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Sometimes you fight and lose. That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway. Some part of him wanted to believe that if he kept telling himself that same mantra over and over, and over and over again that the idea of it would begin to piss him off less. So far it hadn’t worked, though no one could accuse him of a lack of effort. He’d told himself the same thing everyday, now, since he’d gotten here. Every morning when he woke up, every time he turned a wrench, or gathered an egg, or sorted a bean; he told himself that same mantra. Sometimes you fight…and lose.
He’d been losing a lot lately, though. Part of him nagged that it might’ve been his fault. Partially. Maybe. …but then he remembered Midoriya’s face, that dumb, naive expression he always wore like the grass would always stay green even if the dogs got to pissing. The dogs had gotten to pissing, though, and they’d got right down to it with a vengeance, and they’d left not a speck of green grass in their wake.
Somewhere out there Midoriya was probably strolling through his second chance at life with nary a care in the world, while Bakugo labored away as a consequence of their failures. Midoriya’s failure in particular. If he had any fault in everything that had gone down, well, it was that he’d tolerated the company of weakness, and it had bitten him hard in the ass.
The lunch bell startled him out of his angry fume and he realized with a start that he’d been tightening the same nut on the same haybine for ten straight minutes, stripping it down to nothing. He’d have to remember to accidentally blow the thing to bits, and when the equipment malfunctioned as a result, well, who’s to say the nut didn’t pop off in the field somewhere?
The blonde boy stood up, hitched up his overalls, and spat a dusty globule of phlegm on the ground. Dry heat, dry crops, and dry everything else had taken a toll on his sinuses. He scowled at the dusty gunk on the ground, eye twitching, took a minute to seethe, and then set off after the bell.
The old man had set him out the usual: sandwich, cup of water, and an apple. It was plain fare and irritatingly bland. Bakugo chewed without cognizance of the angry flush in his cheeks. The old man paid no mind to him while he ate, they took their meals in silence most days with only the occasional idle banter from time to time; it always came from the old man, and sometimes he remarked about the weather or the crops or the soil but never about what Bakugo was doing here or when he planned on leaving. Like most folks he tended to let the teen’s volatility spill over as it might and gloss over the event as if it hadn’t happened. That’s the way Bakugo preferred it, too. He could deny his nature no more than the cornfield could deny its nature.
When they’d finished their food, tossed the apple cores aside, and stood back up, they exchanged one quiet glance.
“Well,” the old man stated, his blue eyes meeting Bakugo’s red ones. “Back to it.”
They split back up, and Bakugo made his way to the coop the same way he did everyday after lunch. He snagged his basket off its nail on the crossbeam, and fumbled it clumsily as he did. The basket tumbled to the ground, and the blonde boy clenched both fists white knuckles. Ground his teeth. Dug his heels into the ground, blew air from his flaring nostrils, and stared daggers at the basket.
Murmuring a series of curses, he stooped and picked it up, then clambered over the chicken wire.
“Get outta the way,” Bakugo commanded, storming past the chickens.
Most of them got out of the way. All of them did, in fact, except one. The same one that never got out of the way no matter how pissed the explosive teen looked when he stormed in. The rooster.
A lifetime ago, Katsuki and Izuku Midoriya had squared off against a chicken themed villain to mark the conclusion of their very first case. It was a literal lifetime ago. That guy had pissed him off, but couldn’t hold a candle to this fucking guy. Red irises locked onto the rooster’s beady little black ones, which stared back with a hatred and intensity that rivaled even his own. The poultry was tall of comb and fair of plumage, with ordinary coloring of the typical cascading brown, black, and gold. He had a healthy shine to him, and stood proud as a peacock. He was an ornery bastard, territorial as a water snake, and twice as mean. Not a day went by when they didn’t square off.
A tumbleweed blew by in the distance, and Bakugo tensed himself. Neither of them broke eye contact until the very last…
Then the rooster charged, and Bakugo surged forward. With superhuman reflexes he twisted around the beast who, to his credit, pivoted nearly as fast on his spurs and was off to the races. It was the blonde boy in the lead with the poultry hot on his heels, and he flashed past the nests collecting eggs from the top row at gunslinger’s speed. He circled around, his tormentor in pursuit, and made a second round. On his third circuit he’d collected the eggs from the bottom rung of the nest stack, and he made a break for it.
He cleared the fence like an Olympian at the hurtles, landed, then whipped around and showed his opponent his middle finger. The rooster’s eyes flashed angrily, and he stayed there awhile. They stared at one another, and then each turned away, resolving to settle their business the next day. And the next day. …and the next day.
And the next day.
He’d been losing a lot lately, though. Part of him nagged that it might’ve been his fault. Partially. Maybe. …but then he remembered Midoriya’s face, that dumb, naive expression he always wore like the grass would always stay green even if the dogs got to pissing. The dogs had gotten to pissing, though, and they’d got right down to it with a vengeance, and they’d left not a speck of green grass in their wake.
Somewhere out there Midoriya was probably strolling through his second chance at life with nary a care in the world, while Bakugo labored away as a consequence of their failures. Midoriya’s failure in particular. If he had any fault in everything that had gone down, well, it was that he’d tolerated the company of weakness, and it had bitten him hard in the ass.
The lunch bell startled him out of his angry fume and he realized with a start that he’d been tightening the same nut on the same haybine for ten straight minutes, stripping it down to nothing. He’d have to remember to accidentally blow the thing to bits, and when the equipment malfunctioned as a result, well, who’s to say the nut didn’t pop off in the field somewhere?
The blonde boy stood up, hitched up his overalls, and spat a dusty globule of phlegm on the ground. Dry heat, dry crops, and dry everything else had taken a toll on his sinuses. He scowled at the dusty gunk on the ground, eye twitching, took a minute to seethe, and then set off after the bell.
The old man had set him out the usual: sandwich, cup of water, and an apple. It was plain fare and irritatingly bland. Bakugo chewed without cognizance of the angry flush in his cheeks. The old man paid no mind to him while he ate, they took their meals in silence most days with only the occasional idle banter from time to time; it always came from the old man, and sometimes he remarked about the weather or the crops or the soil but never about what Bakugo was doing here or when he planned on leaving. Like most folks he tended to let the teen’s volatility spill over as it might and gloss over the event as if it hadn’t happened. That’s the way Bakugo preferred it, too. He could deny his nature no more than the cornfield could deny its nature.
When they’d finished their food, tossed the apple cores aside, and stood back up, they exchanged one quiet glance.
“Well,” the old man stated, his blue eyes meeting Bakugo’s red ones. “Back to it.”
They split back up, and Bakugo made his way to the coop the same way he did everyday after lunch. He snagged his basket off its nail on the crossbeam, and fumbled it clumsily as he did. The basket tumbled to the ground, and the blonde boy clenched both fists white knuckles. Ground his teeth. Dug his heels into the ground, blew air from his flaring nostrils, and stared daggers at the basket.
Murmuring a series of curses, he stooped and picked it up, then clambered over the chicken wire.
“Get outta the way,” Bakugo commanded, storming past the chickens.
Most of them got out of the way. All of them did, in fact, except one. The same one that never got out of the way no matter how pissed the explosive teen looked when he stormed in. The rooster.
A lifetime ago, Katsuki and Izuku Midoriya had squared off against a chicken themed villain to mark the conclusion of their very first case. It was a literal lifetime ago. That guy had pissed him off, but couldn’t hold a candle to this fucking guy. Red irises locked onto the rooster’s beady little black ones, which stared back with a hatred and intensity that rivaled even his own. The poultry was tall of comb and fair of plumage, with ordinary coloring of the typical cascading brown, black, and gold. He had a healthy shine to him, and stood proud as a peacock. He was an ornery bastard, territorial as a water snake, and twice as mean. Not a day went by when they didn’t square off.
A tumbleweed blew by in the distance, and Bakugo tensed himself. Neither of them broke eye contact until the very last…
Then the rooster charged, and Bakugo surged forward. With superhuman reflexes he twisted around the beast who, to his credit, pivoted nearly as fast on his spurs and was off to the races. It was the blonde boy in the lead with the poultry hot on his heels, and he flashed past the nests collecting eggs from the top row at gunslinger’s speed. He circled around, his tormentor in pursuit, and made a second round. On his third circuit he’d collected the eggs from the bottom rung of the nest stack, and he made a break for it.
He cleared the fence like an Olympian at the hurtles, landed, then whipped around and showed his opponent his middle finger. The rooster’s eyes flashed angrily, and he stayed there awhile. They stared at one another, and then each turned away, resolving to settle their business the next day. And the next day. …and the next day.
And the next day.