— — START — —
Sorashi practiced the next night.
And the night after that.
Never during the day. Never when the house was awake. Never when there was even a chance of footsteps in the hallway.
And he learned the sounds first.
The way the floor creaked near the door. The hum of the refrigerator dying down after midnight. The soft click of his parents' bedroom light being turned off.
Only then would he move.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, back straight, hands resting on his knees like he'd seen in some old martial arts video once. He didn't know why he did it that way. It just felt… right. Like preparation.
"Careful," he whispered to himself.
A cloud bloomed above his palm.
Small. Pale. Barely there.
His hair softened with it, white strands losing their sharpness, edges blurring until they looked like mist caught between solid and air. Sorashi watched it closely, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Last night, he'd made it too hard too fast. The cloud had snapped into shape, heavy enough to thud against the floor when he lost focus. He'd panicked and dispersed it immediately, heart pounding, terrified someone had heard.
So tonight, he went slower.
Soft first.
The cloud puffed outward, light and fluffy. He pressed his finger into it, feeling it give easily, like pressing into a pillow.
"That won't work," he muttered.
He thought of holding something long and solid. Thought of weight in his hands. Of resistance. Of the way heroes on screen swung their weapons with certainty, never doubting that it would be there when they reached for it.
The cloud tightened.
Not all at once. Not violently.
Just enough.
Sorashi poked it again. This time, it pushed back.
His breath caught. "…Okay."
He focused harder.
The cloud compressed further, edges smoothing, density increasing until it hovered above his palm like a block of condensed fog. Not metal. Not wood. But there.
His hair followed suit, growing heavier, strands clumping slightly as if gravity had suddenly decided they mattered more.
Sorashi grinned.
Then it slipped.
The shape warped, sagging at one end, the cloud losing cohesion and drooping toward the floor like melting dough.
"No—no, wait—"
He tried to fix it, panicked, and instead the whole thing unraveled.
Mist spilled from his hand.
Not falling.
Spreading.
It slid between his fingers, crept across the floor, thin and ghostlike, dissolving into nothing before it reached the wall.
Sorashi stared at his empty palm.
The cloud he'd formed moments ago had already thinned, dissolving into nothing but a faint chill against his skin.
"…It can do that too?"
He blinked.
Then smacked his own forehead.
"Well—duh!" he hissed under his breath. "It's a cloud!"
His heart raced—not with fear this time, but excitement.
If it could be soft.If it could be hard.If it could become mist—
Then it wasn't just one thing.
It could be a lot of things.
...
Nights like that became routine.
Though not every night. He wasn't that reckless... yet.
Just enough to matter.
He stayed up later than usual, lying about it poorly in the mornings. Woke up slower. Yawned through breakfast. Once, he nodded off at the table, spoon halfway to his mouth.
His mother noticed first.
"You're tired lately," she said gently, smoothing his hair. "Are you sleeping properly, baby?"
Sorashi nodded a little too fast. "Yeah! Super properly."
His father narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. "You're not using your quirk at night, are you?"
Sorashi stiffened.
"No," he said, truthfully enough. "I'm just… thinking about things."
They exchanged a look.
"…Try not to stay up, Sora," his mother said after a moment. "You're still growing."
The boy smiled. "Okay."
That night, he waited even longer before closing his door.
...
Over the following weeks, he learned in fragments.
Trial. Error. Adjustments made in silence.
He was certain, absolutely certain, that he discovered more about his quirk in those stolen nights than he had in all the years he'd lived with it.
He learned that if he didn't think of shape, his clouds defaulted to softness. That hardness required intention, not force. That if he imagined structure, the clouds obeyed better than when he imagined strength.
Once, he wrapped a thin cloud around his forearm and bumped into the corner of his desk.
It didn't hurt.
Another time, he shaped a cloud into a flat disk and dropped it.
It floated.
Just for a second.
Before collapsing into vapor.
He also learned that thinning them too much turned them into mist—good for hiding things, bad for holding them. That spreading them wide made them weak, but layering them made them resilient.
And that if the cloud drifted too far from him, his control weakened.
The edges would blur. The shape loosened. And eventually, no matter how hard he tried, it would unravel into harmless wisps and disappear.
It was something that irritated him, and instead of demoralizing him, it only made him want to clear that weakness.
One night, after screaming into his pillow when his cloud disappeared for the umpteenth time, Sorashi lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling fast.
"I need something real," he whispered.
- - - -
That was when he asked his parents.
"Can I learn a weapon?"
The question landed softly at the dinner table, spoken between bites of rice.
His parents froze. They looked at him like he'd asked to run away.
"A weapon?" his mother echoed.
"Just a stick," Sorashi rushed to explain. "Like a bo staff! They're not sharp. They're used for balance, and movement, and—"
"No," his father said, gently but firmly.
Sorashi deflated a little. "Oh."
The boy said in a small voice, "But I'll be careful."
"It's dangerous," his mother added, brushing his hair back. "You could get hurt."
He looked down and nodded.
They didn't argue.
And that was that.
Instead, when his birthday came, they gave him a piano.
He liked it.
That was the worst part.
The keys were smooth. The sounds were pretty. His parents smiled when he practiced, proud and relieved, as if the world had quietly corrected itself.
He learned to play it well. Learned which keys sounded sad, which sounded hopeful. Learned how to move his fingers independently, how to control pressure and timing.
But at night, after practicing it, he stared at his hands.
They were getting better.
Just… not at what he wanted.
- - - - -
Years passed like that.
School. Home. Quiet nights. Secret clouds.
By the time Sorashi realized it, three years had slipped past him.
Iida stayed in his life the way some constants did—unchanging, steady, always there. They were classmates year after year. Walked home together more often than not. Argued about rules. About speed. About posture.
Iida grew taller. Louder. More certain.
Sorashi stayed light on his feet. But something in him sharpened.
And after many Christmasses and birthdays, the boy asked his parents again. This time, he didn't plead.
...
"I don't want anything else," he said calmly. "Nothing for Christmas this year, nothing for my birthday. No trips. No games."
His parents listened this time.
"I just want a bo staff," he finished.
His mother and father talked late into the night.
In the end, they relented.
The staff was plastic. Hollow. With padded ends so soft they barely bounced.
Sorashi held it like it was sacred.
Then immediately spun.
"HA—!"
Then he slipped on his own feet, and the staff hit him square on his stomach as he fell forward.
There was a beat.
Then Sorashi turned flat on his back.
"…Ow."
Silence.
Then laughter—loud, breathless, unrestrained.
"Okay," he wheezed. "Definitely not like Kakarot yet."
This time, he trained properly.
Footwork first.
Balance before speed.
He watched videos online, copying stances, learning how to move without overcommitting. Practiced stepping, turning, pivoting—slow, deliberate, again and again.
Only later did he add the staff.
Only later did the clouds follow.
Sometimes, when he moved just right, mist curled around the staff without him meaning to.
He didn't stop it.
He smiled.
And kept going.
— — END — —
A/N: Happy New Year!