"Look, Shoto-san!" Giggling sweetly, Arata picks up a small round stone from the lakeshore and whips it out onto the silvery water. It sails through the air, creating a small splash on the lake surface before it bounces again a couple of times to the air then finally sinks like an anchor. "Did you see those ripples? The lake isn't frozen!"
Shoto joins her on the lakeside, the mud submerging his soles in gooey dirt, but he doesn't the least bit care. Instead, he stands beside her and looks for another rock from the ground. Once his gaze encounters a smooth, disc-like pebble, he crouches to pluck it.
"This will do."
"For what?"
Shoto raises an eyebrow at Arata, a gesture that looks so innocent, save for the smug curl of his lips. "Breaking your record. Two skips, isn't it?"
"Did you just make this a competition?"
"There are stone skipping championships, you know, Ara." His stone is springing up and down at the flick of his wrist. "See this."
She watches as he fires it over his shoulder like a catapult. It whizzes through the air, whistling and spinning as it goes. The moment it collides with the calm water, it bounces gloriously and launches off with a renewed speed. It carves the water with shudders and ripples every time it hits, and flies again. It looks so astonishing to her that she even forgets to count its skips.
"Eight skips," Shoto declares proudly after his stone finally loses its momentum and drowns.
"No way," Arata mutters, still in disbelief even though it happened right before her own eyes. "How? Do you do this often?"
"This is my first time."
"You're kidding."
"I'm not. It's basic physics." he motions for her to get closer, then scrapes another stone from the shore. "I bet your stone looked like this. It's not flat enough to spin and generate horizontal speed."
"Well, you're right about that one."
"And, there's your grasp too."
"What about it?"
"Here." Shoto grabs her right hand and places a thin stone between her thumb and middle finger, his white-crimson strands brushing her black bangs lightly. He gently wraps her index finger around the rock's border. "It should be easier for you now."
When a few seconds passed and Arata still hasn't given him a verbal reply, he tilts his head to face her. "You look a bit flushed."
"Huh?"
Any other day, he would brush the redness on her face off as the summer heat. But, with the overcast hovering above them, he thinks she doesn't have the liberty to use it as an excuse. "Are you feeling unwell, Ara?"
Just before the tips of his fingers come into contact with her face, she quickly jerks away from his touch, as if it would burn her. The stone slips from her grasp and clatters on the shore. Humid gusts twirl her chin-length black bangs, framing her reddened cheeks and apprehensive eyes.
"No, I'm— I'm perfectly okay."
Was it because of his quirk? If Shoto didn't know any better, he would feel insulted at her knee-jerk reaction. He slowly retracts his right hand, tucking it back to his side. "I'm not going to freeze you, Ara. But, if it makes you feel better, I will only use my left hand from this point onward."
"It wasn't because of your quirk!" Arata says immediately, one hand unconsciously swiping the skin on her cheek for a brief moment. "I'm sorry I gave you the wrong idea, Shoto-san..."
"Glad to hear it." he doesn't realize that he is holding his breath until he releases it. "Shall we try stone skipping again?"
"Of course—"
Arata's words are cut in by thunder roaring amidst the grey, cotton-like canopy above them. The next second, lightning flashes in the sky, engraving a bright crooked line on the dark sky. Large, fat droplets follow soon after, crashing to the ground like someone had just poured a bucket of water upon the earth.
"Is this the rare time where the weather forecast is inaccurate?" Grumbling, Shoto quickly shields his head with his hands, which is more like a futile attempt. Not even five seconds have passed, but his outfit is already drenched to the bone. "Let's go back to the tree! We should be able to take cover there."
He is already back at their picnic spot when he realizes that she hasn't moved from her spot to follow him. "Ara?" he half-shouts over the loud pitter-patters of the rain, thunder bellowing from the distance.
Arata doesn't seem to hear him. In fact, it looks like she is worlds away. One of her hands is stretched out, her green eyes are trained on the droplets drumming her palm. Her black ponytail is slick and shiny like obsidian under the torrent downpour.
Her clothes cling to her body, displaying soft lines and curves that typically aren't visible. And even though she is soaking wet and cold—emphasized by the slight trembling of her shoulders, she stays still.
Sloshing back to the mud-caked shore, Shoto taps her shoulder worriedly, his hands not covering his head anymore. Why bother if he can't even get any wetter than he is now?
"Is something wrong, Ara?"
"Sho— Shoto-san!" Her teeth are chattering due to the harsh wind and cold rain around them. She shows her palm to him, bullets of water conjuring ephemeral patterns on her skin. "The rain— It's liquid!"
A crease appears on his forehead, feeling wholly confused at her weird excitement. "Of course it is. What's so special about that?"
As soon as the words leave his mouth, it dawns on him that she has never seen rainfall before this moment.
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"The Shirayuki's land was covered with snow throughout the year," Arata recounted, staring wistfully at the bright summer sun through the window.
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"Damn," Shoto mutters under his breath, utterly gobsmacked. All she knew was snowfall.
Rain is just weather to him, mundane and ordinary. But to her, these liquid, translucent drops pelting the earth must taste like freedom. Her sunny grin shines bright, even as the storm rages above them, her green eyes sparkling with newfound joy.
"Maybe this is where my life without snow begins," she says, her voice soft with wonder.
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Aizawa left the kids to buy ice creams, because what's a summer picnic without them? Well perhaps three umbrellas too—despite his skepticism of their ability to provide cover. Because at some point, a thunderstorm started to run amok out of nowhere.
However, when he comes back, somehow Todoroki and Arata have made their own version of ice creams using mud and sludge under the heavy downpour. Both of them are as wet as drowned rats, crouching beside the lake with nothing to shield them from the storm. It is a surprise that their unpacked picnic equipment and blanket haven't been blown away by the turbulent wind yet.
"Um... Hi, Aizawa-san..." Arata shoots him a guilty smile, like a child who got caught sneaking candy. "We're… trying to make our own ice cream?"
At least she still has the decency to show some remorse, unlike Todoroki who is acting like everything is normal even though it clearly isn't. His hands are molding an icky, brown lump which might very well be poop.
That'd better not be shit. Please tell me it isn't.
Expression as impassive as usual, Todoroki offers the fake ice cream to him, "Here, have a try. It's our today's special."
Clearly not the way I pictured this outing would turn out. Give it to these kids to constantly ruin my expectations, Aizawa slaps his own forehead, glaring at their innocent, water-ridden faces. Why the hell did I even bother to purchase umbrellas?
"Come on," Aizawa grouches, his voice laden with exasperation. One hand is holding an umbrella over his head while the other massages the bridge of his nose. "Let's get back, Arata. You too, Todoroki."
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A few people are truly gifted with an ability to spew both an insult and a compliment in the same breath. Perhaps, Shota Aizawa is one of them, because he manages to pull it off with such ease.
"Great job, your shoes finally don't look like they have bulldozed through shit anymore, Todoroki."
Is it a backhanded compliment, or is it a candid observation? Sometimes, the line between them is too blurry for Todoroki to know for sure.
He opts to shift his freshly-cleaned shoes closer to the wall—next to Arata's rubber flip-flops—to avoid a sprinkle of rain that escapes through the balcony railings. After a while, although the thunderstorm has let up into a light shower, the humid weather makes it hard for the laundry to air-dry properly.
"Well, I scrubbed them thoroughly." Todoroki pats his hands to the dark pants he is donning—Aizawa's. His own outfit is currently being hung on the clothesline. Hopefully, it will be dry enough for wear once the drizzle ceases. "Any clue when the rain will stop?"
"No idea, this kind is often long-lasting." Aizawa leans on the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest. A savory waft drifts from the kitchen, teasing their nostrils with a delicious smell. "You can stick until dinner if you want, it looks like Arata has started cooking."
"Is it—"
"No, Todoroki. We're not having cold soba on a rainy day. Besides, Arata and I just had soba noodles for lunch yesterday, while we were out in the city."
"How was it?"
"What? The soba noodles?"
"I mean, her reaction to other people and vice versa," Todoroki explains, hinting at a certain police-turned-vigilante with a penchant for "hee-haw". The very same one who now sits in a prison cell for attempted murder, destined to remain there for the next six years.
"You mean, did someone pull a Donki on us?" Aizawa muses, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. "Nope. I didn't think another incident would occur either."
"Why? Isn't Hanakiri a well-known villain?"
"You think so?" Aizawa counters. "Todoroki, tell me the characteristics of the villains who were arrested a month ago."
"... I don't remember," Todoroki admits.
"Exactly," Aizawa states gruffly. "With the constant flow of information and the sheer number of villains wreaking havoc, it's easy to forget details as such. It's true that Hanakiri was notorious, but she is old news. The last sighting of her was three years ago.
"Do you think people still remember? Even if they have the capability, people are eager to just put it behind them. Only those with a personal involvement will remember her up to this day."
It could be the shame of failure, like what happened with Endeavor, Aizawa recounts in his head. Retribution and revenge, like Donki. Horror and dread, like the police. Accidental encounter, like me. Or whatever else, like the Shirayuki.
Of course, things might turn out differently if both Hanakiri and Arata had a very distinctive appearance, not merely common jet black hair and a pair of bright green eyes. That girl should be thankful that she is not a praying mantis mutant.
"The same as you. The reason you still recall U.S.J. attack and Stain is because you were personally involved," Aizawa continues, his hands tying his black hair into a low bun on his nape. "For other people, it is just one attack among a million other incidents."
"Does it mean that Ara is going to settle into the society just fine?" A sliver of hope underlies Todoroki's deep voice.
"Maybe." Aizawa doesn't want to promise the certainty of it, because there are too many variables that can influence the outcome. "Let's just try and see what's next."
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Perhaps it is the topic of their conversation that makes both Aizawa and Shoto so absorbed at the balcony, perhaps it is the lulling sense of the rainfall. Arata has no idea. She has been busy working on their dinner for the past hour.
"Aizawa-san? Shoto-san?" Her head timidly peeks out from the glass door, a black ponytail swinging lightly behind. "It's a bit early, but dinner is ready."
"Right, we're going in."
"Thanks, Ara."
Arata turns her head to the right, gazing at the rare drops fallen from above. "Oh, I didn't realize the rain had stopped."
Wind has torn open a rift in the vast overcast, slowly tracing the border with silver-golden linings, that herald the coming of eventide. Rays of light are shining through the celestial fissures, bathing the buildings and structures beneath in the glory of sundown.
It's like heaven opens up, her breath is caught in her throat. "Wow, the view up here... It's really pretty. Have you seen it, Shoto-san?"
"Well, I'm on the same balcony as you, Ara."
Aizawa glances at the bright-eyed girl beside him in amusement. Finally, someone who appreciates the perks of living in the upper stories.
He originally sought solitude in this place, but as the delicious smell of their dinner passes through him and the sound of their chatter fills his hearing, he thinks that perhaps—just perhaps—there will be more to it from now on.