- Three Years Prior -
Kirishima stared blankly at his arm, the tanned skin blocked out by the writing. The house was quiet, his father gone for the day at his respective workplace, and Kirishima was alone. But what else was new?
Slowly tracing his eyes over the curl of each letter, Kirishima allowed himself to wallow in his misery. The sheer, overwhelming pain of having no one reply was crushing him, crushing his heart, his soul. It was eating him up inside, making it harder and harder for him to go on. After all, everyone had a soulmate except for him. Either that, or his soulmate simply didn't want him.
Not that Kirishima would blame them. With his perpetually downcast crimson eyes and long, limp black hair that hid his dejected face from view, the tears only a moment away, Kirishima wouldn't want himself either.
Absently thumbing at his scar, Kirishima swiped a hand over the message, watching it fade from under his fingers. He raised his pinky, looking from it to his left arm, then pressed it down. The red dot appeared instantly, a mark that would appear on the arm of his soulmate, wherever they were. Kirishima pulled his finger down, then up and looped it, tracing a word, then another. He then decorated it with a series of stars, and held his arm away, admiring his handiwork.
I wish you would talk to me, it read, the message sounding much more downhearted than Kirishima had meant it to. He purses his lips, wondering whether or not to try again, but decided not to. Maybe this would be the day he would get a reply.
Minutes passed, then hours, and the message began to fade, not from someone erasing it but simply from time taking it's toll. Kirishima hadn't moved from his seat on the couch, preferring to remain perfectly still, like a statue. This way, he could pretend that he didn't really exist, something he found himself wishing for more and more recently.
A slam sounded from somewhere to his left, the sound of Kirishima's front door closing, and a look of panic came over his features. Jumping up, Kirishima vaulted over the back of the sofa and darted across the living room, heading for his bedroom door. Just as his fingers brushed over the handle, a voice stopped him.
"Eijirou."
Kirishima froze, body rigid. He didn't want to turn, he didn't, but he knew it would be worse if he didn't.
So he turned, facing the man who stood behind him.
Kirishima's father was a towering figure, much taller than anyone Kirishima could recall seeing, with a constant look of anger on his face and fists curled, always ready to hit something - or in Kirishima's case, someone. Now that he was older, Kirishima had gotten better at dodging these attacks, but he wasn't always so lucky. There were days he couldn't go to school because of the bruises, and those days were the worst, because Kirishima always knew he was missing out on something, and that just made the hole in his heart even bigger.
"Where are you going?" Kirishima's father asked, placing his hands on his hips and fixing his son with a suspicious glare.
"To my...to my room," Kirishima mumbled, wanting nothing more than to disappear. He itched to move, to spin around and lock himself away, where he couldn't be harmed, couldn't be hurt.
Sure, he had his quirk, but it was something his father hated, since it reminded the man of his mother, so if Kirishima ever tried to use it, then the punishment would get ten times worse.
"Sorry? I didn't hear you," his father mocked, narrowing his eyes, challenging him to retort back.
"To my room," Kirishima repeated, louder this time. He held his head high, not showing weakness since weakness was what his father hated the most. Not only that, but Kirishima hated his weaknesses. Those of others didn't bother him; people who could show their insecurities were some of the strongest people, Kirishima had long since decide. But his own struggles were those he wanted - he needed - to keep hidden, or else he may lose the fragile hold on his sanity.
Kirishima's father huffed, and for a moment Kirishima feared he may storm forwards as he had many times before, grab Kirishima and throw him, or smack him, but to the dark-haired boy's great relief his father simply turned on his heel and stalked into the kitchen, out of Kirishima's line of sight.
Given the green flag, Kirishima yanked at the door handle and slipped inside, closing it as gently as he could and leaning back against it. After calming his racing heart, Kirishima moved away from the door and over to his bed. The walls of his room were a muted, dirty white, the off color having faded over the years. There was a time where Kirishima's mother would have insisted on repainting it - in fact, she would have demanded they redo the entire room. Kirishima's mattress was old, maybe older than him, and one of the springs had broken and prodded him in the side when he slept. The bed frame was wooden, and was probably the only thing in the room that wasn't ridiculously broken beyond repair. His dresser was missing the bottom drawer and the top right one, the remaining two only holding the few items of clothing Kirishima owned. There was a single lamp with a broken bulb, decorated with a floral pattern that Kirishima would bet came from his grandma's house before she died.
The rest of his tiny room was bare except for a tiny mirror on the wall beside the window, the wooden flooring cold and hard beneath Kirishima's uncovered feet. He shivered at the sensation but relished the slight distraction, curling his toes before flinging himself onto the mattress. He lay like that for a while, not moving, until the sky outside changed from blue to orange to black, casting long shadows across the floor. They used to scare Kirishima, the fear of the darkness overcoming his logical, rational part of his brain, but a sort of numbness had settled over him. A blanket of uncaring had draped over his mind, something which happened often to Kirishima.
He got up, feet back on the floorboards, padding over to the mirror.
A face stared back at him. Sad, empty eyes in hollow eye sockets, a button nose that wasn't quite suited to him, yet simultaneously suited him perfectly, a strong jawline, the only thing Kirishima was glad to inherit from his father. It gave him just that edge that meant he didn't look like a total wimp. Draped over his face were his thick black locks, glossy and unkempt, loosely brushing over his nose, his browbone, his lower lip. He wasn't crying, Kirishima noticed. Usually when he felt this empty, the boy in the mirror cried.
And suddenly, staring at all of this, Kirishima wanted it gone. He no longer wanted to be the loner kid, stuck on his own and constantly trying to repress his unhappiness. He wanted to be excitable, friendly, and happy, even if it was an act. What was the saying?
Fake it 'til you make it.
And that, Kirishima concluded, is what I'll do.
- Now -
Aizawa slinked into the classroom, shuffling across the floor like a caterpillar in his yellow sleeping bag, purple shadows dusted under his eyes and a frown etched onto his face. No one was bothered by his entrance; it had become something of a routine for Class 2A, watching their teacher crawl his way in.
Kirishima shared a look with Kaminari, vague amusement glittering in both their eyes as they tried to suppress their laughter at their homeroom teacher. Once Aizawa had unzipped his attire and stood up, both of the boys' gazes were facing forwards, neither of them fancying getting a detention, especially on a Friday.
"Okay, you lot," Aizawa said slowly, addressing them rather informally as though he couldn't be bothered to remember proper etiquette. "Some of you may know, some you you won't, but half of the dormitory rooms at Alliance Heights are being refurbished due to an error in the architecture." Aizawa paused and muttered something under his breath that Kirishima thought was "Bloody Mic," before continuing as though he had never stopped. "Because of this, and because you are still expected to be living on campus, you're going to have to double up. That means," he added tiredly, catching a few confused looks and deciding to elaborate. "That you'll be sharing rooms, starting Saturday."
A few excited murmurs drifted around the room, mostly from the girls as they wondered who would be with who. Kirishima couldn't deny that the thought had occurred to him too.
Maybe Kaminari? he mused, his gaze wandering to the back of his best friend's head, then kept moving and landed on another blond. Or Bakugo?
Aizawa growled, catching everyone's attention and sending them into silence. "The room allocations are as follows. On the top floor: Asui and Uraraka, Jirou and Yaoyorozu, Mina and Hagakure-" There was a squeal from both girls as they spun to smile at each other. Well, presumably. No one really knew what facial expression Hagakure was sporting. She could have one akin to Bakugo's the whole time and no one would realise. Kirishima tried not to laugh at the thought.
"On the third floor: Todoroki and Ojiro, Mineta and Koda, Kaminari and Sero." Kirishima noted the grins on his friend's faces as they air high-fived each other, and he did his best not to be jealous. "Second floor is Iida and Tokoyami, Aoyama and Sato, Midoriya and Shoji, and Bakugo and Kirishima."
Kirishima's eyebrows shot up, and his eyes instantly flicked over to Bakugo, whose head was resting in his palms, and impassive look on his face, from what Kirishima could see. He blinked a couple of times, half-wishing that he would turn around and face him, but who was Kirishima kidding? This was Bakugo, notorious Hero-To-Be. He wouldn't care about room allocations.
"Fucking bullshit!" Bakugo yelled once Aizawa had left the room, spinning in his chair as explosions rippled in his palms. There goes that thought, Kirishima mused to himself. "Why the fuck should I have to share a room with Shitty Hair?"
"Now, Bakugo, you shouldn't use such inappropriate language," Iida scolded, but Bakugo took no notice, as usual.
"Hey, Bakubro, it's fine! It'll be fun, y'know? Like a sleepover!" Kirishima tried patiently, getting out of his seat and making his way over, perching on the edge of Bakugo's desk and grinning at him, flashing his sharp teeth as he did so.
Bakugo grunted, then muttered something that Kirishima barely heard, yet took him totally off guard. Not wanting to embarrass the blond by screaming it in front of the entire class, Kirishima waited for them to begin their own conversations and leant down. "You've never had a sleepover?" he asked incredulously. Sure, Kirishima's first one had only been last year, when Kaminari invited him, Sero and Mina over. He had invited Bakugo over too, but obviously the request had been turned down. Even so, he had never had anyone over in middle school, or something?
"So what, Shitty Hair?" Bakugo snapped, bringing his knee up to tilt the desk. Kirishima slid off the end and landed on the floor, but had been expecting it so he managed to get his feet under him in time. Kirishima simply stared at the teen, red eyes wide with astonishment.
"Okay, right. If this is your first sleepover-"
"Not a sleepover."
"-then I've gotta do this right," Kirishima continued, ignoring Bakugo's interruption. "I need popcorn, snacks, movies. Horror movies, comedies...and blankets!" He gasped. "We could make a fort!"
Bakugo furrowed his brows, glaring at Kirishima as if wondering if he was serious, which he definitely was. "Fine, Shitty Hair." Bakugo said eventually, turning away to gaze out of the window. "Plan your fucking sleepover then."
Kirishima beamed.