I can be. All Might is number one for a reason, it’s just that—how should I put this…”
There’s a considered pause that the others are respectful enough to wait through.
“If a hero like All Might is the answer to how you’ll get through the bad times, I want to also help be a reminder why,” is what she decides on.
“Wow, a hero and a poet. You picked a good one,” Bakugo grins at a prideful Inko. “I’ll bet he loves to watch you work, huh?” she asks Emi, tussling Izuku’s hair. Predictably, he giggles.
It takes a moment for Emi to realize she isn't kidding.
“… Uh. I’m not gonna have my kid come watch me get kicked in the ribs,” Emi responds with a furrowed brow, coughing nonchalantly to try and change the subject, “but enough about me! What about you? Inko gushes about your fashion work.”
“Yeah, I’m fu—udging amazing at what I do,” Bakugo has another close call. The redaction is presumably her equivalent to being humble. “That’s actually where I met Masaru, my husband.”
They work together. How sweet.
“She introduced Hisashi and I to him on a double date,” Inko chimes in.
The ease with which Inko can tell stories that involve the fabled Hisashi Midoriya is nothing if not commendable. Keeping an ex-husband’s last name always sounded a little odd, but Emi knows she herself can’t exactly be seen as the paragon of healthy rebounding when a good day means wanting to break Shouta’s face and a bad day involves wanting to forgive the bastard.
She recalls once asking Inko, “How can you not hate his guts?”
“Why would I do that?” Inko responded with a sad smile, “We both wanted the same thing, so how can I blame him? No matter how many times we tried, it just wasn't working. It wasn't going to work.”
“But he left you for something you couldn't change.”
“We left each other,” Inko corrected, “and he is not responsible for my body. Hisashi owed it to himself to find someone who makes him happy. I hope he has.”
“Inko, you are a more forgiving woman than I could ever be,” Emi complimented with a shake of her head.
“I’m… Not sure that’s true,” Inko said quietly. “Even if you’d like it to be.”
They hugged. Emi didn't bother asking Inko what she’d meant. She doubted the answer would satisfy.
“The poor man looked terrified,” Inko says, “It wasn't until the day after that Mitsuki told me it had been their first date!”
“Shit, I wasn't gonna keep him if he couldn't get along with my best friend.”
“Anyone could get along with her,” Emi notes, lifting Izuku into her lap at his repeated request of “Mama, hol’!” and occupying him with the ever-popular bouncing leg.
“Exactly. It made her a good litmus test to see if I was smitten for a psycho.”
“He still had his briefcase! She dragged him straight from work!” Inko says from the tiny kitchen, empathetic and teasing at once.
“Aw hell, Inko! He was taking too long to ask me out.”
“How long is too long?” Emi cuts in.
“Hmm... Lets seeeee…” Bakugo cracks her knuckles mindlessly; even when in deep rumination she finds a way to seem threatening. “He was eye candy for about a month since he was in a different division. Once we finally got to talking, I gave him another few weeks to make a move before I just got tired of it.”
“Huh.”
“What?” Bakugo asks, ready to dissect whatever answer Emi can cobble together.
“Nothing, I was just—” What’s she supposed to say? What can she say that won’t come off snide and judgmental, as if she’s the arbiter of good choices? Emi can’t help but see herself courting similarly and the memories being pleasant makes them unpleasant.
If nothing else, she’s retrospectively thankful for Shouta and his tendency to take things at an agonizingly slow pace. Saved them a lot of trouble in the end. Having seen behind the curtain of ‘love at first sight’, she hopes it works out differently for Bakugo and her husband.
“–surprised that worked on the first try. I’m not exactly the best flirter,” she forces a laugh, “I probably came across like a total stalker. Come across,” Emi corrects herself, not that she’s had to do any flirting in years, “Either way, your husband sounds like a lucky man.”
“Damn right he is,” Bakugo boasts like it’s going out of style, “but I’m lucky, too. Passion begets art, and Masaru’s great at both.”
Inko, having sat back down with a drink in hand, immediately chokes on it, sputtering along with the friendly palm patting her on the back.
“I don’t suppose you two could make me a new costume sometime? Mama is in dire need of an upgrade,” Emi flashes a thousand-watt smile she already knows won’t work.
It’s not urgent, but the budget they’re given at her agency is for replacing equipment—not entire redesigns—and hers has begun to feel too kiddy. A weird complaint for Ms. Joke of all people to have, but she needs a suit easier on the eyes, something slightly less garish for her eventual debut. Preferably one that doesn't require she do her hair up and mess with that stupid bow knot and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Unfortunately, we don’t do hero-wear, and my boss is a dick. Also, I have a baby and a mortgage, so no freebies,” Bakugo lists an unnecessary series of reasons. Emi had been expecting a “no”, as she was mostly kidding to begin with, but it’s nice of Bakugo to care. Or pretend to. It's difficult to tell.
“Speaking of which— you and this handsome guy should come over and meet my handsome guys sometime. I know it’d be good for Katsuki,” Bakugo leans to boop Izuku on the nose.
Rough as her personality showed when they’d first spoken, Emi saw more tenderness in her than she’s given credit for.
“Little twerp won’t sit still.”
… Maybe.
“We’ll have to see who drops first then!” Emi says with the kind of smile she wears while sidekick-ing; wide, bright, and followed shortly by her distinct laugh. “My kid’s no slouch!” she says with a vigorous nod.
Izuku imitates her motion with an intense, discerning look about him as he tries to put the pieces of his current, unspecified puzzle together; a comical sight on his chubby face.
“What about you? Think you can make it?” Emi offers to a startled Inko, crossing her fingers in her son’s hair. “I’m sure Izuku would love to bring ‘Inky’ along.”
Wiping her eyes before anyone might see a single tear ready to fall, Inko nods with a wobbly smile. She tries to give a thank you, but has to clear her throat instead.
“You hear that, Izuku? You’re gonna get a new friend!” Emi tickles his sides.
“J-just so you know, he tends to play rough,” Inko warns.
“Ehhhhh, he’s not that bad,” Bakugo counters, but one look at Inko says that yes, he is that bad.
“Have no fear!” Emi bellows in a low impression of the number one hero and holds up a giggling izuku, “Izuku is tougher than he looks! Aren’t ‘cha, gag?”
“You okay?”
“Don’t worry, I’m tougher than I look.”
Izuku might throw up. But in a good way! But in a bad way… In a good way!
“Did I go any faster that time?” he asks, doubled over and conscious again.
Being brainwashed feels almost like teleportation (or what Izuku assumes teleportation feels like) with an added dose of wooziness. One moment you’re where you are and the next moment you aren't. Simple and jarring and fascinating.
Brainwash is right, with the cycle set on ‘heavy’— honestly, it makes him ready to vomit. Not that he’s going to tell Shinsou about choking down bile and hurt his feelings.
Other than a spot of nausea, it’s a bit like sleep, if sleep involved ending up on the other side of a trashy clearing with sore fingers from carrying a misshapen hunk of metal on the way there.
Quite literally disorienting, to the definition.
Shinsou clicks the stopwatch function on his phone, running a hand through his hair and fighting his way off of an old couch that has absorbed him between scratchy fabric and sand.
“No,” he concludes bluntly.
Coming to the beach hadn't been Izuku’s idea, but boy is he glad they came. Their previous destinations often left something to be desired. Specifically something related to preparing for U.A.
The café was nice, but its pricey beverages meant the only thing he drank up was the atmosphere. The arcade had been colorful, but he stunk at every game, and the lighting made it difficult to go over his notes.
It’s easy to have a good time with a friend around, but each day’s end left him increasingly antsy when they came and went with negligible progress.
That changed once Shinsou asked to read one of his journals. As any totally-normal person would, Izuku proceeded to vomit words until he felt lightheaded and insisted they postpone their afternoon plans, swing by the Midoriya apartment and cram every volume he still had into Shinsou’s backpack. Shinsou bargained his way into only taking #12, and if he wanted more later, so be it.
Things quickly spiraled out from there. Once they got to talking shop, Shinsou had some surprisingly insightful observations about a few of his entries. He may not have the disposition of a fanboy, ready to fervently catalog hero after hero, but his comments and suggestions have been a joy to receive.
They've spent less and less time relaxing, which ironically eases Izuku’s mind more and more. It stopped mattering where they go when their noses are in books anyway, or Shinsou’s busy researching nutrition while Izuku fiddles with whatever bandage he’d been stuck with that afternoon.
Naturally, with this building momentum, the prospect of skidding to a halt and spending a half-day at the beach had Izuku pacing in deep deliberation, but Shinsou insisted, citing many fond childhood memories as proof of its worth.
Lo and behold, its glittering sands and crystalline waters have since been reduced to a giant trash heap, and Izuku couldn't be happier about their new blessing in disgu(st)ise.
Imagine how surprised he was to find out that Shinsou had baited him into coming. He knew the area was trashed and he knew Izuku couldn't resist a big pile of garbage, the sneaky devil! A clever one, too: Dagobah Beach has everything they need and more!
It’s somewhere to exercise for free, it’s a way to give back to the community, it'll rectify what fly-tippers have done to Shinsou’s nostalgia, and if, hypothetically, they wanted to practice using quirks in “public”, what better or more solitary place to do it than an illegal garbage dump?
Physically, ever since he got the tentative O.K. from Shinsou—a clean bill of health, if you will—he’s been careful not to invite injury back into his life.
… Which amounts to trying to avoid Kacchan more than usual and listening to Shinsou when he says things like, “Please don’t try lifting that one yet, Midoriya.”
Neither goal is coming along particularly well, but a silver lining never wilts. Case in point: Shinsou is definitely improving his ability to deal with Izuku’s aches and pains.
He stitched Izuku’s collarbone the other day, and he did a heck of a job! Super neat!
Waiting for Izuku to heal before they began in earnest had been a valiant effort, but there's only so long one can stand idle because of new injuries that replace the old. Much as it makes Shinsou squirm, but they haven’t got a choice.
Nothing’s perfect. Air conditioning would be nice. Sand can be a pain. The walk from Aldera is longer than he’d like. But it isn't right to look a gift trash pile in the mouth. Adversity is opportunity!
Eventually, Izuku would like to see where Shinsou lives, but meeting his parents is too risky until they’re training at a dojo, onto which the excuse for injuries can be easily attached. The way Shinsou tells it, they would be less than thrilled to meet a caricature of cuts and bruises. It’s hard not to wonder, though: do they have hair as soft as Shinsou?
“Maybe you aren't being specific enough. Kinda like the quirk version of a monkey’s paw,” Izuku posits weakly, wiggling his hand. “So, instead of saying ‘lift that and go over there’, you could say ‘lift it and go over there at a specific pace’. Or you could use different adjectives.”
Shinsou maintains eye contact, but Izuku can tell he’s inspecting the now-yellowing bruise from the day they met. Were it another subject, a pirate joke would likely be in order.
“’Kacchan’ give you any more souvenirs today?”
“No!” Izuku straightens his stance, deflecting the question as though it is utterly absurd, despite being anything but.
“Good, ‘cus the kit is out of salve to put on any burns that some abusive jerk gives you with his flame quirk or whatever, and we have our hands full as it is.”
Although Izuku opens his mouth to defend Kacchan, sensing an oppressive air, he keeps his comments to himself. Kacchan has never been the best conversation piece between Shinsou and himself. Literally the opposite, in fact, as calling them ‘conversations’ would hang in the balance between charitable and obtuse.
Izuku has quickly learned how intense of a reaction Shinsou has to the topic. It probably comes from a good place, but it’s easy to feel unheard when the guy refuses to listen the millisecond Izuku tries bringing up anything close to positive about Kacchan. Generously, Izuku estimates he’s gotten maybe two dozen words out about Kacchan before being promptly shut down.
Changing the subject is just easier for everyone, so Izuku lets his mind wander for insight and hand wander for his pen and notebook.
“Do you feel different levels of resistance in what tasks you give the v–” victim, he almost says, to his shame, “recipient?”
He taps the pen to his bottom lip and waits until Shinsou finds a spot to set down the broken microwave weighing him down. Things could be going so much smoother had they the practice--- physical and quirk-wise.
“Like I said, I just tell them what to do and they do it,” Shinsou says through a novice attempt at cracking his back. “Why do you ask? Is that how your quirk works?
“A laugh is a laugh,” Izuku shrugged nervously. As long as his father's quirk was active, what more could he do? “It’s like… It’s like a tiny raincloud I put over the person. Once they’re soaking wet, they can’t exactly get wetter.”
“That analogy is so plain,” Shinsou can’t help but chuckle, wiping sweat from his brow as he prepares to move a large box of cans. A question loads itself to be asked, but it never comes. That's fine. Izuku wouldn't have a proper response anyhow.
Izuku almost snips at him for delaying what will be an empty conversation regardless, but that’d make him an even worse friend than he already is.
Of course his analogy is plain. It’s not as though he’s had many chances to practice. It’s not like he’s got his Mom’s quirk, where at least she could explain the ins and outs of it. It’s not like he's worth sticking around for.
“—doriya, can you give me a hand? Not that I don’t appreciate your faith in me, but I think my arms would snap trying to lift this alone,” Shinsou’s hands remain clenched around half the box, ready for a partner. With rapid blinks and a nod, Izuku moves to grab the other end. He slips on a pleasant smile, because he doesn't think he’s capable of a bright one at the moment.
“Don’t do that,” he says with a grunt, heaving his end up. His taller friend follows suit.
“Do what?” Shinsou replies, hoping not to trip and break their toes. With gritted teeth, Izuku has to wait until they set it down to respond.
“Downplay yourself like that,” he whines, pulling a long splinter from his palm. “I won’t stand here while you insult a friend of mine.”
“What’re you gonna do, beat me up?” Shinsou’s flat look pulls up at one side.
“If I have to,” Izuku playfully threatens and raises his voice as if to recite a quote, “’words can last a lot longer than the argument, so make sure they’re positive ones… But if you have to, just clonk ‘em on the noggin.’”
Izuku gives Shinsou the lightest ‘clonk’ imaginable, squishing purple hair down over his face; it springs back up only after Izuku pulls his fist away, granting Shinsou his vision back, expression unchanged.
“Easy there, All Might Jr.” he pushes Izuku with a finger to the forehead. “Save it for tomorrow.”
As it turns out, when you’re totally inexperienced, it isn't easy to find somewhere you can learn to fight that won’t hold your hand at a snail’s pace. It’s not snobbery or inflated self-worth that keeps them from signing up to take ‘beginner-friendly group classes for all ages’ advertised on telephone polls. They just don’t have the luxury of time. Worst comes to worst, we can take lessons from Professor Internet.
“Um. I don’t think we’ll be actually fighting tomorrow…?”
Realistically, Izuku doubts they’ll get five words in before they’re laughed out, much less put right into a fight. That seems to be the running trend so far, and they're just about out of options before needing to resort to taking lessons from Professor The Internet. Never know until you try though.
“It was a joke. Aren't you supposed to be the expert of those?” Shinsou intercepts a second ‘clonk’ing. “Just don’t be late, okay?”
“Aww! Don’t jinx me!”
Shinsou rolls his eyes and gives the wooden box three solid knocks to deter the superstition. Izuku adds one more.
“For luck!”
Do it again.
Get your ass up and do it again.
Katsuki punches at the floor before its thick padding can pool any more of his sweat. He forces himself up onto shaky legs and stumbles back toward a self-appointed starting position. An edge to the blast zone. Something to remind other members and supposed-trainers of the danger they’re in if they try and fuck with his regimen.
Pouring down his arms onto smoky hands, the sweat turns a dull gray from the dust. An oddly entrancing sight for someone whose hands are everything, but as Katsuki’s targets reset in his peripheral, he recognizes the momentary fascination as little more than an excuse to catch a breather.
He’ll have to go even harder this time. Heroes don’t get breathers.
“LET’S GO, ASSHOLE!”
His occasional shouting may have once startled a few of the staff, but they have long since become accustomed to the enthusiastic attitude that regularly livens up their workplace. Or they all dropped dead; Katsuki neither knows nor cares. They leave him alone. That’s what matters.
It’s always been a big place. With a Quirk Gym this pricey? Size is a given. Big-big. Getting loud is part of the process, even key to some people’s quirks, and that requires plenty of room if you want to keep customers happy. And safe. Katsuki takes pride in being an impetus for the gym having recently retrofitted their equipment and flooring with additional, quirk-applied absorbents.
… He assumes. They haven’t confronted him about it—nor should they for what Katsuki’s parents shell out monthly—but it makes sense. Nobody wants to go workout and be subjected to the sounds of, and shock from constant, powerful explosions if they don't have to.
Fine, then. If they want to cry a river, they can build themselves a bridge and get the fuck over it, because he isn't breaking any rules.
The dense foam figure taunts him with its stillness. As the last rubbery chunk puffs back out to complete its statuesque form, Katsuki moves before his aching muscles can bemoan him into stopping.
A leap forward and two pointed shots beneath him launch Katsuki high into the air. He shifts. A blast at the side sends him twirling. Another, and his speed increases. The target is in sight. He reaches from the ends of his toes to the tips of his fingers, but the ground is coming faster and faster and the desperate explosion he sends toward the dummy before impact does little to slow his graceless tumbling.
Flopping along padded floors means the only bruise he gets is to his ego.
Shaking off the disorienting roll that has lead him to the target’s feet, Katsuki stares upside down to see it almost entirely intact. His insignificant scorch mark on the faceless dummy fades in seconds. Rubbery foam, unblemished and deep blue, it mocks him.
Even with all his power, he couldn't do a damn thing.
Again.
His performance was even worse than his earlier attempts, and knowing where he’d gone wrong is a poor consolation. He knows, without intent or conscious dissection; just another reason he’s the best. He ain't some fucking meat-head. When you’re number one, you know shit— you don’t have to analyze everything like the fucking Villain Jr.
Instinctively, Katsuki understands he’d angled himself poorly from the start. Way too steep. His spiral was uneven and his accelerating shots mistimed, hurdling him closer to the floor. Flailing arms and legs killed whatever momentum was left.
He needed to tuck in more next time, too—he isn't supposed to be a fucking bird trying to flap its wings, so what the hell was he doing up there? If it had any chance of working, Katsuki would have to let his shoulders take the brunt of the wind so his hands can catch the draft, otherwise they’ll just dry out. Like how they just did.
The innate, unconscious analysis he would sum up as “do it fucking right next time” plays like a movie in the background as he laments his failure.
What a shitshow.
A quavering moan comes from his left. Far, but loud enough for him to hear over his own breathing and the quiet, inoffensive pop music playing from the high ceiling. It’s that stupid kid again.
She has been terrorizing Katsuki’s gym experience recently, and while tuning out her whining is good practice for keeping focused, watching her crumple to her knees in defeat snaps Katsuki’s last thread of patience harder than his teeth do when he stands up.
This girl better not be crying. Katsuki seethes, heading right for her back facing him. It’s impossible to see anything distinct besides the singular tone of her body; short, sandy hair on her head endlessly crumbling to the floor, pebble by pebble. The girl really couldn't be much younger than he is—if at all—so what the hell is she doing sitting there all defeated like a damn child?!
“HEY! Get up or die,” he stomps beside her, receiving a ridged hop in return.
“Ah- My bad!” says the startled girl, spinning to look up at him and kicking herself away to get slightly more personal space than the domineering, sweaty Katsuki is giving her. It does not work— something she learns as the snarling blond continues to close the distance.
“Did you need to use this equipment?” she asks innocently, pale eyes dripping sand, not unlike the rest of her.
“No. You’re just pissing me off,” Katsuki crosses his arms, wearing an askance look. Clacking noises slow with each cycle; they signal the winding down phase of the light, doughy ball launchers she’d been practicing with.
“W-what did I do?”
Katsuki’s seen her before. She comes across as a normal enough gym member, but he has a keen eye for quitters. Not that that’s saying much, as most people are do-nothing losers— this nobody just has the audacity to exercise in his general vicinity. It’s fucking maddening. People half-assing through life even more so. Winners like Katsuki don’t need that kind of shitty attitude near them.
“You suck.”
“Oh, um. Sorry? I guess I do,” she fails at laughing, picking herself up nervously. “I was actually thinking the same thing. I should just pack it in...”
Presaging the inevitable, her words spill out as if she had been looking for an excuse to give up. What a fucking coward.
If Katsuki’s vague knowledge of her quirk learned through glances toward her overly dramatic sighs is to be believed, then she’s an even bigger chicken-shit than the usual, run-of-the-mill layabouts. It seems the girl’s quirk comes from the grains of sand flaking off her monochrome body’s exposed skin or hair. He’s seen her trying to form shields out of the excess; they look plenty complex, but collapse at a single impact.
There are tons of ways to use a quirk like that and this girl is content to be shot at with soft, almost marshmallow-like orbs. Katsuki doesn't bother with this machine, but if he did, he wouldn't let those stupid balls get close.
She could be here for hero training, or self-defense, or who fucking knows, or it’s supposed to help her in ballet or some shit. Potential— no, life is all or nothing, and this girl is wasting it.
‘It’ being HIS damn time by distracting him.
“Then do it, Pebbleface!” Katsuki says coldly, excoriating a complete stranger. “Seriously. It’s a great fucking plan. You’ll definitely get a lot better that way.“
His whole body clenches at her listless demeanor. Why is it so hard for people to understand basic common sense? Get the fuck out or stop being so damn pathetic! He already has to deal with the nobodies at school, but at least they don’t try in the first place. Pebbleface though, has invaded his sanctuary with her unmotivated, lackadaisical efforts, and that shit is too fucking intrusive to deal with any longer.
”I don’t have time for this shit,“ he turns, hoping she got the picture.
“Do you think you could give me a few tips sometime?”
Well, she got a picture. It just happens to be an entirely different picture, taken by an entirely different person, who loves being annoyed.
“Hell no! I’m not your babysitter,” Katsuki recoils with anger and disgust, moving back to collect his things at the station he’d been using. This time she’s the one following him.
“You seem like you’re pretty tough,” she mumbles fast, shambolic sentences. “I-I've seen you doing your, um, bomb practice before? And it’s really impressive. I was thinking, since you’re here so often, it’d be cool if I could have, like, five minutes of your time. See, I’m tr—”
“DROP FUCKING DEAD!”
A second. Two, tops. That’s how long pebble girl startles until she spins on her heels and squeezes her resent into each step away from him, trying not to well up.
“Fuck,” he claps a hand over his eyes, releasing a shaky breath. Blocking a sense helps him to focus on the infuriating situation.
“How about don’t make a literal shield, moron,” Katsuki growls, dragging the hand down his face. He can hear her stop moving. “You aren't cosplaying a fucking knight. Form a wall that does its damn job and worry about moving it later. You shouldn't be working on your speed yet if you're too weak to handle a marshmallow.” he runs through it quickly with his lids shut before stomping off to grab his gear where he won’t have to disgrace his eyeballs with someone else’s bullshit problems longer than necessary. “Now go die or I’ll kill you," he tacks on with little passion.
Yeah, that should make sure she won’t bother him again. She probably would have come back even more irritating if Katsuki had left it with only threats. Not that he had much behind them today. Training must have wore him out more than he thought.
(Thankfully, over the following weeks, he would soon notice by the lack of brain-piercing whines that the sandy girl started working out in a different section of the gym and learned to shut the hell up.)
(He didn't see much more of her after that, outside of occasional trips to grab equipment from that area. More importantly, he didn't have to hear her either, aside from a handful of apologies one time after she erected a too-wide sand wall ahead of him by mistake.)
(Which means Katsuki’s kickass solution worked, as expected. No more having to deal with some extra.)
Clammy clothes test the limits of his duffel bag zipper and it’s difficult to take any satisfaction from his daily efforts. Having your last attempt of the day suck so badly puts a damper on the whole affair. If it were up to him, he’d stay all night, but the hag has rules, and those rules say to get the hell home in time for supper.
Even that leash has shortened as of late.
Katsuki knocks his way outside and into the amber tinted dusk, a lambent sky strikingly different from indoors, where the lights are bright, white, and the only hour they look like is ‘timeless’. Out here, though, is another story; naturalistic and melancholy.
One day more.
“Don’t kick the door, Katsuki. You’ll bust the glass,” his mom casually chides him from her spot against a lamppost, preoccupied with roughly sketching on a notepad she keeps in her purse. He can hear himself retort, but doesn't bother doing so consciously, leaving a smudge on his immediate memory of the conversation.
It’s all thoughtless until she’s willing to acknowledge he doesn't need protecting twenty-four-seven, or ever. The trains run as well as they always have, yet she insists on driving him to the gym and waiting outside with levels of patience bordering on Auntie’s.
She does have the decency to stay out of his training, for the most part, which isn't a new dynamic by any means, but this recent, hovering presence has Katsuki appreciating his independence wherever he can get it.
A waiting game. That’s what this is. All he has to do is bide time until she stops acting so damn anal retentive.
And since that’ll apparently never happen, it looks like he’s in for another roaring round of trying to communicate with his father silently over the dinner table, urging him to stop indulging her overreactions.
Katsuki has yet to receive a response on this particular issue, and the ride home is spent looping his dilemma. By the time he realizes the car isn't moving anymore, they've long since parked.
“Fuck’re you looking at?” Katsuki asks after an unnerving silence and stare from his mother, as though he hadn't been caught unaware.
“Just a brat,” she replies through a sigh, unlocking the car doors. Shaking her head at something she does nothing to explain to Katsuki, her hand reaches into his spiky hair before he can escape and smushes him down into the seat with a touch that non-Bakugos may call ‘harsh’.
“Let’s head inside,” his mom shifts out of her door, “and don’t forget to grab your gym bag. I can’t be lugging your crap around forever.”
She says it quickly, marked by a clearing of her throat that shakes him from his frozen posture.
“Took you long enough,” he replies dismissively, refusing to buy such a change of heart so easily after weeks of enduring her bullshit.
. . .
Katsuki learns his suspicion was ultimately misplaced when his mom doesn't show up after school the following day.
I guess even the hag has a surprise or two in her old age, he snorts at the thought, giving his surroundings a once-over, as though she’s going to spring from the bushes outside Aldera.
Those cronies practically do just that, before Katsuki has the time to even think about walking to the train station.
“Bakugo, check this out,” Weird-fingers waves a rectangle in front of him, sandwiching Katsuki with the help of Slug-eyes.
“We think it’s Midoriya’s phone!”
Katsuki snatches it from that nobody’s hand and clicks its home button, revealing a stupidly-bright, overly-saturated picture of All Might. The mental image of a small boy with bedraggled, light green locks and a cruel smile slots truly over the screen in front of him.
Leave it to the universe to go out of its way to remind Katsuki of that blight while he was celebrating.
“No shit,” he grunts.
The damn thing is password locked, but it can’t be that hard to guess. Katsuki’s been forced to deal with that bastard for a long-ass time. Longer than any of these others losers by a damn mile. A damn marathon. It’s no wonder they couldn't guess four fucking numbers correctly.
With how dumb his classmates are, they've surely jammed in a few incorrect sequences already----1234, that sorta crap—so he’s sure to be on a strict, nebulous limit.
5455? No, KILL is too on the nose. 8456? Nah. Deku wouldn't use VILN.
0715? 3358? 4376?
All of them fail. Hero. His Birthday. Katsuki even tried Deku in case that freak had a sicker sense of humor than he thought. Katsuki’s hands tingle with each vibration signaling another wrong password and Deku’s phone gives a warning for its last attempt.
Katsuki waves away those nobodies looking over his shoulder with a snarl and a small blast so he can focus.
What’s the first password he ever saw of Deku’s? He must have used one to take that bastard’s bike. Or did he just blow the chain up? Damn, does it feel like a lifetime ago. But before that there was.. A toybox? Or something?
Mhmm, I know the numbers, Kacchan, b-but, I, um—
Spit it out, Deku!
I’m only s’pose to open it if there’s an emergency!
This is an emergency! Your best friend wants to see inside the stupid thingy! Stop acting dumb! Heroes aren't scared!
I-I’m not scared!
Then open it already!
The image begins to defog in Katsuki’s mind. That’s it!
That footlocker with nothing but shitty doodads in it. What a rip-off that was. A busted slinky, a handful of jacks, one of those stupid novelty guns that says ‘BANG!’— just a bunch of crap. Certainly nothing worth the chewing out he shared for Deku having a big mouth. Fucker couldn't even do that right.
Well, it’s his only option left. Even if the code doesn't end up working, there’s a bone-deep relief in knowing that at least someone had truly been able to see what a psycho Deku is. Not an annoyance or a weirdo, but a villain in the making. Even if Deku is heartless enough not to care, it still helps vindicate what Katsuki has always known to be true.
He taps in 5653, an all too obvious JOKE in retrospect.
The phone unlocks with a simulated click.
It’s utterly devoid of anything worth a damn. The pictures are low quality photos Deku has taken of heroes in action—probably to come up with plans against them—and fan art of his favorites. Deku’s browser is nothing but hero news, history, old comic scans and stand up specials.
Katsuki is close to calling it quits and scorching the phone to kingdom come when he spots the native text messaging app thrown in a folder. Out of sight, out of mind. It makes sense; even a villain doesn't want to be reminded of how alone they are.
Unsurprisingly, Deku has unread messages from Auntie, however, another contact sits below hers without a single text between them.
The name reads: Hitoshi
It could be that Deku found himself another villain to scheme with.
Or he suckered someone into his web.
That thought pulls at Katsuki’s chest. He forces the sensation down when it demands to come up, until it settles on constricting his worn out muscles.
Katsuki fucking Bakugo is going to put a stop to all this shit. Enough is enough. End of story. No more 'next time's. It’s gone too far. He’s going to be a hero, damn it. The best in the world.
It’s time he started acting like it.