Chapter Text
“Girl, can I just say… yikes.”
Ashido’s voice on her shoulder causes her to yelp.
“Stars! Were you reading over my shoulder?” Momo asks, horrified. Maybe she should wait until she’s alone to use the notebook from here on out.
Before her, Ashido positively gleams, looking very much like the cat that got the cream.
“I see our little fishing trip got a bite.” Her pink-haired friend says, a teasing note in her voice. Momo looks away, ears and cheeks burning with poorly-concealed embarrassment.
“Someone replied a few days ago…” she mutters meekly.
“And you hadn’t said anything!?” Ashido is positively milking this. There is fake outrage in her voice, and even though she knows the girl is just teasing, Momo’s cheeks still color in embarrassment (and a little guilt). “Yaomomo, this isn’t like you.”
“Well, to be honest…” she starts, staring at the closed notebook in her hands, “I haven’t felt much like me this past week.”
Ashido’s gaze softens, no longer teasing.
“Hey, if you’re not comfortable doing this anymore, you can stop.” She says kindly, knowing full well that Momo would never have done any of this if not for her own (and their friends’) goading.
“No, no that’s not it. I… like it.”Momo admits, “I just feel… a lot of things. I’m not used to this.”
What she means is that she’s not used to putting herself out there, which she surmises Ashido must get, because she doesn’t reply, only looks at her softly from over the top of her phone. Momo is very thankful for her friends, but the truth is that she was sort of adopted into their friend group, having first met Kyoka hiding out inside a backroom at the concert hall where they were both supposed to perform for an inter-school recital. For all her dear friend’s musical prowess (and she really is a genius), Kyoka’s stage fright was almost crippling. Momo found the short-haired girl trying to sneak out a window while she herself tried to gulp down the nerves that threatened to paralyze her every time that an opportunity to disappoint presented itself. Caught, Kyoka had no other choice but to slowly back away from the window frame and try to make up an excuse for her being there and doing that. Momo eventually got the truth out of her and helped talk her short-haired friend down, and herself too in the process.
After that, both of them gave amazing performances (though Momo will never allow anyone to gainsay her in her affirmations that Kyoka was the brightest star that night) and exchanged numbers. Being friends with Kyoka was easy in a way her other friendships weren't, and after experiencing the girl’s friendship, she wasn’t so sure she could truly call her other acquaintances “friendships”. The purple-haired girl had also introduced her to Ashido and Hagakure, and they’d welcomed her with open arms and makeover nights. It was fun in a way her upbringing hadn’t really afforded her before.
“That’s okay,” Ashido coos, jumping on her back so she can braid her hair, “everything is scary the first time around.”
And the thing is, she really hits the nail on the head with that comment, because while Momo isn’t one to publicize the things that scare her, it is an embarrassingly big amount of things. What Notebook Boy asks of her is a big deal, something she hasn’t shared with anyone else. She admits that her pen pal has been more than forthcoming, but baring herself like that? How could she ever?
At least that’s what she would think if she were alone, but with Ashido’s hands running through her hair and her words settling cozily inside her heart, it’s not so daunting anymore. In the cold days of late november, her newfound courage warms her to her bones.
“You’re right, Ashido-san.” she concedes, invigorated. She stands up, moving away before her pink-haired friend can finish the braid. “So I guess I should get the first time over with and make it less scary.”
“What.”
Momo yelps. She’s always startled by the grumpiness of the Plus Ultra clerk. He is never specifically rude to her, just… not nice, exactly. But despite his prickly exterior, he always seems to have the sort of book she’s looking for when she’s browsing the shelves and he’s restocking. And, most importantly, he never chews her off for asking to take it off the cart (although one can’t reasonably argue that “whatever, you better actually buy it” is praise-worthy customer service).
“Um.” she starts. Now that she’s actually in front of him, red moleskine notebook in one gloved hand, the other tightly gripping her bag, she’s not so sure she’s ready to share what she wrote on it. The seconds stretch on in silence, the clerk giving her a bored once-over as she ruminates her decision. His red-eyed gaze comes to rest somewhere around her chest, and in any other circumstance, she’d be ready to issue a jaw-bruising punch, but she knows exactly what he’s looking at. Oh no.
“That’s for me, isn’t it.” he asks, but there’s no question in his tone.
“N-no!” Momo’s hands flutter about, trying to convey physical denial. The clerk doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes take on a mischievous glint.
“Give it.” He demands, “I’m going to make that bastard suffer for it.”
A wicked grin splits his face, and Momo feels a small shiver run down her back. Whoever Notebook Boy is, he probably needs to reevaluate his choices in dropoff sites and people. Regardless, she hands him the notebook, albeit reluctantly.
“Please don’t kill him.” She begs, voice barely above a whisper.
“No promises.”
Shoto’s first punishment of the semester comes from the courtesy of one Katsuki Bakugo.
Of course, his math teacher would argue that each of them is responsible for their own punishment, but really, if Bakugo hadn’t taunted them about making him suffer to get the notebook, if he hadn’t dangled it in front of him like some meanie fourth grader, Shoto wouldn’t have needed to jump him. And if he hadn’t implied he had read the contents of the notebook, then he wouldn’t have had to punch him.
So yeah, it’s definitely Bakugo’s fault he’s holding pallets of water in the hallway instead of sitting in math class. He’s not mad about it anymore though, not knowing the blond was probably just showing off in front of his friends, and not when the divisive notebook now lays securely inside his coat’s breast pocket. What’s holding a couple dozen liters of water against the possibility of Notebook Girl’s name?
Even though it kills him, he waits until after class to read her message. He’s just not willing to risk any interruptions. And boy, is it worth the wait:
Dear Notebook Boy,
There’s something about this time of year that just fills me with wistfulness. I think it’s the early sunsets, but my friends chalk it up to seasonal depression. Reading your previous message, I couldn’t help but tear up. What you shared was really personal, and I thank you for trusting me with it. I didn’t give you a dare in my previous message, but it seems the scales are now tipped in your favor, so I must do something to even out our situation.
I don’t like thinking negative thoughts on Christmas, but my honor won’t let me refuse your question.
I come from a privileged family. Normally, this is a non-issue, because my parents tried their best to “raise me right” (at least it’s what my mother says), and I’m too boring to be a troublemaker. Sadly, my extended family, while not poor, does not enjoy the same level of comfort that my family does.
When I was twelve, my family spent the holidays at my grandparents’ house, along with my aunts and uncles, and their children. I had gotten really good grades that year, and my piano recital was a success (I was trembling all throughout, though!), so my parents went a little overboard with my presents. Up to that point, I had always thought my family loved me, just as I loved them back, but on Christmas morning, my family took all my presents, said I was “spoiled and pampered enough”, and distributed them between my other cousins.
I hope you won’t think my worst Christmas was about the presents. It truly wasn’t. That year I learned that, in my extended family’s eyes, I didn’t deserve any of the things I had, no matter how hard I had worked for them. Because of my parent’s wealth, I was less deserving of love and consideration in their eyes. It was a big deal for a twelve-year-old, and I’ll admit this sixteen year old isn’t quite over it.
As far as worst christmas go, there certainly are worse, but you were honest, and I wanted to be, too.
Now, I’m not as eager to part with my name. However, if you really want to know, head to the Yuuei dancing troupe rehearsal site (address attached at the bottom), and find a girl with pink hair. Show her the notebook, and she’ll tell you what to do to get my name.
Sincerely,
Y.M.