𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 ━━ Aizawa x Reader

Red Handed .01

CHAPTER ONE - Red Handed

Rain crashes down onto students walking the streets below. Japans sunshine and clear skies dwindled into suffocating humidity and heavy rain.

"Quick! Let's make a run for it." Kirishima shouts over the booming sound of thunder, holding his damp jacket over his head in an attempt to keep himself dry. You pick up the pace and join him, running up the steps of the school and bolting towards the large doors.

Kirishima drops his bag and sopping jacket the moment they slam shut behind him. "For fucks sake. I just washed and dried that jacket. Now I'm gonna freeze my ass off in class."

You grin and straighten out your uniform, "Calm down. It'll dry by the time it's Midnight's class. Patience is a virtue."

"I don't know about that."

"Alright. We'll see about that later, and don't say I didn't tell you so. Toodles." You turn on your heels.

"Hey, wait-wait. I need to talk to you after class. It's important." Looking over your shoulder his face is nothing short of concern. He even used the deep cadence voice he puts on when flexing in the mirror. "Can we meet?"

You frown and nod. Serious conversations are not your forte. Are they anybodies? "Fine. Outback after school."

The brow beaten expression on his face clears and he shoots you one of his cliche rockin' smiles, "Right on! See ya!" He runs down the hall and you resume the walk back to class.

The late bell rings the moment your mary-jane leaves the ground, and you sigh. There goes your clean streak of no tardies. Two weeks into the start of the year and you've already relapsed at being a less than average student. Like muscle memory, your hand dives into your pocket, fondling a stiff box and you take a swift turn out the back door.

One step, two step, three step and your ass is crouching down on the gravel port by the back of the school. Nothing but dumpsters and a tree line that leads to more trees. Perhaps a lake if you go far enough, but you don't want to risk Lyme disease to find that out.

Flick flick. You light up to inhale straight nicotine, ash, and tobacco, and suddenly the muscles of your shoulders untense and your head rolls.

The rain is near musical when it hits the tin ramp above you. The only thing that shields you from the downpour. It almost masks the nearing sound of footsteps. The muscles tense right back up and you stock still.

Oh no. You've been caught red handed.

Mr. Aizawa walks by, shooting you a stern look of disgust and disappointment. Then, surprisingly, well not really, he looks away.

No reprimanding. No long speech about the risks of smoking. Just a glance that could kill, and the upturn of his nose. As if he's too good to stoop that low and give a shit.

You huff, "Fuckin' dick." Hurt by his lack of concern or compassion. It's the little things that drive you to want to hurt yourself. Lack of concern or compassion from adults right and left. Mr. Aizawa disappears behind a corner.

The only care-bear you've got is Kirishima, and god knows what will happen once he goes pro. You dwell for too long and your pulse starts to pick up. For some reason your shirt collar feels taut to your throat.

He's been a good friend since before you can remember. His family fosters you, and has from the age of eight. You can't help but wonder if it's out of guilt. His friendship, that is. His concern and compassion, and the copious amounts of it.

You suck in and close your eyes, knee bumping with every tap of your foot. The cigarette in your hand is near ash.

It feels like you're walking a tightrope every second of everyday. Bobbing left and right. Teetering between depression, and anger. Sometimes a fruitiful all-consuming happiness, and mania.

The cigarette burns the skin of your fingers and you fling it away.

"Shit." You suck the red splotch on your fingers. The distraction makes your heart beat slower. On the verge of a panic attack and the only thing that can redirect your train of thought is, of course, physical pain. Everybody has their vices.

The thought of joining class today seems impossible and too far a walk. You fumble inside the pocket of your jacket and pull out wired headphones. Music is the equivalent to the medication you let rot on your bedside table. "Hello, Kiss."

You fold in on yourself, forehead tucked into your knees, staring into the skirt fabric covering your thighs and spacing out to, "Love Gun." Each and every thread must've been handled and sewn with care to make such an expensive skirt.

It's settled. You make the oh-so hard choice to skip the school day and wait for Kirishima. The question of what he wants to talk about bubbles in your mind but you pop it instantanuously with an imaginary pinky finger. Maybe later, but not right now.