Okay, let's move on to 'out of practice.' Because, let's be honest: the week isn't just about stopwatches and mats. It's also about spoons clattering in the cafeteria, voices echoing through the hallways, footsteps cutting across in front of the vending machines. And there, if anything, things get even harder
The week outside of training was more chaotic than the one on the mat. And I'm telling you this, as always, with a steaming mug in my hand, warming my fingers.
Monday. The cafeteria is packed, spoons clattering against trays. I'm sitting with Uraraka and Midoriya; Kaminari is firing off a barrage of jokes (few of them hit the mark), Sero laughing anyway and joining in. Iida is next to me, his back straight, his agenda open like an instruction manual: "This week, I'd suggest review sessions at 7:00 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Junko, if you line up these notes in columns better, it'll be easier for you to memorize."
I nod. He arranges the papers with the precision of a surgeon.
Two tables away, Bakugo. He eats quickly, his head slightly to the side. The fork clatters on the tray every time I laugh. Clink. Pause. Clink. Iida notices:
"Bakugo! Behave appropriately in the cafeteria!"
No response. Just those crimson eyes that flick up for a second, just long enough to lock onto me and land the blow anyway. Then it clicks again. I drink water to hide my annoyance.
Tuesday. Evening study in the dorm. Uraraka brings impeccably neat notes, Midoriya discusses strategies and attack lines in sentences that sound like rehearsed patterns. Iida corrects each line: "Excellent, Midoriya. Junko, add concrete examples under each concept, three key words for each."
I write, but my ear stays on the door. A footstep pauses outside. It lingers in the doorway. The corridor takes a deep breath and lets it out. Bakugo. He doesn't knock. He doesn't come in. After a few seconds, the footsteps move on. Iida doesn't even look up. Either he doesn't hear it, or he's pretending not to out of politeness. I stay quiet. (You don't: you feel it, right? That tiny earthquake that knocks nothing over but still cracks the glass.)
Wednesday. Kirishima's day. The cafeteria is packed as usual, bright lights, and chatter swirls. He approaches with a tray and a kind smile, but this time it's different: he leaves the tray on the table, rubbing one hand against the other. His ears are on fire. "Junko, would you... like to go out with me? Even just for a night. Nothing serious, if you don't want to."
A smile escapes me, the kind that says thank you and sorry at the same time. I shake my head slowly. "You're a friend, Kirishima. An important one. But I can't."
He nods, hurt but correct. "Understood. I'm still your friend."
(Meanwhile, I feel a sideways, pointed look on me. I don't seek it, but I know where it's coming from.)
Thursday. A seemingly flat day. Homework, lunch, practice. The gray sky dampens the mood. Bakugo is more nervous than usual: he cuts off conversations with "tsks" and harsh remarks. In the dinner line, he bumps into Kaminari with his tray; Iida intervenes like a traffic light: "There's no need for excessive aggression to demonstrate competence."
"Shut up, four-eyes," Bakugo growls without even looking at him. But his eyes immediately return to me. Two seconds, no more. Enough for me to lose my appetite and then regain it out of pride.
Friday. Chaos. The common room has buzzing neon lights, a crowded couch, and a crooked noticeboard. I walk in and he's already there, leaning against the wall as if he were born there, arms crossed, jaw tense.
"What's this?" (I pretend not to understand. It never works.) "Kirishima." A word that comes out like a pebble between his teeth.
Iida is two steps away, ready to intervene: "Bakugo, this is not the place to..."
"Shut up, President!" He cuts him off, but doesn't even look at him. He's on me. "You don't seem convinced. So?"
And there the feigned calm ends. I feel my heart pounding against my ribs like knuckles.
"But what do you want from me?" I say it fully, in front of everyone. Uraraka holds her breath, Kirishima takes a half step back, Midoriya lowers his eyes. Bakugo opens his mouth. I swear: he's about to do something different than usual. His eyes lose their nervousness for a moment and become embers, real heat. His shoulder drops a millimeter.
Then the armor rises in record time. He clenches his jaw, turns his head. "Tsk." He pushes himself away from the wall and walks away, leaving a gash in the air. I lean in firmly:
"You did well to stay calm. Don't let personal dynamics compromise your stability." Iida smiles slightly, but sincerely. I nod. (But inside, the calm is like a lake with too many rocks at the bottom.)
Saturday. Everything seems normal. Iida organizes a mini study group with a printed timetable (yes, printed). Uraraka participates, Midoriya takes notes in that precise handwriting; Kaminari pretends to follow along but actually draws lightning bolts in the margins, Sero makes smiley faces at him. I'm there, but every now and then my head wanders off the page and goes to sit somewhere else.
At the cafeteria, Bakugo chooses the table against the wall, sitting at an angle to have the entire room in his field of vision. He doesn't say a word. The spoon digs into the rice. Every now and then he looks up, not enough to get caught, but enough to be seen.
Sunday: Uraraka and Kaminari have organized a costume party. Their idea: pick someone, on your team or not, and dress up as them. Simple, ruthless, hilarious.
(Kaminari is already gloating: "Guys, it's team building!" Uraraka laughs, but in reality she's prepared a sheet of paper with the rules so everything doesn't get out of hand. Yes, Iida helped her. There's even a word "decorum" in there.)
Me? I chose to dress up as Midoriya Izuku. I know, brave and a bit self-destructive. But I wanted to play nice with the idea of "synchronization." And then, let's face it, it's fun.
In your daily activity diary, add this: between chats and tea, I order a green wig online with very long hair (not like his, on purpose, I wanted that 'affectionate exaggeration' effect). The description says 'emerald wave 120 cm.' I can already see it: waves down to my butt, a Midoriya who looks like he lost a bet with his hairdresser.
As for the tracksuit, however, there were no half measures: I went straight to Aizawa. A sharp knock, a dimly lit office, the smell of tired coffee.
"Excuse me."
He looks up as if he's already guessed. "Tell me, Ino."
"Cohesion activity," I say, serious as a form. "Group costume party, sir. Theme: dressing up as a classmate. I need... a textile prop for a convincing performance as Midoriya."
Yes, I said it like that.
He sighs, but the corner of his mouth twitches (Aizawa's version of laughing). "No inappropriate use. No quirks while wearing non-yours. Return Monday at 8:00."
"Got it."
He hands me a standard green jumpsuit, knee pads, white gloves, zippers in place, a red belt loop: "stage equipment" recorded on a clipboard with two strokes. He even signs it.
(Let's remember we're in the military: procedure first, celebration later. But every now and then you have to know how to laugh, otherwise your heart will rust.)
And guess what? I was the first to have the courage.
I return to my room like a gentle thief: bag under the bed, order confirmation for the wig in a folder labeled "enemy base settings" (don't judge). I open the mirror for a second, look at myself, and think: OK, Junko, this is cute madness. Then I close it again.
Not a word with Uraraka. Not a wink with Kaminari. Not a word with Iida. And above all: not a syllable with Midoriya. (If I have to, I'll do it right.)
So, to recap: wig ordered in silence, tracksuit bought with official permission but kept quiet, bag hidden, poker face activated. For now, only you know. At the party, when it begins, you'll understand why I chose him. Just tell me when you want us to light the fuse.
Okay, here we go. Hold me close, come in with me.
***
The day of the party finally arrives.
I lock myself in my room and open the bag as if it were a mission kit. Light makeup: barely visible, no drama. Patiently drawn freckles, dots that instantly say "Oh, that's Midoriya." Then the real tracksuit that Aizawa handed me with a crisp signature: zip that goes up, white gloves, red lace.... I breathe.
Finally, the green wig: 120 cm of emerald waves that flow down my back to my butt. I stare at it carefully, two clips, a glance in the mirror. I'm no longer Junko Ino: I'm Midoriya poster, and I almost laugh. (Almost.)
I get out. At the cafeteria door, I pause for a second, hand on the handle. The sound of music and various shouts can be heard. I take a deep breath. Then I go in.
Everyone turns around. Really: even those from the other teams. A moment of silence, then a wave of murmurs. Uraraka is dressed as Iida, big glasses, back straight, walking like a rulebook; Iida is dressed as Uraraka, two pink hair clips and a posture that struggles not to slump; Kirishima is dressed as me (yes, me!), dark tracksuit, slightly messy black wig, a smile too kind to do me justice; Kaminari had the nerve to show up as Bakugo, with fake gloves and improvised "tch"s every three seconds.
I take three steps forward, green hair flowing, my jumpsuit draping perfectly. Beautiful. Magnificent. I think it without shame. Midoriya is mesmerized: eyes wide, cheeks flushing, mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right name for the emotion. (He can't find it. It's no use.)
From afar, I can feel him before I actually see him: Bakugo. He's not in disguise. No mask. It's just him, lean and clear as a blade. And as soon as he sees me... he shivers. A snap of the jaw, a fist that closes and opens again. His eyes, those eyes, grab me like a scaffolding hook.
I take another step, Uraraka gives me a thumbs-up, Iida says, "Great team spirit," Kaminari gives a sort of theatrical bow. And just then, behind me, a shadow moves quickly.
He takes my arm. A firm, warm grip, but a tight squeeze. "Come." His voice is low, angry to the core. He doesn't shout. He doesn't make a scene. He leads me to the entrance. Two turns down the corridor and we're already alone: the door cuts off the noise, leaving only the hum of the neon lights and our breathing.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He spits the words out in a whisper, but they scratch. "Really…him?" The long green of my wig reflects in his eyes like a misguided fire. "Do you really think-"
(For a moment, before the blood rushes to my ears, I think he could do it differently. He could speak to me more softly. He could say, "It bothered me," "I missed you," "It wasn't just a quickie." He could use normal words instead of these camp scenes...one sentence, just one: "Junko, I care about you." It would be enough to lower your voice, loosen your wrist, look at me without clashing with the corridor. You could ask me, "Stay." I understand whispers too, you know?...
(You're here with me, right?) But instead, nothing: sparks in my hands, iron jaw, pride on my face. So I inhale four, exhale four, and decide I won't beg for even the bare minimum of affection.)
Enough." I interrupt him, my voice steady. My arm still in his hand, my heart pounding. "You mustn't speak to me anymore. You mustn't look at me again. Don't ever come near me again! Leave me alone." They all file out, calm, unshaken. (I'm trembling inside, but I won't give him that.)
His face changes. No more fury, not even a surrender. Here's the word: a crack. His eyes search for a place to stay and find none: my shoulder, the floor, my mouth, my eyes again. "I..." he begins. I turn to go back into the cafeteria, but he grabs my arm again, more gently, as if afraid he might break me. He leans in just close enough for a whisper. "It wasn't-"
(I'm so angry. I really care about this party, I couldn't wait for it, and as usual, he always has to ruin everything for me. I'm fed up.)
The slap comes out automatically, clean, round. A sharp sound in the cold air of the entrance hall. His head snaps to the side, his hair falling onto his forehead. My palm burns. "You mustn't touch me." I say it softly, but it's louder than any scream.
We stay like that for a very long second: he inhales as if after a run, me with my arm free, the green waves of my wig cascading down my back like a comet's tail. There's the smell of cotton candy and the smell of rain brought in by coats. The corridor holds its breath, and so do I.
Something passes in his eyes...something that isn't indifference and isn't anger. It's the unspoken that skims the surface and then recedes. "Tsk," he tries, but it comes out badly, as if the word no longer has the place it once had.
"Go back inside," I say. "Go laugh with the others. Put on your show. I've already done mine."
I look at him for a moment, not because he deserves it, but because I want to remember myself like this, here, now: furious and lucid.
I spin on my heels. The wig brushes against my tracksuit, four feet of green forming an arch. I push the door open with my elbow, and the party comes back in on me: lights, voices, Uraraka laughing while dressed as Iida, Kaminari acting like the worst Bakugo on the planet, Kirishima giving me a small nod (are you there?) and I nod back (yes). Behind me, the slap I never thought I'd give, but which today is the only language he understands: the limit.
(Come with me. Don't look back. If he wants to talk, let him learn the words. In the meantime, I'll breathe.)