Chapter Text
Bright blue is the color of ice. It is the color of spearmint gum sticks; bright blue colors the sky when it holds only light and no looming clouds. Icy bright blue is the color that stares back at me in the mirror. Bright blue is the color of gloves the Hero Commission uses when they do not want to make skin to skin contact with dangerous subjects. Bright blue can be the bright fuzzy blue blanket on the couch that your dad wraps you in during movie nights. I have since learned that bright blue is how the ocean can look during a bright sunny day where the sand is so warm it almost burns your feet, and the laughter of children surrounds you. Bright blue stares back at me whenever the masterpiece meets my eyes.
Bright blue is erupting me as I watch my world burn down around me.
Burning is not a feeling I was unaccustomed to. Ever since I was four and a tiny fire ball of warmth left my right hand, burning occurred weekly for me. First, it started with my fingertips. My fire would get a touch too hot and begin to aggravate the soft skin. Then, it was my dad. Training was to make me stronger. Real villains would not go easy on me so why should he? Bandages would line my arms and torso from fights too serious for a five-year-old. With my eighth birthday came Commission training sessions where my arm began to feed my fire as well; my injuries began to become more self-inflicted.
At least the Commission had Keigo. I would take long scratches from his best friend over painful bruises and burns any day.
No, no. No. The point is burns and blue have been constants in my life. I just never would have pictured the two being connected until now. But then again, this fire was not friendly.
All I had done was sit, waiting for Dad to show. The longer it took the more I curled up on my rock. Steam began to pool off my body as my frustration grew. Why could he not show this one time I asked? I should not have been surprised though, hurting me was his favorite pastime.
I had two coherent thoughts before the raging fire began.
Help me.
“Dad.”
Then as the tears broke from the prison I locked them behind, so did my fire. It started from my tear ducts, mixing with the overflowing salty droplets then exploding out to the forest in front of me. It all began as my normal orange. Orange fire is something I can control. Sure, it can hurt and burn but it is mostly friendly. It starts a fire in the fireplace to keep the house warm. It is how people often get confused and mistake Dad for a hero. It makes Nat and my little peppermint smile when I make little shapes out of it to tell stories.
This orange spread through, and it moved fast. Its first target was my body. It used my clothes, skin, hair, bones to be an instant fire starter and grow to the trees around me. The color should have been comforting but I could not focus on anything aside from the pain that overtook my body. My brain registered a scream, but I am still not sure where it came from. It seems to take seconds before every ounce of green the forest once held is replaced by bright orange.
My body fills with panic and unexpected anger. Why was no one here? Why does my quirk hate me? My only hope is that the fire dies out fast but that does not seem to be the case. Why could they not be the small blue flames that he had created yesterday. The blue flames were that familiar blue and had been calm against his chest. This orange fire was angry and matched too much like Dad’s. I find myself begging for the flames to listen to me.
“It’s too hot. Please go out! It hurts!
Someone to save me is all I can hope for at this point. My body is giving out. I can feel myself fall forward into the cold body of water waiting to put out my flames, but I black out from the pain before I can truly feel the relief of being extinguished.
The injured little boy’s hands shook causing him to drop the pen down onto the ink-soaked page. Screams of pain echoed inside his mind as his brunt throat could not verbalize. Attempting to ground himself, he flexed his burn red fingertips against the scratchy hospital sheets he was sitting atop. It did not work, and his breaths began to come out harshly and too fast. His right hand is slow to move but eventually he worked up the strength to fingerspell out, ‘ that’s all.’
A big, rough hand reached out until it hit his shoulder. Suddenly, the little boy finds himself carefully pulled against a strong chest and he finds himself being reminded that someone showed up. Someone heard his screams for help and listened. He has just enough energy to glance back at his hero. The man has his black curls pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. His red eyes are kind as he helps Touya lay back down against the rough bed. His smile warms the cold that always rests inside the small boy.
“You did great, Touya. Now get some rest. I promise you that I will still be here when you wake up again.”
And for some reason, he knows this to be true and he does as his hero says. Greeting the darkness with relief once again.