A hand grabbed onto Bakugou’s shoulder, spinning him around and facing him toward Midoriya once more. Between them, the marker board was held up between them, scrawled out over it Midoriya had written: It’s because we care.
For a moment Bakugou paused, his expression loose and drawn out. It was hard to say what it all meant from him, but after a moment Bakugou reached out, yanking the marker board from Midoriya’s hand at the same time he pushed him back. Stumbling back, Midoriya fell onto his ass as the door slammed between them, and from behind it he could hear Bakugou’s continued screaming at his mother slowly fade away. Midoriya sat for a time, feeling the ground with his hand as his gaze fell low. It had been quite a while since they’d gotten into any physical confrontation like that.
Standing up, Midoriya noticed the marker he had written with had been left behind, uncapped. He must have lost it when he fell, and thought to look for it and drop it in their mailbox before he left, but found instead that the nib of the marker had been crushed when it struck the ground. That was that, he supposed, squeezing the marker in his hand and glancing around. The cap he picked up, and then on his way he left the house.
Bakugou came back to school the next day, much to the surprise of the whole class. They celebrated with welcome back letters and affectionate slaps on the back. Bakugou cursed his friends, but nevertheless thanked them with an aggrieved huff. Midoriya watched in silence – he knew a great deal of their class had all pooled together to make something for Bakugou, himself included, but instead he folded his letter back into his pocket before ever passing it on to Bakugou.
Although the first day of Bakugou’s return was spent glad to see him back, especially among Bakugou’s friend, in time they fell back into their normal ways, and as more days passed a strange isolation built up from the clear language barrier that had formed between Bakugou and his classmates. His friends seemed to talk to each other before they would talk to Bakugou, preferring the ease of communication back and forth over the lengthy process of writing to Bakugou. With annoyance he was forced to pretend he wasn’t being babied a little by his fellows, but now and then he would snap; “I’m standing right here!” Bakugou’s unusual silence of late often resulted in the surprise of his friends. Bakugou could still talk back, even if he couldn’t hear anything.
Midoriya tried not to intervene, but it was clear to see even for him that Bakugou felt, at the very least, left out. He wasn’t able to participate in regular class any more, and required extra after school lessons to fill him in on anything he might not have been able to follow without sound. He still attended hero lessons at the end of class, but he seemed more brash, more careless – he took out his frustrations from the day like a unbiased flame, ready to consume and destroy anything in his path. And with each day from the epicenter of his frustration the flame burned more and more of the landscape around him, making his world baren as he felt. The silent world isolated him utterly.
Bakugou left the school in the late afternoon, several weeks since his world finally went quiet, his bag thrown over his shoulder as he walked with his eyes half opened. He remembered listening to music on his walk home, the hard rhythm of rap beating against his eardrums, so loud it drowned out even the loudest car horn. The world has always been too quiet for him. He liked the sound of explosions against his eardrums. The harsh beat of a blast. He wanted to feel it in his head and in his chest. He didn’t realize it then, but he knew now he loved sound.
Waiting at a stoplight, he paused and thought, brow furrowed. He didn’t believe in prophetic shit like how you know when someone is staring at you even if you can’t see them, but for a moment he debated looking back to see if maybe that was the case. Did he really want to? If someone were there, he hardly wanted to show them the sorrow that masked his eyes, cutting circles under them. But the feeling persisted, and finally he looked back.
There they were; the eyes on his back. Midoriya stood, frozen solid like a nervous deer, clutching onto the worn straps of an orange backpack. Bakugou cocked his head to the side as he looked back at Midoriya – just barely he remembered Midoriya’s face the moments after the blast that shook that building down to its foundation. “Shitty Deku, what the fuck are you stalking me for??” Bakugou cursed him with the same roughness that always came with his voice.
Tigher, Midoriya stiffened, his hands glued to the straps of his backpack as he stares at Bakugou. His knees felt weak, his arms felt like gelatin. For a moment they stared at each other before Bakugou scoffed at him and began to walk away. “No..!” Midoriya whispered, reaching out to Bakugou instantly and grabbing his shirt, pulling him back around so that he could be seen.
Again though, Midoriya hesitates, and slides his hands back to hold them in front of him. His hands moved anxiously: « WORDS »
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For a moment Bakugou paused, his expression loose and drawn out. It was hard to say what it all meant from him, but after a moment Bakugou reached out, yanking the marker board from Midoriya’s hand at the same time he pushed him back. Stumbling back, Midoriya fell onto his ass as the door slammed between them, and from behind it he could hear Bakugou’s continued screaming at his mother slowly fade away. Midoriya sat for a time, feeling the ground with his hand as his gaze fell low. It had been quite a while since they’d gotten into any physical confrontation like that.
Standing up, Midoriya noticed the marker he had written with had been left behind, uncapped. He must have lost it when he fell, and thought to look for it and drop it in their mailbox before he left, but found instead that the nib of the marker had been crushed when it struck the ground. That was that, he supposed, squeezing the marker in his hand and glancing around. The cap he picked up, and then on his way he left the house.
Bakugou came back to school the next day, much to the surprise of the whole class. They celebrated with welcome back letters and affectionate slaps on the back. Bakugou cursed his friends, but nevertheless thanked them with an aggrieved huff. Midoriya watched in silence – he knew a great deal of their class had all pooled together to make something for Bakugou, himself included, but instead he folded his letter back into his pocket before ever passing it on to Bakugou.
Although the first day of Bakugou’s return was spent glad to see him back, especially among Bakugou’s friend, in time they fell back into their normal ways, and as more days passed a strange isolation built up from the clear language barrier that had formed between Bakugou and his classmates. His friends seemed to talk to each other before they would talk to Bakugou, preferring the ease of communication back and forth over the lengthy process of writing to Bakugou. With annoyance he was forced to pretend he wasn’t being babied a little by his fellows, but now and then he would snap; “I’m standing right here!” Bakugou’s unusual silence of late often resulted in the surprise of his friends. Bakugou could still talk back, even if he couldn’t hear anything.
Midoriya tried not to intervene, but it was clear to see even for him that Bakugou felt, at the very least, left out. He wasn’t able to participate in regular class any more, and required extra after school lessons to fill him in on anything he might not have been able to follow without sound. He still attended hero lessons at the end of class, but he seemed more brash, more careless – he took out his frustrations from the day like a unbiased flame, ready to consume and destroy anything in his path. And with each day from the epicenter of his frustration the flame burned more and more of the landscape around him, making his world baren as he felt. The silent world isolated him utterly.
Bakugou left the school in the late afternoon, several weeks since his world finally went quiet, his bag thrown over his shoulder as he walked with his eyes half opened. He remembered listening to music on his walk home, the hard rhythm of rap beating against his eardrums, so loud it drowned out even the loudest car horn. The world has always been too quiet for him. He liked the sound of explosions against his eardrums. The harsh beat of a blast. He wanted to feel it in his head and in his chest. He didn’t realize it then, but he knew now he loved sound.
Waiting at a stoplight, he paused and thought, brow furrowed. He didn’t believe in prophetic shit like how you know when someone is staring at you even if you can’t see them, but for a moment he debated looking back to see if maybe that was the case. Did he really want to? If someone were there, he hardly wanted to show them the sorrow that masked his eyes, cutting circles under them. But the feeling persisted, and finally he looked back.
There they were; the eyes on his back. Midoriya stood, frozen solid like a nervous deer, clutching onto the worn straps of an orange backpack. Bakugou cocked his head to the side as he looked back at Midoriya – just barely he remembered Midoriya’s face the moments after the blast that shook that building down to its foundation. “Shitty Deku, what the fuck are you stalking me for??” Bakugou cursed him with the same roughness that always came with his voice.
Tigher, Midoriya stiffened, his hands glued to the straps of his backpack as he stares at Bakugou. His knees felt weak, his arms felt like gelatin. For a moment they stared at each other before Bakugou scoffed at him and began to walk away. “No..!” Midoriya whispered, reaching out to Bakugou instantly and grabbing his shirt, pulling him back around so that he could be seen.
Again though, Midoriya hesitates, and slides his hands back to hold them in front of him. His hands moved anxiously: « WORDS »