Katsuki Bakugou
Putting this candidly, the constant sounds and motions visible from the corner of my eye of Todoroki shuffling all of his crap into our dorm curls my fingers into my palms. Of course, I'm not dense enough to comment on just how vexing it is because even I'm fully cognizant that he can't help but inevitably generate the noises that are irking me to hell and back. Besides, I'll be in his shoes at some point this week, and I have a hunch that the falsely tumultuous rattling I'm hearing now will be a pebble skipping along concrete compared to what I can deduce will be my onslaught of meteors pummeling the surface of the world. Oh, and it's also my own decision to stay in our dorm while he's moving his stuff.
Why the hell am I giving him clemency like this? I have to ask myself for a moment while watching Todoroki bend down to place a box on the floor by his bed. He doesn't deserve shit. How many times do I gotta tell myself this to ascertain my own beliefs?
Once I've had my fill of straining my eyes on the lucent screen of my phone, I throw my head back onto my pillow with a soft thud. There are still three hours remaining until the impending party, but time feels as if it's a devious rat scurrying up towards me to close in the gap between us; its mangy, matted fur is lightly caked in a grimy layer of watered-down dirt. I know it will always be there, lingering in the recesses of darkness where the light cannot reach, but sometimes I wonder if its piqued curiosity in me will dissipate. Regardless, it continues to gnaw its way through the air separating us until it finally sinks its teeth into my flesh and infects me with its abominable contagions.
"Hey, since you're already annoying the hell out of me—" Well, shit. Wasn't I just thinking that I'm not dense enough to... Dammit— "I'll show you the real way to get things done around here." I lift my head up to meet Todoroki's unsightly, exanimate eyes.
Shaking his head, he replies, "I would prefer if you didn't. Again, I do apologize for generating a disturbance in the moving of my belongings. Might I suggest you stay elsewhere for the time being?" I thought his voice had been void of emotion when I heard him for the first time in years, but damn was I wrong.
Tch. I hate that you're right. I acknowledge that. Hell, I did from the start! So why did I not just go somewhere else? God!
"Guess so," I murmur, flinging myself off of my bed and landing in a crouched position on the floor. "Means I won't have to see your face." Briskly walking out the door with my key in my pocket, I decide to make myself something to eat.
As fate would have it—although, I'm not sure whether this is a serendipitous or inauspicious occurrence yet—Kirishima and Kaminari are staring with bemused, yet enthralled expressions at a small plume of dark gray smoke hissing up from a frying pan on the stove in the kitchen.
I swear that every time I see one of you idiots, something bad is happening! Do I hafta babysit you idiots so you don't burn the damn building down?
"What do you two think you're doing?" I groan, approaching the smoking pan with tight lips and a steaming forehead. "The hell was this supposed to be?" Sucking in a hasty breath, I subdue the idea of releasing it yet.
Peering down into the mutilated pan through the geyser of smoke being upwardly wafted, the remnants of whatever might have been inside is burned—charred is more like it—beyond belief. It almost looks like two rocks and a stick were tossed into oil and flour and set ablaze in the pan to produce the atrocity of what Kirishima and Kaminari refer to as their 'attempt at making lunch.'
Kirishima gingerly rubs the back of his head and smiles sheepishly. "Y'know, thought I'd give it a shot! Kami dared me to make pancakes and bacon—"
I cut Kirishima off while disposing of the pitiable disaster practically infused into the pan—also known as attempting to chip off the rock-hard substances clinging onto the pan and resorting to simply tossing the hopeless pan into the trash. "For lunch?"
"Yup!" Kaminari chimes in, beatifically grinning as I brush off my hands and rummage around the cabinets for another pan. "Bacon and pancakes...for lunch?" I reiterate, somehow deceiving myself for a moment that mere emphasis alone would allow me to get my point across. "Kiri was manly and took up my challenge, so yes, bacon and pancakes for lunch," Kaminari continues.
Why do I even bother with these idiots? "Since you two are gonna burn every damn thing you touch, it looks like I've gotta make sure you don't blow this place up," I sigh, questioning what I'm currently doing with my life.
Seriously, why the hell am I acting like this? Tch. Ever since that emo dipshit crashed back down into my life, I haven't been the same. Damn fool thinks he can easily sway me? Well, he wouldn't be wrong—no, he is wrong. I'll prove that I'm superior to his asinine efforts to overtake my head.
"Whoa, you can cook, Bakugou?" Kirishima oggles, peering over my shoulder as I lay a few strips of pale white and pink bacon down into a fresh pan. The moment that the slimy, tender strips of meat slap against the hot surface of the pan, they begin to hiss and quiver.
Before I can open my mouth to respond to Kirishima, a certain loser with fluffy green hair and an idiotic freckled face sprints into the kitchen with his arms flying around. "Wh-What's going on?" Deku gasps, his jittering green eyes scanning the kitchen like it's a crime scene reeking of the irony odor of blood. "What happened? I-I smelled smoke!" Once his eyes meet mine, his expression is instantly struck down with a blade of anguish.
With tremendous resistance to my pulsing desire to slam the scalding frying pan in my hands into Deku's face, I refrain from succumbing to the tempting action. "Nothin'. Just these two idiots destroying all they touch," I grumble, curling my hands tightly into the warm, sleek black handle of the pan. "Now scram, Deku. Beat it before I beat you." Staring him down with my dagger eyes, I internally laugh at the way Deku's lips pull to the sides and his eyes enlarge, his pupils taking in two massive gasps for air.
Raising his shoulders up, Deku looks down at the floor. "I-I just...wanted to make sure none of y-you were hurt." Well, now you're a liar! You're starting to piss me off even more than Todoroki! "But I g-guess I'm not needed. So I'll just t-take my leave."
Deku turns to leave, but Kirishima and Kaminari pass each other rapid glances as if they're telepathically formulating some strange machination together. "Hold it, Midoriya!" Kaminari shouts, frantically sprinting up to the damn nerd and whirling around in front of him. "We're sure Bakugou didn't really mean what he said. Oh, and you're not unneeded! You know there's a party in a few hours, right?"
Biting his lip, Deku fidgets with his fingers, flicking his attention between me, Kaminari, and Kirishima. I can read the unsettling air his eyes are soaking in, but he musters up a half-assed grin. "Y-Yeah, I know, but I'm n-not good at baking things. Thanks, though." The deadpan stare he shoots at me for a fraction of a second before leaving converts the blood pumping through my veins into gasoline.
"Aww. Kami, you think he's just too shy?" Kirishima sighs dejectedly. "Or... Bakugou, your manliness intimidated him and he ran off!" He grins widely at me while Kaminari offers a thumbs-up.
Not confident enough to say you hate me in front of a crowd, huh? I think while transferring the sizzling bacon in the pan to a large white plate with a paper towel placed on top of it. The pure white paper towel is splattered with stains of grease—a kind of residue that's a pain in the ass to wash. What a wuss! Hmm. Tch. Deku, I swear to God, if you're tryin' to use me... You piece of shit. I know you're not an airhead like Half 'n Half. Both of you and your damn games! I'll kill you both!
"Alright, dumbasses, whaddya think?" I shove the plate a few inches across the countertop to give myself some distance between the two. "You better be pretty damn grateful I even considered doin' this shit for you." Crossing my arms seemingly conceitedly, I glance at Kirishima and Kaminari.
Both of you are so damn idiotic, and yet you tolerate my personality? Tch, and I hate to admit it, but I kind of enjoy it when you text me, Shitty Hair. You don't lie to me, and you're not afraid of sayin' the truth. The only thing is that you're convinced I have a soft side, and there is no way in hell that I have any kind of soft side! So would you give the damn idea up already?
After Kirishima and Kaminari revelled in the supremacy of my cookery once I finished flipping and serving their 'lunch' for them, I honestly lost the perpetual desire to bark my head off at them. Perhaps I'd exhausted my own capacity for screaming, but then again, maybe the truth was lying elsewhere.
Both idiots expressed their gratitude through a series of smiles and repetitive 'thank you, Bakugou!''s. Each time they thanked me, I would order them to shut their traps, but truth be told, hearing their genuine appreciation felt as if it lifted my heart in my chest. It made me feel as though the seemingly negligible effort I'd expended on them was...worthwhile.
Now, however, the hour that's been slowly skittering up to me with its disease-ridden body finally crawls up to the tips of my fingers with its thin whiskers taunting my skin and hair follicles. Soon, its small, cold nose brushes against my nails, leaving a clear film of mucus on them. It's not as if I want to peer into its gruesome eyes, but I only have two options: act like a man and stare it directly in the eyes, or slink back like a weakling and allow it to lunge for my eyes once I drop my guard.
I return to my nightmare of a dorm to find that a perfect half of it has been remodeled to resemble a traditional Japanese-style house. Not a single cardboard box is left in sight, so I now question whether or not the event of the nuisance I previously witnessed hauling boxes all the way up here was reality or a figment of my rampant imagination. My imagination is an asshole to me the majority of the time, so I wouldn't put it past myself to have conjured up a nonexistent scene.
There is, however, one piece of furniture that is eerily out of place, and that is a majestic grand piano placed to the left of Todoroki's futon.
Alright, Daddy's Rich Boy, way to show off! "How the hell did you get this done?" I growl brusquely, refraining from expatiating on the utter impossibility of remodeling half of the dorm by hand within a few hours. "Tch. Forget it. Let's go." Crossing my arms, I stare across the warmly illuminated room to Todoroki, who almost looks as if he's a doll sitting stiffly on his futon in a quaint, half-opened house; like I could reach my hands into the half of the dorm he designed and start to rearrange the objects as I see fit. Good God... Just cut the edgy shit already.
Todoroki's head is slowly pulled upwards as if a pair of strings are being pulled to guide his head as a separate part from his body. "I...refuse," he spits, the vacancy of emotion in his voice being replaced with a certain rigidity that implores something I lack the ability to decipher.
"Don't even try pulling that shit with me," I snap virulently, bringing my clenched fists to my sides as I walk across the tatami mats on the floor of Todoroki's half of the room. "You're not weaseling your way outta this. Do I gotta drag your ass there?" As I reach my hand out to literally begin dragging Todoroki behind me like the sack of shit he is, his body contorts as if he's entering his death throes, and he scrambles back like prey being cornered by its looming, esurient predator.
"Don't... Don't touch me," he pants pleadingly. As if he's stepped out of line, he feverishly shakes his head and instantaneously reverts to his aloof, blank-faced, shitty self. "My apologies, but it is not you who will be suffering the consequences of abstaining from attending the party, so it is not in your place to force me to attend."
I don't know why you're acting so damn strange, but I'll do whatever it takes for you to suffer. "Quit feigning your emotions—I know they ain't real, so stop lying to my face like the crass psycho you are. You just want my damn pity, but no one's gonna feel sorry for a twisted fool that likes to play with his prey—torture it until it finally falls apart—rather than put it out of its misery." Standing like a staggering beast over Todoroki, who's returned to his lifeless, inert state, I curse myself for the feeling of my heart abruptly accelerating its effervescent beating as my eyes absorb every detail of Todoroki's charismatic, intoxicating body; it's the kind I could easily get drunk off of staring at for an extended period of time.
"You make it sound as if I do not possess a heart." I'm absolutely certain that I'm being delusional, but it almost looks as if something belittled and badly burned is mired behind the murky windows to Todoroki's eyes; it's almost like a screaming voice undermined by the cruel dictator known as reality.
"Well, obviously you have a heart—you wouldn't be here if ya didn't. But there's nothing in it. That's why your heart is best broken. You broke two, so it's only fair that yours is obliterated, right? That emptiness is also why it's so damn easy for you to manipulate others like they're your slaves. Now stand and follow me like an obedient dog—like you have a heart."
In my memories, I suppose that everything truly did feel like a game. Roll the dice; move along the board; draw a random, yet predetermined event card; repeat. This cycle continues while the creators of the game smile upon their work, simulation, game... We are all ineluctably marching towards the 'finish line,' but what does that signify?—none other than death. Ah, but how could a game have been woven into a game from within the flimsy seams of thought?
"Life? A game? Not possible!" you reassured me. "Do you see cards anywhere? Or dice? Or anything like a game? I sure don't, so you shouldn't either. You sure you're okay?"
The things we cannot see are the most deadly.
"Mmhmm!" I'd assured you, but a lie is what had slipped through my lips. "Just a thought," I'd continued, sinking into what I now realize was self-deception.
"Are you certain life isn't a game? Because it seems you belong to me, and if I am not mistaken...you have accepted this fact. Excellent. Never forget that you are mine."