Laughter is everywhere, Sero and Kaminari improvise a terrible synchronized dance; Kirishima, dressed as me, seeks my approval with a nod, and I give it to him with a thumbs-up. Midoriya, still a little enchanted by my tracksuit, proposes a toast with orange juice: "To... um... dedication." We both laugh about it. (Don't worry, I won't come any closer.)
The masks are starting to melt. Someone's invented the game "imitate your partner without using your Quirk": Iida (Uraraka version) does a "float" with his hands and a very concentrated face; Uraraka (Iida version) declares "Decoration!" every thirty seconds and everyone bursts out laughing. I, as Midoriya, jot down notes on a napkin as if it were vital: three arrows, two key words, a very serious look...it works too well.
(The shoulders sag. The lump in my throat holds, but it doesn't strangle. If I ask you not to ask me questions now, will you believe me? Thank you.)
The sliding door shush. Bakugo comes back in. He's wearing nothing but himself: a dark shirt, a tense look. He sits at the farthest table, the one with a view of everything: the entrance, the snacks, the improvised dance floor. Legs spread, forearms on the table, eyes slicing across the room.
They try, one at a time.
Kirishima approaches him with a drink: "Bro, at least a sip?"
"No."
Kaminari goes for the silly tone: "Oh you, Mr. explosion, are you coming to dance the thing we just invented, the bakudance?"
One look and Kaminari gives up on his own. Sero brings chips, Uraraka tries the gentle way out ("Would you like to stay with us, even just sit here?"), Iida enunciates the importance of group integration. He shuts them all down with two syllables at most, the slightest movement of his jaw. He doesn't raise his voice, he doesn't move: the temperature alone is enough.
(Meanwhile, I do the most adult thing I know how: I have fun. I grab a cookie, I dance badly with Uraraka-Iida, I bow ridiculously to Midoriya, I laugh at Kaminari who surrenders to "decorum." And yes, every now and then the gaze from that table lands on me, punctual as a thorn. I feel it. I put it aside. I don't deny it, I don't nurture it.)
An hour passes like this. The music changes skin three times, the cake half disappears, the chants dim and rise in waves. Bakugo doesn't drink, doesn't eat, doesn't participate. He observes. He keeps the room in check like a target. Every time I move, to the buffet, to the table, in the middle, my eyes twitch. He asks for nothing. He offers nothing.
(I'll tell you, here in a low voice: it hurts and at the same time it keeps me upright. Because tonight I'm not chasing. Tonight I'm not translating his silences. Tonight I'm dancing badly with my friends.)
Finally, the chair scrapes softly. He gets up. A barely perceptible "tsk," more breath than sound. He crosses the room at the edge, without touching anyone. No one stops him: they've understood. He passes by the door, opens it. Shh. He leaves.
He doesn't come back.
I pause for a moment, my green jumpsuit glistening in the lights, my long wig brushing my back. (Yes, I saw him go. No, I'm not following him. Let him get lost this time, if he wants to.) I turn to you: "I'm here. With the others, with me. With the silly music and a glass of orange juice. If he really has to talk to me, let him learn the way to get there. For now... for now, let me laugh a little. It's good for me."
Not literally, I know it's out there somewhere, it just knocks down the profile like turning down the brightness on your screen to near-darkness.
***
At the cafeteria, his chair remains empty: a fork that doesn't smack, a glass that doesn't leave a mark on the tray. Kaminari asks, "Did you see that?" Sero shakes his head, Uraraka shrugs with worried eyes. Iida suggests study shifts "to maintain cohesion," as if he could fill an absence with schedules.
Two sounds are missing from group practice: the "tsk" and the clatter of gloves on the mat. Aizawa records "excused absence" with a dry cross. I pretend not to read the name, but I do. And when it's his turn to hit the bag, the rhythm of his punches is missing: the leather remains intact, the silence stretches on.
Runners empty, neon lights sizzling softly. In the evening, I hear footsteps fading away a bend before my door. Kirishima sends a "are you there" without a question mark; then "OK, bro" to someone who isn't me. Midoriya discreetly asks me if "everything's okay between comrades," Iida emphasizes the importance of "civil dialogue," Uraraka knocks twice on my door and leaves a chocolate bar on the nightstand: "If you want to talk to me, I'm here." (I put it in the drawer. I'll think about it later.)
Me? I hold the tea in my hands like a warm compress. I sit on the bed, my back to the wall. I talk to you, the friend who doesn't ask pointless questions.
I'm angry, yes. The slap has stayed in my palm for hours, the party still rings in my ears. And yet (and this is the part that hurts to admit), I was hoping for something else. I was hoping he'd say something different.
If only he'd lowered his voice. If only he'd used a normal word.
Even a small one. Even a crooked one. A "it bothered me," a "it matters to me," even an honest "I don't know how to do now."
I would have listened. I swear. I would have put down my weapons for a minute, just for that.
But no. Absence as a strategy. Silence as a shield. And here I am, counting breaths while the room changes smell with the evening and the air seems thick with things stuck in my throat.
I line up the facts so I don't get lost:
-I set a limit at the party (clearly).
-He didn't cross it, he didn't even touch it. He turned back and then... disappeared to the side.
-The team holds, but creaks. (Iida tightens his "decorum," Uraraka softens the edge, Kirishima bridges the gap, Midoriya watches and nods slowly.)
And the truth I tell you only here: between one sip and the next, I wait for him. Not in the hallway, not at the door. Here. Let him knock with words, not with his knuckles. Let him choose a phrase instead of a scene. Let him try, just once, to remain still within what he feels.
For now, it's not happening. The phone remains silent, and so is the hallway. I put the cup back on, turn off the big light, and turn on the small one.
"Okay," I tell you. "This is the picture. If it changes, you'll be the first to know."
(The rest, the rising tension, the consequences, you'll tell me when you're ready to hear them. In the meantime, I'll keep my breathing steady and leave the empty chair as it is: a place waiting, but asking for nothing.)
Suddenly, there's a soft knock. Just once. I put the cup down: the steam unfurls in a thin thread, a small road in the air. I open it. Midoriya is in the doorway; Uraraka is behind, a tea bag clutched between her fingers like a lucky charm.
"Can we?" he asks, without pushing.
"Yes, of course, come in."
They tiptoe in. We sit on the floor, near the low lamp. (Luckily, I cleaned the room a few days ago, hehe.) No one seems in a hurry. Midoriya scratches the back of his neck, then looks at me.
"Okay, I'll keep it simple: there's a gap in the team. Bakugo is... out of step. We're moving forward, but crooked. We came to see if you're okay or if we're missing something we don't know about."
The spoon clings to the cup.
"You talk to him," I say. "We had a fight at the party. He yells at me a lot. He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me out. I warned him and, yes, I slapped him. He can't touch me every time like he says."
Uraraka lowers her eyes. Her fingers barely let go of the teabag, a hint of heat tinging her cheeks. "I didn't know. Sorry."
Midoriya nods seriously.
"I saw that scene," he says softly. "When he grabbed you and dragged you out. I hesitated because I was afraid I'd blow everything up… but I saw it."
He takes a breath.
"I didn't know the rest. Thanks for saying that. Not to justify it, mind you: it's to call things by their proper name. He has two ways with emotions: he attacks or he shuts down. And sometimes he mistakes people for targets."
I grimace.
"Yeah."
"It's not okay for you to become his target," he continues. "And it's not okay for you to have to translate every look. On a mission, we have to function. This hole is a risk, period."
"So?" My voice remains low.
Midoriya adjusts his pants, more out of nervousness than anything else. Then he nods. There's a moment where he seems to be choosing whether to stay or back away; he stays.
"I'll talk to him. Straight and clear: if he wants to stay on the team, I'll tell him to keep his voice low. No sudden grabs, no shouting. If he raises his voice, stop. End of conversation. Simple rules, even though I know it'll be impossible for me to hear."
Uraraka nods.
"I'll wait outside the door," she says. "Not inside, so you and Bakugo can be alone. And... Junko... I'll come to the cafeteria with you tomorrow morning. We'll sit together, don't worry."
Midoriya holds my gaze.
"And you're not 'playing hard to get.' You're setting boundaries. He respects what he cares about. If he sees it, fine. If he doesn't, we keep our distance. This, too, means taking care of the team."
For a moment, no one speaks. Uraraka touches my wrist.
"I'm here. Always."
Midoriya gets up, is about to leave, but then turns around.
"I don't promise miracles. I promise clarity. See you tomorrow."
I close the door softly. I rest my forehead against the door for a second. I inhale four times, exhale six times. (Yes, better this way. They know without intruding, and I breathe again.)
Next morning...
Dude, this morning the room smells of hastily dried laundry and sleep that didn't have time to come. The phone vibrates on the nightstand like a bug against glass: Aizawa. "Now". I'm already on my feet before I decide to get up. Hair tie in my hair, jacket on, cup in the sink. (Yesterday I felt like I had room to breathe again. Today I try not to lose it along the way.)
The corridor is a tube of white light. I walk, counting the joints in the floor: one, two, three, and with every third I remember that the body can move even when the mind is confused. Knocking is useless: with Aizawa you can come in, or so they say.
He has the window ajar, and the tiredness hangs from his shoulders like a scarf. He looks at me like a painting that should be hung upright, not beautifully: upright.
"Thank you for coming so soon," he begins, his tone neither a caress nor a blade. "Night signal from the northern perimeter. Minefield. Not ours: the enemy's." The word enemies has a gravel-like weight.
He opens a thin folder: photos scratched by the darkness, coordinates in dry numbers, notes that smell of wet earth and hastily taken images. "I need a reconnaissance. We need to trace a safe corridor, mark the risks, then return. Light and orderly. No heroics."
I nod, and inside me, things fall into place: left free, right score, stop if. (I can do it. I can still do it, right?) "Starting?" I ask, to keep my voice afloat.
"Immediately," he says. And for a moment, the silence is a separate room where fear can be stored.
I'm about to put the papers in my pocket when the handle behind me turns. Click. It's not a loud sound, but it's precise, like a needle finding its spot on my skin. I don't turn around immediately. First I feel the air change in temperature (yes, it's possible), then Aizawa's gaze, which doesn't move even a millimeter, as if he already knows the next shape of the scene.
I turn around.
Bakugo is in the doorway. He's not making any noise, and that already seems unnatural on him. I see him in profile, his jaw clenched, his hands at his sides as if they're holding something that shouldn't be lit in here. I understand without anyone saying it: a mission in pairs.
My heart races. I catch it and try to relax. I inhale four times. I exhale six times. (Remember, buddy? Mission rules. Low voice. No holds, no shouting. As Midoriya dictated. Yesterday they were words; now they're tools. I keep them in my pocket, next to the map.)
I stay still. I look up. "Roger," I say. And I hear my voice: it's mine, finally.
Dude, four hours could be a corridor or a cell. Today, it's both.
Bakugo drives. I count. Not the important things, those break if you count them, but the small details that hold the silence together: the discreet clicks of the indicator, the trembling of the rearview mirror on the axle joints, the hum of the heater that changes pitch every now and then. I keep my hands in sight, palms on my thighs. Seatbelt fastened. Window rolled up to the final notch, the one that seals.
It's still there, in the teeth of my memory, the phrase he threw at me like a bolt: "It was just a quickie." He says it like that, straight, rasping. As if the words could scratch enough to make it seem true. (It's not true. Not even when he says it with that knife-like expression. And he knows I know it.)
State road, then provincial road. The world becomes simpler: plowed fields, bare rows that pass like lines in a notebook, blue signs that promise exits but deliver nothing. Bakugo holds the wheel as one holds a decision: thumbs hooked, knuckles dry. His scars make small white marks under the skin. I know his strength when it springs; now it's firm, taut like a new rubber band. He doesn't look at me. I don't look at him. It's an unspoken pact: every glance is a power outage.
During first hour, I think about the rules Midoriya laid out. His voice was low. No sudden attacks. I repeated them last night in the dark, until the words became form. (I know, buddy, he and I haven't even had a conversation yet. But rules exist even when they're not spoken. I carry them around like I carry my documents.)
By the second hour, my body wants to make peace with the instinct to fill the silence. My lungs, not my mouth, are asking me to speak: they thrash like fish in a net. I let them go, then I pull. I inhale four times, exhale six times. Outside, the clouds form a low carpet, cut by high-voltage cables. Even the sky resembles a scar, if you look at it long enough.
At a service station, he pulls over without asking. He turns off the car. The key remains in the lock for a moment like a stuck needle. "Do you need anything?" he asks, and his voice is like sandpaper run once over an ancient wall.
"No."
I don't add a thank you. Not because I want to hurt him, but because a thank you now would be like patching up a broken window: it's useless, it falls off. He nods as one nods to a thought of his own, leaves, walks a few steps, then thinks better of it and stays by the car. He doesn't buy anything. He doesn't look at his phone. He goes back to his seat. We drive off again.
The phrase comes back every now and then, same trajectory, same speed. "It was just a quickie." I felt it even in the movement of his hand at the party, when he squeezed, too tightly, and my palm responded. It wasn't just anger. It was the moment before something collapses and you try to hold it from the wrong side. And then he yells, always in that tone where he thinks he's defending himself but instead he's exposed. Me saying enough. (I repeat it now, softly, but I'm saying it to myself: enough.)
Third hour. The sun decides it'll do the bare minimum today. The windshield reflects a very white light and spits it out in reflections. Out of the corner of my eye, I see its profile. There's no usual overt fury; there's an internal working, as if it were dismantling and reassembling the bolts of an engine. I realize I'm trying to guess where it will stop, if it does; then I realize it's not my job to do so. I shift my gaze outside and let the landscape hold me, as if a corridor were to lead you to the right door.
Fourth hour. The smell changes: wet earth, old iron, a hint of crushed grass. The navigator loses its self-confidence and is reduced to arrows, distances, a voice that suggests without promising. Here the road descends, then becomes a ridge, then widens into a gravel shoulder that overlooks something, but is not yet a panorama. Bakugo shifts down a gear. The car responds with a polite grunt.
"We have arrived." He says.