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Chapter Text

The heart rate monitors chimed in a symphony while Shouta clutched Hizashi’s long, musician’s fingers. Palms grew colder with each breath. Bloodstains speckled thin hospital sheets. Wearing a plastered smile, Hizashi coughed into his fist. White petals cascaded toward the ground.

Shouta pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He fixated on the way the coarse fabric of his eyepatch scratched against his cheek. Half-hearted attempts to distract himself and keep the flood of tears walled behind a dam. His efforts were in vain. Hacking up blossoms, Hizashi stroked the waterworks off Shouta’s face.

“Don’t cry, Shou. Your dry-eye is bad enough as it is.”

“Why does it have to take you dying to say something sensible for once in your life?”

“HEY! I’m perfectly sensible.”

Upon his indignant cry, Hizashi curled over. Bile spilled onto his hospital gown. Retching, he picked up the lily and cast it into the bin beside his bed. Shouta dabbed the corners of Hizashi’s mouth with a tissue. He eyed the stem drenched in saliva. Extended leaves evoked incense in an urn.

“Because using your quirk is so sensible?”

“Whatever you say, Mr. voice-of-reason.”

Shouta stood up from the rickety plastic hospital chair. Sunlight spilled into the room as he pulled aside the curtains. A futile attempt to make Hizashi’s withering cease. An echo of the limelight Hizashi had always run towards, and Shouta avoided like the plague.

“Sorry, that I didn’t feel the same way.” With more time, I could’ve loved you back.  

Fabric bunched together in Shouta’s fist. In his mind’s eye, he dug through the cavity of his chest – searching for the missing puzzle piece. A fracture to confirm that he was broken. Any explanation for why he couldn’t return the unrequited devotion for the man who understood him better than anyone else.

“I never expected you to.” Lungs hitching, Hizashi placed a hand on top of Shouta’s. “And stop talking in the past tense. I’m not dead yet.”

“True.” I’m not ready to lose you .

Shifting his weight off his metal leg, Shouta could taste the bitter irony. Even though Hizashi had emerged from encounters with Nomus and battlefields mostly unscathed, he was destined to become yet another tally mark for the list of heroes who died too young.

Shouta passed Hizashi a glass of water, yet no matter how much Hizashi downed, everything came back up. Shouta steeled his expression into a poker face, not wanting to burden Hizashi with more tears. He hadn’t deserved Hizashi in his life. The flowers rooted in lungs were proof. If only he’d been more approachable, then Hizashi could have entrusted him with the truth. Instead, Shouta had become the shadows suffocating a songbird.

“Shou, could you pass over my MP3 player?”

With a nod, Shouta placed the device in Hizashi’s palm. Amid the soft instrumental, Hizashi sang to the lyrics with lilies pushing against his teeth. “ Long handwritten note, deep in your pocket. Words, how little they mean, when you're a little too late… ”

“That song again?” I won’t be able to stand listening to it without you.

“What? It’s a classic. Besides, some calm music can only improve the odds of the surgery going well.”

As if such a depressing song would set the right tone. “You’d be a horrible doctor.”

“Yeah, I’d end up mangling the poor patients.”

Laughter that Shouta considered obnoxious as a teenager resounded through the hall. Breathing in the citrus aroma that lingered on the hospital walls, Shouta cherished every second he had left to hear that laugh. He considered recording the chuckle only to find his phone absent from his pocket. Stop worrying. The surgery will go fine. You can hear his voice a million more times.

Swaying with the beat until he stilled, Hizashi shut his eyelids. Once the chorus sounded through the room again, Shouta tapped Hizashi on the knee. He rolled his eyes while suppressing a wide grin. “How many more times can you listen to this on loop?”

Silence. Save for the piano keys reverberating from the speakers.

“Zashi?”

Shouta reached out for Hizashi’s wrist. Frigid and motionless. As the song’s final note hit, Shouta’s soul shriveled up like the ruined garden at his feet.

The changes hadn’t been a red flag. Not at first. 

Tucked in a sleeping bag, Shouta surveyed his students. Stones crumbled. Embers rose toward Gym Gamma’s ceiling. Unfazed by the rumbling walls, Shouta began to tug the zipper over his face. He stopped mid-motion as a tall girl ensnared the corner of his eye.

Yaoyorozu’s nose scrunched together as an iron baton protruded from her elbow rather than her midriff. No trace of a red leotard. Instead, a loose shirt hung around her frame. Standing in athletic shorts, she let Matryoshka dolls roll off her skin. Taking in the absence of a flashy costume, Shouta bit back a satisfied smile at the sight of attire as simple and practical as his own.

A grieved sigh ricocheted as he emerged from his comfortable position. Fragments of rubble rained through the hall as he approached Yaoyorozu. Refusing to let a ripple of emotion cross his expression, he cleared his throat.

“Pragmatic choice with the costume, kid.”

Obsidian eyes stared back at him. No youthful shine in sight. Expression tranquil and doll-like, Momo folded her hands together. “Thank you, Sensei.”

Shouta mentally skimmed the specifics of her quirk, recalling how she had to address exposure while donning UA’s sports uniform. Yaoyorozu was bright – the kind of student whose essays Shouta felt tempted to pin to a bulletin board. But Yaoyorozu was far from a quick thinker. She needed every leg up she could get without having to angst over the appropriate time to discard her top. 

“A sturdy sports bra might be worth considering, if you need to create larger items.”

“I will surely think it over, Sensei. Such clothing simply seems a little too… restricting at the moment.” 

An unsteady breath escaped Momo’s lungs. From the palm of her hand, an inhaler emerged. As she breathed into it, every one of Shouta’s muscles tensed amid the tell-tale shortness of breath.

For a moment, Gym Gamma faded to the background. Cement thudded beneath Shouta’s footsteps as he leaped between rooftops. A metallic echo sounded as his right foot impacted cement. Below Hizashi raced along the sidewalk. Shouta’s capture weapon looped around a lamppost, missing the villain swelling with tentacles by inches. A whistle escaped the blonde’s lips as Shouta hit the pavement and cushioned his fall by rolling.

Knots twisted in his gut at the sight of the mutation lurking in an alleyway. A quirk impossible to deactivate on his own. Wrapping his scarf around his knuckles, he stilled his racing heartbeat. Everything will be alright. Zashi is watching your back. A canary that could lead the way out of the most desolate tunnels.

Clattering resounded. Shouta’s head whipped around to spot Hizashi collapsed by a dumpster. Letting his scarf drop, Shouta sprinted toward the limp figure spread across the asphalt. His face grew pallid as Hizashi’s every breath resembled the tired wheeze of a tea kettle. 

Yanking out his block of a phone – an outdated model Hizashi had always loved to poke fun at, Shouta started to type in the emergency number. A hand held onto his wrist before he typed the final digit. Devoid of their usual luminescence, citrine eyes drilled into Shouta.

“I’m fine, Shou.”

“Right. It’s not as if you just collapsed.”

A hollow expression filled the street until Zashi painted on his trademark grin. “I’m just more tired than I thought.”

“Still calling the paramedics though.”

A deflated snicker bounced off narrow brick walls. Gesturing to his leather jacket, Hizashi grunted as he sat upright. “This is just a little too tight. No need to overreact.”

“Better to be safe than sorry.”

“Since when are you the pinnacle of self-care?” Hizashi rose onto wobbling knees. “Don’t worry, Shou. I just need a good night’s rest and I’ll be good as new.”

You’d better be. Shouta conceded and let Hizashi drape an arm over his shoulder. Sinking into Hizashi’s warmth, Shouta wondered what it would be like to wake up beside the blonde every morning. A hypothetical notion. The kind that made him a boat detached from its anchor. 

Every breath transformed into a Herculean task, Hizashi weighed on Shouta like a ragdoll. For reasons Shouta couldn’t place, chills ran up his spine. If only he’d noticed the floral aroma buried beneath Hizashi’s musky cologne.

A soft voice pulled Shouta back into the clatter of the gym. “Recent asthma diagnosis. Recovery Girl’s records haven’t been updated yet.”

The inhaler rested between Momo’s fingers. Redness crept over her face as she gulped. It was impossible to distinguish whether guilt or embarrassment was the cause. Brows pulled taut, Shouta stuck his hands in his pocket so as not to unveil his concern. With a sigh, he turned toward the rest of his problem children.

“Hmm. Take care of the paperwork soon.”

Massaging his forehead, Shouta tried to erase the image of how Momo’s silhouette quivered – as if on the verge of collapsing in on itself. He hoped to God that he was being paranoid. That grief’s clutches had simply turned every vacant stare into the same one Hizashi wore as he transformed the kitchen tiles into a tomb of roots and leaves.

Perched by the coffee machine in the teacher’s lounge, Shouta tapped his fingers against his mug. Tacky gold letters spelled out “World’s Greatest Dad”. Every once in a while, he’d longed to shatter the porcelain. Yet the way Hizashi had playfully nudged him in the side while passing Shouta his gift led him to begrudgingly embrace the label. 

Downing his coffee, Shouta wondered why someone as upbeat as Hizashi had latched onto him. It’s not like I have anything to offer. Wrinkles that spoke of years not yet lived. Curtness directed toward anyone that wasn’t fury and feline. Shouta swallowed hard as he thought of the scar tissue around his mangled eye.

Across the table, Hizashi huddled over a stack of papers. Red ink marked quizzes. Obtaining a mind of its own, Shouta’s hand reached out to run through blonde hair. He forced his arm back to his side. Stop. Hizashi deserves better. It’s not like anyone could possibly see you that way.

Shouta turned the clock above the door. “Don’t you need to head for your radio show?”

“Oh, it’s on indefinite hiatus.”

Coffee stains bled onto the table as Shouta’s mug clattered. “Why? You love hosting.”

Hizashi coughed violently, but before Shouta could get a closer look at his mouth the blonde snatched the coffee mug and drank half the contents. Amid Shouta’s disapproving glare, Hizashi swatted the air. “Ah, I’ve just been having throat trouble lately.”

Why didn’t you mention something sooner? Shouta raised a brow in doubt.

The blonde shrugged. “What else would you expect from the loudmouth you know and love?”

Emptying his mug, Shouta dragged a hand across his temple. On paper, the reason seemed plausible enough. Yet the faint soreness at the back of his skull persisted. As he approached the sink, an uprooted lily lay in the rubbish bin beside coffee filters. Reaching for a sponge, Shouta hadn’t bothered to give the ominous flower a second glance…

Awakening to a pounding head, Shouta resurfaced from his dream. The searing sun that trickled in through the window made him press his eyelids shut. A desire to escape the daylight the same way he did his students, namely through pretending to be asleep. 

Through his eyelashes, Shouta noticed Yaoyorozu and Jirou nestled on one of the ugly green sofas. The sort of furniture Hizashi would have fawned over, and Shouta desperately wanted to burn every trace from out of his recollection. As the taller girl flipped through a monstrous encyclopedia, Jirou leaned against her, bobbing to a tranquil harmony. 

Lost in their own sanctuary, the girls reveled in each other’s company without having to exchange a single word. Caught in the sense of security one could only attain through surviving insurmountable odds together. Like besting villains at the USJ. Or surviving a war. Or stumbling through the eulogy of a blue-haired friend who had been whiskered away far too soon.

A timer beeped in Jirou’s pocket, leading her to shoot to her feet. Folding her hands together, she frowned at her friend. “Sorry, Yaomomo, I promised Denki I’d help teach him guitar.”

At the mention of the boy’s name, Jirou flushed. Shouta half-imagined Yaoyorozu whimpering in response. With a smile that failed to reach her eyes, Yaoyorozu set her textbook aside. Ever the prim and proper schoolgirl, she sat up as straight as a lamppost.

“Of course. I do not mind. I was only planning on reading after all.”

“Thank you. You’re the best, Yaomomo.”

“My pleasure,” Yaoyorozu sighed as Jirou hurried out of the common area as fast as her legs would carry her. The vice class president never opened her textbook again. Rather she continued to peer at the doorway long after the other girl had left.

Striding as if in a death march, Yaoyorozu approached the kitchen. Seemingly sensing the eye watching her, she stiffened up and assumed a formal stride. Once she had entered the adjacent room, the goosebumps on Shouta’s skin spiked. Speed-walking in her direction, Shouta clenched his fists. Emotions that sprouted up in full bloom. A naïve hope stirred in him that at least talking about goddamn unrequited love could make the petals wither. You should've known with Hizashi. How were you so blind? He wouldn’t ignore the obvious signs again.

The hacking only confirmed his suspicion. Standing by the counter, Yaoyorozu clutched a teacup while a flower drifted atop the surface of the brew. Crimson. A spider lily. Not ghostly pale like Hizashi’s flowers. 

“Hana –”

“It’s a special tea!” Yaoyorozu cut Shouta off. “An import from Europe. Helps with asthma.”

“Really?” Aizawa prodded.

Yaoyorozu gave a stilted nod. “Yes. Because Lipids.”

Not giving her teacher a chance to respond, the girl dashed out for the room. Falling against the countertop, Shouta let the cold course through him. Trying to change this was pointless. Years had passed and lilies still sang their taunts at him, as if to hammer in how his failings would persist like a song on repeat.

A few months ago, a field trip to the karaoke bar would have sent Momo’s heart aflutter at the opportunity to hear Kyouka’s singing. Yet there she was crouched beside Kaminari, drowning on every breath. Guilt formed a lump in her throat, intermingling with the lilies. She longed to manifest his easygoing smile, create something organic that wasn’t flowers. Or to drag him away to take a place next to Kyouka herself. Frozen she gawked at the lyrics flashing across the screen. Those ugly thoughts are uncouth . She pulled her baggy shirt collar away from her neck, inhaling a miniscule amount of oxygen. He makes her happy. That will have to be enough.

Even before all of Kyouka and Kaminari’s stolen moments, Momo had kept her wants at bay. Romantic attachments had no place on a battlefield. Holding a wake for her heart had become second nature regardless of the new normal after the war.

An earphone jack stretched out, tapping on Momo’s arm. “Are you alright?”

Beads of sweat pooled down Momo’s back. Sinking into a sea of purple eyes, Momo sat petrified. No, no, no. Aizawa already had his suspicions, she didn’t need Kyouka to notice as well. On the verge of hyperventilation, dizziness abounded. Momo had the perfect quirk, kind parents, more wealth than she could ask for. Everything was handed to her. She couldn’t afford to fail. Others had done more with less. No one needed to be burdened with the tragic irony of her finding a way to extend beyond the limitations of her quirk’s creations. 

The pollen glued to the inside of her jaw was certain to become a requiem for her dreams of heroism. Another shortcoming to add to her ongoing list. Too slow to act. A doormat during internships. Too disgusted by the tiniest bit of fat billowing over her jeans to give her quirk its best chance.

As Jirou crooned through the song, her tone low and smooth as honey, Momo bit through the cinching in her chest. Curled up in Kaminari’s arms, Kyouka no longer hid behind her bangs. Her aversion from the spotlight faded with his assurances of her musical abilities. Kyouka doesn’t need to know. It’s not her fault I got too attached. Momo had to remain a pillar of superficial perfection. The only constant she could provide her class with disaster after disaster. 

“ We had a beautiful magic love there. What a sad, beautiful, tragic love affair… ”

Momo’s chest surged as the lyrics reverberated. Red lilies burst forth, pressing against her teeth. As she muffled her cough, Momo stepped outside the door. “I have to use the restroom. I will be right back.”

She rounded the hallway, only to bump into her teacher. Blood-soaked flowers spilled onto his jumpsuit. Mortified, Yaoyorozu stepped back – waiting for her curated world to shatter at any moment. For Aizawa to shout in frustration and brand her as a walking disaster to all her classmates belting their hearts out in the karaoke rooms. The air tasted sour while she glanced toward the fire exit, wondering whether an escape through there would be too extreme.

Cutting her mental spiral short, Aizawa placed a hand on her shoulder and nodded toward the lobby behind him. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

Seated on the curb, Aizawa gave Momo a look that said he knew . Without glancing up, she choked out. “I’m sorry.”

“What for? You didn’t do anything wrong, kid.”

She shook her head. “I did.” Momo flexed her blood-stained fingertips. “I have no one to blame for this mess but myself.”

In the blink of an eye, Aizawa wrapped her in an embrace. She didn’t get the chance to process the insanity of her reserved homeroom teacher expressing some form of emotion. “The only thing you did wrong was keep this all to yourself.”

His words were like a flint to steel. An instant trigger for a river of tears. Her teacher didn’t flinch as she held onto him drenching his clothes. “I love her so much.”

“I understand.” A scarred hand patted her head. Softness burst through his rough exterior. “Want to talk about it?”

With petals falling, Momo recounted every wayward brush of her and Kyouka fingers, each time she stood in a crowded room completely alone. And while she sang in lilies, the flowers flooded out. Unspoken words no longer weighed down on her ribs. As roots loosened, Momo craned her neck toward the sky and could finally breathe.

Chapter Text

By the time Momo unlatched herself from Aizawa, she had no idea how much time had passed. Ten minutes? An hour? On the horizon, the setting sun lit up the red blossoms. A splitting headache cut through Momo’s temple as she struggled to hold her swollen eyelids open. Snot trickled down her chin. Countless scarlet splotches covered her face.

You’re such a pretty girl. She winced at the echo of mother’s words. The rational part of her brain assured her that her parents didn’t tie her worth to her appearance, that they were simply gushing over every aspect of her existence. Still, the stems pushing against her throat whispered of how she had made all their support void. Let every expectation wither away to dust.

She had everything . It wasn’t her place to feel like she was nothing .

Arising from the curbside, Aizawa patted Momo on the shoulder. “Come on. We need to get your lungs treated.”

“No, I cannot have my parents find out!”

The tremors spreading through her body overshadowed the abundance of lilies. I wouldn’t be able to bear the disappointment in their eyes. She traced invisible circles on the sidewalk. Her mother had always bragged about her status as a remarkable student, someone who never got into trouble – aside from the Kamino incident. Even then, Mom had lauded her for saving a classmate after a thorough verbal lashing about caution. Would her parents look at her the same if they found out how she poisoned herself?

“Kid, if you don’t do anything, you’re going to die.”

“You truly do not mince your words.”

“I wouldn’t lie to one of my most promising students.”

Momo blinked at the echoes of crackling lightning. The brush of fabric against her skin as she huddled beneath a blanket. How Kyouka’s breaths hit Momo’s neck as rocks cascaded at the USJ. Panicked purple eyes flashed as Kyouka slipped off her jacket to cover her friend’s exposed torso. Followed by a soft smile. Wow. That was quick thinking, Yaomomo. Heart set aflutter, Momo blushed, wishing to sink into that dark gaze for eternity. She reveled in the sort of compliment that made her reluctance to look at her reflection fade. But she also knew that any confidence in her was built upon a façade.

Back in the present, she turned away from Aizawa.

“You are exaggerating.”

“Do I look like someone who doles out empty praise?” Aizawa ran a hand through hair as midnight black as Momo’s own. “Look. I have no doubts about your potential as a hero. You’ve memorized countless molecular structures. You never hesitate to help your classmates with their studies. You’re a smart kid. A kind one.”

“That does not matter if I freeze up when the situation is dire. If I cannot come up with a plan.”

“You haven’t even graduated. No one expects you to have developed the reaction time necessary for taking down villains yet.” Aizawa sighed. “Besides, if it weren’t for you, Gigantomachia wouldn’t have been taken down.”

You were a small piece in the puzzle. Insignificant. Kirishima did most of the work. Momo clasped her hands together, recalling Kirishima’s steady stance. Alert and decisive. Everything Momo couldn’t be. Petals gathered in her jaw, flourishing with a desire to be the kind of girl worth the soft glances of fake annoyance that Kyouka gave Kaminari. A glass cabinet flashed before Momo’s eyes, where her mother had stored one of her earlier creations.

“Hmm. Still, the only thing I am good at is creating those dolls.”

“You’re making it sound like the dolls are useless.”

Chin downturned, Momo rubbed the salt crusting at the corners of her eyes. “They are. Save for as decoration.”

Shaking his head, Aizawa took off his capture weapon. “No, they also make for a decent metaphor.”

A broken smile spread across Momo’s face as her teacher handed her his scarf. She held it to her chest, dulling the persistent ache. “Oh, I would not have taken you as someone with … a fondness for rhetorical devices.”

“I don’t. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get around basic education’s focus on literature.” He stared off at the clouds trailing across the sky. “You’re like one of these dolls. Sure, you’ve only uncovered the surface now – the fundamental requirement of wanting to make others happy. And with time you’ll uncover the rest. You’ll be a great hero someday.”

 “There is no guarantee that I will live up to that potential.”

“Kid, like I said before, you aren’t going to get everything right from the get-to. You’ll stumble. Fall. Make mistakes. Because you’re human… not a doll.”

“Well, that is contradictory. Am I like a doll or not?”

“Metaphors are malleable. Ugh, Hizashi would’ve been way better at talking this sort of stuff out.”

Momo stared down at her shoes now splattered with dried blood. “I think that you are surprisingly good at pep talks.”

 “Thanks, kid.” He reached over to ruffle her hair. “Your quirk can create anything – the only thing holding you back is that you don’t think you can.”

But I can’t . There was only so much information she could store in her brain. A limited amount of complexity for the objects her quirk could form. Life didn’t owe her anything. All her studying, all her hard work could be bound to never pay off. Besides, I haven’t earned anything. A world handed to her on a silver platter. Burying her thoughts, Momo sat taller even though her ribcage whined. Because someone seeing her – especially when she’d become invisible to Kyouka, made her want to flex her fingertips. Summon lipids and do something more .

“You don’t need to tell your parents about your condition now. It’s been a long day. A visit to Recovery Girl is a priority.” Aizawa held out a crinkled tissue packet to her. “But they will be told tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

As Momo blew out her nose, fragments of lilies coated the paper. Next to her, Aizawa held a phone to his ear and swore in a new chaperone for 1A’s outing. After hanging up, he pulled Momo to her feet.

“Everything is going to be okay.”

Not a speck of blood stained the handkerchief. Atop the hospital mattress, Momo would’ve held her chin high if not for the small bouquet discarded on the surgical table. Recovery Girl placed a kiss on her cheek, filling the cavity of Momo’s chest with welcome numbness. The kindly old woman passed the girl a glass of water and sighed in relief over how spider lilies’ roots were inherently brittle.

With hunched shoulders, Momo turned toward the tiles of the youthful heroine’s office. Two months. Constant antibiotics. Her parents constantly pushed pomegranate tea toward her, raving over the benefits of antioxidants. Tweezers that the nurse snaked down her throat to bypass invasive surgery. And yet the spider lilies’ roots had more branches than during Momo’s last visit to Recovery Girl.

She wished pining could be turned off like a light switch. Yet questions of how soft Kyouka’s lips were and what her ChapStick tasted like persisted. Stupid hormones. A fertilizer of sorts for an unwanted garden. Why couldn’t the flowers just wither completely? Would she be doomed to dance with death until the end of her days?

Long after Recovery Girl had left to fetch some honey tea, a fist knocked on the door. Sleeping bag in tow, Aizawa entered the room and settled on the hospital bed beside Momo. Wordlessly, he handed her his capture weapon. Running her fingers over the coarse fabric, she mentally cataloged  the elements that made up the polymer blend. She chuckled over how similar the material was to nylon, which triggered the absurd image of her teacher trading sweatpants for stockings. Yet the laughter brought forth the sensation of her body imploding.

Momo held on to the scarf like a lifeline. “Does it ever get better?”

“Yes. Hence the treatment.”

“But it is only a short-term solution,” Momo sighed.

Reaching into his pocket, Aizawa retrieved a juice packet. While it did not align with her refined culinary palette, Momo graciously accepted. The liquid soothed the incessant burning in her esophagus.  

“What brought this on?” Aizawa asked.

Momo gestured toward the greater number of blossoms than usual, earning a tired sigh from her teacher. “You know that recovery isn’t a linear path, right?”

“I just wish all these feelings would vanish.”

“That’s unlikely.”

The girl’s grip on the fabric tightened. “I figured.”

Aizawa clicked his tongue. “That’s not how I meant it.” As Momo raised a brow, he set his sleeping bag aside. “Jirou and you are close. Of course, your connection isn’t going to suddenly disappear. But there’s hope that the symptoms will go away as your feelings change over time.”

“You sound like you are talking from experience.”

Quiet weighed down on the sterile room. Dark hair fell in front of Aizawa’s eyes. Turning away from her, he faced the window. A shine refracted off UA’s rooftop while Aizawa choked to get his words out, yet he’d never been one to beat around the bush.

“My best friend died. Because I didn’t love him back the same way.”

Roots recoiled in Momo. She’d never forgive herself if Kyouka took on the role of the scapegoat for the lilies. “I am sorry for –”

“Nothing to be sorry for, kid.” He unfurled the capture scarf from Momo’s hands and set it around her shoulders. “The ache doesn’t ever fully go away. Sometimes it eclipses everything else. But the pain of losing someone, losing what you could’ve had with them becomes bearable. Especially when there are villains to catch.”

“So, heroics is a coping mechanism?”

“On bad days it is,” Aizawa sighed.

Momo grabbed a lily and folded the petals, hoping that someday she could use the ashes of her love for Kyouka to nourish her personal growth. That the constant choking served some purpose in a grander scheme.

Retreading the beats of the Sports Festival, Yaoyorozu flew a few feet back as Dark Shadow pushed back against her. Within seconds, a metal shield manifested from her abdomen. She rammed it into the ground, anchoring herself. Yet as shadows swirled the shield clattered toward the ground and she fell onto the soil. A sharp whistle announced the sparring session’s conclusion.

Tokoyami held out an apologetic hand and pulled Yaoyorozu upright. As the bell sounded, 1A raced past the sparse array of trees and made a beeline for the cafeteria. When Tokoyami waved Yaoyorozu over to follow suit, she sighed and proclaimed that she would join later. Settling down onto a wayward boulder, she let an inhaler ripple from her skin and held it to her lips.

As he marched across the grass, Shouta eyed the fallen shield. Stuck on the defensive. An instinctive response to a volatile quirk – an appropriate one. Yet not enough to win in a fight. The same mistakes of past fights recurred like a reprise. Shouta knew that with a push in the right direction Yaoyorozu could get the upper hand.

Shouta placed himself beside Yaoyorozu on the stone. “You lasted longer than last time, kid.”

“Not long enough,” she sighed.

“It’s good to be cautious. That’s what keeps you from breaking all your bones.”

A tissue formed in Yaoyorozu’s palm and she shrugged while coughing petals into the paper. “But Midoriya has gotten better.”

“Thank God. Otherwise, I’d have a head of gray hair at thirty.”

“Pardon? You’re only thirty?”

  Aizawa summoned a mental image of his eyebags and stubble. “I look that old, huh?”

Turning pale, Yaoyorozu waved her hands in front of herself. “Oh. I’m incredibly sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it. The honesty isn’t unwelcome.” His tight-lipped half-smile faded with a darkening expression. “Speaking of bluntness, you can’t only be on the defensive. You need to strike back or strike first in a fight to win.”

The girl fiddled with her thumbs. “I thought of creating a canon… or a flash grenade. But I do not want to harm Tokoyami or Dark Shadow. Even villains do not deserve irreversible injuries.”

“Smart thinking. Perhaps you need a weapon that walks the line between defense and offense.”

When her constant wheezing eased, Yaoyorozu tapped her chin. Tilting her head toward the sky, she flung out her wrist as if testing out invisible weapons. A bright smile flashed across her face as her gaze landed on Shouta’s capture weapon. The kind of grin Hizashi would’ve worn if he had found someone to confide in about the lilies in time.

“I have an idea,” Yaoyorozu said.

As Yaoyorozu rose to her feet, her skin started to glisten with its trademark shimmer. A tightly woven beige material sprung forth from her thigh. It had the sort of texture that Shouta knew like the back of his own hand. A material more complex and less dense than Yaoyorozu’s usual go-to with iron. Flexible and versatile. Beads of sweat formed on Yaoyorozu’s forehead, and she held up the net. Shouta’s chest swelled his pride while he sent his student a teasing grin.

“So you’re stealing my brand?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are implying. This is clearly a net, not a scarf.”

Clutching onto the net, Yaoyorozu looked away from her teacher and raised her voice barely above a whisper. “Mr. Aizawa?”

“Yes?”

Shouta’s student appeared as if she wanted to sprint off into the forest. Instead, she kept her stance firm. “Could you help teach me hand-to-hand combat?”

A quiver ran through her brows. An implication that she didn’t think she’d be capable of developing a more offensive skillset. Like asking for help would be a sledgehammer to the pillar of perfection she expected herself to be. Unwinding his scarf, Shouta gestured toward the training ground.

“Sure, kid.”

Yaoyorozu lit up and with a skip in her step she headed toward the sparring circle. As she flung the net and let it collide with a nearby shrub, the memory of a melancholic song echoed through Shouta’s mind. Focusing on the sound of the net meeting its target, Shouta drowned out his earworm. Because with the ashes left in Hizashi’s wake, Shouta had found the resolve to put Yaoyorozu onto a path where she could become a hero in full bloom.

Crouched on top of a roof, Momo let a grappling hook materialize. Ahead of her, Aizawa swung across fire escapes and passed between buildings with his scarf. Hanging from a wire, Momo followed suit with her own rendition of nighttime parkour. With downtown traffic muffled to a whisper and constellations sparking overhead, Momo smiled to herself. She’d considered interning with Fatgum like Kirishima – but the thought of standing in the limelight fueled the soreness in her chest. No, the hidden alleyways, where the world couldn’t see her every mistake on full display, were far more welcome.

Her shin clattered against the lid of a dumpster, making her wince. Backtracking from the railing, Aizawa approached. She nodded when he inquired whether she was alright. As she took Aizawa’s hand, the longing for a soft chuckle Jirou – for someone to show Momo the love she couldn’t show herself – withered. She was finally able to trip and stumble without shattering into a thousand fragments.

Momo followed Aizawa while he stepped onto the pavement. A faint hiss sounded through the winding roads. For a moment, Momo thought it had been the rush of air from a manhole, when a serpent lashed out toward Aizawa’s neck. Whipping out his weapon, he ensnared the snake and tugged it toward the ground. 

With a screech, a woman akin to Medusa stumbled out of the shadows and every serpent on her head measured about two meters in length. Scarlet eyes glowed with a vendetta. Momo wondered whether the gorgon was a villain Aizawa had encountered before. Yet before she had the chance to ponder any further, fangs flashed in the moonlight.

Urging Momo to step back, Aizawa stormed toward the cluster of snakes. Almost weightless, his capture scarf whipped around him. But as the fabric wrapped around the reptiles, bringing them on the verge of suffocation, additional heads grew – like some distorted hydra. Too many to restrain with one weapon. Fists clenched, Momo reached out with her quirk.

Rope burn cut through Momo’s palms as he encased the gorgon in her net. A pinch seared through her forearm as a serpent sunk its teeth into her flesh. Biting on her lip, Momo pushed on. Claws shone on her pavement as the net tightened around the woman. Aizawa rammed an elbow against the back of her skull, allowing the slashing to finally cease.

Massaging the bite marks, Momo eyed Aizawa while he bound the villain to a lamppost and phoned the police. A satisfied smile crossed Aizawa’s expression as he looked at the cage of polyethylene. Only to retreat when he spotted the marks on Momo’s arm.

“Let’s go to the ER, kid.”

No, she didn’t want to cause more trouble. The bite barely even ached. Just a faint throb. Nothing even close to the phantom pain of a bouquet forming in her chest. Momo swatted at the air. “Oh, it hardly even hurts.”

“Don’t be stubborn. Your health is my responsibility. Ensuring that you are okay isn’t a burden. Plus, the snakes could be venomous.”

“Very well,” Momo relented.

Trailing after Aizawa, Momo took slow easy breaths. The wind prickled against the back of her neck – as smooth as a lullaby. Any trace of tension faded as Momo stared at the angry red ridges the net had embedded into her palms. A sign that she could live up to the potential layered within wooden dolls. And when Momo saw her silhouette reflected in a puddle, she hated the girl staring back at her a little bit less.

A screening of her blood yielded no trace of poison. From the corner of her vision, Momo noted Aizawa slump over with relief. With a shrug, Aizawa turned toward the doctor. “Might as well have a complete check-up while we’re already here.” 

Momo nodded.

A flashlight shone down her throat. A stethoscope rested against her chest. Hardly a trace of lilies left aside from a scent akin to perfume. Exhaustion pooled from her teacher as he wrapped an arm around Momo. An uncharacteristic twinkle filled Aizawa’s gaze while the doctor scribbled on his clipboard and passed the results to Momo.

At the sight of the notes and figures, Momo’s chest grew lighter. No longer stunted by shade. Fully basking in the sun. Rooted in confidence yet without her petals bound to the ground through great expectations. Reviewing the doctor’s notes, Momo held the papers close and anticipated a future where she wouldn’t have to bury parts of herself.