𝒦𝑒𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒫𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓈𝑒 | Katsuki Bakugo x OC

Chapter 33 - Lagoon Eyes

Ayumi

The world is silent when I wake up. Sure I hear the beeping of the monitor on the side, and the buzzing of the lights overhead. But it is silent in the ways it matters. I don't hear life the way I used to. Not when all I feel is my quirk hums alive under my skin.

My quirk isn't sentient with thought, but it does have its own will. It controls metal like it is its limbs, not an extension of one- not like how someone wields a weapon- not like the way I do.

I don't remember how I escaped. Just that my quirk took control, grasped the metal around me and tore its way through while pulling me along, guiding my legs to safety.

I know my father is gone. That he's back with my late mother. But for some reason, I can't find it in me to mourn him. Not with how my quirk still feels the metal around- mapping the extent of its- my- our reach.

Sensei is sleeping on the chair beside my hospital bed. His arms crossed, his chin tucked into his scarf. I reach out to brush my hand against his. My quirk zings, as if reacting to his touch. As if he's synchronizing with it.

He shifts and my eyes meet his. His eyes are glowing gold and his hair is lifted up. Suddenly my quirk disappears and the feeling of everything around me with it.

"How are you feeling Ayumi?" Sensei asks, his quirk blinking away, mine flooding back into my fingertips.

I didn't answer immediately. I can't. Not with the familiar glow in his eyes that reminds me little of my deranged uncle and much of my late father.

"You're Uncle Shota," I say definitively, "Father told me his cousin is my godfather, that he's the only one he'd trust with my quirk."

Sensei- Uncle Shota keeps a mask of nonchalance to my statement. But the firm squeeze of his hand and slow exhale from his lungs tells me all the empathy in his body. Tells me just how much he's affected by our family's mess.

"I am. And according to your doctor's diagnosis, I am also the only one who can help you safely navigate the new limits of your quirk."

I nod once, firmly. My eyes catch his and there is a faint glow in the reflection of them.

We sit in the heavy silence of the hospital room. Let the weight of the sterile air compress at our chests, burn down our throats. As if speaking would not only strain our voices but that it would break the careful stillness between us.

After what feels like an hour, I speak, my voice still raw from misuse; or it could be from screaming when my father passed. I don't know.

"Does it ever go away?" I ask, keeping my gaze on our hands, on how he holds it tighter, "Does the image of their bodies ever go away?"

He swallows, his grip growing tighter, knuckles growing white. I know his best friend died in front of him—in a freak accident—but witnessing death from a toppling building is not an easy thing to recover from.

"It does not."

I sigh, closing my eyes. The flash of my father's dim eyes, the hopeful smile frozen on his face, the chains digging into his muscles and exposing bone, burns from behind my eyelids. I open them, my breath shuddering.

"Does the hole ever go away?"

I know I don't need to explain what I mean. Not from how his shoulders slump, how his head sags, his dark eyes sheen with emotion.

"Never," he whispers, his voice splintering, "Though, time helps the pain feel more bearable, makes the memories of your loved ones more precious."

"Time is not a luxury everyone has," I say, carefully taking my hand away from his, "At least I don't—especially with what he wants with me."