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25 Years

Chapter Text


This thought is your first memory, a thought that hit you as you watched your father head out the door to yet another work day. You watched as your mother finished her meal and then proceeded to tidy up.


This is your second memory, taking place not long after mother is up to her wrists in dishwater. Your scalp itches, and though it only starts out as mildly annoying, it quickly becomes a terrible tickling that hurts. Your head suddenly feels very heavy and you can feel something resting against your back where before you hadn’t noticed anything.

“OH! (Name)! Your hair!”

This is the first memory you retain of your mother’s voice. For years to come, you will be able to recall the look on her face, that beaming smile as she stared at you from the kitchen sink. She wipes off her hands and approaches you, reaching out…

Then there is a sudden flood of information you don’t know how to process. Coldwetdampwrinkledgrossickycarressgentle--

You don’t remember much of the weeks after that, of the nightmare that was your Quirk blooming from the top of your head in strands of pink, blue, white, and green.


Quirk counseling starts early for you. Habashira-sensei earns your fear and anger because she helps you understand your Quirk. It is probably ungrateful of you, but you resent every session you spent with her. With her, you were forced to learn what the colors of your hair meant.

Pink strands are for sensing heat.

Blue strands are for sensing a lack of heat, or ‘cold’.

Green strands are sensing pressure.

And white strands… are for sensing pain.

When working in tandem, you could ‘taste’ things, hence your revulsion that first day when your mother touched your hair with dishwater hands (soapmoistchillygross).

Habashira-sensei lead you through numerous tests to discover these facts. The worst test, though, shall always be the time she put a strand of your hair through a weight test. You were still only three that day.

It started simple enough. You could move your hair at will and make it touch things, so she wanted to find the limit one strand could lift and from there use math to approximate the maximum weight you could theoretically lift with your ‘amazing hair’. She directed you to use only a single strand to pick up a five pound weight. You lifted it easily. She directed you to heavier and heavier weights until you could barely lift a two-hundred pound weight and keep it aloft.

“Your strand hasn’t broken yet, (Name)-chan. Please try lifting the ten-pound weight as well.”

You did try. You managed it for a few seconds before the tension became too much and your strand snapped, sending two-hundred-and-ten pounds crashing to the floor.

You don’t know what Habashira-sensei said or did after that. The moment your strand snapped, pain flared instantly through your head, a pulsing, massive cluster of agony that made you scream and shriek and writhe on the ground because a part of you had been ripped away.

That was the last time your parents sent you to Habashira-sensei and the first time you recognized that your Quirk was truly a part of you.


Mother was tearfully apologetic as she held your small hand and told you that you weren’t going back to Habashira-sensei. Father was gruff, upset with your former Quirk counselor, but also recognizing that she did do her job in helping you identify what your Quirk could do and in finding some of the weaknesses that came with it.

Cutting your hair was off the list forever, because if you were in that much pain for a single broken strand, what would even two snapped at the same time do?

You didn’t learn until years later that they were greatly afraid for you. Your doctor told them that it was possible for a person to die from pain and shock, and your Quirk put you squarely within that possibility for the rest of your life.


The first day of preschool found you at the centre of attention. Your classmates were curious about your hair and wanted to touch it. Your protests fell on deaf ears as small, grubby hands pawed your multi-colored strands, tugging and pulling (but thankfully not snapping).

“Stop it,” you whined, trying to push them away with your hands.

“This pink is so pretty! If only all your hair was pink!”

“Blue is better!”

“It’s so long! It’s almost as long as her!”

“STOP IT!” Your hair flared out as you shouted, fists clenching your uniform.

Startled cries filled the classroom as your classmates were pushing back, most of them landing on their butts while a few crashed to the ground full-body. Your eyes which had clenched shut, flew open at their distressed yells and now were wide in horror as you registered what you just did.

The first day of preschool found you at the school’s Quirk counselor’s office.


The fourth day of preschool was the day you met a boy who became not just another face in the crowd.

You were sitting away from the others during play time outside when a fat cat walked up to you and took over your lap. Its sudden appearance startled you, but you couldn’t help smiling when it started purring before you could even touch it. Hesitantly, you laid your hand on it and became encouraged when the purring became louder.

A shadow fell over you and a surprised glance revealed that it was the blue-haired boy from your class. He knelt down in front of you and also began petting the fat cat on your lap.

Too shy to talk, you just kept petting the happy cat too.

When the teachers finally rang the bell to go back inside, you gently set aside the fat cat and said goodbye. “‘Bye, Cat-san.”

The fat cat yawned and stretched and the teachers called for the stragglers to hurry in. This included you and the strange boy so you both reluctantly turned from the cat and headed back.

Half-way to the building, he spoke. “Hitoshi Shinso.”

Startled again, it took you a few moments to realize he was introducing himself. Smiling at this realization, you replied, “(Name) (Last Name).”

He turned his head as he headed through the door, “Foreign?”

You nodded and followed him, “Dad’s dad.”

Thus was the foundation for a friendship laid by a fat cat nicknamed Cat-san.

We don’t meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason.