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Little Mashirao doesn’t get all the fuss about the Quirks. He’s four years old and his friends are all abuzz, spending days talking excitedly about this power or the other, about how they’re going to use it to become super cool heroes. Mashirao just shrugs. It’s not like he isn’t at least a little excited about what he’ll get — he just doesn’t see the point in speculating. Mashirao won’t be disappointed if he stays quirkless, either. Everything will happen the way it ought to regardless of how he feels about it, so why bother?
He’s building tiny sandcastles, alone in a playground full of kids, when it becomes uncomfortable to sit. He gets up and tries to walk over to Mom to ask for help when something — something that he can feel — rips a hole in his shorts. Something new, something heavy. It throws him off-balance, and he falls face-first into the sand.
Mashirao hears other kids laugh, and it’s all very confusing but he doesn’t cry. Promised himself that he wouldn’t cry, so he doesn’t. Doesn’t turn around, either — just tries to get up, but only manages to lift it up. It lands on his back, warm and heavy, and he’s left just laying there. Mom can see him now — he’s become the center of attention to the kids on the playground. She comes over and helps him get up, a warm smile on her face.
“Aren’t you excited, Mashirao-chan? It’s your quirk! Wait until we show it to Dad!”
“I guess.” He looks up at her and smiles. For himself, too, but mostly for her.
It’s hard to get used to — it’s like having an unwanted friend follow you around everywhere. Still, the more time he spends in its company, the stronger he becomes. Soon enough, it’s not very heavy at all. He still doesn’t like to touch it, though. Tries not to use it too much, only maintaining enough awareness of it to balance himself when he walks.
Things stay like this for a while.
When he’s six, he’s walking through a construction site on his way to kindergarten when he hears a grown-up shout something at him. He freezes and curls up, his tail covering his head simply by instinct just before a brick lands on it. Must have been a cracked one because it shatters, bits of clay flying everywhere. His tail doesn’t seem worse for wear, although there’s probably going to be a bruise.
Mashirao doesn’t tell anyone about this, but it changes things. He starts wrapping it around his shoulder while walking around. Starts taking care of the tuft of hair at its tip—it used to get shaggy from neglect, and Mom would have to get him to clean it up. Cuddles it at night when it gets too cold. It’s a part of him and he should accept it. So he does.
He’s ten years old and he works very hard. It makes sense — Dad owned a dojo for many years now, inherited from Grandpa. Ojiro will inherit it at some point, too. Dad makes him practice a lot, focuses on him much more than other students. He’s much stronger now than he was four years ago, stronger than his peers. The tail helps, too. He likes it well enough — it just doesn’t feel right, sometimes. Feels unfair. He doesn’t love it. Dad is strict, though, and it’s something that he ought to do, so why not like it?
He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t have to. Sometimes, he wishes that he would.
Some days, he helps Mom out at the teahouse. He loves going there after practice and Mom lets him take part in the ceremonies, sometimes. The ritual, the clarity, the order — they help him relax. It feels right.
He’s fourteen when he starts to want something more. Wants to try something new. He’s won a number of tournaments and the Ojiro Dojo is very strong now, stronger than it had ever been, but it doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel like him.
One day, Mashirao sees two heroes apprehend a villain. There’s a hero-in-training with them, cheering them on. The boy chats him up. He’s only slightly older than Mashirao, flashy costume, fire in his eyes and in his hands. The boy speaks of chaos in the world, of what’s right, of making a difference. Just like that, the seed is planted and it sprouts, yet another sudden adornment. He’s familiar with these already, so he doesn’t waste time trying to reject it. Besides, it feels more than right. He thinks he loves it.
The U.A. entrance exam is difficult, but he’s well-equipped for the challenge. By now, the tail is almost completely solid muscle, stronger than an iron club. He’s strong and agile and he moves just right, smashing the smaller robots to bits and disabling the larger ones, but it’s still a challenge, and he doesn’t do as well as he should have. He makes preparations just in case it isn’t good enough. Applies to the General Department as well. Has to spend several days afterwards taking ice baths, waiting for the bruises on the tail to get better. It ends up being good enough, though. He smiles quietly to himself. Doesn’t feel victorious — he never really did. Just a little bit more complete.
He likes his classmates in 1-A well enough, some more than others. Feels that some of them understand him better. Spends free time with Tsuyu and Shouji when he’s not busy helping out his mom and dad. He likes the classes — practicals especially. Loves to see his old skills develop, loves putting them to new, better uses. Loves finding bits of joy where, before, there was only a shrug or a stern look. Loves discovering it all for himself. He doesn’t resent anything — he’s grateful, really. He wouldn’t be here without it. It’s just that it feels more right, that’s all.
Usually, he’s really focused in class, but he keeps getting distracted. Doesn’t quite understand why until he spots Hagakure drawing one day. She thinks he doesn’t notice her sketching him, but he does. Hears her intent breathing when she focuses on the task. Hears her let out a little laugh when she feels that she’s got the detail especially right, a detail that she thinks no one else sees. Knows that she smiles. Sees her smile. Smiles to himself, too.
He knows that it’s a part of him now and he doesn’t reject it. Only hopes that she won’t, either.