Flaming White

He hated thinking his life was colorful. He didn't want a colorful life, he only wanted one single color. As far as he could remember, he had always loved this color. It was white, the pure white of his mother's hair that tickled his face when she kissed his forehead. Her grey eyes, a grey so light it seemed transparent. He loved white, he loved the softness of his mother's hugs, the cold of her hands on his cheeks. He had loved his siblings' laughs, who all shone with the same pale color. Toya, Fuyumi, Natsuo, they all had their mother's light color, the same softness, even when red streaks cut the white of Fuyumi's hair and the turquoise eyes she shared with Toya resembled a lot of their father's. He loved white, the feeling of comfort attached to it, his mother's smiles and his siblings' games. He had spent hours in front of the mirror, wondering why he was different.

He had been so happy when he discovered he had inherited his mother's quirk. He too could create this cold white ice now. He had watched the snowflakes fall from his ceiling for a long time before he even noticed his left side burned with a hot red. He had raised his hands in front of his eyes, the right white with ice and the left red with fire. He was happy, he had never been happier. With a quirk like this one, he could become a hero, a great hero like his father. He had run to his mother, proudly sporting his fire and ice, this pure and pretty ice he had inherited from her. He remembered the look in her beautiful grey eyes. He remembered seeing, not joy and pride like he had hoped, but fear, a fear so fierce he had begun crying before she did. She had fallen to her knees and wrapped him in one of her cold, comfortable and soft hugs, her hair a white curtain that blocked his view. She cried, she cried so much, and through his own tears, he wondered why. But her hug was so cold and warm, he snuggled into it without asking. As long as his mother was with him, everything would be okay.

He would have wanted to show his ice, the pure white, to his family. His brothers, his sister, his grand-mother, they all shone with white too. He never had the chance. A wall of fire appeared in front of him, fire of a scorching red, so much he was scared to burn himself if he looked for too long. He was dragged away from the white, from his family, from the laughs, the softness, everything he loved. It hurt, it hurt so bad. The white disappeared more and more often every day, so much he thought he would forget what it looked like. Red dominated everything, his dreams, his nightmares, his whole life. And when he earned the right to escape, he ran as fast as he could to his mother, towards the white, the cold, far from the suffocating heat his father drowned him in. He cried, he always cried, and his mother hugged him, kissed his forehead and her white hair tickled his face. He was so scared of becoming his father. Someone greedy for power, focused on victory rather than his own family. He couldn't remember if his father had one day baked a cake for his birthday, gave him one of those prettily wrapped presents his mother and siblings always bought him. Couldn't remember anything other than the feeling of living with a stranger. Couldn't remember the last time he played football with Toya and the others, nor the last time he sat in his grand-mother's lap as she read him a story.

All Might, All Might, All Might, his father never got tired of repeating the name. He wanted him to become his successor, a hero who would surpass All Might, when all he asked for was his mother. He wanted to snuggle into her arms and fall asleep there, like he did before. He had been so proud of his quirk. It was powerful, dangerous and beautiful. Now, he only wished he was quirkless. Then, he could have kept bathing in the white light of his mother and his family. But today, he only had red as company, a hot and suffocating heat that followed him even in his sleep. He watched himself in the mirror, tried to hide his blue eye, his red hair, and cried. Now, even the mere thought of using his fire, of touching any form of heat, made him want to throw up. His mother's cold hugs became his safe place, her hair a wall that protected him from the outside world.

His mother cried often, too often. He hated it, wanted to be able to comfort her like she comforted him. And when he found her crying again, after he escaped from his father, he raised his hand, his right hand. Her cold hugs always made him feel better, maybe he could use his quirk to do the same for her. Mom?