At the Core | Aizawa Misako

See Red

・・・　・・・　・・・

     Bakugo was the type of person to not speak when he had nothing to say, but he was also the type to not speak when there was too much he wanted to say but couldn't.  This was one of those times.  
     He felt speechless as she hugged herself.  He couldn't see her face anymore as she hid it between her knees.  Her fingers dug into her skin, black blood coming to the surface and sitting in her cuts in beads.  They looked like raindrops on a spiderweb.  
     If you had asked him what he was thinking, he couldn't tell you.  There weren't words for things like that.  He could only see red.  

     "Please don't tell anyone," she whispers.  He watches her pick up her head again, wiping away the tears that had finally slowed.  "I've never told anyone that.  No one knows and I don't want them to."  Then she smiled, and it finally was real.  Not entirely, but it was there.  "I feel a lot better, though.  Thanks."  
     "Don't thank me," Bakugo grumbles as he looks away.  "You brought us here."  Misako nods her head.  
     "Yes!  And now it's your turn.  Please, go ahead."  Bakugo shrugs with a heavy, awkward chuckle.  
     "There's no problems I could ever have that compare to that."  Misako shakes her head quickly, rubbing her eye after a hair smacks into it.  
     "It's not a comparison."  He looks over at her to cock an eyebrow.  "Your problems as important as mine.  They affect you, mine affect me.  You don't need to justify why they hurt."  

     It took some more urging, but he did.  There was still guilt, but Misako's eyes couldn't have been more inviting.  He hated the phrase that eyes were the window to the soul, and he didn't think that applied to many people, but Misako was one.  It wasn't all of time, which made it feel more special when she looked at him so kindly.  She, like everyone, had shutters on those windows, thick wooden ones with metal bolts to keep them latched, and here she was, propping them open for him.  
     He sits back on the grass.  His hands sat behind him to keep him up with his legs in front.  He was going to spawn himself a heat stroke if he stayed curled up.  
     Finally, he started talking.  It was a slow process, using the time and the words to try to properly figure out what he felt.  
     Primarily, he felt like a failure.  He'd always idolized All Might.  He was the type of person who brought power just by his presence.  There'd been plenty of times where he'd just walked on scene and villains had given up.  They didn't want to even try to contend with him.  And when they did, they also lost.  Even Misako's oh-so-powerful grandfather couldn't hold off All Might, even if he'd nearly killed the man in the process.  
     Bakugo was struggling with that.  The death of All Might.  Yes, Yagi was still alive, but the symbol of peace that All Might was had fizzled up with the last of his power.  They'd already seen an uptick of quirk-based crime since then.  
     The failing of the test hadn't helped him.  And he was most pissed that Midoriya was Yagi's successor.  He didn't tell Misako of the quirk transfer, considering its secrecy, but it wasn't like nobody had seen it.  It was obvious how the two often talked, how Yagi had a soft-spot for him.  Bakugo had looked up to the All Might since he was a child and he couldn't even describe how much of a failure he felt like that Yagi didn't see in him what he saw in Midoriya.