『 Chapter 38 』
[ i had a dream that i prematurely posted this chapter before it was finished and istg i went into cardiac arrest when i woke up to check that i didn't. also, i kinda want to make a tiktok account to promote this book and tease at updates. should i? btw if you talk about this book on tiktok i'll kiss you on the mouth /th. ]
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There wasn't really much left to do.
Y/N has been working diligently for a little over an hour now; the whole thing is a long process. She's moving left and right, eyes on patrol and scuttling to something new that requires her attention every few seconds. Her hands move separately from the rest of her body, the built-in instincts and muscle memory she's developed help keep her on top of everything. She doesn't waver even once.
The large and rectangular area of the dorms had tables, couches, televisions, and doors to the courtyard, elevators, laundry, and communal bathrooms. Where Hidaka finds herself, however, is behind a little turn around a corner to a smaller, more closed off section of the commons. In this little area of the common floor is where she is the most alone (sometimes being alone isn't a bad thing).
She's surprised no one has found her at all; but, then again, this was the first night in the dorms. Y/N's classmates are excited, rushing across the floors and laughing with their closest friends. They, consequently, are distracted, so much was going on in their heads it was impossible for them to see every part of the world around them. In all honesty, she couldn't really blame them for not checking the kitchen.
It is a large kitchen. One with two ovens, two refrigerators, tens of cabinets, acres of counter space, and the largest kitchen island she's ever seen. This was all shoved away, however, in the corner of the communal floor, around a wall, closed off. Y/N has a small hope that someone will turn the corner and ask her about her day, but she knows no one will. That's fine, though. It's not their job to check in with her.
Estimating the amount of food that needs to be prepared, Y/N has more prep work than she'd like to admit. Yakisoba isn't necessarily a hard dish to create, but there is a lot of small steps that are slightly time consuming. Just cutting enough vegetables and pork loin for twenty ravenous teenagers took, well, too long. Creating her family's secret sauce would make her friends appreciate the work she put into it, however.
Did Y/N tell her classmates she is doing this? Not yet, but they would be happy when they found out (she assumes they will be, at least, every teenager appreciates good food). She is hoping that with all the specifics of setting up their rooms that they hadn't eaten yet, because if they did, there would be a lot of food going to waste (maybe then, after she gave them the food, they would ask her about her day, ask her how she's doing).
There is a hodgepodge of voices that reverberate around the corner, back in the main area. In between their words Y/N can hear her friends moving around on the couches, the cushion covers making noise when they shift. Footsteps scurry about, soft treading of indoor slippers on hardwood floors and rugs.
She can't spend the time to pay that much attention to them, however. Y/N dumps the freshly cut food (pork loin, onions, cabbage, carrots, scallions, and even the wheat noodles she made from scratch) into the woks she set up for cooking. There is three of them into total, and the faint sizzling of the food keeps her ears occupied and her attention diverted.
They are jovial, her friends are, that is. And Y/N can't help the heat that radiates around her chest, lips twitching. It reminds her of the first few days of the summer camp; which, in all honesty, wasn't long ago. A week and a half, really.
It was easier, before then (she says that as if 'then' was a drastically different time then time is now). Late night corner store runs with Hitoshi, shopping with Uraraka, bus rides with Denki's eclectic playlist and Kyouka's singing, life was good (life is good). And Y/N was happy, she truly was (truly is). Those memories from summer were lined with sweat, smiles, and the sun.
So warm, Y/N can still feel the heat of the summer afternoon burning into her on the mountain. The training camp was brutally tough, testing her quirk's limits to the average temperature she could normally reach without tremendous strain. With only a few days of training (torture) she had gone from a two-thousand degrees Celsius max to a thirty-five hundred degree max. That was a 75% increase in ability—and everyone in her class had experienced a moment like that during the camp.
It was half a week of sore muscles and fun discoveries, buoyant laughter and silly jokes, honest friendships and memorable pictures, smiling Kota and golden stargazing, random partners and tests of courage, foolhardy Katsuki and horrid quirks, smoky trees and vicious fire, wretched Moonfish and deafening gunshots, glass marbles and spiraling portals—stop.
(̷̹͇̻͗Ẇ̵̡͕̬͐͆͊ḧ̵̩́͋̑y̸̙͔̭̺̚ ̴̻͆̇a̴̯̬͙̖̍͛r̸̝̫͆̂̕ȩ̶̋ ̶͔̲̙̠̇̆͑̋ÿ̶̹̄ǫ̷͔̪̼͐̀ű̷̩͇̃͐ ̵̨̰̗̔̓̀̚a̷̩͕͔̓c̸̨̼͈̀͜t̵̟̻͎̏̄̽ͅi̸̫̖̳̿͜ņ̷͍͙̗̋̚͝ĝ̴̻̒ ̶͖̖͍̌́͜ä̷̪̪̳́̔s̷̢͓̠̖͐̽͠ ̴̫͆̎͒i̴̥̼͝f̵̘͝ ̷͇̭̻̰̄ì̴̛̥͈̂t̴̙̗̐̀̐'̴̡͎̖͗͊͊s̶̢̹̭͉͊̽ ̶̢̨͈̋̎̈́ä̴͍͕͓́̽̓͝l̵͇͕͚͚͛͝l̵̬͒̿̊͝ ̵̠̥̘͂̍̕g̷͙̗̏̀̽͝ǒ̵͕͇͕̩͌͘ṋ̶̲̓̾̚e̵̬̿ͅ?̵̯̰͂͋͠͠ ̶͖̿̔̕͝I̶̠̖͒̋̐̚t̷͉̂'̶̲͓͎̎̀̐͛s̵͇̼̑̅̊͝ ̸͎͚̥̉̓͜o̵͚͗̒́n̸͚̝͒͗̈͜ḽ̴̝̤̍͐̀̄y̷̼̾͒̃͠ ̴̨̞̼̏͘b̸̗͂e̶̢̡͇͌̋͝e̴̩͆̐̌̌n̵̪͂͐̉͠ ̷̨͍̬́ą̴͉̠̙͑ ̶̡̔w̸̗̅̄e̷̪͔̍̏̓͝e̴̩̙̜͠k̴͈̭͚͛̋̌̏, ̴͚̏̉̚y̵͓͉̟̏o̸̲̤͉̝͆͝ü̷̫̔ ̵̤̏̕i̸̡̺̓̏̕d̸͕̈́i̶͖̿o̷̰͂́̓t̷̫̋̇̑,̶̧̨͙̤̇̓̂͝ ̴̨̹́ẅ̵̞͎̳́̆ḩ̵̗͙̈̎ͅy̶͕̓̍͝ ̷̛̳̰̒̍͜ͅa̴͚͋̽ŗ̴̤̦̈̽͐͋e̴̩̻͔͖͛̈́̂̇ ̸̢̕y̷̰͈̌͝o̸̡͍͎̓̽̄͝ǔ̷̩̯͖̉̈ ̸̤̯̓̎̒̋ͅş̸̦͂̂̍͜o̷͐́́̾͜ ̵̳̼̾̿e̸̻̘͙̋̕ḿ̴̢̢̟̂o̷̊̈́́͝ͅṫ̷̖͇̰i̶̺͍̔̒o̴̻̽̄̔ǹ̶̝̩͈̉̑̃á̶̻̥̯̎l̴̜̠͌̆̃ ̵̗̩̾o̵͉̍͒v̸̛͖̒e̸͂͜ṟ̵̝̬͉̽̂͋ ̸̱̈́ä̶̫̿́͠ ̴̢̭̊̈̉̂f̶̤̺̦̳̈́̋e̴̢̨͛̏̿͝ẁ̸̧̛͇ ̸̡̻̻̼̋̈́͐͋ḋ̸̨̻̫a̶̪͐̎̊͠y̵̛̻̋̀͠s̶̞̏̔͆?̸̯̖̈́ ̸̥͙̀̽͝I̸̪̟̰̘͋͠t̴̮̹͒͐͘ ̸̰̉̽͠w̵̢͖̾̃̐̚a̴̰̼͎̔͐͋ͅs̴̢̺͖̿n̷̪̄'̸̡̠̦̺̌̒t̶͈͎̑̊͝ ̸͈̟̃t̷͖͓͋̏̆h̷̛̝̄̅a̷̤̠͋͒̾̑t̸̳̏̐ ̸̗̤̤̯͑͊̌̕b̵̧̠̣̫͑̋͠͝i̷̤̹͗̔͂̓g̸̢̀̃̋̎ ̴̛͎̫̭̒̄͝ơ̵̱̫f̶̡̛̲̦̃̿̉ ̶̖̯͛͑̒a̸̜̤̘͝ ̴̟͎̦͋̿d̵̢̧̥̺̽̅͝͠e̷͇̜͋̃a̶̞̥̳̦͆̐́̅l̶̫͕̰̘̑,̶̘̭̼̓̾̋ ̸̡̮͖͗̐̈́͜ś̵͕̗̞t̵̲̟͆̈́̒ó̸͈̺̅p̸̪̞̖̥̊ ̸͍̙͍͆͝m̶͉̏͂à̷̡̧͉̰k̶͎̮̅į̵̽n̵̨͌̊̉́g̸̨̛͜ͅ ̴̘̓̈́͆̄t̸͖̖̔̈́̓͝ḫ̷͆̈́̍͠i̴̥̗̟͘͝n̷̯̬̖̖̋͗͂g̶̢͚̰͗͆̅s̵̛̭͉̀ ̴̨͊ͅw̴͆̽ͅo̴̡͕̰̟̾̌ŕ̴̜̰̳͎͊̔͘s̵̫͉̭̈́͌̄́è̶̮͈̉̈́ ̶̰͑̑ţ̵̨̧̱̿ḩ̶̹̣̆̀̓ą̵̟͆́̉̉n̷̯̬̖̖̋͗͂ ̸̰̣̫̱̔͌̈̚ṱ̷̢̢̍̈́̋̍h̴̰͋̒̿̈́ḙ̷̢̒̉̂̎͜y̷̛͔̘̻͜͝ ̷͉̞͗̓͆ȧ̴͈̑͛ç̸̧̢͒̈͝t̴͎̬̬̺̅̉͂u̸͎̗̞̝͐̈́͂a̵̢̯̖̖̔l̶̟̥͇̽͜l̶̡͇͍͂̅ŷ̶̭͋̽͐ ̴̻͆̇a̴̯̬͙̖̍͛r̸̝̫͆̂̕ȩ̶̋.̷̄̚ͅ ̷̭̥̗̀̊̎Y̸̼̦͔̱͗̓͘̚ơ̵̯͐u̸̞͛͗̄͜͝'̴̼̘̀̃͘ŗ̴̬̮̿͑̊̽ĕ̶̻ ̴̗̏̓̀a̴̟͔̣͑̔l̸̳̮̀i̸̧̤̼̾̽v̵̟͂́e̴̥̐̄̈́,̶̬̝̪̐̓̐̕ ̷̡̩͓̓͒y̵̫̯͊̿o̵̼͋̎̄͆ū̷̼̳'̴͊͜͠r̸͎͖͐̾e̵̡̖̥̻͊̀̈́ ̵͍͍̄̀ś̶͍̟͒͘͝i̶͉̳̲̚ͅt̸̠͎̺͗́t̶͋̉ͅi̴̛͈̻̓͐̾n̴̟̔͑̿g̴̻̃̈́ ̵̤̰̉͆̅͂h̷̫̩̎e̷͍̖̭̜̚r̴̠̥̀̑̕͠ę̵̮̏͛͜,̸͖̍ ̷̡̩͓̓͒y̵̫̯͊̿o̵̼͋̎̄͆ū̷̼̳'r̸͎͖͐̾e̵̡̖̥̻͊̀̈́ ̸͙̈́̊̐f̵̘̲̌į̴̰̍͒͊n̶̘͇͉͂͘e̵̳̯̔͐.̴͍͒͊̌̋ ̷̦̩̳̱̽̋̊̆G̴̙̤͛̒͒̈́ę̷͍̣̿̍̊̌t̷̥̀̏̇͜͝ ̵̖̣̔͘̚t̶̼̎͒͛̊h̷̬͘͜e̶͙̒̓͜ ̶̧̫̃̌͠f̶͎̯̃͒ͅu̸̫̭̹̠̔͠c̶̲̪̲͐k̵̨̂͐̀̕ ̸̻̥͓̯̿̓ö̸̲̟́͝v̷͉͂e̵̫̞̫̯̔̓̃r̷͎͓͇̊ ̴̟͈̄̈́͒y̵̪̋̕ó̴͎̱u̸͙͙̤̐͛r̴̝̆ś̴͚̩̼e̴̬̗͙͈͒͠l̴̡̛͔͍̈́͝f̷̹̦͒.̶̖̳̏͒͑̉ ̴̠̙̏ͅH̸̨̲͓̾̽̉͌ȇ̷̢͈̠̼͆̅r̷̀̐̎͗ͅǫ̴̺͖̱͗͒e̶̲̰͕̗̊͋s̴̯̙̋͝ ̸̫̇́d̷̯̻̈͋̚̚͜ö̸̤̩̖́͝n̸͕̘̖̜̓̔͂̚'̶̨̜̩̺̎̐t̵͇̄̎͗̔ ̸̖̯̖̫̉ạ̸̋̃c̶̞̿ţ̵̢͚̖̍ ̴͙̫̘̉̑́͘l̵̡̮̈́i̶͚̫̕k̸̦̱̀͋̀̂e̷̞̻̜̺̊͋͂͝ ̵̦̃͂͋͊t̸͍̬͑͜ḫ̸̢̹̥̕a̵͚̾t̴̡̫̮̟̍̈́͛͝,̶͍̖̼̩͆̈́̿ ̴̟̐̆͘Y̵͖͇̩̔/̶̻̳͂̆̏̉Ǹ̶͍̖.̷̄̚ͅ ̷̭̥̗̀̊̎
̴̡̣͇̖͒͆̃Ş̶̜͎̒͗͆̂͜o̶̥͖̜̪̎͠r̴̢̞̈́̕̚r̷̼͕͆ẙ̷̯͔͇́͂̕,̸̙̰̫̬͗̈ ̵̤̂̉̊Ŗ̷̣̏̽y̵̫̙̫͋ͅǒ̷̼̓̿͌u̵̲̘̖̮͐͑͊,̶̡͕̊ ̷̡̰̣̮́̈̄I̵̬͋̑̑'̵̭̟͉̩̂̆̈́͠l̶͕͛͝ļ̷͚̮̋͗̏͊ ̶͙͚̣̿b̶̝̠̮̓̌e̵̖͓̦̞͌̿̚ ̶̤͖̀͒b̵̺̬̹̀e̷̛̳̭̩͂̉͘t̸͕̙͖̃̈̎t̵̨̖̉e̶̱͐̓͌͗r̸͈͗̉.̶̲̪̗͐̓̋͝ͅ)̴̟̘̆̓̔̈́
The food is done.
Y/N hadn't even realized how much quieter it became. The gentle crackles of the food in the woks magnify in the silence. There's no more stepping on the wood floors, no more shifting on the couch cushions, no more talking.
Hidaka likes the candid noise, the sounds of conversations, the sounds of comfort and familiarity. Y/N didn't have many friends growing up (how could anyone love someone like her? you couldn't, not with this body, with this quirk). Is this reaction normal? Did people suddenly leave like this all the time?
Where did they go?
She chews at the inside of her cheek as she takes out twenty bowls from the upper cabinets (all plating and utensils are supplied by the school) and spreads them across the vast kitchen island. Within a few minutes, Hidaka divides the food as evenly as she could. Even after that, there's still some extra in the woks. The clicks of the tongs against the porcelain bowls replace what was once cheerful chatter, what was once friends enjoying their first night together.
Y/N leans back against the counter, gloves situated in one of her pockets. The still air of the common floor brushes against the skin of her hands, they feel weak, quakey, unsteady. The inside of her cheek is red. It hurts.
The food looks...fine.
She doesn't know why she isn't happy with it anymore. All throughout the process of cooking, she was grinning, enjoying every sizzle of the food, every slice of her knife, every measurement of ingredients, everything. But, now, the food is simply mediocre.
The silence physically hurts. Her bare hands come up and rub at her cheeks, trying to push some heat into her face (it's so cold, her fingers are shaking). It's not long after that Y/N moves her legs to carry her around the corner and out of the kitchen. She has to see for herself, see that her friends had left the commons with the drop of a hat, see that they never knew she was there at all.
Hidaka is right. No one—no one is there. And while Y/N never actually saw her friends in the first place, she knows they were there. She could hear them, feel the warmth they projected, they were just here!
(Ṇ̷͍͖̇͗͝o̸͕̿.̴̻̼͙̫͐́͜ ̶̬̱̖̋̔͠͝R̴̺̎́̌̀y̵͉̘̬̫̼͑̿͘o̸̗̊̅ǔ̷͇̬͒̒̽,̶̤̼̤̻̳̫̈́ ̷̫̱̪̼̑́̀I̷̗̮̐ͅ'̵̭̍̽̉͘m̵̩̠͎͉͎̈́̄͛ ̷̞̻͗̓̍̄̎̅n̶͇̯̪͍̜̠̋͑̍̓̈̾ȯ̷̩͉͉̹̠̏̆̂͝t̵̪͙̪͙̩̭̑̊̓ ̷̩̪͈̰̙̀͊͋̋c̵̡̬͖̱̦̙͛̂̽͐͗r̸̰̼̜̉̽̅͗͘͝a̴̡̛̦͍̍z̵̡̹͇̀͌͗̔̕͠y̶̨̖͉̣̜͆̔͆̾.̸̧͔͚̯͉̔͛̀ ̷͍͚̍̆͆̾̍͋T̵̙̤̪̲͛̓̔h̶̯̰̘̦͉͊̀̔̇ė̴̦̲͓y̴̥̟̪̪͕̤͗̕ ̷̙͕̣͙̓͘w̴̤̘̦̝̰̤͂̒̓̍é̸̝̂ŗ̸̛̮̤̖̽͛̔è̷̫̯̰ ̴̠́̒͛͊j̴̮͋͋̒̋͘ͅu̸͔̩͔͉̦͙̓̚s̸̭̐t̶̨͈̹̟͈̣̃ ̴̲͖̄͜h̴̩̀̽̅̓̍͝ē̸̦̩͍͇̈́ͅr̴̺̪̞͔̃̐͐̀́̕ͅͅe̵̦̹̝̰͇̅͆͂͋̔̈ͅ.̴̻̼͙̫͐́͜
̷̜͓͖̼̭̌͒́̚͘
̸̞̦͉̓͆͑̃̆Į̶͆̐͝f̷̩̩͔͔̆̔̕ ̸̝̯̆͒̐́̎̂y̴̢̟͉͓̘̎̆̀̓̀̚o̵͎̅̄́̉́̓u̶̠̫̍͝ ̸͖͖͓͍̹͖̄̇d̷̨̗̝̗̦͙͋̉̾̈́̎͠o̷͓̦͐͂̒ͅu̸̧͈̮͔̍́̓b̵̙͊̿̽t̶͚̘̹̃̓͐̋͘ ̸̡͇̰͖͝ȳ̸͚̀̌o̷͓̬̪̥̹̅̀u̷̥̮̬̰͓̥̔̒̑̆r̶̻̜̟̝̪̘̈́͒s̷̭͍͍͝ę̶̢̡̢̻̯̎̅͘l̴̢͊̓̈̕͝f̵͚͓͆ ̸͉̩̫̏̓̒̚a̷̧̠̦̅̈́͌̾t̶̼͚̥̥̦̰͌̃͑̀ ̵̮̜̏̊̄ḁ̶̳̗͉͂l̸̡̬̲̻͓̓̍͊̿́̕ͅl̸̹̳͝,̴͕̞̼͇̎̄̚ ̵̭̥͓̣͓̅̋̀y̷͈̥͗͋̕͝ő̸̺̒̉̄u̷̠̼̫̤͓̟̅̄'̴͈̩̮̝̩̂̈́̓r̸͔͓̗͙̣̓̍̆̀͘e̸̬͉͗͝ ̸͖̱̣̘̐̒͜g̷͕̲̬̙̗͍̃͋̏͠o̵͎͙̳͗̉̿͝ì̷̼̖̹͚̒̄́͂͌n̸͖̬͚̳̅͑̕͠g̶̨͖̝̓͊ ̸̛̹̰̲̫͝t̸̖̝̮̖̰͎̀o̵̭̰̣͓̐ ̸̢̪̳̟̍̎ǧ̵͇̺̟ē̸͈̙̽̓͌̒̓t̵̳͉̱̫͆͠ ̵̠͔̣͘y̸̪̞͊̒̓͝ǫ̴̎̐͋͠u̷̟̇̎̀̊͊r̵͓̒͌̐s̷̡̜̟͇̥͒̃̾͝ḙ̸̹̙̺̲̩̍̋͌̐̐ḻ̷͑̋͑͒̇f̶̡̹͕̃͛͊̀͝ ̸̝̱̎͂̍͂k̴͖̯̰̻̆͋̌į̴͍̱͕͋l̶̖̤̱͌͑͊̀͝l̶̥̉e̴̗̖͍̺̿̽d̶̛̠̥̺̬͙̾̀̾.̴̳̼͖̙̳̍̌̏͘ ̷̠͎͊͋͐̀͝W̵̖̜͈̠̒͒̿̌͗̌͜h̴̢͎̤̩͔̯͂y̴͇̯͛̀ ̸͔̌̿͘͜ͅȃ̴̬͓r̷̓̑̆͜e̵͍̤̫̤̖͋ ̸̧͓̝̦͓̝̒͌̉̕y̷̘̟̫̫͔̾̾̾ö̵̝͈́̀͆͊͐́ǘ̵̖̥̦̈́̋ ̸̣̫͖̗̠̊̈́̑ͅļ̴̟̹̯͚̀̆̈ó̶̟̟̺̄͋ȯ̶̢̠͇̾k̴̡͓̘̖̥̦̋̆̇i̴̫̟̽̀͠ń̷̡͇̝͋̎͂̇g̸̲͒͑̇̏͘͠ ̵̲̹̣̖̜̔̂̂̑̐ͅf̶̡͇̻͛ō̸̟͐r̷̟̠̾̈́ ̷̼̣̟̥͍́̓͊͒͜t̸̳̉̿͑͝͝h̷͚̰͈̽̊͠͠e̸̲̗̤̤̒̐͋̋̕͘m̸͙͈̱͉̞̟̒̀͂͆͑̎ ̴̙̯̞͈͉̽̽̎̿͑ȧ̷̯̥̱̖n̵̫̹͈̠̩͒͜y̵̛̝̣̽̉w̴̙̠͛̑̿̈a̵̟̪̓͐̅́͝ý̶̤̅̉̍͝?̶̨̍͊̐ ̵̩͖̜̝͝T̶̛̹̬͕͉̆̈̿h̶̤̭̦͖͌̇͒̉e̴̲̼͊̆̽̆y̴̭̝̠͋ ̵̧̧̪͔̺̳̌̏̀̒ḋ̶̼o̷̢̬̳̝̹̼̓́̎͋͂͝n̴̙̝͈̆̈͑̄̕͠'̵͇̆͒ẗ̸̨̩̓ ̵̧͎͊̌ļ̶͇̮̆͊i̸̝͉͑́̿͂̉k̸͙͑͐̕͝͝ḛ̶͛͆̀̈͂͗ ̴̧̖̘̜͗̅̀̈́̏̀͜y̶̪͇̍̀o̸̧̜͕͔͆̏̇̎ŭ̵̡̳̝̘͈͛̂͆͠.̶͉̮͚̯͈͈̈́
̸͉̯̥͙̭̯̉̇̽́̈͝
̵̙͂̆̈́T̸̞͆́̀͂͂͝ḥ̴̨̨̲̯̇e̸̠̜͆y̶̖̤̏'̴̛̺̪͕͙̠̣̑̓̑̚r̷̞͗̈́̿̒̈́ē̶̦̮̏̃ͅ ̵͙̉̈́̃͌͝m̷͎̐͌̄y̸̞͓͈͋̊́̅̔̅ ̴̖͍͕̣̐f̸͇̾̉͊r̴̡̠͈̻͒̿͒̉͠ị̶̛̆͐͗e̷̼̜̘̝͋̒̑͌̈͠ņ̵̘͕̜̖̾́͂̊d̴̤͉̍̌̔͠s̷̮͚̈́̑͑̾̅̑.̴̡̞̯̯́̽͛ͅ
̷̜̮̥̦̑̀̂̒̔͂
̸̦̦̺͂̄̊̚̕Ý̷͙̟̑̆̉ŏ̴̗͘u̸̞̹̜̫͈̖̅̔ ̸̨̻͖̮̯̓̍d̴͚͔̋̊̿ȍ̶̺̙̪̞͛̔n̸̛̠̭̓̐̂͗̚'̴͙̠̻̀t̸̤̜̟̬̘̺̃ ̴̦̽͛́͘ͅh̷̡͈̞̳͈̄̿̈̎͜a̵̱̦͗̒͘v̷͇͈̣̩̊ȩ̵͕͇̀̍͜ ̷̢̧̥̞͔͗̾͠f̸͓͕̩̭͛ͅr̴̜͍͙͛i̵͍̣̙̺͚͈͆̏̎e̸͖̎̈́̈́͆́͜n̸̲̏̆̑d̷̺͖̞̞̗̈͛͜s̵̫͕̀,̴̘̙̟̎̿̑͝ ̷̛̹̱̗̝̤̂̔̉Ÿ̵̙͍́/̸̮͐̈́̎͠Ṇ̵̯̙̩̾,̷̧͙̬̟͛̓́͆̌͑ ̴͉̬̅́͗͝t̴̢͇̙͗̐̿̕h̸̖̾͗e̵̩̞̖̯͋ͅy̸̗͗ ̴͎͠c̴̢̞͙͔͍͇̔͑͆͝͝͠a̴̡͌͋̐͠n̴̡̡͕̤̣͍̄ ̴̬̖̖͛̓͑̎b̴̠͛̄̂̑̀ä̸̪̜́̀r̸͉͎͂e̴͍̎l̸̛̥͜y̴̛̦̏̀̌̂̑ ̶̥̲̖̪͈̆͌̓̊͘ś̵͖̱͚ṱ̷͂͑̈̿̂̚a̸̮̪̲̝͆ñ̸̪̞̗͉̘͗̈́̀̚͜͝ḑ̸̺̞̺̟̹̓͛̎̒̈́͑ ̸͕̹͖̍̔͌͘͘ÿ̵̘̙̺̻̙́̄̏͑̐ͅõ̵͈̙̪̦̙̇u̶͉̓́̇͋͘ŗ̶͉̳͍̌͐ ̶̬̞̻̱̤̬͐̀̇̍́̔p̴͎͔͖̻̅̈r̶̛̦͌́̒̕͝e̵̬̳̩̝͑̑̎s̷̨̡͕̮̫͚̃̈̚̕e̷̛̙̠̳̿̍͌̌͠n̸̟̺̟̤̈́̍͆́̚͜͝c̴̺̞̟̱͒̍̽͜ȩ̶̹͓̱͈͇̏̽.̶̨͚͍̯̖̞̒̚ ̴̨̛̠̜̯̪̯̽Y̷̨͖̦̅̊͛ǒ̸̹͇̘̀̎̾̕ų̵̗̜͔̱͜͝'̸̫̮̳͉̺̂͑̋́͛͠r̸̨̯̻̜̮͔͌e̷̢̬͈͇̝͇͗͒̊̄ ̴̡̯̗̆́͆̋͝ǎ̸̤̳͚͈̥̹c̷̮͎̏̾̾̎̒̄ẗ̵͔̬̙́ͅi̷̺̣̲̓͂̔̿̋͠ń̶͕͛̏͘g̴̡̡̙͈̦͌̓̀̃̍̕ ̴̢̳̟̹̞͐̑̂̂̓̔ȋ̵̧͎̺̹͒̎͜d̴̨͕̮̣̀ͅi̷̛̙͛̃̄̆̚o̵̧̘̳̩͋̋̽̔͘t̷̛͉͊̆̈̊͝į̶̎̊͜c̵̺̯̬̃,̷̢̠̞̘̰̀̔̕ ̵̜́͒̐ş̷̙̬̝̉̋͊̔̓t̵̟̪̞̰̑̏ó̵̝̠̔̌͝p̶̯̗̞̄̈̾͐͝ ̵̢̧̙͈̹̥͆̃̌́̿ś̶̻̺̯͇͎̌͒̾͠ã̵̼̜ÿ̶̠̜̫̠͇̌̏͑̽͜i̷͔̝̙̋n̷̡̛̬͎̝͚̞͊̔͒͠g̴̨̛͎͇̟̹͙͂͊͌͐̇ ̶͉͕͑̓͘s̵̻͎̋̋͐͋͘̕t̴̨̛̠̞̖͉̪̓ų̴̢͕̦̟͇̍̃̾p̸̜̒̂͒͠i̴̳͚̅̽̈́d̴͙̪̝͖̫̍̊̈́͑͌̔ ̸̧̖͐s̵̤̆̍͊̐h̶̙̀̍́͂î̷̻ṭ̴̜͑ ̸̡̫̞̓͆͐a̸̳͚̝̪̋n̷̝̦͈̥̓̄d̸̠̐̑͋ ̴͖͇͊͐̉g̷͌̀́̍͜ȇ̴͉̼͓̬̋͊͒́ṯ̸̡̭͓̩̾̄ͅ ̵̧͙̯͚̫̌̑̃̒ḅ̵̎̑̃͐͌ả̶̫͍̰͙̼̄̕̚c̶̰̼̏̓̀̾̒͒ͅk̴̩̱͂̉̂̽ ̶̮̦̥̋̾͊͐͝t̷̨͍͕̞̖̅̋͑o̸̟͎̟̱͒̊͑̀ ̶͕̣̻̺̹̲̆̚w̴̢̫̞̭͗̊̆͋̈́o̵͙̳̳̥͆͑͒̐r̴̻̟̠̋̏̾̕k̷̬̟̻̔̓͘.̶̜̞̹̹͌͆͌̅ͅ)
Y/N wants today to be special, she wants to make her friends happy, make them feel loved just as they make her feel. They put her first (and nobody has really done that before). And here she is, trying to repay their kindness, their benevolence, their goodwill, with a singular meal that is just average.
They aren't average people, you know. Y/N's friends are the best of the best, the future leaders of this country, the upcoming talismans of what heroism is and what it will become. Class 1-A is the end of moon and the rise of the sun, they will burgeon from the depths of tragedy and loss to become their own stars. They deserve anything but an average—
Uraraka is muttering some soft words to a small group of people. Her, Kirishima, Deku, Todoroki, Yaoyorozu, and Iida roll through the central area; everyone but Ochako looks confused, they don't know what's happening. Neither does Hidaka.
"Bakugou didn't want to come out of his room," Ochako says with a hushed tone, "so it's just us."
Ochako's face twists in a frown, her eyebrows pushed downward. Her arms press against her abdomen and wrap around her torso, a self-soothing motion. Anxiety ebbs around her in waves, and it makes Y/N's stomach churn.
"It's about the other night, just to let you all know."
They're heading towards the front door. What? Leaving? Are they going to leave? But, they're not dressed like they're leaving, how could they? The whole group is still in their loungewear and their indoor slippers.
Y/N can see Tsuyu when she looks out the window by the front door (there are too many windows on this floor). Asui is staring far and away from the school and into the sky, her hair still preserved in that bow that has become so synonymous with the frog-hero. Oh, that's where they're going.
But, the other night? Does Uraraka mean the Kamino Ward accident? The summer camp ordeal? The time where villains kidnapped her and Katsuki? Does she mean that? If so, why isn't Uraraka looking for Hidaka? Why hasn't she been asked about this?
Wait...do they even see her?
I mean, she's standing right there. In the middle of the room, in the vast common floor with large windows and comfy furniture, she is unmoving. Y/N thinks she would be obvious, the one breathing entity in a world of silence. No one even glances in her direction.
(̴̺̰̟̪̘̺̊͑̈̐̕̚͠T̶͓̦́̈̀͒h̷̫̃̽̃̎̕é̷̩̺͚̍̏͂͘r̸̡̜̞̍͒̌́͝ȇ̷̫ ̸̦͚̟͕̞̹̼̓̐̑͑͘͠ẙ̷̢̪͇̮̋͜ơ̵̻̦̱͔̿̂̏́͆̔ȗ̸̲͔̩͎́̐̒ ̸̼̞̪͑̐͐̀g̷̤̝̹̅͊̽͠͝ö̴̮̝͓́͐̄̒̕ ̷͎̱̤̓̿̅̐ȃ̵̃̄̿̈́̕ͅg̷̨̻̋͊̐ȃ̶̡̹͉̙̺͐̄̅͆̿͜į̸̳͚̻̣̟͚̀͌̇̐͝͝ṅ̴̢̟̥͎̭̜̊̽,̵̧͍͔̜̘͕͎̌̄̆͋̓̄ ̸̡̨̪̮͚̫͑̍̆̈m̸͖̯̂̾͊̕͠a̷̠̜͕̗͊́k̶̨͉̗̈͗̍͋͜i̵͙̭͇͎̤͇̅n̶̮̽̿͑͌̽͒͝g̸̢͈̬͕̼̊̌ ̸͇͚̫̗͗͒ė̷̩͑̍v̴̮̟̺͖̫̜̖͆ē̷̬̞͚̣͓̇͘r̸̠̝̿̈́̏́̀̚̕y̶̟͇̦̗̥͠ţ̴̱̤̠̖̟̋͊̅͗h̸̛͙̐̓̕͝͝i̷̺̣̺͍̔̽n̵̝̘̺̬̲̳͑̑͊̚g̴̩̩͕͒̀̎͛̌̋ ̷̳̣͆͊̇ä̴̘̰́̾̇̀̿̿͘͜b̸̳̰͍̺̐̈́̈́̇̚͜͝ͅơ̴̢̨͙͓̫͒̊ȕ̷̧͓̣͇t̵̨̟͎͓̰̼̃͌̾ ̴̢̫̦̓̈́͌̓́̀͠y̶̪̫̻̘̳̬̐̿͑͆̔̇͆o̸̬̤̹̖̭̓̾͐̓̊͒ų̶̻͙̫͈̩̑͊͐̈́̃͠r̶̫̗͚̺̓͠ś̴̮̘̘̭̀e̷̜͚̞̦̐͊̌̄͋́ļ̸͕͕̉͒̇̃̕f̵̧̢͙̗̌̃͊͘ͅ.̷̯̟̀̒͋͂̎̍̏)̶̮͙͓̲̓̉̏̅̀
Y/N wants to cry, Ryou is right. How could she?
She doesn't understand what's going on, maybe the stress of moving away from home is getting to her. Y/N swallows thickly, and she pulls at the open skin of her hands (she doesn't want to put the gloves back on, they're so suffocating, so controlling). There is no sun out anymore but the room still feels cold, cold in the shivering kind of way, cold in the icy still kind of way, cold in the lonely kind of way (other times, being alone is a bad thing).
They're obviously going to comfort Tsuyu about something. Just by the way she stands, hunched over herself, ankles intertwining anxiously, hands rubbing over her arms, you could tell that Tsu is on edge. She is not herself. And here Y/N is, knowing that her friend is feeling below herself, and Y/N is thinking about her own being?
Maybe nothing about her has changed after all, Hidaka thinks. She's still thinking about herself over everyone else, she's still disregarding others, she's still unwilling and selfish, she's still everything she hates about herself and it seems that nothing she ever does will change that—
Wait, Bakugou didn't come downstairs?
Y/N sighs. She watches as the group of six opens the door and slips out. If they were trying to be inconspicuous, they've failed (again, she was standing right there). Once the door handle clicks behind them, Hidaka spins around and makes her way to the kitchen.
Y/N's room is on the third floor, located right next to Mina's and an extra space over from Uraraka's. When the school had assigned dorm rooms, everyone got the sheet of the whole building's layout—included each person's room location. So, when she learned where her room was, she had simultaneously figured out Bakugou's room too.
Everyone else would make their way down to the common floor (she hopes so, at least). If they all left at once, they would probably return at once too, right? They'll see the food, not knowing who made it, and have dinner. It soothes a maternal instinct in her that her friends will have something filling to eat. And, because of that, she wasn't going to let Katsuki go to bed without dinner, either.
Y/N places her gloves back on, tucking their ends under her sleeves before scooping up a bowl of yakisoba and a fork (she snags a few flavoring packets and shoved them in her pockets too). The bowl is warm, the porcelain absorbing the heat from the noodles and meat. Looking at it now, maybe it isn't as bad as she thought it was.
The elevator ride to the third floor is smooth. For a moment, before she entered the box, she thought that there would be some people alongside her (but there wasn't).
With the opening of the doors, the small ding feels and sounds useless. But it's fine, it isn't bothering anyone. Walking along the halls, the outside wall is almost nearly floor to ceiling windows. The stars aren't very visible though, the light pollution here is too strong. Y/N wonders if she'll eventually live somewhere where she'll be able to see the stars every night like she could at the training camp.
Bakugou's door is like everyone else's, there's nothing indicating it's his besides the placard on the wall beside it.
Y/N knocks twice, then waits.
She waits more.
And more.
She knocks again, twice like before. They're slightly stronger knocks, but nothing aggressive.
Hidaka pauses. There is no movement or noise coming from the room.
Again. Two knocks.
She frowns. Y/N is about to get aggressive.
She knocks once, pauses, and then firmly hits the door three times with her fist. Aggression.
There's not even a shuffle.
Y/N is not going to leave, preparing to pound even harder, but then the door swings outwards and she takes a step back.
Bakugou's eyebrows are shading his eyes, pushed down in annoyance. One of his hands runs over his face, trying to push the grogginess out of his gaze. It doesn't help much. He grumbles in his chest, his nerve and patience balancing on a very thin rope.
It takes multiple blinks for Bakugou's eyes to situate on Y/N, recognize that she, of all people, is standing outside of his room. Nobody else is around, he can't hear their breathing, their footsteps, or their giggling from the nearby rooms, so he knows this isn't an elaborate scheme to get him to participate in something. Besides, he doesn't think Y/N would be the type to be pranking him.
"Oi, what the fuck do you want?" Bakugou grumbles, leaning against the doorframe and keeping his door closed most of the way. He doesn't want anyone to see inside his room (he heard everyone earlier, he knows about the stupid dorm competition).
"I made dinner," Y/N says, extending the bowl of steaming yakisoba forward, but he just stares at it, "I overheard you were staying upstairs, so I wanted to make sure you got something to eat."
Katsuki loses most of the tension in his face when Y/N speaks. He allows the food to be placed into one of his hands, the other grasping the door; it's a gesture that warms the tips of his ears and the point of his nose. Bakugou doesn't know why he obliges to it so easily, without any kind of fight (was it because he was tired? or was it because of her?).
"I'm not starving myself, you know," he says without much bite, "I don't need you making me dinner every night just to know that I'm eating something."
"I'm not going to do it every day, dipshit, that's a lot of work I'm not getting paid for," Y/N explains; even though her sentences start and sound strong, her words taper off at the end, her eyes falling to her arm where she starts to pick at the edge of her cotton top, "besides, I wanted a reason to talk to you."
Bakugou swallows thickly, eyes widening (Y/N doesn't catch this, however, because she's looking at the sleeve of her shirt).
"You...you w-what?"
Bakugou wants to vomit, choking back on his tongue in disgust at himself. What in the absolute fuck is wrong with him? When has he ever spoken like that before? He hasn't. Oh god, how tired is he?
Y/N shakes her head wistfully, dropping her arms to the side. The inside of her cheek is still red (it hurts). When Hidaka brings her head upwards, her (eye color) eyes catch directly with his red ones. For a second, they both seem to forget how to breathe.
"Are you okay?"
What.
That's...that's not what Bakugou was expecting (not what he was hoping for). A coil in his chest breaks, his spine loosens and his lungs expand. The air that fills him is fiery, sparking and cracking spare nitroglycerin remnants in his core. It's not quite relief that fills him. The sensation, whatever it is, bridges closer to the realm of disappointment rather than ease.
This time, it doesn't take extra effort for him to speak the way he wants to. There's no stuttering to be heard (besides, don't you know? Bakugou Katsuki doesn't stutter, that shit only happens to people like Midoriya).
"The fuck? Where is this coming from?"
Y/N sighs, of course he doesn't give a simple answer to soothe her conscience (there she goes again, thinking about herself).
"You know what I'm talking about, Bakugou," Hidaka says, "what we went through was...unnerving. I just wanted to see if you were taking it better than I had."
"You don't need to check on me, I never asked that of you." Bakugou states. It isn't necessarily a nasty sentence, but the shallow combativeness laced in every syllable makes it come off that way (knowing this volatile boy, that was probably on purpose).
"You haven't been acting like—"
"Fuck off! I'm fine! You're not my mother, so stop nagging me!"
Hidaka doesn't move after that. Her teeth gnaw away at the inside of her cheek. She thinks it's bleeding now, so she presses her tongue against it. It tastes equally bitter as it does metallic. Her eyes lock straight onto Bakugou, but her gaze does not meet his. She's looking at something other than his eyes.
"You're...you're grabbing at your neck again."
Bakugou is confused originally at the accusation, but he realizes that it's true: his free hand is resting at the base of his throat. His red eyes—red like the sun shining on the skin of a cherry, or the color seen through the dew on a rose's petal at dawn—his red eyes widen.
His hand lowers and he looks at it, and, surprisingly, his fingers are quivering a fraction. Katsuki's chest is tight again, and it feels far too difficult to swallow. To occupy himself, he now uses both of his hands to hold onto the warm porcelain bowl of freshly made food. It smells of benevolence and boundless humanity.
Bakugou looks back at Y/N. There is vulnerability he's never seen in her. It's not like the version of Y/N he saw back at the villain compound, when they had her constrained to a chair and exploited her quirk in all the ways she feared it could be. No, this Y/N, this Y/N, the one in front of him right now, was allowing herself to be like this. Allowing herself to be open, to be weak.
There is a silent understanding between the two, a quietness that's hard to read. Experiences like that are hard to explain, most people will never get it, never relate to what you feel, what you've seen, what you've done, and what's been done to you. So, there's a promise trying to be sewn without words:
Look out for me and I'll look out for you.
Despite the understanding, Bakugou's pride doesn't want to fall to its feet. It's easier not to care, so he tries to force himself not to. I mean, how could he look out for her? How could he protect her when he can't even protect himself? He failed All Might, he failed himself, and he'll fail Y/N, too.
"I'm not talking about some stupid feelings with you, Pop-Rocks. You wanna talk emotion? Go talk with stupid Deku."
Hidaka should've known this was how it was going to go. There was something festering in her, however, that wanted him to confide in her. But, then again, that's selfish thinking. He accepted the dinner, so she is leaving with a node of success in her soul (she's lying to herself).
"Okay," she nods solemnly, pulling out the flavoring packets from her pocket; she pushes the extra spicy ones in his direction, and he takes them, "just letting you know, there's enough yakisoba for you to get seconds if you like. I'm going to my room, goodnight."
Bakugou doesn't waver until he hears the chime of the elevator at the end of the hallway. The quietness is almost unsettling. The rumble of the air conditioning unit keeps Bakugou from hearing the beating of his own heart. He suppresses the wave of guilt that attempts to pick away at him; he wanted it this way, after all.
After a few seconds, he tears open the powdery packets and sprinkles the speckled seasoning over the steaming noodles. He brings a forkful to his mouth—
Oh. Oh my god. He didn't realize it was going to be that good. He's physically stunned for a second. Hidaka even brought him spice packets (how did she know he liked spicy food?). Bakugou then composes himself, breathes in deeply, and feasts on the dinner in his hands.
He remembers that Y/N made herself one of the lead chefs at the summer camp when the Pro Heroes stopped cooking for the group (it was fine, however, because she actually knew what she was doing). She knew how to prepare each ingredient, the best ways to use them, and the perfect amount of heat and time she needed to cook the food. Every night's meal was amazing. No one there went to bed with an empty stomach.
When Katsuki finishes his yakisoba, he is already craving more. His pride stares him in the face, though, telling him that after that conversation, going to see her and get more of her food would be awkward. Well, Hidaka already went to her room, so, if he were to go downstairs for seconds, he wouldn't have to face her.
The elevator ride is relatively quick (he still feels guilty). Everything in this building is up to date, he notices, brand new and shiny. Sometimes things need to be worn in before they become good, but the class will appreciate that "new" feeling while it lasts.
Bakugou, somehow, forgot that the entirety of his classmates were congregating in the shared living room, talking about who had the best room and who should win the estranged "Dorm King" contest.
Mina and the girls are laughing and congratulating Kouda for seemingly winning the competition (Bakugou doesn't know anything about the victor, but on his way to the kitchen he overhears the words 'bunny' and 'fluffy').
Maybe it's the clicking of the metal fork in the porcelain bowl as he moves, or maybe it's just his existence in general, but when Katsuki walks through the common area and past everyone, he captures the attention of too many people for his liking.
"Wait, is that...? Hey, Bakugou!"
It's Kaminari who first announces his presence, and from his words, everyone turns to see Bakugou awake and alert when the thought he was sleeping. There is a tick in his forehead and a small snarl in his lips as he pauses for a moment to look the the group.
"Kacchan?" Midoriya says in the inquisitive and feeble voice of his. Bakugou shakes his head when his childhood friend speaks; he turns and walks in the direction of the kitchen. "Where are you going?"
Katsuki elevates the empty bowl in his hand to crowd behind him as he saunters around the corner. "To get seconds."
The group of confused teenagers look back and forth at each other before soundlessly agreeing to head to where Bakugou was going. Seconds? Seconds for what? Why did he have a bowl? There were bowls to be grabbed? When did he eat in the first place?
Around the corner and into a surprisingly large, but albeit separated, kitchen area is where they find Bakugou using a pair of tongs to place cluster after cluster of warm yakisoba into his bowl. When he finishes, he looks over the other nineteen servings spread out on the counter, all prepped for eating.
"Who...who made all this? The staff?" Kirishima speaks for the group, who are all standing still and watching intensely. They don't really know what to say. How long has all this food been here?
"Hidaka did," Katsuki says, pulling out another spice packet and mixing it into his food, "and if you guys won't eat your portion of food, I sure as hell will."
Whispers softer than wind float through the crowded group. Everyone's eyes are downcast, fingers twisting each other and cracking in an attempt to smooth the anxiety they're feeling. Well, anxiety in this situation can be reworded to guilt. They're guilty.
No one has seen Y/N all night. After being shown the building and going through a quirk tour of it yesterday with Aizawa, this day was cleared of responsibilities to allow each and every student (and their parents, if needed) to bring in their personal things and move into the dorms. People came in and our sporadically, moving boxes and furniture. Hidaka was seen a few times, a tall and bulky man carrying items beside her. But, after that, it's been hours since the last sighting.
However, they had actually tried to get her to join their competition, to join their fun. They knocked on her door to no avail, the darkness seeping from underneath it made people assume she was sleeping—but, obviously she wasn't. She was (is) awake, making a homemade dinner for everyone without even being asked to. How selfless.
"I...I'm going to get her! We're not gonna leave her out of this," Midoriya blurts, turning around and pushing his way out of the group; he heads to the elevators, "I'll be right back!"
Then, everything starts back up again. Conversation, jokes, laughter. This time, it's accompanied by the clinking of utensils on dishes, words muffled by food-filled mouths. The dialogue is filled with praises of the food, wishes of their friend to be present, and their gratitude.
But, Bakugou is even in a worse mood now than he already was. He didn't believe it to be possible after that disheartening conversation he had with Y/N. Katsuki grumbles to himself in between every bite, stabbing his fork into the yakisoba more aggressively each consecutive time.
The anger that's coming from him is derived from one thing: he was right. Izuku is the one that is going to get Y/N. Bakugou is pissed because, as was said before, he was right, Y/N is going to talk about feelings with stupid Deku.
It doesn't take long for Midoriya to make it to Y/N's room. When he gets there (he knows it's the right room because of the placard of her name is right beside the doorframe) he can see the light peering out from under the door. Music is playing from inside. He doesn't recognize the album name, but he knows it's English and it has the word asthma in it.
He knocks, and hears a "Come in!" afterwards.
The door is unlocked, most of them are, anyways (the girls might want to think about locking their doors though, Mineta is a menace). Midoriya pauses for a second, is Y/N really letting him into her room? A girls room? By himself? He takes a deep breath in before twisting the knob and stepping inside.
Something moves under his indoor slippers when he steps into the room. He looks down, and sees a large painting cloth spreading across most of the room. It has old, but colorful, stains on it. This tarp has seen many projects, it probably has many stories to tell.
Everything is still in boxes pushed alongside the right wall, and there's a mattress on the floor with just a sheet on it. Nothing has been unpacked. But, looking what Hidaka is doing on the left side of the room, it connects all the dots.
There's multiple trays of countless shades of paint scattered around her, different tools and paintbrushes are stained at their tips with fresh paint. Y/N standing on a small step ladder, reaching up towards the top of the wall.
She's painting a mural on the entire surface. Midoriya's mouth drops open at how complete and angelic it seems.
"I've been working on this all day," Y/N says, taking a swipe at the wall with a long brushstroke, "I work pretty fast, and I'm almost done already." Her tone is matter-of-fact.
The mural is in the style of an oil painting, delicate, sophisticated, divine, and breathtaking. The majority of it is countless shades of bronzes, browns, golds, blues; but, sporadically, there are butterflies and dragonflies of muted hues fluttering about. He hasn't seen anything like it before.
When he eventually takes his eyes off the art, he turns towards the girl he was seeking out. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, gloves resting on the floor. For anyone else, that would be normal, but, for Y/N, she looks...odd.
Izuku finds himself staring at her hands. There's nothing special about them, from the outside. But those hands, the skin on them, what ran through them, what made them move, was one of the most sinister and virulent things he could ever imagine. Just a touch of them would bring about the end, a curtain call, lights out.
But then he watches as Y/N's hands move about the painting, how every stroke and decision is precise, perfect, and meaningful. The delicacy in which she moves is like she's spinning gold into sunshine, silver into moonlight. It was unnerving to Midoriya that things so delicate could bring about so much destruction.
"You're mumbling about my quirk again, you know," Y/N says, head turning away from her project and staring at Izuku straight in his speckled face, "if you wanna know something, just ask. You can write what you learn in those journals of yours."
While her voice isn't necessarily kind or comforting, it isn't angry or accusatory. She does not think that his journaling is stupid or weird, she is simply dispassionate about the subject at hand.
Midoriya Izuku is a curious boy. He wants to know the ins and outs of the world. And, so, when presented with an opportunity, he will not be afraid to jump at it.
Something about Y/N has been sitting on his tongue for a long time, simmering in his throat, bubbling and fizzing, dying to be quenched by knowledge. Deku can't hold himself back from asking the question right away, for his curiosity is dying of thirst.
"Why can't you touch people but Flashfire could? You have the same quirks, right? Why do they act so differently?"
His voice squeaks at the end of his question, as if he's expecting a negative reaction from Hidaka, as if she's going to yell at him from asking such an awful, invasive question about the her deceased uncle. But, she doesn't even stop painting, not a single hesitation flows through her.
"He can close the valve on his heart," Y/N says, "it stops the flow of sodium through his body. And, once he burns off all the excess in his skin and bloodstream through his flames, he's free."
Deku doesn't think Y/N realizes it, but she speaks about Ryou as if he's still alive.
She says the word free as if the quirk is a prison, as if the chemical running through her body is like the handcuffs and the keys at the same time. And, to her, it is. It's a prison.
"Can, can you..." Izuku is stunned, mentally writing everything down, "can you control your heart valve too?"
"No," Y/N answers, continuing to dip her brushes into paint, "you know how some people can wiggle their ears and others can't? Or how some people can raise one eyebrow? It's like that. He can move the muscle, I can't."
Suddenly, Midoriya is smiling. Y/N isn't looking at him, but Izuku is staring at her with eyes of distance stars and his unmistakable grin on his lips. He looks at Hidaka as if she's told him the secrets of the world, the meaning of life, the perfect ending to life.
"Do you know what's great about wiggling your ears or raising a single brow? You can learn how to do it."
Y/N stops painting.
Midoriya is still smiling. Deku is refracting energy of boundless hope, as if the sunrise had whispered him its secrets and he had expelled colors of pastel pinks and golden oranges. When Y/N looks at him for the first time since he's entered her room, however, she looks through him like he's glass.
There is no smile on her face. She is the dampening presence of a vacuum, a loss of space time where she forbids anything to exist. Y/N hangs stars around her neck like animals parade with their recently killed prey. Her gaze is unforgiving.
Before she speaks, the temperature of the room drops a few degrees. With Y/N, her emotions bleed heat, coming off in radiant waves and surrounding everything around her in sickly warmth. But, this time, there is such a lack of anything that it seems as if Y/N is absorbing the heat around her to make up for the hallow space in the left side of her chest. She's empty.
"I killed my uncle, you know."
For every syllable of that sentence, Y/N's (eye color) eyes remain latched to Deku's green ones. But, when she stops, she turns around to continue painting.
"It was an accident, of course," Y/N says, "he saved me me from drowning during the Hosu City terrorist attack."
Izuku is not smiling anymore.
"Ryou sacrificed himself to give me CPR and save my life. I then watched as his heart exploded in his chest, the chunks of muscle and blood spilling from his lips like sea water had just done from mine."
Her voice is wavering (like the tidal waves that pushed her under the waterline). His head hurts. "Hidaka—!" Deku tries to interrupt but Y/N doesn't let him. He asked these questions, and she'll give him his answers.
"Ever since then, well, actually, ever since I've been born, actually, the world has ruined me. It hates me, hates everything that I do, hates everything that I am. The world knew I would be like this, selfish, angry, violent, hypocritical...so it gave me this quirk, the apex of its hatred. It makes me hate myself.
"So, for you to try and imply that being able to shut off my quirk would change anything? It would change how I view myself? Well, you're dead fucking wrong."
Y/N is gripping g the paintbrush in her hand so hard the wood handle threatens to snap in her palms. It doesn't seem to bother her though, because all through this, she continues to paint her mural.
Izuku is in tears, he steps forward, his grasp instinctively trying to reach for her, but then he see her hands and he stops. He can't help her.
"But, I'm still trying to be a hero, y'know?" Y/N sniffles, but her face is dry. "You and this class have given me nothing but love—you love me despite everything. You've done things for me that no one else has ever even attempted to do all my life. You all have taught me how to be heroic, how to be kind, how to be happy. You guys make me want to become a good person."
The painting is done.
Izuku's chest heaves, the bright lights of the room reflect the clear tears on his cheeks. His head is spinning and he feels overwhelmingly light. Midoriya can't feel his fingers, he doesn't know what this feeling is. This sensation is taking root in his body, in his blood. Midoriya has never wanted to hug someone so bad be he can't.
She looks at him now. The mural practically glows behind her, a fantasy halo around her head that makes it look like she's shining. But, she isn't smiling, she's frowning, actually. While she's looking at Midoriya, she's also looking through him, and it seems as if she's not even here at all. There is a haze behind her eyes, a quiver in her hands
Crystalline tears sit on her waterline, they then float down her cheeks like butterflies. Their wings leave trails behind, the only remnants of their fickle, fleeting beauty. Despite the frown and the tears, Y/N is not sad. This is the release of emotion, the fall of tension, and the loss of burden. Catharsis.
"I am willing to give my life to save a world that never loved me."
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Leptir- serbian. [butterfly]