𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 • 𝖘. 𝖆𝖎𝖟𝖆𝖜𝖆

I

A trail. A trail that of ancient stone. Moss lay within their deep cracks whilst larger stones which are situated aside the trail, engulfed in the embrace of the greenery. Outstretched as though pursuing one another, the arms of the large blossom trees' shield those beneath with their opulent pink blossom petals. Ishidourou, too, are situated on the outer edges of the path in rows neatly on each side. Their square engravings allow the placid light of a large candle to reveal itself. The candles' wax body weeps over time. Hot wax solidifying upon its finished descent down the stone neck of the old lanterns.

You find yourself walking down such a path to the chairman's residence; a traditional japanese palace- like structure, at the request of said chairman. There he'd typically discuss the generic matters of training; growth, consist attendance, weak points, and so on. Had this been the first time he'd request of your presence, you'd be shedding tears from anxiety.

Whilst you walk you take in the endearing scenery. A gentle wind thrusts through the trees atop, cherry blossoms swaying in the breeze, dancing as they fall with ease. Endearing indeed, you think whilst watching the petals fall. They reminded you of the generic confession scenes where the protagonist would finally confess their undying love to their senpai—occasionally even kohai. Though you're not in a shojo manga nor anything of the sort. Moreover, you were never really a fan of shojo, being a person whom favored more so action driven manga— shonen.

Your hand grazes a cold— and oddly damp— surface of the remains of a stone railing. Had something been built along this path prior? Your eyes flicker from the railings' crumpled state to what awaits forwards. Ahead upon a mahogany bridge are few fellow clan members, kimonos draped upon their built figures. They chat idly- skin glowing beneath the kiss of the candle light. Eyes appearing as though a rich gold.

As you approach the individuals you recognize them as your inferiors, younger too. Their laid back demeanor morphs into one of tense nature as they quiet themselves when spotting your arrival. "Good evening, L/N san," one of them spews with a subtle bow. A young rougenett, his teeth sharper than the average human. Shark- like perhaps. "Ah, Eijiro, yes? I believe we have talked briefly before," you return the gesture, clenching your kimono whilst you bow.

Kirishima's face softens, a pink tint alike the blossoms dominating his cheeks. He'd find himself flustered by the sudden familiarity. "No need the formalities, Eijiro. Even if I'm your elder, I don't mind," your lips tug into a halfhearted smile. Abruptly, a hand is placed upon the boy's shoulder in a seemingly protective manner. Your eyes follow up the arm curious as to the individual whom it belongs to. You behold a certain spiky haired blonde, "Katsuki," you nod in acknowledgement, the blonde mirroring your gesture in return.

"You haven't been wandering around aimlessly like usual, dumbass. What's gives?" He bellowed in an distasteful fashion. Your smile faltered into a frown, "hey, yeah— Bakugou's right— er, not about the dumbass part of course— but he's got a point". You sigh. Since when have they cared for your whereabouts? "I slept in. It's becoming a habit ever since training was switched around on my schedule. I'd love to continue talking but I'm afraid I must take my leave now, the chairman has called for my presence," you explain in a rushed manner. Kirishima waves goodbye in addition to wishing you the best of luck, "see you later, L/N san!" "Don't get yourself killed, reckless bastard".

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Few chouchin lanterns adorn the emptied and deteriorating dojo. A blanket of golden honey- like tones amongst the two beings. The warmth from the lanterns kiss the paled skin of the man, making him appear as though more lively. Hues that of a colder origin seek refuge within the crooks of his neck, defining the subtle deviations on his body which remain exposed to the golden lights' embrace. His eyes tainted by the darkened hues of lanvenders, much alike the indigo hellebores and lilacs which blossom in the form of livid bruises atop his soft flesh. Only to surface upon abrupt movements, his bloodied kimono shifting and swaying with each elegant stride and jab delivered.