Middle School — Haruhama Backyard
The Haruhama backyard had a rhythm now.
Not the soft rhythm of kids laughing or a hose running in summer—this was the hard rhythm of training: bare feet biting into dirt, a sharp exhale, the snap of cloth, the whistle of air cutting past knuckles.
Ryuuki Haruhama's breath came in measured counts.
In—two—three.
Out—two—three.
Mina Haruhama stood across from him in a light sparring jacket, hair tied back, posture loose like she was relaxed—
—but her eyes were the same eyes that had once looked into collapsing buildings and said I can still save them.
Harborline.
Retired on paper. Not retired in her bones.
Since the pawn shop attack, Mina had changed. Not into someone cruel… just into someone who refused to let the world catch her son unprepared again.
What used to be:
• morning jogs,
• gentle control drills,
• "save the falling object" games…
had become:
• sprint intervals until his legs shook,
• breath control until his lungs burned,
• decision drills ("save the civilian or stop the threat?"),
• restraint practice ("disable without breaking").
And now?
Now it was sparring.
Real angles. Real pressure. Real consequences—even if she pulled her strikes at the last second.
Ryuuki had grown into it.
He was taller now—shoulders broader, legs longer, the wiry strength of a kid forced to earn endurance. His horn had grown too. Not huge, but enough to catch sunlight when he moved. White curls tied back. Red-orange eyes tracking Mina like a predator learning the rules of the hunt.
He looked… like a boy who might actually survive U.A.
Mina pointed at the dirt with two fingers.
"Again," she said.
Ryuuki swallowed, nodded once, and raised his hands.
Mina's voice sharpened. "Focus, Ryuuki. In the field, if you lose focus, you're dead."
His jaw tightened. "Understood."
They moved.
Mina didn't charge straight in. She cut a shallow angle—one step to the side, then forward, sliding toward his blind spot.
Ryuuki tried to pivot—
Too late.
Her fist tapped his chin. Controlled. Accurate.
A reminder, not a knockout.
His head snapped slightly, eyes blinking as his brain re-centered.
"Late," Mina said. "Your eyes followed my shoulders instead of my hips."
Ryuuki grit his teeth. "I—"
Mina was already gone. She hopped back, arms extending, palms open.
And the air changed.
Not into water.
Not into magic.
Into rules.
The space between them grew heavier—drag increasing, flow tightening, resistance placed exactly where it hurt. Ryuuki felt it instantly, like trying to run through chest-deep surf.
Mina's Harbor Current was clean and cruel.
She wasn't crushing the air. She was layering resistance and directional shear so every movement cost more, every inhale felt like breathing through wet cloth.
"Breathe," Mina ordered. "Don't fight it."
Ryuuki forced his lungs to obey.
In—two—three.
Out—two—three.
Then he pushed back.
Not by shoving her.
By changing the medium.
He extended his field—not wide, not sloppy—just enough to build a lane. Pressure stacked behind him, thinned ahead of him, like a wave forming in a canal.
A current surged forward.
You couldn't see it, but you could feel it—leaves jittered, grass bent, dust lifted and spiraled. It carried weight the way wind never should.
Mina's eyes narrowed, pleased despite herself.
Ryuuki wasn't trying to throw her.
He was trying to steal her footing—force her to move with the flow or get shoved off-line.
Mina didn't contest it head-on.
She flowed.
A tight pressure pad formed beneath her heel—just a split-second reduction in friction, a directional shove.
A perfect surf step.
She slid out of the lane like a skater avoiding a collision.
Ryuuki's wave tore past her and slammed into the fence, rattling it.
Mina clicked her tongue. "Strong," she said. "But loud."
Ryuuki lunged to close distance, muscles working through the resistance. His plan was obvious:
Get close. Force contact. Win with a stronger field.
Mina let him come.
Then she slipped inside his guard like she'd always been there—shoulder turned sideways, profile narrowed.
Her fist sank into his stomach—controlled, but deep.
Ryuuki's breath exploded out of him.
Mina flicked her palm and shifted pressure under his center of mass—not a shove.
A tilt.
The air itself leaned, and his feet lost their stable base.
He stumbled backward two steps before catching himself.
Mina's voice cut through him. "Your quirk's gotten stronger over the years."
Ryuuki glared, breathing hard.
"But your control is still sloppy," Mina finished. "You're making storms when you need streams."
His face flushed with frustration.
He raised his arms into a tighter guard—and this time his power didn't surge outward like a tantrum.
It wrapped in.
A thin circulating layer formed around his body—fast, controlled, constantly moving.
Not a wall.
A tide.
His shirt fluttered as the air began to slide around him in a smooth loop. Dust rose into clean spirals at his ankles.
"Harbor Current…" Ryuuki breathed, grounding himself with his rhythm. "Tidecoat."
Tidecoat wasn't armor. It was a moving boundary layer—stealing clean contact, making grabs slide, turning blunt force into something that missed.
Mina stepped in and tested it with a quick jab.
Her fist didn't bounce off a shield.
It drifted—nudged off-line.
Mina's brows lifted. "Better."
She swung a hook.
Ryuuki thickened the layer for a split-second—a density pocket inflating—then released it to stay stable. The impact didn't stop. It bled off and vented out behind him.
A gust ripped across the yard.
Leaves blew up. A hanging windchime clattered. Their hair whipped back.
No energy blasts.
Just two pressure systems colliding and exhaling.
Ryuuki used the opening.
Air compressed under his feet—just enough to form a pressure pad, like loading a spring. Low drag ahead. High pressure behind.
A controlled burst.
"Harbor Current—" he snapped. "Eddy Launch!"
He shot forward.
Not teleportation. Not flight.
A short, violent displacement that looked like a body flicker because the environment helped his acceleration—kick underfoot, shove behind, reduced resistance ahead.
Mina braced—then smiled.
Because Ryuuki was finally doing what she'd been trying to teach him:
Speed for positioning. Not speed for ego.
He closed distance and rotated his forearm inward.
The air around his fist folded—not into a ball, but into rotation. A tight vortex formed along his knuckles, shear and spin like a miniature whirlpool.
Dust spiraled in a clean ring.
"Harbor Current—" Ryuuki growled, horn pulsing faintly. "Eddy Fist!"
Eddy Fist wasn't meant to crush—it disrupted. Twisted balance. Broke grips. Turned straight power into sideways wrongness.
Ryuuki swung.
Mina didn't block.
She tested.
She stepped into the strike and let the edge of the vortex catch her sleeve.
The fabric tugged sideways—not torn. Just yanked off-line like the air itself wanted to twist her arm.
Mina's eyes flashed.
Then she moved like a pro hero again—close enough Ryuuki could smell soap on her gloves.
Tap to the wrist. Redirect the elbow. Slide behind him.
"Good," Mina said, breath steady.
Ryuuki's eyes widened.
"Too predictable," Mina finished—and swept his leg.
Ryuuki's Tidecoat tried to stabilize.
Mina's control was cleaner.
She altered drag under his ankle—just a whisper of resistance—and his foot slid.
He hit the grass hard, shoulder first.
Pain flared.
Ryuuki rolled, tried to stand—
Mina was already there, pinning his wrist with her knee, palm hovering near his throat.
Not choking.
A rescue restraint.
A lesson.
"You would've died right there," Mina said softly. No anger. No cruelty. Just truth.
Ryuuki's chest heaved.
His eyes burned—not from pain, from frustration.
Then Mina eased off him and offered a hand. "But…" she said, "you made me work for it."
Ryuuki took her hand and stood, breathing in counted pulls.
In—two—three.
Out—two—three.
His horn dimmed back to normal.
Mina studied him like she was watching the future.
"You're going to U.A.," she said.
Ryuuki's eyes widened.
Mina's gaze hardened—but pride lived under it. "And when you get there, you're not going to be a kid with a flashy rescue quirk."
Ryuuki swallowed.
"You're going to be a hero who can survive a fight."
A beat of silence.
Then Ryuuki's mouth pulled into a tired grin.
"…Again?" he asked.
Mina's lips twitched. "Again."
They raised their hands.
And the backyard filled with the sound of two currents colliding—mother and son—training not for medals, not for fame…
But for the next time the world tried to set their street on fire.
Mina lifted her hand again.
"Last exchange," she said. "No tricks."
Ryuuki nodded.
She moved first—fast.
Too fast.
Ryuuki reacted on instinct. Foot sliding back, Tidecoat tightening, Eddy Launch wanting to form—
And for the briefest instant—
The air didn't thicken.
Didn't swirl.
Didn't resist.
It yielded.
Like the space around Ryuuki knew where he was going and stepped aside for him.
No gust.
No pressure shock.
No dust kicked up.
He was just… there.
One step farther back than physics should have allowed.
Mina froze.
Ryuuki blinked, heart hammering. "—Did I mess that up?"
The moment was already gone. Air rushed back in, currents reasserting, leaves fluttering as if nothing strange had happened.
Mina didn't answer right away.
Her eyes stayed locked on the spot he'd moved through.
On the absence he'd left behind.
"…No," she said finally, lowering her hand.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
"You didn't mess up."
She turned away and adjusted her gloves so Ryuuki couldn't see her hands.
They were shaking.
"Training's over for today," Mina said. "Go hydrate."
Ryuuki hesitated. "Mom?"
Mina paused at the back door.
For half a second, her reflection in the glass looked… afraid.
"Ryuuki," she said carefully, without turning around, "if that ever happens again—"
She stopped herself.
Chose her words.
"—don't chase it," she finished. "And don't tell anyone until you tell me."
Ryuuki swallowed. "…Okay?"
Mina went inside.
Alone in the yard, Ryuuki stared down at his hands.
They felt normal.
The air felt normal.
But somewhere deep—beneath breath, beneath current—
something coiled.
And waited.
The Next Day — Middle School
The next day at school, the world felt different.
Not because the building had changed—same chipped paint, same squeaky gym doors, same cafeteria smell that somehow haunted every hallway—
but because people looked at them like they were news.
Ryuuki felt it the moment he stepped out of his mom's car:
The pause in conversations.
The double-takes.
The whispers that weren't quiet enough.
That's the horn kid.
That's the explosion kid too.
Mina gave him the same look she always did now—soft on the surface, steel underneath.
"Breathe," she said. "Shoulders loose. Eyes up."
Ryuuki nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Don't fight for attention," she added. "Don't run from it either."
He shut the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
By the front gate, Izuku was already there—bouncing on his heels like he'd been waiting since sunrise, backpack straps tight in his fists.
"Ryuuki!" Izuku blurted, eyes shining. "Tell me—how did it go? How are your signature moves coming along? Did Tidecoat hold? Did Eddy Launch get faster? Were you able to—"
Ryuuki laughed and held up a hand. "One at a time, professor."
Izuku froze, then flushed. "S-sorry. I just—your mom was sparring you, right? And you said she was going to make it 'real' this time."
"She did," Ryuuki said, tired pride sneaking in. "And it did not feel good."
Izuku leaned in like he was hearing forbidden hero secrets. "But?"
Ryuuki lowered his voice—not because the hallway needed it, but because the words felt heavy.
"But… I chained all three."
Izuku lit up. "All three?! Back-to-back?!"
"Yeah," Ryuuki admitted. "Not clean. Not perfect. But I did it."
Izuku made a sound—half gasp, half laugh—then tried to act normal and failed.
"So you mastered them!" Izuku said, smiling too hard.
Ryuuki shook his head. "No. I leveled up. That's different."
He tapped his temple. "It still takes me too long to set things. Once someone sees the pattern, they can start predicting."
Izuku nodded rapidly like he'd been thinking about it all night.
"Then we work around it," Izuku said immediately. "More pressure tolerance, more rhythm control, more micro-adjustment reps so you don't 'charge.' If you shave even half a second, your whole style changes."
Ryuuki looked at him and felt that familiar warmth in his chest.
Izuku didn't have a quirk.
But the way he saw quirks—like systems and puzzles—sometimes made Ryuuki wonder if that counted as its own kind of power.
"Also," Izuku continued, voice speeding up, "we should design a long-range move that's low-cost and repeatable. Something spammable that doesn't look like a 'big move' but still forces errors—like a crosswind lane that ruins footwork. Or a low-pressure tug that messes balance without them noticing."
Ryuuki blinked. "That's… actually genius."
Izuku flailed a hand modestly. "I-it's just ideas!"
Ryuuki smirked. "Sure."
Izuku dug into his backpack and pulled out a notebook like it spawned out of thin air. Pencil moving instantly.
TIDECOAT — reduce grab success
EDDY LAUNCH — shorten prep: heel pad
NEW: "CROSSCURRENT" — lane disrupt (low cost)
NEW: "BREAKWATER LINE" — push/pull rhythm timing
They were halfway to class when the hallway opened into a wider intersection.
And the noise hit.
Daichi and Tsubasa were near the lockers, acting like they were guarding a throne. A couple other kids hovered nearby, listening.
Then Bakugo stepped into view.
He wasn't the reckless little firecracker from years ago.
He was still intense—sharp-eyed, walking like the building belonged to him—
but something in him had settled.
Not calm.
Just controlled fire.
When he noticed Ryuuki and Izuku, his eyes narrowed—not with hatred.
With focus.
"Oi," Bakugo said, voice low. "You're late."
Ryuuki glanced at the clock. "We're on time."
Bakugo clicked his tongue. "Whatever."
Daichi grinned. "Yo! The genius duo is here!"
Tsubasa raised a hand, wings twitching under his jacket. "Ryu. Izuku."
Izuku waved awkwardly, still holding his notebook. "H-hi."
Bakugo's eyes flicked to the notebook, then back to Ryuuki. "Training again?"
"Yesterday," Ryuuki said.
"And?" Bakugo's tone sharpened.
Ryuuki kept it casual, mouth tilting. "I chained my moves."
Daichi's eyebrows shot up. "No way."
Tsubasa leaned forward. "All three?"
Izuku couldn't help himself. "He did! Tidecoat into Eddy Launch into Eddy Fist—imperfect but the sequence worked and—"
"Show me," Bakugo cut in.
Ryuuki blinked. "What?"
Bakugo stepped closer. Not threatening. Just intense. "After school. Backyard. Or the park. I don't care."
Daichi made a warning sound. "Uh oh."
Tsubasa muttered, "Here we go."
Ryuuki smirked. "You want me to show you so you can copy it?"
Bakugo's eyes flashed. "I want to see how to beat it."
Izuku hesitated, then lifted his notebook slightly like it was armor. "If you want to beat it… Tidecoat isn't a wall. It's a moving layer. So if your blasts hit during the vent—when he releases pressure to stay stable—you can slip damage through."
Everyone stared.
Izuku immediately looked like he wanted to disappear. "I-I'm just saying—"
Bakugo didn't laugh.
Didn't insult him.
He narrowed his eyes like he was analyzing a combat report.
"…Huh," Bakugo said, grudging as a growl.
Then he looked back at Ryuuki. "So your nerd's useful."
Izuku flinched, but Ryuuki spoke smoothly.
"He's not my nerd," Ryuuki said. "He's our strategist."
Daichi grinned. "Facts."
Tsubasa nodded. "Yeah. Izuku's the brain."
Izuku turned red so fast it looked painful. "G-guys…"
Bakugo scoffed, but there was no bite. "Tch. Whatever. Just don't feed him wrong info, Ryuuki."
Ryuuki laughed. "You jealous?"
Bakugo's mouth twitched—not a smile, but close. "Jealous? Of your slow-motion wave tricks? Shut up."
Daichi snorted. "He's totally jealous."
Bakugo snapped his head toward him. "Say it again and I'll use you as target practice."
Daichi raised both hands. "I'm joking! I'm joking!"
Tsubasa leaned closer to Ryuuki, quieter. "People are watching you again."
Ryuuki's smirk faded.
He hadn't noticed until Tsubasa said it—then he felt it immediately:
The hallway wasn't just a hallway.
It was witnesses pretending not to stare.
Izuku's voice softened. "They're still talking about the pawn shop."
Ryuuki exhaled. "Yeah."
Daichi rubbed the back of his neck. "My mom still won't let me walk home alone."
Tsubasa tried to joke, but his wings twitched like nerves. "At least you don't have parents offering self-defense lessons from a 'retired hero friend' every night."
Bakugo's jaw tightened.
Then he looked away. "They should be scared," he muttered.
Ryuuki blinked. "What?"
Bakugo didn't meet his eyes. His voice came out rough in a way that didn't match middle school.
"Villains came to our street," Bakugo said. "That's real. So yeah. People can stare. I don't care."
He looked up again, eyes sharp.
"What I care about is making sure it never happens like that again."
For a heartbeat, nobody teased.
Nobody joked.
It was just the five of them standing there like an old pact was tightening.
Ryuuki's chest warmed.
Izuku's grip tightened on his notebook.
Daichi nodded slowly.
Tsubasa's wings relaxed a fraction.
Bakugo clicked his tongue like he hated being serious, then pointed at Ryuuki.
"So after school," he said, voice back to normal. "You show me the chain."
Ryuuki's smirk returned. "If you can keep up."
Bakugo's grin flashed—quick and dangerous. "Try me."
Daichi clapped once. "YES. Spar session after school."
Tsubasa groaned. "We're gonna get banned from the park again."
Izuku—somehow—looked excited. He flipped to a clean page. "I can time it. And record notes. And—"
Bakugo started walking toward class, passing Izuku without shoulder-checking him, without a word.
Then, quiet enough that only Izuku and Ryuuki heard, he muttered:
"Don't fall behind, Deku."
Izuku froze.
Bakugo kept walking like he hadn't said anything at all.
Ryuuki leaned closer, smiling. "Told you."
Izuku swallowed, then nodded, heart thumping.
"…Okay," he whispered. "Then I won't."
And together—five boys with one shared history and a future none of them fully understood yet—walked toward class while the hallway watched, still deciding whether they were looking at kids…
or the beginning of heroes.
Later That Day — Convenience Store
The bell above the door jingled as the five of them shuffled into the convenience store like a defeated squad returning from a failed mission.
Tsubasa threw his arms up dramatically. "I can't believe we got kicked out before we even got let in."
Izuku adjusted his backpack straps, trying—and failing—not to smile. "It's not that surprising. The second they see all of us together heading toward a training field, they know exactly what's about to happen."
Ryuuki rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah… I guess it's what we get for destroying the area last time."
Bakugo snorted. "I actually think they just wanted to protect your reputation. They all knew if we sparred, I would've won easily."
Ryuuki stared at him, deadpan. "As if."
They drifted deeper into the store under fluorescent lights that made everything look a little too clean—rows of drinks, chips, gum, and boxed snacks that always tasted better than they should.
This place had become their safe zone.
Ryuuki wasn't allowed to wander far anymore. Mina's rules were iron: stay close, stay seen, stay alive. So the routine never changed.
They waited here.
They joked here.
They pretended the world wasn't bigger than the aisle signs.
Eventually Mina would pull up outside like a patrol car and collect her son before the day could turn bad.
Ryuuki stared at the fridge doors like he was staring through them.
Then, quieter than the others, he asked, "So… what do you guys plan on doing once I'm gone?"
Daichi snapped around like he'd been summoned. "Probably go on a super epic adventure where we find treasure, princesses, and beaches filthy rich."
He pointed at Ryuuki like it was personal. "And of course without you."
Izuku burst out laughing. Tsubasa made a loud, fake-sympathetic "Awwww." Even Bakugo's mouth twitched for half a second before he remembered he was supposed to be permanently unimpressed.
Ryuuki rolled his eyes, but it didn't hide the sting underneath. "Yeah, yeah. You guys are just going to the arcade and wasting time."
Izuku held up a finger like he was presenting a serious report. "You're half right. A lot of our time is spent in the arcade."
Daichi nodded solemnly. "Research."
Izuku continued, "But we do try doing things fun and unique."
Tsubasa leaned in like he was offering forbidden wisdom. "Maybe you should try sneaking away from your mom just this one time."
He spread his hands like he was presenting life itself. "Actually experience life with us."
Ryuuki hesitated.
For a few seconds you could see it—the temptation. The idea of being normal. No schedule. No breath counts. No "eyes up" before he stepped out of a car.
Then he pictured Mina's face.
Not angry.
Worse.
Afraid.
Ryuuki exhaled. "There's no way my mom would let me do that."
Daichi groaned like he'd been physically wounded. Izuku sighed dramatically. Tsubasa leaned his forehead against a shelf like the world had betrayed him.
Bakugo didn't groan.
Bakugo scoffed, like rules were something you broke by punching them hard enough.
Ryuuki crossed his arms. "Quit your groaning. While you guys are out fooling around, I'm getting stronger and preparing for the U.A. exam."
The words U.A. hit the group like a switch.
Tsubasa straightened immediately. "Yeah. I have been too."
He shifted his shoulders and let his wings unfurl just a little—controlled. Feathers flexed like muscle. A small flap kicked up a breeze that fluttered wrappers near the floor.
The cashier glanced over.
Ryuuki's eyes narrowed in warning.
Tsubasa froze mid-flex and folded them back in like that's totally what he meant to do.
Izuku, of course, took it as an invitation to analyze. "Your quirk really has come a long way. Not just stronger—bigger. Your wing control is cleaner too. By the time of the U.A. exam, you'll probably be able to carry multiple people safely, and if your feather edges keep tightening you could eventually get enough shear to cut through tougher materials—"
Tsubasa puffed his chest out. "Yeah, Izuku! Screw Bakugo and Ryuuki. I'm gonna be the Number One hero!"
Ryuuki laughed. Izuku laughed. Daichi laughed so hard he had to grab the fridge handle for balance.
Bakugo did not laugh.
He turned slowly.
His eyes locked onto Tsubasa like a laser sight.
"…Is that what you really think?"
Small pops snapped in his palms—nothing huge, just warning crackles. Like the air itself flinched.
Tsubasa's grin faltered.
Then he remembered he had pride too. "Yeah," he said, trying to look bigger. "That's what I think."
Bakugo stepped forward.
Ryuuki's horn didn't glow, but it itched—that tension-sense that came before his brain finished catching up.
Ryuuki stepped between them, voice low and sharp. "That's enough."
Bakugo's eyes flicked to him. "Move."
Ryuuki didn't. "We're in a convenience store."
He lowered his voice even more. "And using quirks in public is technically illegal."
Daichi winced. Izuku looked like he was about to apologize to the entire store on behalf of humanity. Tsubasa muttered, "We weren't gonna go crazy…"
Bakugo clicked his tongue like he hated being told the truth.
The popping stopped—but the glare didn't.
"…Tch. Fine."
Daichi clapped once. "Okay! New rule! No hero fights inside the snack zone."
Izuku nodded seriously. "Yes. Snack zone is sacred."
Tsubasa pointed at Bakugo. "He started it."
Bakugo snapped back. "You started it by talking stupid."
Ryuuki shook his head, laughing under his breath despite himself, and grabbed a bottle of water.
The cold plastic pressed into his palm like reality.
Outside the front window, the street was calm. Normal. Cars passing. Pedestrians. Nothing on fire.
But Ryuuki couldn't forget what Mina had told him the night of the pawn shop:
The world doesn't warn you twice.
The bell jingled again.
Ryuuki's head lifted automatically.
Not fear—awareness.
Then he relaxed when he saw it was just an old man coming in for lottery tickets.
Daichi nudged him with an elbow. "Yo. You good?"
Ryuuki blinked, forcing the moment back into place. "Yeah."
Bakugo's voice cut in, quieter than before but still intense. "We're not staying weak."
No one laughed at that.
Not even Daichi.
Izuku's grip tightened on his notebook strap.
Tsubasa's wings twitched once, subtle.
Ryuuki nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "We're not."
He took a sip of water—and for a heartbeat, as he shifted his weight, he felt something wrong.
A tiny give in the air near his heel.
Like space almost stepped aside.
Gone instantly.
So small he could've imagined it.
Ryuuki stared at the floor a little too long, pulse ticking up.
Izuku noticed. "Ryuuki?"
Ryuuki forced a smile. "Nothing."
He looked at his friends—arguing over snacks, posturing, laughing like kids who still believed they had time.
And for a few seconds, standing between humming fridge motors and fluorescent light, they weren't "the kids from the news" or "future heroes" or "golden boys."
They were just five friends.
Trying to grow up fast enough to survive the world that was already watching.