Eighteen.
That was how old he was now. No fireworks, no revelation, no sudden clarity. Just the same cracked mirror reflecting the same smooth face - no scars, no lines, no evidence of a life actually lived. His heart fluttered in his chest, but his expression stayed still.
Who decided eighteen was the magic number? The moment when childhood dies and adulthood takes its place?
He tightened his tie. Straightened his shirt. The image in the mirror stared back, someone cosplaying as a functioning adult. He left his small, empty home, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his stomach.
(LINE BREAK)
The train ride was dull. Really, really dull.
But his mind wasn't. It was a bullet train of its own, spiralling through hundreds of questions at once.
He knew he was smart. He had the best grades in his class, despite being quirkless, parentless, and penniless. That was meant to mean something. Hard work was supposed to mean something.
And yet here he was, heading towards the interview. U.A. University. Sure, everyone knew it for its Heroics Course, but its other programmes were just as brutal. He wasn't trying to be a hero. He just wanted to be someone.
His fingers twitched against his trousers. His throat felt dry. The train was slowing down.
He was here.
(LINE BREAK)
Burying his face in his arms, he tried not to scream.
It wouldn't help.
…He still did it, though.
The interview. The thing he had spent years preparing for. And he'd bottled it. Completely.
He wanted to slam his head into the pavement. Maybe that would help. Maybe that would wake him up, snap him out of whatever cruel joke life was playing on him.
He was about to do it, too. Until -
"Jesus Christ. Was it really that bad?"
He blinked up. A figure loomed over him, hands shoved into his pockets, an unimpressed frown on his face. Blond hair stuck up at every angle, like he had woken up, run through a storm, and not bothered fixing it.
Before he could answer, the blonde flopped down next to him.
"I know they said the interviews were bad, but surely not having a tantrum on the floor bad."
Izuku flushed. "Well, at least you didn't ruin your entire life in thirty minutes."
The blonde smirked. "Who's to say I didn't?"
There was no real answer to that.
"Katsuki Bakugo." A hand extended towards him. He hesitated, then shook it. The grip was firm, grounding.
"Do you want to go get a drink?"
(LINE BREAK)
That was how he ended up in a bar that smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and crushed dreams.
It wasn't a place for fresh-out-of-high-school students. But Katsuki walked straight in like he owned the place, so Izuku followed.
He didn't know what to order. When the bartender asked, he panicked and just pointed at whatever Katsuki was drinking.
They found a booth, tucked in the corner, away from the other patrons. The air was thick with conversation, laughter that didn't quite reach people's eyes, and the distant hum of a jukebox playing something that sounded like regret.
Izuku didn't say much, but Katsuki had a lot to say.
"You know, you shouldn't be too worried about the interview."
"Huh?"
"I said what I said. People overhype U.A. Whether you get in or not, you're still the same person. The work you put in is still there. It doesn't magically disappear because some suit behind a desk decides you're not worth the paper they print acceptance letters on."
Izuku clenched his jaw. That's easy for you to say. You probably got in.
But despite himself, the weight on his chest lifted. Just a little.
"I just don't know where to go from here."
Katsuki scoffed. "Do you really think anybody does?"
He gestured vaguely at the bar, his eyes landing on a group of men in wrinkled suits near the jukebox. "Look at them. You think any of them want to be wearing those suits? Think any of them dreamed of whatever soul-sucking job they're in? Nah. They just pretend. Pretend they're fine. Pretend they're happy. That's the biggest lie society ever sold us—that anyone actually knows what the hell they're doing."
Izuku frowned, rubbing his temples. "What are you rambling about?"
"Everything you see is just an act. No one shows their real selves. You'll never see their failures, their fears, the dreams they buried because they were told they weren't possible. Everyone has it rough. But instead of helping each other, they lie. They lie, and lie, and lie, and make each other even more miserable."
Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it. Took another sip of his beer. It was bitter.
The conversation blurred after their fifth drink. Somewhere between reality and whatever philosophical nonsense Katsuki was spouting, Izuku realised something.
He wasn't drowning anymore.
For the first time since the interview, he didn't feel like he was suffocating.
They left the bar around midnight, stepping into the cold night air. The car park was nearly empty, streetlights flickering like they were as tired as he was.
"Thanks again, Katsuki."
He didn't really know why this guy - this complete stranger - had dragged him out for a drink. But the beer, the conversation, the… somethingabout him had helped.
He was about to say goodnight. Turn, walk away, go home.
But then Katsuki placed his beer down on the curb, stretched out his shoulders, and looked him dead in the eye.
"Hit me."
Izuku blinked. "What?"
Katsuki rolled his neck. "You heard me. Hit me."
His stomach flipped. "Why the hell would I do that?"
"Why wouldn't you?" Katsuki's grin was sharp, almost manic. "You're pissed off, right? Pissed at yourself. Pissed at U.A. Pissed at the world for not bending to your will. You wanna feel something real? Then hit me."
Izuku took a step back. "This is stupid."
"No, this is honest."
Katsuki raised his arms like an open target.
"Come on. First lesson of being a real adult - stop pretending. Stop playing by the rules. Stop giving a shit about things that don't matter. Do something that does."
Izuku's fists clenched. His heart was racing. His pulse pounded in his ears.
Katsuki tilted his head. "Hit me."
Izuku took a breath.
And swung.