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Izuku lands hard on his hands and knees. Dead leaves, pebbles, and roots dig into his palms. He gets to his feet, brushing away the dirt from his pants and ignoring the abrasions on his exposed skin.
The woods are dark and deep, pinpricks of sun flickering through the thick green canopy.
A thud, a yelp, and a crash sound from behind him. He whips around. Kacchan's lying flat on his back, pinching his nose as he squints upward.
Izuku dashes towards him, and Kacchan's dazed eyes blink in an attempt to focus. Blood drips from his nose.
"You're bleeding!" Izuku grabs his arm to pull him up.
Kacchan shakes him off. "Let go! I'm fine."
"You need to sit up and tilt your head forward so you don't swallow—"
"I know first aid, nerd; gimme a goddamn minute," Kacchan grumbles, sitting himself up and pinching his nose. When the blood stops, he wipes the excess off on his black tank.
This time, when Izuku offers him a hand up, he takes it. Despite their situation, warmth swells in Izuku’s chest. Kacchan’s come a long way after nearly dying a year ago, but Izuku doesn’t want to press his luck, so he releases his grasp and looks away.
“I’m gonna get a quick look at our surroundings.” Izuku relaxes his body, preparing to activate Float.
Nothing happens.
He tries again.
Nothing.
“What the…”
Kacchan tilts his head. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just gimme a sec.” Izuku closes his eyes and takes a deep, steady breath. Relax. When Izuku opens his eyes, his feet are still firmly planted in the forest understory. A muted, thrumming panic settles in his bones. He gulps. “Use your quirk.”
Katsuki’s brow stitches. “In the middle of a goddamn forest?”
“Just, like… sparks! In your hand!”
Kacchan turns a cupped palm towards the sky. His eyes widen as he stares down at it. His arm jerks a little. “The fuck did that asshole do?” His growl is angry, but there's a lilt of fear in his words.
Izuku can’t help the anxious thought from spilling out his mouth. “We’re… quirkless?”
Kacchan glares daggers at Izuku, clenching his hands into shaking fists. “That asshole ain’t All for One. There’s no way he was powerful enough to steal our quirks. I’m sure it’s just some weird effect from being transported…” He looks around the woods, “wherever the fuck we are. C’mon, let’s find our bearings so we can get home.”
Izuku knows Kacchan is right, so he reluctantly follows, skirting around trees, expertly dodging branches that snap back at him as they move through the old growth.
He can’t believe that less than an hour ago, he and Kacchan were enjoying each other’s company at a new soba stand that had opened just outside the UA campus. They were doing that on occasion these days: running errands, grabbing lunch, helping each other with homework in unfamiliar yet comfortable silence. It’d been a year since Edgeshot saved Kacchan’s life—since they reunited in the Vestige Realm and saved the world through whatever weird, indescribable bond they shared. Somehow, they can hang out like normal friends again. More often than not, they even have normal conversations.
Not only that, but his life calmed down once they defeated All for One. He had a raging case of PTSD, sure, but most days, Izuku was able to be a normal hero course student. His life consisted of classwork, training, and stopping petty villains. Nothing too dangerous.
It was everything Izuku’d dreamed of.
“I’ve seriously been craving soba.” Izuku’s mouth watered as they approached the stand. He dug through his wallet and pulled out his debit card, frowning. "Wait. Never mind, sorry. I forgot I spent the last of my money on an All Might merch mystery box yesterday."
“Here, nerd—I’ll pay,” Katsuki shoved a few notes in front of the cashier. “We’ll take two. One pork and one…” He looked at Izuku.
“Beef, please.”
He barely got the words out. Because Kacchan? Paying for his food? Wild.
The cashier took the money and scooped their portions into thick paper bowls.
Izuku’s cheeks flushed hot. “I'll pay you back next—”
“Just be more careful with your goddamn money next time,” he sneered.
Danger sense prickled in Izuku’s mind. He whipped around, narrowing in on a masked man in a long black jacket.
“What’s wrong?” Kacchan asked. He might not have danger sense himself, but he knows Izuku well enough to tell when it’s activated.
“Him.” Izuku gestured towards the man.
Kacchan frowned at his soba. “Really? I just bought these, and now we gotta—”
The man disappeared before their eyes. Izuku dropped into a defensive stance, whipping his head around. When the masked man reappeared inches from his face, he jumped back, dropping his soba onto the cement.
One for All activated on instinct now, but Izuku couldn't move his body. He couldn’t even blink. His eyes teared and strained. In his periphery, Kacchan was frozen, too, and the once-bustling outdoor market was still—not even a breeze or the sound of cars on nearby streets pierced the deadly silence.
“Midoriya Izuku and Bakugo Katsuki,” the man said. He was at least as tall as Jeanist, towering over Izuku. Up close, Izuku could make out the numbers etched on his mask. 422. 76. 1827. 1681. 2003. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Izuku felt the rage radiating off Kacchan, mixing with his own apprehensive confusion.
“I thought the two of you might enjoy solving one of my riddles.” He swooped in front of Kacchan with exaggerated theatrics that reminded Izuku of Mr. Compress. “You’re quite intelligent. At the top of your class, yes?”
Why villains insisted on monologuing and asking stupid questions when heroes couldn’t answer was something Izuku’d never understood, but it pissed him off anyway. He wanted nothing more than to scream at the villain, but he couldn’t even clench his fists.
“I have my own sort of… exclusive escape room that I’d like to invite you to." The man tilted his head towards Izuku. “Perhaps you’ve heard the story of the Riddle of the Zen Garden?”
Of course Izuku had. It was All Might’s favorite folktale, and he’d mentioned it in several interviews over the years.
“If not,” the man continued, “you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.”
He splayed one hand over Izuku’s forehead and placed the other on Kacchan’s. The next thing Izuku knew, he was falling hard onto an unfamiliar forest floor.
When they stumble across a path, Kacchan whips out his phone, raising it in the air. “No bars. You?”
Izuku removes his phone from his pocket, frowning. “Nothing. We must really be in the middle of nowhere.”
“My GPS ain’t even working.” Kacchan furiously taps at his phone. “When we get back, I’m blasting that fucker into next Tuesday.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Izuku prickles with annoyance, not necessarily at Kacchan, but at the situation as a whole. “For now, we need to focus on what he meant about this being an exclusive escape room, or whatever. And what it has to do with the Riddle of the Zen Garden.”
“Yeah, I don’t even know what that is,” Kacchan says.
Another branch snaps back as he walks forward, and Izuku catches it a moment before it whaps him in the face. “It’s All Might’s favorite folktale! You don’t have to pretend not to be a fanboy, Kacchan—it’s just me.”
Kacchan drops his shoulders, huffing. “I’m not pretending anything; I don’t remember ever hearing about this damn story.”
Izuku takes out his phone again, grabbing Kacchan’s wrist to stop his march forward. “I’m pretty sure I have a PDF of it saved on my phone—aha!”
“‘Course you do,” Kacchan says fondly.
Izuku’s heart lifts. He’s still not used to hearing words like that from Kacchan without venom attached. “Look.” He zooms in on the painting at the top of the story, where a young boy stands in the middle of a zen garden, raking its gravel into various designs to emulate waves and ripples. “It’s the story of a young boy named Dai who lost his family in a war. He visits a wise old woman in his village and asks how he can get his family back. The woman insists it’s all but impossible, but when he pleads for an answer, she tells him to travel to a faraway, long-abandoned temple.”
Izuku looks at Kacchan. He’s expecting him to be glaring, about to tell him to get on with it, but he’s just… watching Izuku, listening to his ramblings with tender attention, eyes soft, the corners of his mouth twisted into the slightest smirk.
Izuku clears his throat, looking back at the story. “A-anyway, the woman tells him there’s an ancient garden there, and if he can rake the gravel into a design that shows the beauty of all life, he’ll be able to travel back in time to save his family.”
Kacchan leans against a tree trunk. “So how’d he do it? What’s the pattern?”
“He—ah—died before he could complete it,” Izuku gulps.
“Shit,” Kacchan hisses. “How’d he die?”
“Froze during a bad winter storm.”
“The hell is the moral of that ? Aren’t these dusty old stories supposed to teach a goddamn lesson?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t write it!” Izuku stuffs his phone back into his pocket. “C’mon, let’s keep going.”
Izuku doesn’t know how long they walk—just that his feet are starting to hurt—when the woods finally thin. Through the trees, he can make out a small building with faded, chipping red paint. Kacchan notices, too, and without a word, they sprint forward, spilling out into a clearing. It’s a small, ancient temple in disrepair. Its roof is covered in moss, and its plaster walls crack. At its base is a small, overgrown gravel garden.
“Fuck,” Kacchan curses.
Izuku springs forward, picking up one of the discarded rakes and loosening the weeds from the gravel.
“What’re you doing?” Kacchan asks.
“I don’t think we’re gonna be able to show the beauty of all life with weeds everywhere,” Izuku says, working furiously.
Kacchan crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell me you’re not actually playing this villain’s stupid game.”
“How else are we supposed to get home?”
“I dunno—keep going ‘til we find civilization?” Kacchan’s already heading towards the wide path on the other side of the temple. Izuku drops the rake and follows Kacchan, because yeah—that makes a lot more sense than playing this villain’s stupid game.
As they walk, he can’t shake the feeling it’s not going to be that simple.
They continue for what feels like about a mile before cresting over a large hill. Izuku looks at the expansive valley below, which holds a dozen or so well-kept, traditional homes with terracotta-tiled roofs. On the outskirts—closer to the fields—are a smattering of simple wooden homes. Izuku notes the comforting, eerie quiet. He should be able to hear the sounds of traffic echoing through the valley, but he’s greeted by nothing but the chirping of birds and the swish of a gentle breeze.
“Maybe it’s one of those living history towns,” Izuku says, but he can’t hide the uncertainty in his voice. He quickens his pace to a jog, Kacchan following close behind. As they draw closer to the town, the dirt road transforms to one of large, carefully laid cobblestones. Izuku sniffs at the air, mouth watering as he takes in the aroma of grilled meat. They skirt through the shadows of the pristinely preserved buildings that empty into a large town square bustling with food stands and other merchants hawking their goods.
Izuku’s breath catches. His mom took him to a few historical reenactments when he was a kid, but this is different. The actors and vendors are always decked in traditional garb in varying degrees of anachronism, but the majority of visitors wear modern, casual clothing. Izuku grips the hem of his UA t-shirt, self-conscious of the fact that he and Kacchan are the only people not donning yukata.
Raised voices catch his attention.
“If you don’t like yuzu rice vinegar, I suggest trying the inferior soba stand down the street.” An short, hunched old woman in a muted yellow yukata yanks a wooden bowl of noodles out of her would-be patron’s hands. Her accent is impeccably accurate to the time they're pretending to be in, at least from what Izuku’s heard in period dramas. She does a lot better than most reenactors.
“I’m simply asking for a modification!” says the young man. “I find the vinegar unpalatable—”
“My grandfather spent the better part of his life perfecting this recipe.” There’s a stern calmness to the woman’s voice as she sets the bowl on the counter of her small noodle stand.
“I want my money back.” The young man takes a step towards the woman, puffing out his chest.
Izuku runs forward, putting himself between them. He places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, uh… maybe take a sec to cool off? Explore the rest of the market a bit?”
The man’s eyes run quizzically up and down Izuku’s frame.
Izuku gently nudges the man away from the soba stand. “How would your grandma feel if you talked about her food like that?”
The man’s cheeks flush with shame.
“Walk it off.” Izuku pats the man on the back, watching as he disappears into a thick crowd of people watching a Noson Kabuki play on a small, makeshift stage in the middle of the town square.
When he turns back to check on the old woman, Kacchan’s already there, holding the bowl of noodles close to his face as he slurps them up with a pair of chopsticks.
Izuku glares, stomach rumbling.
The chopsticks droop in Kacchan’s hand. “What?”
Izuku shakes his head. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
She chuckles. “Thank you for your concern, young man, but if I had a coin for every time a would-be customer disrespected me, I wouldn’t have to drag my aching bones out here every day."
Kacchan slurps again. It’s driving Izuku’s empty stomach insane. “Can I borrow some money, Kacchan? I can pay you back next week when my work-study check comes through.”
Kacchan sets down the bowl and pulls out his wallet, sliding a folded one-thousand yen note across the counter. The woman picks it up, heavy creases deepening on her brow as she inspects it. “I can’t accept this.”
Izuku balks. “Do we need to exchange it for festival tokens or something?” He hates when you can’t just use real money at these things. It’s such a pain in the ass.
“Tokens?” the woman says. “I’m not following. Unless you can present me with a currency I’m familiar with, I can’t accept it.”
The needling thought Izuku’s been trying to ignore presses deeper into his mind. “What year is it?”
Please break character. Please break character. Please break—
“It’s 2302, of course?” She looks at Izuku like he’s just flown in from another planet.
He pulls Kacchan aside. "I think we're, like, actually in the past."
"Yeah, no shit. What was your first clue?"
“They used a different calendar back in the day, right? It was based on the year the first emperor came into power.” Izuku presses his fingers against his temples. “What was that, like, 600 BCE?”
Kacchan shakes his head. “660 BCE.”
Izuku snorts. “That’s an oddly specific fact for you to remember.”
“I ain’t apologizing for paying attention in history class.”
“Okay, nerd.”
Kacchan sneers, sticking his tongue out between his teeth. It’s… adorable. “You can’t just steal my line like that!”
“I’m just saying,” Izuku shrugs, “If you didn’t have some nerdy tendencies, you’d be better at crepe dates than historical ones.”
As murderous rage ignites across Kacchan’s face, Izuku turns on his heel and flees, skirting through the crowd and letting his laughs flow freely. He doesn’t know when egging Kacchan on became so fun, but he lives for moments like these.
“Get back here!” Kacchan’s loud footfalls tell Izuku he’s trailing close. “You wanna see how good I am with crepe dates? I’ll take you on such a good crepe date, it’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
Izuku stops dead, and Kacchan bumps into him, sending Izuku hurtling forward. Somehow, he musters up the gumption face Kacchan. When Izuku sees that his fierce, twisted expression is tinged with something a little softer—something he can’t quite put his finger on—his mind sputters to a stop.
Kacchan blinks.
Izuku holds his breath. If he stays still for long enough, maybe he’ll turn into a statue and never have to respond.
Kacchan’s jaw twitches. He's not going to let up, and Izuku's never been good at staring contests.
“I… uh…” Izuku gulps. “It’s 1642. Were crepes invented yet?”
“Fuck if I know. I’m a little preoccupied with the fact that we’re stuck in the past.” Kacchan rubs at his eyes. “People won’t even know we’re missing. They won’t be born for hundreds of years.”
“We’ll have to solve the puzzle,” Izuku says.
“Figured you’d say that.”
Izuku looks back at Kacchan’s neglected bowl on the noodle stand. “Are you gonna finish that?”
“Hah? That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“We can’t just fight our way out of this one, Kacchan.” He strides back over, politely asking the old woman if he can have the rest.
She agrees, raising an eyebrow. “You boys aren’t from around here.”
“Where is ‘here,’ anyway?” Izuku slurps at the half-eaten noodle bowl.
“Musutafu.”
Kacchan’s made his way back to the stand, and he’s leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. “You know anything about that old temple near the woods?”
The woman’s face pales, accentuating the wrinkles around her mouth. “Don’t go near that thing. It’s cursed.”
Izuku gulps, and Kacchan barely suppresses a laugh behind his hand.
“What d’you mean?” Izuku asks.
“Many have been tempted to look after it. To tend its garden. The caretaker’s cottage is free to anyone willing to take it on, after all. Seems a fair deal, but once you so much as pull a single weed, you’re bound to it. You can’t go beyond the boundaries of Musutafu until it’s decided it’s done with you. And it’s never done with you.”
Izuku clenches his fists against the fear rising in his stomach. He tries to rationalize. It can’t be true, not in this pre-quirk era. Unless that masked villain did something to it. If he could send people back in time, did that mean he could affect things in the past, too? But binding someone to a place would require another, equally powerful quirk. Did he have an accomplice?
Kacchan catches his eye, and Izuku realizes he’s been muttering again. He takes Izuku by the arm and drags him back towards the temple, calling back to the woman, “Thanks for the tip on the free housing!”
Kacchan’s grip is tight, and Izuku’s not exactly fighting against his furious march. He’s overwhelmed by thoughts of being trapped here in an even greater capacity than he thought: not only in time, but space as well. And Kacchan’s hand is rough and determined and hot on his arm, and, well… that’s giving him other thoughts that he shouldn’t be worried about, but they keep swarming his mind regardless.
“I already touched the garden!” Izuku says. “What if it’s not an old wives' tale? What if that villain has an accomplice who—”
“You already said all that shit out loud,” Kacchan says. “Who cares if we’re trapped in some shitty, agrarian version of Musutafu? We’re already stuck hundreds of years in the past!”
When they reach the garden, Kacchan lets go of Izuku’s hand. “Let's do this, I guess.”
Izuku steps between Kacchan and the mess of gravel overgrown with weeds. “Just because I’m stuck here doesn’t mean you have to be!”
Kacchan scoffs, shoving past Izuku. Izuku takes his wrist and pulls him back. “Don’t you dare.”
When he tries to shake him off, Izuku holds on, pulling Kacchan closer. Kacchan takes rapid breaths that wash across his neck.
“You can’t win without your quirk," Kacchan snarls.
“You don’t have your quirk either, idiot!” Izuku says. “At least I know how to live without one!”
Izuku barely follows the rapid-fire expressions that distort Kacchan’s face. Shock. Fury. Devastation. One moment, he’s frozen. The next, his fist clocks Izuku in the face.
Izuku’s head explodes with pain. He stumbles backward, loosing his hold on Kacchan, stars inhibiting his vision as Kacchan rushes forward and pulls a weed out of the gravel, grinning with fiery spite. “Wives' tale or not, you’re stuck with me, nerd. Don’t ever fucking forget it.”
Katsuki’s… quirkless.
He’s quirkless.
He’s quirkless, he’s trapped in the past, and after the shit he just pulled, he might even be stuck in Musutafu.
Okay, so he shouldn’t have punched Izuku in the face. He hasn’t done that in a long time outside of mutually agreed-upon spars.
But Izuku didn’t listen (he never fucking listens). He didn’t respect Katsuki’s decision to make this sacrifice. Because perfect, saintly Izuku can immolate himself a million times over, but when Katsuki tries to do the same? It's all, Kacchan, how could you? Don't you ever think of yourself?
Goddamn beautiful, infuriating nerd.
Katsuki throws the wilted weed aside. Izuku’s rubbing his temple as tears fill his eyes and run down his cheeks.
Katsuki heaves a sigh. “You gotta stop trying to decide what’s best for me. Ever heard of a little thing called free will?"
Izuku seethes, clenching his fists until his knuckles turn white. He lunges at Katsuki, and Katsuki raises his hand, bracing himself to launch an explosion that doesn't —can't— manifest. Izuku ducks on instinct, headbutting Katsuki in the stomach like a battering ram and sending them both careening onto the gravel.
Izuku has the advantage of not being smashed between the hard ground and another man’s hard… muscles, and he scrambles to his feet, still bent over Katsuki. He fists Katsuki’s shirt and lifts Katsuki's upper half off the ground with ease.
Katsuki gasps. Even without One for All, Izuku is… strong. Katsuki balls a fist and tries to clock him again, but Izuku lets go and jerks back, Katsuki’s blow grazing his jaw. He falls backward at the sudden release, sweeping his leg at Izuku’s feet as hard as he can.
When Izuku stumbles, Katsuki kicks his legs out again, and Izuku falls hard on his stomach, hands skidding against gravel and weeds. He grabs a handful and tosses it at Katsuki’s face. It fucking stings, and his eyes flutter shut on instinct, burning and flooding with tears.
“Oh, now you’re fighting dirty?” Katsuki braces himself as his vision returns to normal, but the next attack doesn’t come.
Izuku sits himself up, tracing the bloody abrasions on his palm with gnarled, scarred fingers. “You’re the one who swung at me out of nowhere.”
“You wouldn’t stop ordering me around!” Katsuki won’t let anyone tell him what to do. Not even Izuku. “Getting all worked up over some stupid, old legend.”
“With everything else going on, you still think it’s a legend?” Izuku’s face falls, and he’s crying big, ugly tears again. “What if you just signed yourself up to being stuck in a three kilometer radius with me until we solve this fucking thing?” Izuku swipes his hand across the ground, and it kicks up a cloud of dirt that dissipates in the breeze.
Katsuki raises himself up and sits cross-legged, intently focused on the hem of his jeans as he gathers his thoughts, looking for any excuse not to meet Izuku’s eyes. Izuku only swears when he’s worked up or pissed off, and Katsuki has a feeling it’s an unhealthy mix of both right now.
“What’d I tell you last year when Uraraka gave that big speech?” Katsuki asks.
“That you guys would step up when I couldn’t handle something.” Izuku wipes at his eyes, cringing a little when salty tears touch his raw palms. “But there’s no 2-A anymore. Or they don’t exist yet. This is so stupid and confusing."
Katsuki forces his gaze upward, unfocusing his eyes because he can't bear the way his own expressions have been creeping onto Izuku's face lately.
“Maybe you don't have our class to back you up anymore. But you’ve still got me," Katsuki says. "The extras might be different, but it’s still me and you facing off against the latest asshole that's decided to take a shit all over our lives.”
Izuku laughs, but there's little humor in his voice. "You and me again, huh? What're the chances?"
"Pretty high, ya needy-ass parasite.'
"Hey! I've gotten better!"
Katsuki hides his smile behind a snarl.
It's always been the two of them, but Katsuki doesn't say that.
I’m here to step in when you can’t handle everything alone.
They're not. But I am.
“Also, they’re our friends, Kacchan, not extras.”
“Call ‘em what you want.” Katsuki flicks his hand dismissively. “We’ll see them again soon. Now stop trying to control everything and help me solve this escape room from hell."
“I should’ve eaten more of those noodles,” Izuku grumbles as he gets to his feet. "I'm starving."
“Get your ass moving, and maybe we can finish this and get home in time for dinner.”
They do not, in fact, get home in time for dinner. They manage to pull most of the weeds, but with the sun setting and the valley growing colder by the minute, Katsuki and Izuku resign themselves to being stuck in the past for the night.
Stomachs growling, they trudge into the cottage. Katsuki squints into the twilight-lit room. It’s simple—dusty from disuse—with a smattering of simple wood furniture. Glimpsing the andon oil lamp in the center of the small, low table, Katsuki looks at the oil well at its base. The liquid inside glints in the low light. He opens the small box next to the lamp, revealing a piece of quartz and a thin metal cylinder.
It takes him a few tries, especially with Izuku looming over him like the pest he is, but Katsuki manages to get the lamp lit. On camping trips, he’s always relied on his quirk to start fires, and he’s hit with a pang of nostalgia and pride as soft yellow light washes over the room.
Izuku’s already rifling through the small pantry next to the stove. He heaves out a heavy sack of rice and sets it atop the range.
“You got any idea how long that’ll take to cook on this ancient fuckin’ stove?” Katsuki asks.
Izuku frowns. “I was pulling out the rice to look behind it.” He leans back down and pulls out a few jars. “There’s tons of pickled food in here! Daikon, cucumbers, some kinda whitefish…”
Katsuki sticks out his tongue in disgust. “If they ain’t old enough to kill you, your breath’s gonna reek.
Izuku pops the lid off one of the jars. “Are you planning on being close enough to smell my breath, Kacchan?”
He says it so nonchalantly—just rummaging through the drawer for a pair of chopsticks. Katsuki grits his teeth. He can’t tell if Izuku’s oblivious or the world’s worst flirt.
It’s not the first time Izuku’s made a comment like that since the War ended, but it’s annoying and confusing because it’s somehow casual, idiotic, and suggestive all at once.
“Just don’t make yourself sick, dummy,” Katuski says. “Antibiotics haven’t been invented yet.”
Izuku’s face falls, and he sets down the the jar. “Maybe I should take a note out of Uraraka’s book and eat sleep for dinner.” He eyes the modestly sized futon on the floor in the corner of the room.
Katsuki prickles with annoyance. It’s big enough for two people. Barely. It’d be hard to sleep without brushing up against Izuku in one way or another. Before the War, Katsuki probably would’ve pushed past Izuku and lay claim to the mattress, and Izuku would’ve resigned himself to sleeping on the floor.
Things are different now. The shift might have started when All Might passed One for All onto Izuku, but when All for One targeted Katsuki because he was closer to Midoriya Izuku than anybody else? That’s when the ground split beneath him and shattered his world.
Izuku stretches his arms towards the ceiling before folding back the plushy quilt. He sniffs at the armpits of his tee, wrinkling his nose as he pulls it over his head and tosses it over one of the chairs. Then he slides beneath the covers and folds his hands under his head.
The flutter Katsuki’s heart gives at such simple, everyday actions aggravates his tired, stressed out brain. He’d always been single mindedly fixated on Izuku, even back when his inferior-superiority complex fueled him, but being targeted and almost killed by the strongest villain the world had ever known because of his connection to Izuku? Because Izuku, of all people, had surpassed him in the only thing Katsuki was ever good at? He hadn’t been taken down several notches—he’d slipped down the ladder entirely and landed on his face.
“You think you can just call dibs on the bed?” Katsuki bites.
“N-no…” Izuku scoots over to the other side of the bed until his shoulder presses against the wall.
Katsuki blows out the oil lamp and takes slow, steady steps towards the futon. Towards Izuku. It’s dusk now, and he can barely make out the shape of it in the dark room. Without a light source, the chill in the drafty cottage is more noticeable, and he’s not sure if the shiver that runs up his spine has to do with the temperature or the fact that he’s about to share a bed with Izuku for the first time since they had sleepovers when they were brats.
He contemplates sleeping on top of the quilt, but it’s already cold, and he knows he’ll just wake up shivering if he falls back on that comfortable habit, so he slides under the blanket, shoulder brushing against Izuku’s as he reluctantly drinks up the heat radiating from his friend’s body.
Izuku shifts onto his side to face Katsuki, the blurry imprint of silhouette fading as the set sun withdraws the last of its light from their world.
“No light pollution,” Izuku’s voice trickles through the darkness. “I’ll bet the stars look amazing.”
Katsuki grumbles his agreement. “My parents took me to Iriomote Ishigaki when I was a kid. It’s one of those dark sky places astronomy nerds cream their pants over. We brought a telescope, and I gotta admit—it was pretty damn cool.”
“Was it so cool you creamed your pants?” Izuku’s voice is saturated with amusement.
Katsuki shoves Izuku’s shoulder, but there’s no force behind it. “Stop being a perv. The sooner we get to sleep, the sooner we can figure out the stupid pattern that shows the beauty of all life or whatever.”
Izuku shuffles a little and lets out a contented grumble. “You really think we can figure out the pattern that quickly? That kid from the story died after working on it for how long?”
The once soothing darkness shifts to something more sinister. More permanent. Katsuki fights the urge to move closer to Izuku.
“He was almost a decade younger than us, and he didn’t have any help,” Katsuki says, half to comfort Izuku and half to settle the tightness in his chest. The darkness is emboldening him, loosening his tongue, drawing out the thoughts he imprisons in his heart. “Dunno if you’ve noticed, but we actually work well together when we aren’t at each other’s throats.”
“Does that mean you’re not gonna sucker-punch me again?”
“As long as you stop being a goddamn martyr.”
Izuku snickers, shifting his weight on the futon in a way that makes Katsuki roll ever-so-slightly closer. “Good night, Kacchan.”
Maybe it’s the all-consuming darkness that enshrouds him. Maybe it’s the symphony of crickets easing the worry of Katsuki’s booming, erratic thoughts. Or maybe it’s the warm, contented body of his osananajimi nestled beside him.
Whatever it is, Katsuki finds contentment in the quiet simplicity of Izuku’s deep, even breaths as he finds sleep.
Izuku wakes up as dawn washes soft light through his closed eyes. He’s comfortable and content, pressed against a warm, smooth presence.
Wait.
He snaps open his eyes, freezing with fear, horror, and something else he isn’t able or willing to put his finger on.
Oh my god; I’m cuddling Kacchan.
Izuku freezes, taking in shallow, stymied breaths, terrified that any movement could rouse the acerbic little spoon into a frenzy.
He has to figure out how to detach himself from this predicament. It’s a herculean feat, as Izuku wants nothing more than to pull Kacchan closer and bury his face in the soft blond spikes tickling his cheek.
Izuku’s lucky he woke up first, but the more time he spends contemplating a course of action, the higher the likelihood of Kacchan waking up and blowing his head off.
Kacchan shifts in his arms. “Izu…ku…?”
Izuku gulps. Too late. He surrenders himself to lizard-brained instinct and plays dead.
…okay, he pretends he’s still asleep, but if Kacchan thinks Izuku’s dead, at least he won’t have any incentive to kill him.
Kacchan shifts a little, settling deeper into Izuku’s arms and pinning one underneath him. Okay. So he didn’t wake up enough to realize what was happening, but now Izuku’s trapped in the maw of a ravenous beast with nothing to do but wait for his execution as his arm grows more numb by the minute.
Eventually, Kacchan sits up, and Izuku puts everything he’s got into the act. I’m asleep; I’m asleep. Don’t kill me—I’m asleep!
Kacchan’s weight disappears from the futon, and his bare feet pad across the room. Izuku listens to the creak of the pump from the well and the splash of water.
Wait. Kacchan just… got up? Like it was nothing? Like he hadn’t just woken up in Izuku’s arms?
What the fuck.
A knock sounds at the door, and Izuku opens his eyes just enough to make out the distorted shape of Kacchan opening it to the old woman they met at the market the day before.
“I thought you two might be hungry.” She shoves an overfilled basket into Kacchan’s arms.
“Uh… Thanks? How’d you know we were here?”
“Two outsiders who speak strangely and dress in foreign clothes? Everyone’s got their eye on you. Prime gossip spreads quickly in a sleepy town like this.” She shoulders past Katsuki, gesturing for him to set the basket on the table. “I wouldn’t be a very good auntie if I let two young men go hungry.”
Deciding there’s been enough noise for it not to look suspicious if he “wakes up,” Izuku emits a loud yawn and stretches his arms over his head.
“Rise and shine, nerd,” Kacchan says. “We got company. Remember the lady who gave us noodles yesterday?”
“My name is Fuku,” she nods. “Though to most people, I am simply Auntie.”
Izuku sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He woke up before Kacchan, of course, and Kacchan’s only been up for a few minutes, but Izuku can’t say that without giving himself away. It’s a little weird that Kacchan’s ignoring the whole… spooning incident, but maybe he’s waiting for the woman to leave.
“Nerd?” Fuku says. “That’s not a name I’ve heard before. Where are you from?”
“That’s just a nickname Kacchan gave me forever ago,” Izuku stands up and shuffles his way over to the table. He peers into the basket, mouth watering when he sees an assortment of fruits, vegetables, beans, and crispy rice cakes. “I’m Midoriya Izuku.”
“And I ain’t Kacchan to anybody but the nerd.” Kacchan elbows Izuku gently. “Name’s Bakugo Katsuki.”
The woman raises an eyebrow. “You’re nobility?”
“Haah? Definitely not.” Kacchan scratches his head.
“We’ve been forbidden from using family names since I was a child,” she says. “I’d assume you were foreign, but your names sound quite Japanese. Even if you’re from as far away as you claim, I can’t imagine you’d be exempt from the law.”
Izuku busies himself with the basket, pulling out an apple and biting into the crisp, tart flesh. Kacchan is silent, lips pursed as he picks at a sliver of wood protruding from the table.
“If my suspicions are correct, you’re not from far away—you’re from a different time,” Fuku says.
Izuku stops halfway through his second bite, locking eyes with Kacchan’s widened ones.
“How the hell…” Kacchan manages.
“You’re not the first people with family names, strange clothes, and unusual accents to come here,” Fuku says. “Though it has been decades. The last time, it was a girl in an incredibly immodest skirt. It caused quite an upheaval; I tell you.”
Izuku swallows the bite without chewing, and it slides painfully down his throat. “Did you tell anybody? About us?”
Fuku shakes her head. “And if it’s important to you that it remains a secret, I won’t. There aren’t many alive today who remember that girl, and I’m the only one still around with whom she confided her secret.”
“Lemme guess: she had to fix up that stupid garden, too,” Kacchan frowns.
“To show the beauty of all life, yes,” says Fuku.
Izuku gulps, trying to dislodge the piece of apple lumped in his throat. “Did she… manage to?”
“She tried for a few years,” says Fuku. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer to the puzzle. She abandoned it after a while and decided to stay here.”
Her wistful glance out the window is not lost on Izuku.
“At any rate,” she rubs her hands together, “I need to go set up my stand. I’ll stop by again in the evening to see how you’re faring.”
Izuku and Kacchan thank her with the few words they can manage, and when Fuku shuts the door behind her, the silence seems to stretch endlessly in the tiny cottage.
“A few years?” Izuku sets down the half-eaten apple. His previously ravenous appetite transforms to nausea. “We’re supposed to be pros by then.”
“She was probably too stupid to figure it out.” Unsureness cracks through Kacchan’s resolve.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
All thoughts of food abandoned, they make their way to the dry garden and pull the remaining weeds. When they finish, Izuku stares at the gravel, hands on his hips. Kacchan picks up the rakes from the ground and hands him one.
Time to get started.
Turns out, it’s not as easy to create the beautiful, rippling patterns as he’d thought. Their attempts are erratic, jagged. Izuku might not have the best eye for abstract artistry, but even he knows they’re doing a piss-poor job of showing the beauty of all life.
After a few hours, he throws down the rake and wicks the sweat off the back of his neck with his discarded shirt. His mouth is parched, and his head swims from lack of food. He hasn’t felt this shitty in a while—not since he’d gone full vigilante mode.
“Let’s take a break,” Kacchan says. He’s tied his shirt around his head in a makeshift bandana. It's just as adorable as when he pulls up his mask from his hero costume. “We ain’t gonna work well if we’re starving and dehydrated.”
“I just wanna get this over with,” Izuku argues.
Kacchan steps in front of him, placing a hand on Izuku’s shoulder. It’s warm and rough and dirty and Kacchan, and somehow, it grounds Izuku. “It’s not a big deal if we can’t figure this out today. Look—we suck at this. You know that, and I know that. It might take us a few days to figure out how to even make this not look shitty, let alone depict something that shows the beauty of all goddamn life.”
Izuku relents with a sigh, hating that Kacchan is right.
They retreat to the cool shade of the cottage, and Izuku downs cup after cup of water he pumps from the well, water sloshing in his stomach as he settles at the table and destroys an entire bag of roasted bean snacks. His blood pressure spikes from the sudden caloric increase, and he lays his head on the table to wait for it to pass.
“You good?” Kacchan asks. His cheeks and shoulders are pink, and he looks as worn out as Izuku feels.
“You’ve got a sunburn,” Izuku says.
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“I’m fine—let’s get back out there.” When Izuku stands, his blood pressure spikes further, and he catches himself on the table to stop from swaying. His brain feels fuzzy, vision darkening along the edges.
“Christ, Izuku, go lie down. You look like shit.”
“I’ve been through way worse than this.”
“Yeah, no shit. That bar’s real fuckin’ high. But being launched through time clearly fucked with our bodies,” Kacchan says. “You really wanna end up in an Edo era hospital when they have no understanding of germ theory?”
Izuku staggers towards the door. He has to keep going. He has to work on the puzzle. He has to get back to his friends. His family. The life he’s earned by breaking his body over and over again.
If he doesn’t, what’s the point of anything?
His vision darkens as he reaches for the latch on the door, and he’s falling, falling, falling…
Katsuki lifts the lid off the hardy stone pot he’s cooking rice in. It’s finally boiling—fuck, it took forever to do anything in the past. He never realized how accustomed he was to immediate satisfaction.
Content that he’ll be able to serve them a proper meal tonight, he makes his way over to the futon, where Izuku’s either sleeping or passed out. Katsuki’d had to scoop the stupid, self-sacrificing nerd up and set him there.
He places a finger on Izuku’s neck. His pulse has slowed, thankfully, but he’s burning up. Katsuki digs out a few cloths and drenches them in cool well water, folding one over Izuku’s forehead and draping the others over his chest and arms.
Katsuki continues prepping dinner, slicing vegetables, scraping the excess salt off the preserved fish before marinating them in a sweet-smelling sauce. It’s slow-going because he can’t help but regularly check on Izuku, even though it’s Izuku’s own fault for pushing himself too hard.
He wonders if the damn nerd will ever listen to his own body. Unfortunately, nobody’s better at lying to themselves than Midoriya Izuku.
When the rice is cooked and Katsuki’s putting the finishing touches on the stir fry, Izuku emits a chortled groan and slowly sits up.
“If you even think about getting out of bed, these are going straight through your eyeballs.” Katsuki points his pair of cooking chopsticks at Izuku.
“Did I…”
“Pass the fuck out? Of course you did.” Katsuki pulls a wooden bowl from the cabinet and adds a generous scoop of rice before heaping the stir fry on top. He grabs the mug Izuku was drinking out of earlier and pumps water into it before storming across the room, setting the bowl in Izuku’s lap, and thrusting the cup of water in his face. “Don’t make me shove it down your throat.”
Izuku gulps down the water and stares at his food. “Uh… chopsticks?”
Katsuki lets out a frustrated sigh, stomping over to the cabinet and chucking a pair of chopsticks at Izuku. “Eat, asshole.”
When they’re finished, Katsuki cleans up the meal, setting aside the leftovers and hoping one of them will be hungry enough to eat it before it goes bad. Life before refrigeration sucks, and he hadn’t considered portioning everything perfectly until it was too late.
Thankfully, Fuku sticks by her promise and shows up around sunset, happy to accept the food when Katsuki offers it. She compliments his flavoring and technique, and he thanks her with a snarl.
After she leaves, the cabin is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Izuku fades in and out of sleep, occasionally emitting soft snores. It’s adorable, and Katsuki can’t help the way his chest pulls him towards Izuku. He blows out the oil lamp and lies down next to Izuku, pulling the quilt over them both. He’s never been a huge fan of blankets, but it gets cold at night without modern insulation, and being under a blanket with Izuku is kind of… nice.
His mind flashes back to that morning. To the comforting horror of waking up in a still sleeping Izuku’s arms, the way his abdominal muscles pressed tightly to Katsuki’s back like two lost puzzle pieces finally snapped into place.
Katsuki lies still, blinking into the darkness, all too aware of the few centimeters of breathing room between their bodies. When Izuku rolls over on his side, the blanket pulls from Katsuki’s shoulder.
“You smell bad.” Izuku mumbles.
Katsuki snorts. “You ain’t exactly a bed of roses.”
“Mm,” Izuku agrees. “Let’s find a creek or something in the morning.”
Katsuki briefly considers arguing—after all, what’s the point of bathing if they’re just going to get sweaty and gross in the garden all day—but since Izuku’s finally focused on something besides the task at hand, and because Izuku hasn’t fully recovered yet, he lets it go.
“Sounds good,” Katsuki says. “G’night, nerd.”
The next morning, Katsuki wakes up with Izuku in his arms and sends a prayer to whatever force in the universe that keeps waking him up first. He rests into the embrace a little longer this time. Izuku reeks, but his skin is soft and warm and comforting in the morning chill. Eventually, Katsuki silently curses himself for being a stupid sap and crawls out of the futon.
Izuku wakes up about five minutes later (really close call), and they gather around the kitchen table for more rice snacks and fruit. Izuku doesn’t argue when Katsuki reminds him of their plan to wash up, and instead helps him rummage through the clothes drawer to select articles that fit them the best.
Katsuki was half afraid there would be nothing but gaudy kimonos, but he relaxes when they find simple, loose-fitting cotton pants and light, flowy tunics. There’s no sign of soap, but they gather their new garments and some cloths to dry off with and search for a creek.
It doesn’t take long—now that he’s listening for it, Katsuki hears the babble of water the moment they step out of the cottage. Izuku leads them down and overgrown path that empties into a lazy creek with a sandy bank and an array of scattered pebbles.
Izuku makes his way down, removing his shoes and dipping his feet in. “It’s actually kinda warm. D’you think this is the same creek we used to play at when we were kids?”
“Could be.” Katsuki peels off his disgusting, sweat-soaked shirt. When his hands move to unbutton his jeans, he hesitates. Why is he suddenly self-conscious? He’s been naked in front of Izuku loads of times. In hot springs, in the baths at UA… but there were other people around. This feels different, and he can’t decide if he likes it or hates it.
Izuku, oblivious as ever, steps out of his shorts and underwear in one go, and Katsuki averts his eyes, concentrating intently on a pair of crows resting on a tree on the other side of the creek.
“It’s really not that cold, Kacchan.” Izuku’s voice wavers as he wades into the stream to his knees and sinks his bottom half into the water.
Katsuki lets out the breath he’d been holding and strips off the rest of his clothes, entering the water as quickly as possible, which sucks, because yeah, it’s not that cold, but it’s still making his skin erupt with goosebumps.
Safely submerged in the water, Katsuki picks up a handful of sand and rubs at his skin. Abrasive cleaning will have to do for now. When he’s finished scrubbing himself half raw, resigning himself to the fact that he’s going to have to get used to being a little smelly until they get back to their own time, he dunks his head back and rubs the grime out of his hair.
When Katsuki looks up, Izuku’s staring at the sky, his soaked hair glinting in the rays of sunlight that peek through the trees.
They haven’t spoken since they got in the creek, but for some reason, Katsuki’s still reluctant to leave. He forces his eyes away from the pristine simplicity of Izuku finally allowing himself to relax and wades to shore, keeping his back to his friend as he towels off.
Izuku leaves the creek not long after, and they dress themselves in silence. It’s kind of… nice. But Katsuki can’t put his finger on why.
“Guess we should get back to the garden,” Izuku says as he ties the shirt’s sash across his midriff.
Katsuki’s about to agree when he’s overwhelmed by the sight of Izuku in the traditional garments. The way the black billowing pants hug at his knees. The crease of rough fabric that cinches tight to his waist. He’s had similar reactions every time Izuku debuts a new hero outfit, but he’s used to just yelling something about how his costume is better.
But Katsuki’s trying to change, dammit, and without a quip to fall back on, he’s left staring like an idiot.
“You all right?” Izuku’s eyebrows stitch together in concern.
“Obviously—just thinking about that stupid riddle.”
Katsuki makes his way back up the path, Izuku trailing close behind. “Traditional clothes really suit you,” Izuku says.
Katsuki turns his head back. “What?”
“I dunno; you just… wear them well, I guess?” Izuku’s cheeks are pink, probably from the cool bath.
Katsuki focuses his attention ahead again, desperate to get to the garden and focus the conversation on literally anything else. “I look like I just walked off the set of a period drama.”
Izuku keeps rambling about how these clothes must be designed for sun protection and coolness, blah, blah, blah, but Katsuki ignores him as they empty out into the clearing with the cottage, garden, and temple.
With that, they get to work. They’re a little better at raking the gravel into designs that look like waves today—possibly because Izuku isn't passing out from hunger and dehydration, but by the end of the day, it’s clear they’re not any closer to cracking it.
When they're finished, Katsuki takes a knife and carves three notches in an old tree stump, one for each day they’ve been away from home. He and Izuku prepare dinner together and eat in relative silence, crawling into bed soon after the sun sets.
After a week, their designs have definitely improved. Not professional, maybe, but when Katsuki climbs to the crumbling second storey temple balcony to get a look at their work, he can make out some level of beauty at what they’ve created.
“How’s it look?” Izuku calls up to him.
“It’s not the beauty of all goddamn life; I’ll tell ya that.” Katsuki stocks back to the garden, and they erase their design and start again.
It’s been a month, and, like so many other mornings, Katsuki finds his limbs entangled with Izuku’s. He’s grown addicted to it: the warm press of Izuku against his back or chest, the contented ebb and flow of his breath, the scent of sweat and sunshine mixing with the morning fog. He relishes that Izuku’s a heavier sleeper than him. It means he can lie in Izuku’s embrace for a few precious minutes before he gets a start on his day.
Katsuki eases open his eyes to glimpse Izuku’s peaceful, sleeping face.
But Izuku’s not sleeping. His eyes are wide open, staring at Katsuki. Izuku gasps a little, his entire body stiffening. Realization washes over Katsuki: how many times has this little shit woken up first?
Has Izuku known the whole time that Katsuki secretly loves this? He bites back his instinct to snap at Izuku and call him a creep, and once again, with no goading remark to fall back on, he’s left frozen while they stare awkwardly at one another.
Katsuki can’t take it. He bites hard on the inside of his mouth. “Hi.”
Izuku’s eyes grow wide. “Uh… hey?”
Anxiety scorches across Katsuki’s skin. He knows he should jump up. Make some excuse. But Izuku knows, and he knows, and just because they know doesn’t mean they have to talk about it. They can just be.
It’s enough, right?
So Katsuki closes his eyes and settles into Izuku’s embrace. It’s warm, safe, and the contented sigh Izuku lets out makes him feel, if only for a moment, that he’s back at home.
Three months in, Kacchan has his first big mental breakdown. He’s sitting on the beautifully raked gravel and staring at the handful he's scooped up. “They’re all different colors. They’re all different colors, Izuku!”
This is bad. Izuku’s been there for Kacchan’s strongest and most vulnerable moments, but he’s never seen him look quite so defeated.
“It’s okay, Kacchan—”
“It’s not; stop lying!” He throws the gravel onto the ground. “Months wasted trying to create the perfect pattern without taking color into account! Millions of stupid, shitty pieces that we’re gonna have to organize. How long’s that gonna take?”
Izuku places a hand on Kacchan’s shoulder. “Maybe we should call it quits for today.”
“Fuck that.” He swats Izuku’s hand away and rises to his knees, picking up red gravel and stuffing it into his pockets. “Gotta separate it. Gotta get home.”
“Kacchan.” Izuku grabs his wrist. “Let’s go inside and figure out a better way to tackle this. You can’t fit every piece of gravel in your pockets.”
“I can goddamn try.” Kacchan just keeps mumbling to himself and picking up individual stones, tears welling in his eyes.
“Kacchan.”
Kacchan pulls out of Izuku’s grip, knocking most of the pebbles he’d picked up back onto the ground in the process.
“Fucking shit!” He pounds his fist hard into the gravel over and over and over.
“Katsuki.”
Kacchan stops. Looks at Izuku. Looks at the bloody mess on the heel of his hand and, shaking violently, lets out a gut-wrenching sob, collapsing against Izuku’s chest. Izuku wraps his arms around him, hugging Kacchan tight, doing what little he can to be the light in the ever-dimming hope of escaping this place.
Kacchan says something, but it’s lost in the muffle of Izuku’s chest.
“Couldn't hear you.”
Kacchan lifts his head and sputters, “My phone died!”
Izuku strokes his hair. He doesn’t know what else to do. What to say. So he’s patient, waiting for Kacchan to continue.
“It was at thirty percent!” Kacchan heaves, voice drenched in devastation. “I kept it off almost all the time, but when I went to look through my photos last night, it—”
His words are cut off by gut-wrenching wails. Izuku is so far out of his depth, focused not only on Kacchan’s grief, but on the fact that his own phone had stopped turning on the week before. All those pictures of friends, family… their lives before all this, a reminder of why they kept going… gone.
When Kacchan’s sobs finally cease, Izuku says, “Let’s get inside and clean up your hand.”
Kacchan lets Izuku help him into the cottage. He listens to Izuku’s suggestion to sit at the table without protest, offering his hand as Izuku rinses off the dirt and gravel with water before pressing a cloth soaked in grain alcohol against it.
“We’ll get out of here,” Izuku says as steadfastly as he can manage, but he can’t meet Kacchan’s eyes, instead focusing on scrubbing out the remaining pieces of gravel stuck under his skin. It makes Kacchan tense a little, but he doesn’t say anything.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know us.”
They spend the next couple weeks on the mind-numbing task of separating the gravel colors and placing them in large bamboo baskets that Fuku let them borrow. Izuku ends up having to look away constantly to reset his eyes; the colors all blend together when he works for too long. Despite containing all the colors of the rainbow, they’re muted, which makes it hard to distinguish between indigo and violet even when his eyes are sharp and fresh.
Eventually, though, they get every piece organized, revealing a rough concrete foundation. In the corner, Izuku spots graffiti that must have been drawn into it when the base was poured. It’s weathered and difficult to read.
“I can't make it out.” Izuku wipes at the dirt.
Kacchan gets on his hands and knees, squinting at it. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“It says, ‘nice try, loser.’”
Izuku doesn’t know why, because he’s more hopeless and devastated than he’s ever been in his life, but he laughs. Falls back on the concrete slab and laughs until his chest hurts.
“You… okay?” Kacchan asks.
“Oh, I’m peachy,” Izuku says, still giggling. “Because when we get out of here, I’m gonna kill that bastard.”
Huh. Apparently it’s Izuku’s turn to have a mental breakdown.
As they try new designs over the next couple weeks, they’re careful to keep the gravel colors from mixing too much. It’s a pain, especially when they get to raking.
Izuku sets his rake down and rubs his hands together. Autumn has dug its roots in deep, and dying leaves of red and yellow drift through the wind and scatter across the dry garden.
“Damn, this one looks pretty good,” Kacchan says. “Apparently not beauty of all life good, but I still wish I could take a picture.”
“You think it’s a coincidence the gravel’s like… a dulled down version of One for All colors?” Izuku ponders, studying the intricate rainbow design they’d just finished making.
“What, you think that time travel villain was after you specifically?” Kacchan sits down on an old tree stump and pulls the collar of his coat over his mouth and nose. It’s adorable—the way his eyes peep out, how his spiky hair juts erratically from the collar’s pressure.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Izuku grabs a shovel. Time to get started on laying out a new design before the rain starts. He can smell it, can feel the shift in the weather front. It’s not something he ever would have noticed in the modern world.
“Wait!” Kacchan grabs the shovel the moment before Izuku sullies it.
“Why?”
Kacchan bites his lip. Looks up at the sky. “Weather’s getting shitty, anyway. We can’t risk getting sick here.”
“I was just getting a head start—”
“Izuku.” Kacchan lets out an exasperated sigh. “Look, I just… I like this one, okay? And everything in the past just feels so fucking temporary. There’s no pictures—nothing but memories. And memories are stupid. Unreliable. I guess I just wanna look at this one when we wake up.”
Kacchan’s words stir something warm and terrifying in Izuku’s chest. He sets the shovel down. “I’m gonna make some tea. Wanna join me?”
Kacchan nods. “Just… need a minute.”
Kacchan really missed photographs.
They’re both in a sour mood the first time they wake up to a blanket of snow on the ground. They’d prepared for it—chopped wood and worked odd jobs to save up enough money to buy stores for the winter, both well aware that they weren’t getting out of this anytime soon, even if they never said it aloud.
Izuku gets out of bed first, reluctantly rolling out of Kacchan’s arms.
They still haven’t talked about it.
The pure white snow stirs him into a fury. “Fuck!”
“Wha's wrong?” Kacchan yawns.
“It fucking snowed; that’s what’s wrong!” Izuku grits his teeth, pulling at his hair in frustration. “How’re we supposed to get any work done with this white shit covering everything?” He starts pacing around the room, partly to think of a solution, but mostly because he’s fucking pissed and he needs to rant. “We won’t be able to see anything. Even if we clear it, it’s still snowing! I guess in the future, we could construct a canopy over it, but that doesn’t help right now, and I really think your next design had some potential, so this really just—”
“Izuku!” Kacchan snaps him out of his rapid-fire rambling. “You gotta calm down. Breathe.”
Izuku huffs. Because that’s rich, coming from the most hot-headed, explosive person he knows.
“When’s the last time we took a day off?” Kacchan asks.
Izuku blinks at him, trying to rack his brain. “Never?”
“Exactly.” Kacchan closes his eyes, patting the empty spot on the futon. “I'm cold. So come back to bed. Please.”
The shy certainty in Kacchan's voice propels him forward. Izuku couldn't argue with his request even if it meant a chance to go home. He lies back down, heart hammering, breaths unsteady.
Kacchan just told me to come back to bed.
What does that mean?
He turns away from Kacchan, burying his face in the pillow.
Then, it happens.
Kacchan wraps an arm around Izuku, splaying a hand across his chest and pulling him close. Izuku stays as still as possible, but he knows his heart is racing faster than a hummingbird's. He knows Kacchan can tell, too. Because Izuku feels the powerful beat of Kacchan's heart against his back. Kacchan's steady, rapid pulse as his neck presses into Izuku's shoulder.
Without his quirk, Kacchan doesn't smell like scorched caramel anymore. But Izuku finds the scent of old hearth fire, pine needles, and the heady amalgamation of their shared labor—their shared life— equally intoxicating.
"Eight months," Kacchan says.
"Huh?" Izuku's too caught up in every beautiful, stolen sensation to process the words.
"We've been stuck in this shitty-ass time for eight months."
Izuku turns around tentatively in Kacchan's arms. Their faces are so close he can make out tiny specks of pink in Kacchan's eyes that wash seamlessly into red.
He's never looked at Kacchan like this before.
"I feel like I'm never gonna be a hero," Izuku says. "My whole life that's all I cared about. And it was right in front of me! But now we do the same shit every day because we're trapped. This isn't even living; it's just… existing."
When Kacchan sighs, his breath wafts across Izuku's neck. The sensation prickles every nerve in his body to life.
"I don't know how to just… exist," Izuku admits. "Not when almost everything I love is hundreds of years away."
"Almost everything." Kacchan clenches his eyes shut, wincing a little as he says, "But not everything?"
Izuku's movements are controlled, stilted. He can't think. Can't move. Can't focus on anything but Kacchan.
No, not everything.
"I couldn't do this alone," Izuku manages, closing his own eyes because he has things he needs to say, but he can't bear to look at Kacchan and admit them at the same time. "You're the only thing keeping me sane."
"Right back at ya."
Izuku looses a breath, drowning in gratitude and despair, confusion and adoration. "What if it takes us like… ten years to get back? D'you ever worry about that?"
What if we never get back?
"'Course I do, nerd." Kacchan says it with more fondness in his voice than Izuku knew him capable. "And if we're gonna be stuck here a while, maybe we should start living our lives… here."
Izuku snaps his eyes open, and Kacchan's looking at him again. His expression is relaxed, soft. Izuku noticed the change after the War, but it's more pronounced here, away from death and villains and the quirk that boosted his ego to godlike levels.
Until a couple years ago, Kacchan had been a towering figure that eclipsed the sun. Izuku still sees him that way sometimes; knows Kacchan views him like that too, even if he'd never admit it.
But here, lying next to Kacchan, lying in his arms, quirkless and scared, just them against an old, new world, he knows they are, and have always been, equals.
Maybe we should start living our lives.
Here.
Izuku doesn't know who moves first. One second he's looking into soft red eyes, reading Kacchan's soul like it's a secret letter intended only for Izuku—a letter Kacchan never meant to send—and the next, soft, unpracticed lips meet his. It's slow and purposeful, and when Izuku wraps his hand into those impossibly soft, blond locks, he feels a piece of Kacchan melt into him. He lets free a piece of himself, too, knowing he won't retrieve it. Knowing he never wants to, knowing Kacchan will protect it with everything he possesses.
When they pull back, Izuku flicks his tongue across his lip. Kacchan tastes like green tea and crisp night air and moments lost to time.
Kacchan presses a warm palm to Izuku's face. Old quirk callouses mingle with new ones from simple, hard labor, and Izuku takes his hand, admiring the stained lines, the contrast of the smoothness of the back of his hand.
Kacchan moves in first this time. It's fast, uncertain, close-mouthed but tender. He pulls back, and Izuku's a little breathless when Kacchan smiles uncertainly, like he's saying, yeah, I just did that. What're you gonna do about it?
Izuku presses their bodies close, hand on Kacchan's back. He wants Kacchan now, forever—he's never letting go.
Their mouths crash together, chasing sweetness with fire as tongues search one another for unsaid words Izuku believed were destined to smother under the weight of ego and fear.
When Kacchan's lips rake against his neck, it sparks scorching passion through Izuku's body. He needs to touch and touch and touch and be touched.
His hands find their way under Kacchan's shirt, skirting over sculpted muscle and dipping into the impossible cut of his waist. Izuku is hard, dripping, wanting—he never knew that the simple act of touching Kacchan—the person he desired most and deserved least—could make him feel all of this.
He grinds his hips into Kacchan before he realizes what he's doing. Kacchan gasps, kissing him with hard fury.
Maybe they should have talked about every intangible thing between them before acting, but that's not what they do. That's not what they've ever done. So Izuku keeps up his movements, grabs Kacchan's hips, gasps into Kacchan's mouth when a hand snakes across his ass.
A loud part of Izuku's mind wants to reach into Kacchan's pants. To touch him. To feel the soft heat of passion. But he can't. Not now, not first.
This is enough. More than enough.
More than he ever thought possible.
Izuku grips Kacchan tighter, increasing their pace, and Kacchan matches it. His mind bursts at the sensation of Kacchan's dick rubbing against his own, separated only by a few layers of thin fabric. He's sweaty in all the places their bodies connect, and it's slick and hot and good.
Neither lasts long, coming against each other in tandem, twitching, spurting, riding out a long wave and collapsing into each other's arms.
When Izuku comes back into himself, their foreheads are pressed together. Kacchan's eyes, blurred in his close vision, drink him in.
Izuku doesn't know how long they stay like that, feeling their way through the aftermath of sudden passion. He knows he never wants to move—that he wants to feel Kacchan tuck green locks behind his ears until the end of time. He wants to breathe into those contented laughs that wash against his lips for as long as he can. That he wants to fumble with the hem of Kacchan's shirt and blush when he pecks soft kisses to Kacchan's cheeks for the rest of their lives.
He's sweaty and sticky and gross, but Kacchan is here, his purest form on display for Izuku and Izuku alone. When he giggles at Izuku's startled yelp from an unexpected nip to the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, Kacchan's wholly himself—in a way Izuku never thought possible.
In that moment, Izuku doesn't care about their mission. To him, the beauty of all life has always been—will always be—Kacchan.
Being snowed in isn't so bad after all.
Katsuki can’t stop thinking about what he told Izuku during their last big fight, even if the exact words are fuzzy two years later.
Things ain't gonna be the same from now on.
Or something. Look, trauma fucks with your memory, okay?
At any rate, the moment plays on repeat in his mind. He was right—things between them shifted forever after their fight at Ground Beta. And it's happening again in a completely different way.
How are things supposed to go back to the way they were after you grind against your childhood friend until you both cum in your pants?
When the heady daze of climax wears off, they lie there for a long while, kissing, touching, laughing, talking about everything except what they just did together.
Somehow, it's not awkward. Katsuki wonders, as Izuku brushes soft kisses against his cheek, if it's because no one here knows them.
There's no reason to hide.
No one here will tilt a tentative brow and say, "How did this happen when you're at each other's throats constantly?" or, "You bullied him for over half your life and now you wanna fuck him?"
Katsuki's not an idiot. He knows their relationship is complex, hard to define. That no one but he and Izuku will ever fully understand it.
Eventually, Izuku asks, "Was that… okay?"
His eyes are wide, searching Katsuki's expression for a hint of what he’s feeling. As if they haven't been lying in bed fawning over each other.
Katsuki gulps down the instinct to shoot back a sarcastic quip, gripping Izuku's shoulder tight. "You're thinking too much. Of course it was, ya damn… Izuku."
Izuku smirks, his cheeks turning scarlet and accentuating those adorable goddamn freckles. "Did you just stop yourself from calling me a nerd?"
"...maybe."
His fingers tousle Katsuki's hair. "You know I like it when you call me that."
Katsuki didn't know that, and warmth blossoms in his chest. He doesn’t suppress the smile that sneaks across his lips. "Still. Felt like I should use your name."
It’s been a long time since Katsuki’s accidentally called him Deku, and the fact that Izuku didn’t even think that’s what he’d stopped himself from saying… well, it means something to Katsuki.
They’re snowed in for three days, and Katsuki finds he actually… enjoys it. He can’t believe that even a couple years ago, he would’ve considered having to spend that much uninterrupted time with Izuku torture.
Amazing how his brain protected him from what he needed most.
They argue over Izuku’s tuneless humming and Katsuki’s snoring. Over who gets to use the best knife when they’re making dinner. Katsuki gets pissed when Izuku won’t show him the drawing he’s working on, and Izuku grumbles under his breath when Katsuki yells at the wind for waking him up.
But when morning dawns or night falls, their bodies slip into rhythm. Inexperienced mouths and hands exploring, finding what feels good, what feels right. They don’t go any farther than touching each other underneath their clothes, but the first time Katsuki wraps his hand around the smooth, fragile skin of Izuku’s dick (which is fucking thick in the best, most terrifying way, and, like—holy shit—he can’t wait to wrap his mouth around it, among… other things he’s not ready to think about yet), Izuku is all lust and adoration and panting disbelief.
Katsuki lets Izuku touch him, too, but he has trouble meeting his eyes. He’s not sure why—whether it’s guilt, embarrassment, fear… or just being so overwhelmed by the fact that he’s learning all these things with Izuku. That they’re opening up to one another in a way Katsuki barely let himself think about before.
Before.
Before, when there were villains to worry about, classes to pass, an entire school and nation, after the War, that knew their history. Back when they were Deku and Dynamight. Midoriya and Bakugo.
Stripped bare of aliases and family names, they exist here as simply Izuku and Katsuki. And when the snow clears and they head to town to pick up odd jobs and purchase supplies, they walk hand-in-hand, resting their heads together, snaking their arms around one another’s waists.
If anyone thinks the young men from a faraway place are behaving strangely, they don’t say anything. So Katsuki and Izuku carry on.
The only vestige of their past remains in the words and memories only the two of them share and the pebbled garden that they’ve tended the past eight months.
Nine months.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Katsuki awakens one spring morning to the smell of rice. Humidity invades his lungs, and he takes a deep breath to find relief. He rubs his eyes and squints into the dimly lit room. Izuku’s standing over the kamado stove and vigorously stirring the contents of a pot. He wipes his forehead with his sleeve.
When Katsuki stands up, Izuku emits a yelp.
“No, get back in bed!” He runs to the other side of the kamado, blocking the pot from Katsuki’s view. “You’re not supposed to be awake yet!”
“Haah?” Katsuki scrunches his face. It’s too damn early for Izuku’s anxiety to be coming out.
“I’m making you breakfast in bed!” Izuku blurts, clapping a hand over his mouth.
Katsuki smirks. “That’s new.”
“Y-yeah…” Izuku stammers, looking back at the pot. “Oh, shit!” He circles the stove again and removes the pot, stirring its contents rapidly. “I overcooked the… You’re distracting me. Lie back down!”
“Fine, fine,” Katsuki mutters, but he’s mostly joking.
Izuku. Making him breakfast in bed. Why is that so…
Perfect?
“What’s the occasion, anyway?” Katsuki asks.
Izuku stops stirring, mouth agape, eyes wide as he stares at Katsuki like he’s stupid. “Seriously?”
“Is this like a… ‘I don’t need a special occasion to make you breakfast’ thing?”
Izuku sighs. “It’s your birthday, Kacchan.”
Oh.
Is it?
“I kinda forgot,” Katsuki admits.
“We talked about it, like, two days ago.” Izuku heaps food into a bowl and drizzles it with soy sauce, making his way over to the futon, bowl in one hand, chopsticks in the other. He sets the food in Katsuki’s lap, and his mouth waters as the steam from the simple meal of white rice and eggs wafts over him.
“Izuku…”
Izuku clears his throat. “I know it’s not much for now, and I know we have to work on the garden today, but I wanted to do something for you, and I have an actual present for you as well…”
He trails off as Katsuki runs the back of his fingertips across Izuku’s jaw. “You done rambling? ‘Cause this smells real fuckin’ good, and I’m starving.”
Izuku narrows his eyes and pinches Katsuki’s nose with the chopsticks. “Shush. I still have to sing Happy Birthday.”
Katsuki freezes, but he doesn’t brush the chopsticks away. Because... what? And also, how is Izuku being so adorable? “You really don’t have to—”
He slides the chopsticks into Katsuki’s hand, clearing his throat. “Happy birthday to you… even though you haven’t been born. Happy birthday to Kacchan… even though you shouldn’t technically exist for several hundred years!”
Katsuki snickers, his ears heating with embarrassment and adoration. “You write that yourself?”
“It’s off the cuff,” Izuku blushes.
“You.” Katsuki pulls Izuku close. “Are such.” He presses a kiss to Izuku’s neck. “A nerd.”
“But I’m a cute nerd.” Izuku shrugs his shoulders a little as he buries his head in Katsuki’s shoulder. “Right?”
“Dammit, obviously,” Katsuki nips at Izuku’s ear. “Now can I eat my food?”
Katsuki can’t bring himself to say it out loud, but Izuku gives him one of the best birthdays of his life. It even rivals the time his parents took him to Heroland Tokyo when he turned nine. After breakfast, they work in the garden and create a few of the designs that Katsuki sketched out. None of them express the beauty of all life, and he doesn’t expect them to. The disappointment of failed designs hurts less with each day, and Katsuki’s more focused on how excitable Izuku is. Throughout the day, he’s bouncing around, constantly glancing back at the cottage. He's making more mistakes with his raking than usual, like he’s trying to rush through the work.
When they finally call it a day, Katsuki’s dirty, sweaty, and a little tired. After they wash up in the creek, Izuku insists that Katsuki rest while he starts dinner, and for once, Katsuki doesn’t argue. Besides, the nerd’s pretty damn good at cooking with the simple, meager supplies they have.
The mood shifts when they’ve finished eating, and Izuku’s nervous energy is putting Katsuki on edge. He keeps glancing around in every direction, not paying attention when Katsuki tries talking to him.
“Did you accidentally put some weird-ass mushrooms in the food or something?” Katsuki cocks an eyebrow.
“N-no…” Izuku says. His eyes fix on the cabinet that holds their spare clothes. “I just… CanIgiveyouyourpresentnow?”
It comes out so fast, Katsuki barely catches it. That’s right. Izuku had said something about a present this morning.
“You shouldn’t’ve gotten me anything.” There’s no heat behind Katsuki’s words.
“Guess it’s a good thing I made you something, then,” Izuku makes his way to the chest and pulls out a half meter-long scroll held closed by a piece of twine.
Katsuki’s heart thrums fast as Izuku sets it in his hands. “This the drawing you haven’t been letting me see?”
“I have others.” Izuku sits across the table from Katsuki, tapping his fingers in rapid succession. His face is flushed, and he refuses to meet Katsuki’s eyes. “But… that’s the best one.”
Katsuki fumbles with the string, sliding it off the scroll. Izuku buries his face in his hands, mumbling under his breath.
“Hey.” Katsuki runs his fingers through Izuku’s hair, gripping it lightly by the roots. “Look at me?”
Izuku pries one hand away from his face, like hiding half of it will quell the hurt if Katsuki hates his present. As if Katsuki hating anything about Izuku was even possible.
“I’m gonna love it,” Katsuki says.
“Don’t say that ‘til you’ve seen it,” Izuku groans. “Just… open it before I have an aneurysm.”
Katsuki unrolls the scroll with careful fingers, breath catching as he takes in the penciled, ink-lined sketch.
It’s… him. Katsuki. Dressed in the traditional clothes they’ve grown so accustomed to wearing. He’s leaning on a rake, standing in the middle of the garden, and his soft expression is fixed on a wavy-haired figure seated at the side of the garden… Izuku. There’s a thin board balanced on Izuku's lap with a piece of paper overlaying it, pencil grasped tight in Izuku’s hand. Katsuki’s breath catches when he realizes the garden’s design is almost an exact replica of the one he didn’t want to destroy all those months ago.
“Izuku…” Katsuki breathes.
Izuku peeps out from behind his other hand.
“This is beautiful.”
Katsuki means it. Means it maybe more than he’s ever meant anything in his life, which should be stupid because this is a drawing, but… it’s a drawing Izuku worked on for months. For him. And Katsuki doesn’t know when it happened, but Izuku’s art has gotten incredible. It’s detailed, meticulously proportioned and scaled, and he’s gotten both of their postures and expressions down perfectly.
“I—I can make adjustments if there’s anything you don’t like,” Izuku blurts. “I just thought it was maybe a good idea because I know you miss photographs, but I didn’t have references to, like, draw your family or friends or anything, but I knew I could draw us, and… I don’t know. I just… wanted to?”
Gratitude and wistfulness well deep within Katsuki’s chest, rising like a midnight tide: dark, fast, deep.
I know you miss photographs.
“I got a frame to mount it in, too,” Izuku says. “But we can use it for something else if—”
A sob catches in Katsuki’s throat, louder than he intended. His eyes blur with tears, and he wipes them away not out of embarrassment, but because he wants to see Izuku. His beautiful, sincere expression. The way he sits on the edge of his chair, waiting for Katsuki to answer.
“Don’t you dare try to put some extra’s art in that frame,” Katsuki says. “This is perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Do you—you wanna show me the others you’ve done?”
Izuku curls his lips between his teeth. “I’ll show you, but… keep in mind they aren’t as good. A lot of them are just rough sketches. Practice, ya know? And I've tried drawing our friends and families, but their faces always turn out kinda wonky.”
Izuku opens the chest again and pulls out a thick roll of papers. Katsuki drinks in every one: himself and Kirishima sparring. A posed picture of Katsuki and his parents, his dad’s hand in his hair as Katsuki scowls at him and his mom gives them both side-eye. All Might standing beside Katsuki and Izuku, hands on each of their shoulders.
And Katsuki is crying again, goddammit, blotting his eyes with his sleeve so he doesn’t mess up Izuku’s work. There’s one with Izuku hugging his mom as they both cry. A nostalgic memory or a dream of a reunion, Katsuki doesn't know.
Izuku hides his face again when Katsuki flips over to the next drawing. He blinks at it rapidly, trying to get his brain to catch up with what his eyes are seeing.
It’s him and Izuku lying in their futon, blanket slipped halfway down their nude bodies. Katsuki’s on his back, and Izuku’s half-draped over him, propped up on his hands. He’s drawn Katsuki with those soft, big eyes again, and Izuku’s looking down at him with a slight smirk. There’s so much love in both of their expressions, somehow, but Katsuki doesn’t know how to explain it.
“Can we hang this one up, too?” Katsuki says quietly.
Izuku’s hands flop away from his face and smack against the table in disbelief. “You like… that one?”
Katsuki swallows the lump in his throat. This is so overwhelming, and he can’t untangle everything he’s feeling right now. Doesn’t know if he even wants to. Sometimes, it’s just better to accept things as they are.
“It’s my favorite,” Katsuki manages.
“O-oh,” Izuku says. “I, uh… actually considered giving you that one for your birthday, but I chickened out. Thought it might be too much.”
Katsuki nods. He gets it. Maybe it is too much, but it’s them—it’s Katsuki and Izuku—and they’ve always been too much for everyone but each other.
“Izuku.” Katsuki reaches across the table. Takes Izuku’s hand, leans in. When Izuku grips back, looks at him with those impossible emerald eyes, Katsuki lets the words that always linger in the back of his mind crawl forward.
He loves Izuku. He’s known that for a while, of course. Katsuki wants to say it, but the words lock themselves behind the barrier of his conscious mind, and he has to settle for the fact that he’s at least pulled them out of the mess of confusion that he feels for his best friend.
Katsuki will get there. Because now, they have time. And if Katsuki can’t say the words today, maybe he can show Izuku how he feels. He pulls Izuku’s hand to his face, kisses it all soft and gentle.
Katsuki wonders if there’s a language in the world capable of expressing what he wants to. All he manages is a simple, “Thank you.”
Izuku leans forward, closing the gap of the table between them, pressing his forehead against Katsuki’s. “I care about you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot.”
“Yeah.” Katsuki glances down at the beautiful drawing. “I… same.”
Izuku cleans up dinner, insisting that Kacchan relax, since he shouldn’t have been working on his damn birthday anyway. Plus, Izuku needs space to calm his hyperdrive hamster wheel of a brain.
He feels something big shifting between them once again, and Izuku wonders why it’s always like this. Things between Kacchan and himself never happen gradually. They always end up plunging headfirst into some new, terrifying, and potentially wonderful territory.
Izuku hadn’t expected Kacchan to react to the present as strongly as he did, so before he even realized what he was doing, Izuku’d grabbed the whole lot of them out and put his entire damn heart willingly on display. If Kacchan noticed all the mistakes—awkwardly angled hands and slightly uncanny valley faces—he didn’t give Izuku shit for it.
When he's done cleaning up, Kacchan gets up, takes Izuku's hand, and leads him into bed. As they roll and touch and thrust together, it feels different. Like something more is creeping just below the horizon. Shirts come off, and before Izuku has time to think about what he's doing, his hands find the hem of Kacchan's pants.
He pulls Kacchan’s pants down over his hips and— oh. The way his dick catches on the fabric and falls against his stomach, long, hard, leaking… Izuku’s seen him flaccid: they bathe near each other frequently and shared locker rooms and communal showers in their old life. Izuku’s fumbled his hand into Kacchan’s pants more times than he can remember at this point, so he knew… He knew Kacchan had the perfect cock by the way it felt, and his fingers have committed the thick vein on its underside to memory.
Kacchan stares at him with wide, startled eyes.
Izuku stares back.
Then Kacchan's removing Izuku's pants with the same impassioned fury. Lying there, exposed and vulnerable, they thrust their wanting bodies together. Kacchan is hard and leaking against Izuku's own desperate cock, and Izuku grabs Kacchan's ass and starts a steady rhythm.
It's so much. It's not enough.
Izuku breaks away from Kacchan's spit-soaked mouth, clinging to his hips like his life depends on it. "Kacchan..." he pants, willing his anxious desires to spill from his mouth. "I... do you wanna..."
Kacchan pulls him into another dizzying kiss before breaking it again. His face is flushed with sweat and nerves. "God, yes."
They're kissing again, pressing their lengths together, and fuck. This could actually happen. Tonight.
Izuku sits up and pulls Kacchan up with him so they're sitting cross-legged in front of each other. He takes a deep breath. "Just to make sure. You wanna have sex. Like, penetrative sex.With me."
Kacchan meets his eyes. His swollen lips are pursed, and love bites litter his neck and chest. He's so beautiful like this.
"Y-yeah," Kacchan says. He almost never stutters.
"Good. Okay. Me, too." Izuku takes his hands and holds them over the place where their knees meet. "We, uh. Need to talk about mechanics first. I think."
"Right. Okay." Kacchan takes in a deep breath. Lets it out.
It's too much. Izuku's carefully constructed filter disintegrates, and his thoughts spill from his mouth. "So, I've never done this, obviously, and I don't know which role I'd prefer or if there's even one I prefer? When I think about doing this with you, sometimes I'm topping and sometimes I'm bottoming, but that's just a theory, and I'm totally comfortable with either, so just tell me what you're thinking, and I'm totally game."
Kacchan stares.
Izuku stares back.
"I... I dunno. Which I'd prefer," Kacchan says. "It's whatever, I guess."
Well, shit.
“Uhh… what if we do rock, paper, scissors?” Izuku scratches the back of his neck, cringing a little as he looks to Katsuki for a response.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Better than sitting here and talking about it forever!” Izuku says.
“Dammit," Kacchan grumbles, "you're right."
Izuku smiles, glad that they were able to find a simple solution, even if it is pretty dumb. Kacchan has never been—and will never be—a patient man. And Izuku's certainly not patient in this particular scenario.
He lays one palm flat and sets his fist on top of it, watching as Kacchan does the same.
Izuku clears his throat. “Okay, rock—”
“Wait.” Kacchan claps a hand over Izuku’s. “Is the winner topping or bottoming?”
“Topping, I assumed?”
“I don’t like that,” Kacchan says. “Makes it seem like you’re a loser if you bottom.”
“Ah, true.” Izuku lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, winner bottoms, I guess?”
Kacchan nods. “Best two outta three?”
“Duh, Kacchan. We’ve been doing best two out of three our whole lives.”
In the first round, Kacchan covers rock with paper. The second, Izuku smashes scissors with rock. They hold each other's gazes and say, "Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!"
Izuku cuts paper with scissors.
Like that, it's decided. Izuku's bottoming.
Izuku nods his head, trying to let it sink in that this is actually about to happen. "Okay."
"Okay."
Izuku folds his knees into his chest, feeling more exposed than he has in ages. “What did they use for lube back in the day?”
“Dunno, but I have an idea.” Kacchan lifts himself up and retrieves a big glass bottle from the cabinet, shaking it as he returns.
“Canola oil?” Izuku recoils. “I don’t wanna feel like my butthole’s being basted! Plus, that’s unsanitary! We’ll eventually need more, you know, as we… uh, get me ready, and then we’re both gonna be eating my ass every time we fry something!”
“I mean, I don’t mind.”
“Kacchaaan…” Izuku groans, partly from frustration, partly from embarrassment, and partly because he just really wants Kacchan to fuck him. All this arguing is slowing everything down, but like… sanitation is important, okay? “It’s the sixteen-hundreds, and I doubt there’s anything on this planet that could get my ass clean enough for you to put your mouth on it.”
Kacchan jolts a little at that, and Izuku can't tell if it's from excitement or fear.
“Yeah. Okay.” Kacchan takes the bottle back into the kitchen and pours a little into a small glass jar. He screws the lid on and returns to bed, handing it over to Izuku. “Now we have cooking oil and fucking oil. Better?”
Izuku shoves the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Can we stop arguing and get back into it already?”
“You seem really glad you won rock, paper, scissors.”
“KACCHAN!”
Izuku looks down at his dick. It’s half-soft from too much banter and not enough touching. And maybe also because he’s nervous as hell. Because he’s never done this, and it’s Kacchan, and what if Izuku’s really bad at this and Kacchan never wants to touch him again? What if this is just another thing he isn’t good at?
And… shit. Izuku’s crying. It’s Kacchan’s birthday, they’re trying to have sex, and he’s crying.
“Zuku.” Kacchan cups Izuku’s chin in his hand and wipes at the tears with the other one. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve given you so much shit. I guess I got nervous and fell back on old habits without realizing.”
Izuku nods a little, but he can’t meet Kacchan’s eyes.
“If you wanna slow down…” Kacchan trails off.
Izuku shakes his head. “Just… need a minute. Can we talk?”
Long seconds pass before Kacchan responds, but he doesn’t pull back, doesn’t retract his hands. “What’s on your mind?”
Izuku looses a long, heavy sigh. “What if I’m bad?”
“At sex?”
“Yeah…”
“Izuku…” Kacchan tucks a lock of hair behind Izuku’s ear. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “You’re not bad at anything.”
Oh.
Wait.
Kacchan thinks—
Oh.
Izuku’s instinct is to refute him, especially since this is the guy who nicknamed him useless. But instead, he sobs harder, which is something Izuku is definitely good at, while paradoxically making him pretty damn useless at what he’s supposed to be doing.
Kacchan lies down next to him, pulling Izuku into his chest and rubbing his back with his thumb. It’s nice and comforting, but Izuku’s ruining things more and more the longer he cries.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” Kacchan says.
“I’m ready,” Izuku says. “I just have a lot I need to get off my chest before we do.”
Dammit. It’s not supposed to go like this. They’re supposed to be able to keep skirting around the thing, but Izuku’s about thirty seconds away from vomiting his soul all over Kacchan’s chest.
“I know we don’t usually talk like this,” Izuku continues when it’s clear Kacchan wants to listen without refute, “but… if we’re gonna take this step, I need to. And I need you to be honest with me.”
Kacchan’s arms tenses, and Izuku feels a hard swallow against his forehead. “Okay.”
“Would you be doing this with me if I weren’t literally the only option?” Izuku’s heart almost jumps out his chest, because holy shit, that was not supposed to be what he led with. He didn’t even know he was afraid of that until it was spilling out of his stupid mouth.
“I… what?” Kacchan sneers.
Izuku’s body stiffens, and yeah, his dick is decidedly flaccid again. He wants to run out of the cottage, hopefully be mauled by whatever ferocious predator might be lurking in the woods.
Exeunt, pursued by a bear.
There are worse ways to go out, like Kacchan literally ripping his head off, which doesn’t seem like it’s off the table right now.
“Why would you even think that?” Kacchan’s voice crackles with anger and despair.
Izuku slaps a hand over his face. Kacchan’s still holding him, for some reason, and he shouldn’t be, not while Izuku’s ruining everything.
But why does Izuku think that? Fuck. That’s a good question.
Izuku calms his breathing. Tries to relax his body. “Because you didn’t show this kind of interest in me during our old lives.” He says it so softly he’s not even sure Kacchan heard him.
“Because I was trying to repair our relationship!” Kacchan’s teeth grit next to Izuku’s ear. “That’s why I invited you to hang out all the time! Hell, that’s what I was doing the day that goddamn villain sent us here!”
Izuku sits up, propping himself on Kacchan’s chest. Kacchan's eyes flit back and forth, like he can’t quite focus on Izuku.
“You… what?” Izuku says.
Kacchan smashes Izuku’s pillow over his face and lets out a loud, frustrated groan. He says something into it, but it’s too muffled for Izuku to make out.
“I… I can’t hear you.”
Another groan, and Kacchan throws the pillow back on the bed. “I said, I had to prove to myself that I wouldn’t be a total shitbag. I had to try to be good enough for you before I even let myself think about… this.” Kacchan scrubs a hand down his face, biting so hard on his bottom lip that it turns an angry red.
Izuku can’t breathe. He stares at Kacchan for a long moment, trying to form a coherent response. “I never thought you weren’t good enough for me.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Kacchan laughs darkly. “Still needed to treat you like a goddamn person.”
“You almost died for me. Twice.”
“Not the same thing.”
“It is to me!” Izuku insists. He cradles Kacchan’s face between his palms, looking into his eyes with an intensity he’s able to express towards Kacchan and Kacchan alone. “I’ve never thought you had anything to prove to me. And after you told me what you were thinking when you pushed me away from Shigaraki’s attack…”
Izuku runs his fingers across the big starburst scar on Kacchan’s chest, but focuses on the smaller, bayoneted marks on his torso. He rubs a thumb over one of them. Kacchan watches, mouth ajar. Completely still. Like if he so much as twitches, Izuku will change his mind about everything between them.
“Izuku, you don’t have to explain—”
“I do,” Izuku insists. He brushes his lips against the scar. “Everything you’ve done the past couple years… it matters. I can’t help thinking about it every time we’re lying together like this. How you wear your love for me on your skin.”
Kacchan gasps at that, and Izuku can’t quite believe it came out of his mouth. That the thoughts formed and materialized into the truest words Izuku’s ever spoken. Kacchan’s hands are in his hair, pads of his fingers rubbing gently against his scalp. Soothing Izuku, like everything he just said is somehow okay. Careful, rough hands guide Izuku up, and Kacchan kisses him. It’s soft and gentle and loving in a way Kacchan’s words have almost never been.
Izuku shifts to straddle him, pulling Kacchan deeper into the kiss that grows fervent. Blood pools deep in Izuku’s belly, sparking desire drenched in wanton passions and lifelong vows—always present, never spoken.
Until now.
He’d thought another big shift occurred between them when they’d moved to the bed, but no. That was the drumroll before the crescendo. Neither Izuku nor Kacchan are good at expressing themselves through words, but when they do…
Kacchan nips at Izuku’s ear, hot tongue circling down the shell, and it sparks a fervor in Izuku that bypasses all normal processes and goes straight to his dick. He swears he’s never gotten hard so fast in his life, and he ruts down against Kacchan. He usually convinces himself that clothed grinding is everything he needs, but something between them has shattered, and Izuku knows it’s not enough anymore.
He’s ready.
Izuku glides his tongue up Kacchan’s neck, sucking at his throat, teasing out desperate, stifled whines as he moves along Kacchan’s jaw and dives for his mouth again. Their tongues tangle together in a dance they’ve perfected over months of learning what the other likes. Izuku thinks in vague disbelief of how he's learned to kiss Kacchan in just the way he likes. Knows the spots that drive him wild. How Kacchan knows exactly how to get him to move his hips by digging his fingers into the hard-earned muscle of Izuku’s ass.
He moans in the most sinful way as Kacchan’s dick presses against the space between his cheeks. He’s going to have Kacchan inside of him soon.
It’s… unbelievable.
"This still okay?" Izuku says.
Kacchan nods, squinting his eyes a little. His expression is soft, like it so often is when they’re like… this, but Izuku sees fear in the way his lips purse. In the slight shake of Kacchan’s fingers against his wrist.
Izuku sits himself up off of Kacchan’s hips, missing the yearning closeness, knowing it’s necessary if they want to go further. And, god, they do. Izuku can’t believe it’s taken this long just as much as he can’t believe it’s actually happening.
Izuku wraps his hand around the base of Kacchan's dick, trimmed hair— blond, he notices for the first time—tickling at his palm. He starts a tentative, steady pace, watching as Kacchan’s eyes flit between Izuku’s hand and his face. When Izuku travels up the cock and rubs his thumb over the slit, Kacchan hisses, throwing his head back against the pillow, eyes rolling back.
The expression is familiar now, but there’s more weight behind it. More intent and honesty in their words and actions, and Izuku knows there’s nothing that can stop them from careening forward.
Kacchan collects himself enough between Izuku’s touches to sit up on his elbows. He gets to his knees and pulls Izuku up with him, hands finding his waist, pulling them together. Izuku melts into Kacchan’s kiss, but he needs to feel more. Needs to feel it all.
“Kacchan…”
“You okay?” Kacchan’s voice is warm honey that drizzles against his ear.
“Yeah.” Izuku wraps an arm around Kacchan’s back and squeezes him impossibly closer, reveling in the feeling of hot velvet skin and sticky pre that mixes with his own. He loosens his grip just a little, sliding his hand between them and gripping their cocks together. His hand is full and slick and it just feels… right.
Kacchan pulls him into a hard, open-mouthed kiss that leaves Izuku breathless. Izuku's hand works them, fast and erratic. It feels amazing to him, and with the way Kacchan rolls his hips, Izuku knows it feels good for him, too.
Being like this with Kacchan… It’s everything he’s ever wanted. He thinks he could revel in those calloused hands and hard bites forever, but when Kacchan’s hand replaces his own and starts thrusting them together like it’s their last day on earth, it’s suddenly not enough anymore.
Izuku pulls back from their long, hungry kiss and rests his forehead on Kacchan’s. He wonders if Kacchan’s been waiting for him to be ready. It makes sense, since Izuku’s the one who’s going to be opening his body to him. His heart floods with soft adoration.
“I’m ready to… try,” Izuku manages.
Kacchan’s pulse thrums impossibly harder. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Izuku lies back on the bed.
Kacchan stays on his knees a moment longer, eyes grazing up and down Izuku’s body, finger tracing the long scar on his upper arm. “Have you ever done this? With fingers or toys or anything?”
Izuku’s face scorches. It’s stupid, because this is Kacchan, and they were both rubbing their dicks together a few seconds ago. He swallows his pride and says, “I’ve… yeah. Fingers and toys. But not since… so it’s been a while.”
Kacchan lies down on his side, his chest warm against Izuku’s shoulder as he brushes a sweaty strand of hair from Izuku’s forehead. “Are you okay with prepping yourself in front of me?”
Izuku gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, but he nods. “I think so? Just… stay up here for now.” He doesn’t know why, but having Kacchan focused on his upper body while he opens himself up makes him feel a lot less vulnerable. Not that he doesn’t feel safe with Kacchan, just… it’s his first time doing this in front of another person.
He’s so glad it’s Kacchan.
Kacchan runs his fingers through Izuku’s hair and keeps his head pressed to his shoulder as Izuku opens the jar of oil and sticks up his fingers. He’s all nerves, knowing it’'ll be tough-going after a year with nothing inside him.
So Izuku relies on memory, slicking his rim, relaxing into Kacchan’s gentle, encouraging touch. He needs to be patient, and that’s usually not a problem, but it’s harder to tug back on the reins when it means… this.
One finger goes in, and it’s not painful, but it’s impossibly tight, and his muscle clenches hard. He rests, not moving too fast, letting his body mold to it.
“Doin’ okay?” Kacchan asks, and his words unravel something in Izuku. Because he’s doing this—sticking his fingers in his goddamn ass—right in front of Kacchan. Because they’re going to have sex. Because Kacchan wants to have sex with him.
Izuku nods, makes a little noise of agreement, maybe, as he slides a second finger against his opening. The slide in is excruciatingly slow, and when he gets to the bottom knuckle, he feels the slightest tinge of pain. Izuku rests again, inhaling slow and steady. Kacchan’s skin is so hot against his own despite the spring chill, a constant reminder of why he’s doing this.
“How’re things, uh… progressing?” Kacchan says.
“Be patient,” Izuku grunts. He starts spreading his fingers, urging his body to stretch.
Izuku expects Kacchan to snap, at least a little, but he… doesn’t. Instead, he kisses Izuku’s temple gently. He can feel the pressure of Kacchan’s hand working his own cock against his thigh, and it’s driving him wild. “I was more asking for a status report. I ain’t trying to tell you to hurry up or anything, Zuku. Take your time.”
Zuku.
Zuku.
God. Izuku practically melts into the futon, and he makes a mental note to tell Kacchan to use that nickname more often.
He fumbles awkwardly for more oil, spilling a little on the bed as he lines up a third finger, rubbing circles around his opening, and if there’s a god of anal sex out there somewhere, he’s praying to them that he can do this, because it’s him and Kacchan and…
He breaches a third finger, and it gives him the leverage to press down, and—fuck—there—he hits it, and a low moan vibrates out of his throat.
“Feeling good?” Kacchan laughs a little.
Izuku nods, biting his lip, letting the wave of pleasure wash over him. Slowly, he works his fingers up and down, back and forth, opening himself up for a fourth, because Kacchan is bigger than the toys he owns— owned— and he wants to make sure this is as good as possible for both of them.
He gets the fourth in eventually and makes himself relax against the impossible stretch.
"You're doin' great, Izuku."
God, Kacchan is being so supportive and encouraging. Izuku just wants to kiss him, so he does, pulling Kacchan in with his free hand. Izuku’s stomach is in his throat when he says, “Okay.”
Kacchan’s eyes widen, just a bit. There’s fear, excitement, and anticipation in that millimeter of movement. “You sure?”
Izuku removes his fingers slowly, and he can feel himself puckering open and closed at the sudden emptiness. He wipes his hand on his discarded shirt. “Yeah. How do you want to… um…” Izuku cringes a little. Why does he have to be so awkward?
“Shouldn’t you be the one to pick?” Kacchan asks. “Since you’re the one… uh…”
Izuku cringes again. Okay, at least they’re both awkward as hell. “But it’s your birthday.”
“Yeah, I really don’t give a fuck about that right now?” Kacchan wraps his hand around Izuku’s dick, and fuck, Izuku’d neglected it that entire time because it makes it harder to relax, so Kacchan’s grip feels more amazing than ever. “Did I ever tell you how goddamn thick you are?”
Izuku gasps. No, no he did not.
“Taking you is gonna be a challenge.”
The words create an image in Izuku’s mind of Kacchan splayed across his hips, riding him, begging Izuku to fuck him harder, and—
“Wanna ride you.” Izuku claps his clean hand over his mouth.
Kacchan smiles wryly. “Knew you were gonna say that.”
“What? How?”
“‘Cause you always wanna be on top.”
Izuku groans into his hand but doesn’t reveal the lewd fantasy that made him think of that in the first place. Maybe someday, when they’re not fumbling through their first time together. Not now, when he can barely get the words out to describe what they’re doing, speaking in half sentences and euphemisms. Why Izuku can go knuckles-deep into his own ass but can’t say the word prostate isn’t what he needs to focus on right now.
He turns to his side and kisses Kacchan, running his fingers down the curve of his spine, admiring the glutes that he so much wants to bite. But that’s something for future, far more experienced Izuku to think about, so he concentrates on making Kacchan feel good with his hands and mouth and hips until they’re both desperate and panting against each other again.
When they come up for air and Kacchan’s hand finds its place at the base of Izuku’s neck, he knows.
“Kacchan…” he says breathlessly. “Can we…?”
Kacchan lies on his back, and Izuku raises himself onto his knees, straddling Kacchan like he did before. When Izuku grinds against Kacchan’s dick, it lights every atom in his body on fire.
Izuku steadies himself and goes for the oil again, pouring a generous amount on Kacchan’s cock. He keeps one hand at its base and leans in for a kiss. Izuku needs Kacchan to know that he’s here with him in mind, body, and soul. He feels like they’re standing at a precipice, seconds away from jumping into something wonderful and terrifying, and a part of Izuku feels like their lives were leading up to the moment Kacchan’s dick rammed into Izuku’s ass for the first time.
Poetic, Izuku thinks to himself, chastising himself for never being able to calm the ping pong ball thoughts in his brain, especially when he doesn’t want to think about anything other than having sex with Kacchan.
With the man he loves.
“Gonna…” Izuku gulps, but his mouth is dry. “Gonna do it, if that’s okay?”
Kacchan’s hand squeezes his hip in encouragement. “Please.”
Please? Oh.
“D’you think you can sit up? Against the wall?” Izuku asks. He wants to be close to Kacchan in every way possible. He guesses it’ll be easier once he’s fully seated in this position, but he wants to kiss Kacchan, to feel his words against his ear, from the time he pushes in and until they reach climax.
Izuku climbs off and waits for Kacchan to reposition himself before straddling his lap, and this is… perfect.
Izuku lines Kacchan up, and he sinks down, just a little, lingering in that liminal place between longing and fulfillment. They’re quirkless now, but in that moment, Izuku swears he sees the flicker of multicolored starbursts in Kacchan’s eyes, and he just… knows.
He takes Kacchan in little by little, relaxing, breathing into the overwhelming stretch. Kacchan stays still, patient. Encouraging Izuku with quiet words and light touches.
“That’s it, Zuku.” Kacchan’s voice is low; it drips with desire, love, restraint. “Feels so good.”
Izuku stops when burn sends nausea into his stomach. He hisses through his teeth, eyes smarting with tears. “I’m okay.” He doesn’t know how much farther he has until Kacchan bottoms out, so he waits. “Just need a minute.”
“You’re a stubborn prick; ya know that?” Kacchan kisses the corner of Izuku’s mouth.
“If there’s a stubborn prick in here, it’s the one that’s currently trying to tear up my ass.” Izuku’s whole body goes hot when he says it, and he buries his face in the crook of Kacchan’s neck. Embarrassed as he is, he’s never been able to help himself from picking low-hanging fruit.
They both laugh at that, and Izuku feels the pain start to lessen, the nausea ebb away.
He eases in more, and it’s so much. So much more than he’s ever taken. But Kacchan is a lot in general, so Izuku shouldn’t be surprised that his dick’s the same way. As he takes Kacchan in, Izuku’s grateful for his inhuman pain tolerance. He knows he’s doing this about as safely as he can considering the circumstances, but he bets someone without extensive hero training wouldn’t be having such a great time. Or maybe assholes have different pain tolerances; who knows? Izuku’s new at this, dammit.
Stupid brain, shut up.
His breath hitches when he finally bottoms Kacchan out, and as he lets his thighs relax, he realizes they’re shaking—realizes it’s not concentrated to his thighs—that there’s a slight tremor running across his body.
Because Kacchan is inside him.
“Hi.” Kacchan brushes Izuku’s bangs from his eyes. His hands aren’t steady, either.
Izuku manages a small, trembling smile. “H-hey, Kacchan.”
“You still with me?”
Physically? Yeah. Mentally? Jury’s still out on that one. It took so long to get to this point. Would it have even happened if they hadn't been thrown into the past, quirkless and with no one who understood them but each other?
Izuku wants to think so. But he doesn't know; he doesn't know…
Izuku nods, shaking the thought away. “Sorry, you’re… big. I know you’re probably dying to move right now.”
“I mean, your ass pretty much has my dick in a vice grip—”
Izuku shifts a little, and Kacchan stills him, hands on Izuku's hips. “Dammit, lemme finish!”
“What d’you think I’m trying to do?”
“Smartass.” Kacchan’s head rolls back a little, eyes fluttering shut like it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to move. “Take your goddamn time. If this is torture, then I’m its bitch.”
Izuku melts against his words. His body relaxes further. It’s starting to be less uncomfortable. Mostly, he’s overwhelmed by the fact that Kacchan is being… gentle? Izuku wonders if being here with him all this time has changed something in him, or if it was there, dormant, all along. He knows it’s not always going to feel this uncomfortable, and he’s watched enough porn to have an inkling that he’s not as vanilla as this experience lets on, but for their first time? It’s perfect.
And that’s how it is. Everything feels… perfect. “Gonna move now?”
When Kacchan nods, Izuku rolls his hips forward, leaning close to Kacchan, kissing him, wanting to feel and taste and touch every part of him.
Kacchan's breath hitches, but he stays so still, like he's afraid he'll break Izuku if he so much as flexes his thighs.
"You can move. A little." Izuku bites his own lip. "I'm not fragile."
"I know that. Just lemme be gentle with your goddamn ass, okay?"
Izuku's cheeks burn again at that. Because Kacchan is being sweet, even if he doesn't know how to without swearing. Maybe he wouldn't be Kacchan without that extra spice in his vocabulary.
Izuku rolls his hips a few more times, relaxing into the stretch as his body acclimates. By the time he works them up to a slow, steady pace, he feels like their bodies are transforming into something entirely new. Something they can only share with each other.
“M-move. Please." Izuku whispers.
Kacchan ruts up slowly, one hand braced on Izuku’s hip, the other pulling him closer, enveloping his mouth in a slow, endless kiss. The hand on Izuku’s head traces down his chest, his stomach, and wraps firmly around his swollen cock. Izuku groans into Kacchan’s mouth, encouraging his hip, his hand, faster, faster. He needs this. Needs it like he’s never known—like he’s always known. Because Kacchan is inside him, their bodies flush together, as close as it's possible to be in body and soul.
The hand encircling Izuku’s dick is hot and firm, and Izuku can almost feel what it’d be like to be inside Kacchan. He imagines their positions reversed, Kacchan straddling his lap, murmuring against his mouth with slow, languid kisses. Trusting Izuku as much as Izuku trusts him.
Loving Izuku just as much as Izuku loves him.
Izuku should say it—that he loves Kacchan—as their mouths break apart, as he looks at Kacchan through bleary eyes. There’s an expression on Kacchan’s face that he can’t quite parse as he bounces a little harder, fingers tangling in Kacchan’s hair.
And maybe he can’t read Kacchan’s face because there’s so much going on in those features. Izuku wonders how Kacchan sees him in that moment, wrapped in warm, wet heat. Wonders if Kacchan’s heart is in the same vice grip he claimed his cock was.
Izuku wants it to be. Needs it to be.
“Fuck…” Kacchan’s warm, needing breath washes all over Izuku.
“Kacchan…”
The name crackles from Izuku’s chest, singed with electricity. It’s one Izuku’s said more than any other—that, he knows—but it feels different this time. Billions of years from now when the universe implodes into an infinitesimal speck that encapsulates all existence, the name Kacchan will echo through its demise, reach through the expanse of nothingness, and shape love out of oblivion.
“Izuku…”
Izuku’s never heard his name like that before. He marvels at how those three syllables span the spectrum of human emotion, like a flurry of snapshots that rushes by too quickly to perceive, only to feel deep in his subconscious . Like every sentiment Kacchan’s expressed towards him is compressed into a dense pinpoint of energy, desperate to explode and expand into a cosmos created from that one impassioned utterance: Izuku.
If Kacchan is the name that survives the end of the universe, Izuku is the one that ushers forth a new one.
Something clicks into place. The faint remnants of pain and discomfort are shoved aside for passion and yearning, longing for more. Longing for everything Kacchan can give, because Izuku will give the same in return. He knows, more clearly than ever, that if he could touch their souls, his and Kacchan’s would be made of the same stuff.
He moves faster, bouncing a little with hard-earned thighs, and Kacchan matches his pace, fingers bruising at his hips, squeezing and sliding against his cock. It feels amazing, but Izuku needs more— something he can’t get in this sweet, comforting position. He needed it, initially, to feel safe, but now that he’s connected to Kacchan in a way he could only dream of, he knows that he’s safe and loved, whether he’s wrapped in Kacchan’s embrace or not.
“Lie on your back,” Izuku says.
“Huh?” Kacchan looks at him with wide pupils and flushed cheeks.
He pulls Kacchan closer, groaning against the slide of his cock as he whispers in his ear, “Need more.”
“Fuuuck.” Arm around Izuku’s back, Kacchan uses strong hips to move them away from the wall, hair fanning across the pillow as he lies back, somehow keeping their bodies fitted together the whole time. Kacchan’s always been able to expertly control his movements.
Kacchan’s incredible.
Izuku falls forward, pleasure rushing through his body he slides Kacchan’s dick almost completely out of himself before jutting his hips back down, and—
“Oh my fucking…” Izuku groans at the burst of pleasure that jolts through his body. He does it again, up and down, up and down, his movements growing harder, faster. “Fuck… you feel so good.”
Kacchan bites his lower lip. He finds Izuku’s cock again and tangles his fingers in Izuku’s hair, pulling him close, not for a kiss, but to stare into his eyes. Izuku watches that raw, gorgeous, split-open expression as Kacchan fucks him hard, skin slapping against skin in their desperate attempt to feel everything the other can give.
“You’re so… oh my god, Izuku.”
Their lips meet in a short, hard, desperate kiss that neither can hold, too concentrated on what’s coming. On the culmination of a decade-and-a-half of friendship, rivalry, misunderstandings—on deep connection and love and the strain of learning to be better for themselves—for one another.
The waves crash closer together, and from the way Kacchan’s movements are becoming more frantic, less controlled, Izuku knows he’s feeling the same.
Kacchan gives a hard thrust of his hips, moaning deep from his chest as his hand pumps through his climax. A few more hard, steady thrusts, and Izuku’s insides fill with warmth as Kacchan pulls him over the edge, coming hard, clenching around Kacchan’s swollen, sensitive dick. As he watches cum spurt across Kacchan’s chest, he feels completely connected with and outside his body at the same time.
Izuku collapses against Kacchan’s chest, paying no mind to the sticky mess between them. He rests his forehead against Kacchan’s sweat-drenched nape, panting harder than he ever has in battle—than he ever thought possible.
Kacchan’s arms wrap around Izuku’s back and hold him tight. Izuku’s heart erupts with joy at the knowledge that Kacchan doesn’t care about the mess, either. He just wants to be close to Izuku.
They lie like that for a while before postcoiltal discomfort (physical, not emotional, thank goodness) forces Izuku to climb off Kacchan’s softening dick. He shivers a little as he lies on his side next to Kacchan and the remnants of their deed starts to drip out of him.
“Hey,” Kacchan says softly, reaching out with nimble fingers to tuck unruly, fucked-out hair behind Izuku’s ear.
Yeah. Izuku really, really loves when he does that.
“Kacchan.” It’s all Izuku can think to say. Like it’s the only word that matters.
Kacchan turns on his side, too, greeting Izuku with hot, open-mouthed kisses. It feels different this time, now that they’ve just…
Well.
Izuku feels different, too. Notices Kacchan looks different, somehow, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe that’s what happens when you have sex for the first time, or when that sex is with the person you’ve known best your whole life.
Kacchan twines their fingers together. “I’m gonna get us some stuff to clean up, but—”
“You don’t have to!” Izuku says quickly. He’s feeling kind of awkward, unsure of why Kacchan suddenly wants to dote on him. It’s Kacchan’s birthday, after all.
Kacchan’s face flattens, unimpressed. “You gonna let me finish?”
“Thought I just did,” Izuku smirks.
Kacchan rolls his eyes, but there’s a bemused smirk on his lips. Izuku’s heart floats.
“You already made that lame-ass joke,” Kacchan says.
Izuku tilts his head. Did he? He doesn’t remember. Then again, everything happened so fast. “Regardless, it’s your birthday, and I’m supposed to be taking care—”
“Nah, stop that,” Kacchan says, half gruff, half fond. He kisses Izuku again.
“But it’s your birthday!”
“Izuku.” Kacchan lies on his back again, rubbing at his eyes. “When you top, you can dote on me, wait on me hand and foot, whatever the hell your mushy ass wants to do. But that was a lot harder on your body than it was on mine. It’s the first time either of us had sex, and you were the one who had the more difficult role. So let me do this. Please.”
Izuku stares, frozen. He can do nothing but blink at Kacchan. Because Kacchan’s definitely been sweet to him this past year—cuddling, taking care of him when he’s sick—but he’s never put it into words. And the fact that he’s doing so after an intense experience that was deeply personal and emotional for both of them? And using the word please? It’s a lot. Almost too much. Part of Izuku wants to run away from whatever version of Kacchan this is.
But he can’t. This is Kacchan. He’s only run from Kacchan once in his life, back in his vigilante days, and it almost killed him. Kacchan is his lifeline. Always has been.
Always will be.
“Okay,” Izuku says at last, pressing a kiss to Kacchan's cheek. “But when it’s your turn, I’m gonna pamper the shit out of you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Kacchan groans. “You’re such a goddamn sap.”
“So’re you.”
“Tch. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”
“You are, Kacchan. You just pepper the sweet things you say with more curses than I do.”
Kacchan’s face scrunches like he wants to retort, but he doesn’t say anything else about the subject. “Before I get up. How are you feeling?” He brushes a thumb across Izuku’s cheek, and Izuku has the sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with his freckles.
“Pretty sore,” Izuku admits. If this were battle-related, Izuku’d just say he was fine, but something tells him not to hide from Kacchan right now. They both just experienced something very personal. Very vulnerable. And if Kacchan can keep showing that vulnerable side of himself, so can Izuku.
Kacchan nods, squeezing Izuku’s shoulder as he stands from the futon. Izuku watches him, enamoured with disbelief, as Kacchan traipses around the cottage. He adds a small log to the oven and places a kettle over it, returning to bed a few minutes later with an armful of damp and dry towels and a jug of water.
Izuku lifts himself onto his elbows, wincing a little at the pain. But he takes the jug from Kacchan gratefully, drinking it so quickly that it spills down his chin. He starts a little when Kacchan starts rubbing down his chest with the cool towel.
Kacchan pauses. “That okay?”
Izuku nods. “Yeah. Just a little cold.”
“Gotcha.” Kacchan continues his work, and Izuku relaxes into the soothing touch. If he’s being honest, he was more startled that Kacchan’s showing this level of care towards him, but he lets the thought go. That kind of honestly isn’t helpful to either of them. Izuku doesn’t want to do anything that could potentially disturb this insane, unbelievable moment.
“Gonna brew you some goshajinkigan for the pain,” Kacchan says.
“Oh.” Izuku wants to argue that it isn’t that much pain, that they should save their medicine, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when Kacchan is being… this.
“You better not be injured or anything,” Kacchan frowns.
Better than a scowl. For Kacchan, that’s some serious progress.
Izuku smiles a little, shaking his head. “I’m not injured. Really. My body just needs to adapt is all. People do this all the time, right? And I was really careful.”
Kacchan raises an eyebrow. “If I find out you’re lying—”
Izuku rolls his eyes, emitting a harsh sigh as he lies back on the bed. “I know how to shove things up my ass, Kacchan.”
Kacchan’s eyes widen. His jaw drops, and he snaps it shut just as quickly, like he’s trying to hide the shock on his face.
“What?” Izuku nudges him playfully. “I already told you that.”
“Yeah, when we were about to fuck!” Kacchan says. “It’s weird when it’s not the heat of the moment, ya know?”
Izuku wilts a little. “Weird?”
“Not, like, bad weird. I’m just not used to hearing you say shit like that. Or knowing that you do shit like that.”
Okay. Yeah, sex definitely changed something in their relationship. Because Izuku’s never told anyone any of this before. And now it’s just coming out his mouth. He’s somehow talking to Kacchan about his masturbatory habits and how his ass is sore because Kacchan’s got a big dick and… it’s a lot. But he wants to keep doing this, and it sounds like Kacchan does too, if his words are any indication.
“It is kinda awkward," Izuku says, "but I’m sure it’ll get easier to talk about over time.”
He doesn’t miss the flicker of hope in Kacchan’s eyes.
Instead of responding, Kacchan pours Izuku a cup of goshajinkigan tea. It doesn’t work as well as ibuprofen, but it’s more than enough for the pain Izuku’s feeling. It’s worth it even though the acidity makes him want to gag every time he takes a sip.
“What about you?” Izuku asks when he’s finished with the tea. “How are you feeling?”
“My dick feels fuckin’ great,” Kacchan grins devilishly.
“Kacchan…” Izuku rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Kacchan grumbles. Wrinkles his nose.
Izuku sits up on his side in an attempt to alleviate one of the pains in his ass. He doesn’t want the other one to go away. He wants the other one to stay right where he is, splayed out on the mattress they just had sex on.
Just fucked each other’s brains out on.
Izuku blushes. Yeah, it’s a hot thought, but he is so not ready to think of it in terms like that yet.
“Dunno,” Kacchan says. “Different, I guess.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know yet. I need time to like… think.”
“What about surface stuff? Do you feel good?”
Kacchan nods.
“Relaxed?”
Kacchan nods again.
“Did you have a good birthday?”
A smile spreads across Kacchan’s lips, and he pushes Izuku down onto the mattress, smothering him with kisses Izuku can only describe as sweet and adoring, but he knows better than to ruin the moment and say that out loud.
Because Kacchan is fucking cute, okay? He’s so ridiculously, indescribably adorable, the way his face scrunches in feigned indignation when Izuku ruffles his hair, the way his biceps ripple as he wrestles Izuku… okay, no, cute isn’t the right word for that one. Because Kacchan’s also hot. The obvious way his waist slims down as Izuku grazes his hands over hard muscle… so much hard muscle.
The way he nips at Izuku’s ear, suddenly serious again when he rests his forehead against Izuku’s shoulder, looks up with a nervous expression, and says, “I know you were afraid of not being good at this stuff, and I know I don’t have anything to compare it to, but… you should know. That was amazing.”
His face is in Izuku’s neck again, ears scorched red, and Izuku has a feeling that if he could see Kacchan’s face, it’d be the same color.
Izuku swallows, mouth dry despite all the water he just consumed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He idly plays with Kacchan’s hair again, sinking into the futon, wrapping his arms around Kacchan’s frame. His sudden hyper-awareness of their mutual nudity sparks embarrassment, but he doesn’t let go. Izuku just holds Kacchan tighter.
Amazing.
Kacchan thinks… I’m amazing.
For the next few days, Katsuki does feel different. In a way he can’t properly describe yet. He promised Izuku he would, but Izuku hasn’t pressed him on the matter. You were supposed to feel different after the first time you had sex, right? And he imagines that gets magnified when you have sex with the person you’ve been closest to your entire life… even if you spent the majority of said life trying to push them away and are now trying to make up for it.
They don’t have sex again right away. They keep working on the garden, like always. They go into town and do odd jobs for money, like always. They visit Fuku’s stand and buy a bowl of soba each, like always.
But there are minute differences in the way he and Izuku act around each other. Izuku is more teasing, like when he splashes water on Katsuki when they go down to the creek to bathe. Katsuki notices himself touching Izuku more, and not just when they’re in bed. When they’re both squatting next to each other to rearrange the gravel colors and Izuku accidentally nudges Katsuki with his hip, Katsuki checks him hard with his ass, sending Izuku onto his hands and knees.
Laughing, Izuku tackles him to the ground. “You’re such a shit; I’m gonna murder your whole family! I swear to fuck, Kacchan!” He spews profanities with more affection than those words have any right to, and instead of punching Katsuki, Izuku tickles him.
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.
Katsuki laughs harder than he did when Mr. Smiley sent him careening into the bushes.
“Youlittleshitstop!” He heaves a breath between wheezes, trying in vain to push Izuku off.
“So you’re still ticklish, huh?” Izuku laughs victoriously. “You mean I could’ve been beating you that easily all this time?”
Katsuki has literally no muscle control to push Izuku off. “IzukuI’mgonnapissmypants!”
Izuku is relentless, digging his fingers deep into Katsuki’s sides, a wicked grin on his face. “You have no idea how satisfying this is for me right now.”
“Staaaaahp! Zuku!”
“NEVER!”
Katsuki sees no other option. He chomps down on Izuku’s forearm.
Izuku lets out an “eep!” and falls back on his ass, rubbing at the moon-shaped bite mark.
So yeah. It’s safe to say things are different. In some ways, they’ve been able to rip down the barriers that followed them through youth, classifying them as gifted and quirkless. Even when Izuku inherited One for All, there was a lot of societal pressure to have strong, amazing quirks. But here? Hundreds of years before the first quirk appeared?
That barrier is gone. It’s freeing.
It’s fucking depressing.
When the weather starts to get cold again and Katsuki cannot, for the life of him, start a fire with his numb, frigid hands, he throws the quartz and metal tools across the room and collapses to his knees, staring at his useless hands. The callouses from his quirk fade with every month, a reminder that they’ve been at this for almost two years.
The cottage door swings open, and Izuku enters with two bundles of wood in his strong arms. Katsuki tries to lift himself up. To act normal. But the damage is already done; Izuku always sees through him.
“Kacchan?” Izuku sets down the bundles and approaches cautiously, kneeling next to Katsuki. “You okay?”
Katsuki fucking bawls. Two years ago, he might have pushed Izuku away. Told him to shove off—that it wasn’t his problem. But Izuku gets Katsuki. He’s the only person in this world to know what it’s like to have a quirk and lose it.
When he calms down enough to speak, Katsuki says, “Can’t get the damn fire started, so we’re gonna freeze to death.”
Overreaction? Sure. So sue him.
“Oh,” Izuku says. He smells like pine trees and the air before a snowstorm. “Uh, how ‘bout I give it a try? You’re so cold you’re shaking. No wonder you can’t start it. Wanna warm up in bed, and I”ll join you when I’m done?”
Hell, even a year ago Katsuki would have told Izuku to shove it for that comment. But the pride between them has all but disappeared, so Katsuki grumbles and shuffles himself over to the futon, wrapping himself in blankets like a mummy.
When Izuku finishes with the fire, he joins Katsuki, nestling under the covers. When his cold-ass feet touch Katsuki’s warm ones, Katsuki yelps. “Watch it, you damn icebox!”
Izuku moves his feet away, laughing. Jackass. How the hell does he get away with being so damn cute?
“If it weren’t for your goddamn dimply, freckly face, I would’ve killed you by now,” Katsuki says.
“Thank goodness for my genetics, then.” Izuku presses a kiss to the back of Katsuki’s neck. Katsuki let go of pretending to disavow all things sweet and cuddly a long time ago. It’s nice when Izuku does this. So fucking nice, and he can’t help but melt into it.
“You’re thinking about your quirk again,” Izuku says.
“Great fuckin’ deduction, Sherlock.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.” Katsuki turns around in Izuku’s arms to face him. Izuku’s cheeks are still pink from the cold, and if it weren’t such a serious moment, Katsuki wouldn’t be able to stop himself from kissing them. “Okay, yes. Ya happy now?”
“Kacchan.”
“Look, I…” Katsuki chews on his words. “It’s like muscle memory. Sometimes I just try to use it without thinking about it. Because I always could before. Then it doesn’t work, and it’s like, ‘yeah, you dumbass. What’d you think was gonna happen?’”
“I get it.” Izuku runs a scarred hand down Katsuki’s cheek. Katsuki can’t help but think about how those scars are from a quirk Izuku can no longer use. A small part of him wants to lash out—to tell Izuku he doesn’t get it because he was quirkless for so long. But that would be not only hurtful, but untrue.
“Tell me we’ll get back.” Katsuki hates the uncertainty in his voice, but he doesn’t try to conceal it.
“We’ll get back, Kacchan.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
***
1,142 notches on the stump.
(Three years, one month, two weeks, and two days.)
***
“Kacchan?”
“Hmm?”
“Are we ever gonna get out of here?”
“‘Course we are, nerd. You’re with Bakugou fuckin’ Katsuki.”
“I just…”
“What?”
“It’s been three years.”
“And? We’re only twenty. We’re still young as fuck.”
“Our classmates have all graduated. They’re pro-heroes.”
“Our classmates haven’t been born yet.”
“We’re gonna be so much older than them if we get back.”
“When we get back, Izuku.”
“Fine, when we get back. We look older.”
“Not that much older. You still got that baby face.”
“I’m taller than you now.”
“You’re absolutely fuckin’ not, pipsqueak.”
“Do we need to measure ourselves again? I’m half a centimeter taller than you!"
“You’re cheating! Standing on your tiptoes or some shit!”
“I wouldn’t do that!”
“That's exactly what a cheater would say!”
***
2,401 notches.
(Six years, six months, and four weeks.)
***
Katsuki’s sitting on the counter, writhing into Izuku’s fingers, legs splayed, as Izuku works him open, pressing furiously, tauntingly against his prostate. Katsuki grips the ledge, searching desperately for something to ground him, though he wants nothing more than to unravel beneath Izuku’s deft fingers.
“So fucking gorgeous like this, Kacchan.” Izuku lathes his tongue across a pert nipple. “So fucking gorgeous for me.”
When Izuku looks at him with those dark, wanting eyes, Katsuki wants to give him the world.
“Just fuck me, already!”
Izuku removes his fingers, and Katsuki whines at the emptiness, aching for the words he knows will follow.
“Being a desperate slut today, huh?” Izuku splays Katsuki’s legs further, settling between them to suck marks on his thighs. “Can’t stand being empty; can you?”
Katsuki’s head rolls back as Izuku flicks his tongue into the slit of Katsuki's dick to lap up the generous amount of precum that’s collected since he started his teasing an eternity ago.
“Answer me," Izuku says.
Katsuki stares at Izuku’s lust-drunk eyes as he finally takes him down in one long, practiced movement, popping off just as fast. Katuski grips Izuku’s mess of curls, but stays silent.
Because he wants to hear it.
“Answer me.”
When Katsuki tries to push Izuku’s mouth onto his dick, a hand grabs his wrist. Izuku’s on his feet again, pushing Katsuki back against the wall.
“Answer me, Katsuki.”
That’s all it takes for Katsuki’s white flag to unfurl.
“Fuck—want you inside me.”
“Want, huh?”
Izuku teases Katsuki’s entrance, pushing his dick against it, pressing in ever so slightly, and Katsuki knows he’s loving every goddamn second of it. Fucking sexy nerd doing him in like this. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Izuku has this effect on him.
It’s everything Katsuki’s ever wanted.
No. Not quite.
“Need you,” Katsuki rasps. “Need you now. Forever. Fuck.”
Izuku’s act drops for a millisecond. It's so subtle, and Katsuki knows he’s the only person who could ever catch it. But it was there—a single frame in a film, that anyone else would miss. It’s fitting, then, that it’s all Katsuki can see.
He pulls Izuku close, because in that moment, that’s what Katsuki needs.
Now.
Forever.
Katsuki wraps his legs around Izuku’s waist, letting their cocks slide together, rolling slowly into the friction. He watches Izuku close, hands cupping Izuku’s face. Izuku’s brow startles at the change in mood, but then he sees. Katsuki knows in that moment, their feelings are the same.
“Kacchan, you said…” Izuku is breathless. “Forever?”
Years ago, Katsuki would have been afraid. But their hearts, their essence, their souls have mingled for so long, Katsuki can’t tell where one stops and the other begins. And maybe he never could tell. Maybe it was the fortress of false pride and bravado he’d forged that made him think they’d never understand each other.
But now, in this moment, he knows. It’s always been Midoriya Izuku.
Katsuki nods. “Yeah.”
Izuku’s eyes glint in the afternoon light. He looks younger than his twenty-three years, like a spark of the child knew Katsuki before the world labeled him a future hero with an amazing quirk has managed to shine through all the pain and loss and solitude.
Tears prick in the corners of Izuku’s eyes. “Forever.”
Katsuki lets Izuku pull him into a wanting, steady kiss, and Katsuki weaves his arm through their tangled bodies. He presses Izuku’s cock against himself once more. When Izuku sinks in, Katsuki loses all thought, all apprehension. He steadies himself with a palm on the counter and rocks Izuku, slow and gentle, into himself.
They’ve done this more than Katsuki could ever count, but something about this time… it reminds him of the first night they spent together.
In six years, Katsuki and Izuku have never confessed their love for one another, but they have said forever. ‘I love you’ is a declaration. ‘Forever’ is a vow.
They were never any good at doing things in the socially acceptable order.
Their world melds into that single, fathomless utterance, and they fold themselves into one another, body and soul, blazing fearlessly into the stretch of eternity.
After they’ve cleaned up and attempted two more designs in the garden, they finally talk about it. They’re lying in bed, limbs lazed over one another, breaths mixing, like always.
“Can we talk about what you said when we were having sex?” Izuku asks. He’s always been more brazen with his thoughts.
Katsuki’s almost certain what he means, but just in case, he says, “Which part?”
“Forever?” Izuku’s voice is soaked in trepidation.
Katsuki swallows hard, twining his fingers in Izuku’s. He presses their foreheads together and says, “Yeah. Yes. I meant it.”
A shaky breath tinged in hope and disbelief. “So did I.”
“I know.”
“It’s always been you. It’s always gonna be you. I know we’re bad at talking about this stuff, but… we both feel it.” Izuku spreads his hand across Katsuki’s starburst scar. “I wanna say it. It’s okay if you can’t say it back yet. Just… don’t shut me out?”
“You know I won’t.” Katsuki puts his hand atop Izuku’s. “I’m not that person anymore.”
“Kacchan, I…” Tears are welling in Izuku’s eyes again. He lets a few fall, and Katsuki swipes them away gently with his thumb. He’d never say it aloud, but Izuku is beautiful when he cries.
“Don’t worry,” Katsuki whispers, all raspy and hoarse. “I wanna say it, too.”
Izuku’s breaths are shaky, and Katsuki can feel the live wires of their nerves tangling together.
Soft, determined emerald eyes stare back at him. Izuku takes Katsuki’s hand in his own, holding it like a promise. Like a prayer. “I’ve loved you, Kacchan. For a very long time. I couldn’t do this with anyone else.”
Katsuki’s heart expands in his chest. The beat is fast, overwhelming, thrumming in his ears as he takes in the gravity of Izuku’s confession. A confession he knew in his heart was true, that would come out eventually, no matter what time or place they were in. Katsuki knew it would always be like this, but it still shoots through him, knocks him off his feet, razes his defenses.
He doesn’t care about competition anymore—not here, not when their lives are so different from what they ever thought they’d be. But in this, Katsuki knows he has to match Izuku. Needs him to understand that he will always, forever feel the same way.
“I would’ve broken a long-ass time ago without you here,” Katsuki manages. He knows where he needs to end, but he can’t quite see the path ahead. “They’d be investigating a murder-suicide if I’d been stuck with Glasses or Dunceface.”
“Kacchan!” Izuku laughs, feigning insult for their friends’ honor. Friends that don’t exist yet.
Katsuki gulps. “I miss those assholes.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“We should be working our way into the Top Ten by now,” Katsuki says. “D’you think they’ll still be dweeby-ass high schoolers when we get back? Are we gonna be sent back to the same time, or will it correspond with the amount of time we’ve been here?”
Dammit, he’s getting too far off-topic. He needs to say it back, but he’s reopened this old can of worms.
“I don’t know.” Izuku shakes his head. When his face is serious like this, Katsuki can see the slightest hint of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. “And I don’t know which option I’m more afraid of.”
Katsuki nods his agreement. “There’s only one goddamn thing that doesn’t scare the shit out of me when I think about that.”
Izuku raises his eyebrows, curious.
“Whatever happens, we’ll know what we’ve been through together.” Katsuki kisses the back of Izuku’s hand. Some past version of himself screams at him for being so soft, so open, but that feels like a lifetime ago. “We’ll know we can keep moving forward together.”
“Kacchan…”
Izuku tends to say Katsuki’s nickname when it seems he can’t find the words to express the mess of emotions in his chest, so Katsuki presses forward.
“Love’ll do that to you.”
“I…”
“I love you, Izuku.”
***
3,427 notches
(Nine years, four months, two weeks, and six days.)
***
“Give me a good reason for why the fuck we’re still working on this stupid goddamn thing!”
Izuku’s having his biggest meltdown in years. He’s somehow managed to scatter a significant portion of the gravel outside the garden’s barrier. It’s going to be a bitch to clean up, but Katsuki doesn’t care right now.
He kneels down to where Izuku is sitting at the center of the gravel garden. When he envelops Izuku in his arms, he gets pushed away, hard. So Katsuki just sits next to him. Lets him rant.
It’s what Izuku needs.
“We’re never getting back,” Izuku snarls, digging his hands into the gravel. “It was all a fucking trick to keep us in this hell.”
Katsuki’s heart falls. Does Izuku really consider their lives here hell? Even if it’s an emotional reaction, there must be some truth to what he’s feeling.
“You wanna know what’s stupid?” Izuku continues. “I can’t even remember what that villain’s fucking looks like anymore. I hate him and I want to rip out his throat, but how can I do that if I don’t know what he looks like? For all I know, he could be visiting the village. Mocking us. Who the fuck knows how his quirks work? He’s some AFO leftover; I just know it. There’s no way there’s a single quirk that lets you take away someone’s powers, transport them through time, and tether them to a three kilometer radius! He’s gotten his revenge ten-fucking-fold. So tell me, Kacchan, why the hell are we still doing this?”
Izuku’s words startle the old wounds in Katsuki’s chest back to life, but he forces them down. Izuku’s struggling with their lives more than he is right now, so he has to be strong until Izuku can stand on his own again.
Impassioned rant apparently over, Izuku stares at Katsuki. There’s anger boiling off his body, but Katsuki’s matured enough to recognize it’s not aimed at him.
“Because we’re heroes,” Katsuki says.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“No.” Katsuki swallows around the painful lump in his throat. “We’re heroes. We’re always gonna be. This might be slow and tedious, but it’s still hero work.”
Izuku folds his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them like it’s the only thing holding him together. He looks at Katsuki like he’s desperate for him to continue. To prove that everything Izuku just said is wrong.
“We’ve got two links to our old lives,” Katsuki says. “Each other and this god-forsaken garden. When I’m with you, I know I’m still a hero. When we work together and create a new design, I know we’re still heroes.”
Izuku huffs.
“Remember what All Might said all those years ago at Ground Beta? About how we’d become the ultimate heroes if we’d learn to respect and lift each other up?”
“We’ve done that a hundred times over, and we’re still stuck here,” Izuku growls into his knees.
“That’s not the point.” Katsuki leans back on his hands and looks up at the cloud-covered sky. “We’re gonna get through this because we learned to understand and respect each other. To love each other. I’m sure All Might didn’t see that last one coming, though.”
Izuku laughs a little, finally raising his head to meet Katsuki’s eyes. “He’s always been pretty oblivious.”
Katsuki gets to his feet and offers Izuku his hand. “C’mon, hero. Let’s get back to work.”
***
5,892 notches
(Sixteen years, one month, and two weeks.)
***
Fuku’s niece delivers the news of her passing on a rainy morning before they head out to the garden for the day. Izuku invites her in for tea. She tries to refuse, shaking, distraught, until Izuku pulls her into a hug, and she collapses in his arms. He helps her onto a cushion by the low table and puts the kettle on.
“What’s going on?” Kacchan’s voice is deep, scared. He must not have heard her from the other side of the cottage, but her sobbing and the tears streaming down Izuku’s face have him on high alert.
“It’s Fuku.”
A garbled, shaking gasp. Kacchan stops in his tracks. “No.”
Izuku pulls him into a tight hug and presses his face into Kacchan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck.”
They finish brewing the tea and join Fuku’s niece at the table to offer their condolences.
After half a cup, she calms down enough to continue. “Our family doesn’t know you well, but you had a special place in Auntie’s heart. We’d all like it if you could come to the gathering.”
Kacchan folds his arms over his chest, clearly uncomfortable. Izuku knows he wants to go, that this is eating him up inside, no matter how stoic he looks.
“If it wouldn’t be an imposition…” Izuku says.
“The soba boys were never an imposition to Auntie.”
Kacchan bursts into tears.
They gather at night to carry the barrel-shaped coffin to the pyre. Izuku and Kacchan linger at the back, clinging to one another as flames encircle the coffin until Fuku is nothing but ash and memory.
They offer thanks and condolences to the family, wanting to leave them to the private affair of collecting the ashes.
Another old woman who looks remarkably like Fuku stops them. “Come by the village more often. Musutafu is a close-knit community, and my sister did a lot to uphold that. She had half the town gathered around her soba stand every day of the week. I don’t want her legacy to die with her.”
Overwhelmed with grief and compassion, Izuku and Katsuki make that promise.
Despite their outsider status, when Izuku and Katsuki visit the village later that week, they can feel the hole Fuku’s passing has brought upon Musutafu. The soba stand is gone, and with it, the crowds of people that used to gather for their midday meal.
“I hate this,” Izuku says into the half-empty square.
Kacchan raises an eyebrow at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“How could you possibly—”
“I ain’t opening a soba stand with you.”
“I wasn’t gonna suggest—”
Kacchan shoots him a look, shutting Izuku down instantly.
Izuku sighs in defeat. “How did you guess?”
“‘Cause I’ve known you for almost thirty years. Stop acting so surprised.”
Izuku grabs Kacchan’s hand and drags him towards the produce stand. If they didn’t multitask through their bickering, they’d never get anything done.
“It could be a once a week thing.” Izuku picks up a bitter melon and sniffs it before putting it in his bag. “That way, it wouldn’t be detracting from our work on the garden too much.”
Katsuki picks up a bundle of leaf lettuce. Dissatisfied by its wilting, he sets it down and keeps digging. “You got the start-up capital?”
“Well…”
“You know how much to make to keep people satisfied, but not enough that your money goes to waste? If you run out and need to make more, can you do it fast enough to keep customers happy?”
Izuku scrunches his nose. “If they’re not happy, they can eat somewhere else and fuck off.”
Kacchan gives him a small, sad smile. “You sound like the old me when you say stuff like that.”
They fill the bag with items in silence, and Izuku pays and thanks the cashier. Try as he might, he can’t get what Kacchan said out of his mind. “You said I sounded like you used to?”
“Yeah. Back when we were kids.”
“Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”
Kacchan wraps an arm around Izuku’s shoulder, and they walk aimlessly through the village. “It’s neither. Just makes me nostalgic sometimes, I guess.”
Izukun nudges into the embrace. “I’ve been missing my mom a lot again.”
“Wanna talk about it when we get home?”
Izuku nods. “Thanks, Kacchan.”
***
8,632 notches.
(Twenty-three years, seven months, three weeks, and two days.)
***
A loud crash from their vegetable garden wakes Katsuki out of a dead sleep. He untangles himself from Izuku and jumps out of bed, grabbing his coat and running barefoot into the crisp night air.
His eyes zone in on the sound of rustling from the berry bushes. Even with the light of the full moon, he can’t see through the shadows, so Katsuki grabs a hatchet out of a half-split log and approaches. It’s probably just an animal, but he can’t be too careful.
When he leans over to peer into the darkness, a foot swings out and kicks him in the balls. He doubles over with a muffled “augh!” and some elbow-high little brat headbutts him in the stomach.
“Sei-chan! Hurry up!” Another boy, arms full of as many gourds as he can carry, turns on his heel and runs, dropping them with every step.
“I knew I should’ve done this alone!” the other little shit, Sei-chan, whatever the hell that’s short for, starts picking up the discarded vegetables as he runs along. “Why can’t you ever do anything right?”
The brat overestimated his ability to pick up after his friend and outrun Katsuki, and soon Katsuki’s got him by the wrist. The gourds roll unceremoniously onto the ground.
“Let go of me, old man!” Sei-chan snarls.
“Forty is not old!” Katsuki furrows his brow.
“SEI-CHAN, NOOOOO!” The other boy drops the vegetables, bruising them, no doubt, because he’s a stupid, reckless little kid, and raises his fists, teeth bared, fear in his eyes.
“I dunno about you, Kacchan, but I’m having flashbacks.” Izuku’s voice echoes from behind them.
Katsuki snaps his head in Izuku’s direction. He’s shirtless, rubbing at his arms in the cold air.
“I’ll kick you in the nuts too, ya old geezer!” Sei-chan tries to charge Izuku, but there’s no way he’s getting out of the grip.
“Nobody’s kicking anybody in the nuts,” Izuku says, voice scratchy from sleep.
“Sei-chan, calm down!” The other boy's lips tremble. His fists shake violently. “Let him go, or I’ll fight you!”
Katsuki meets Izuku’s eyes once more. “Yeah. This is fuckin’ creepy.”
“Don’t swear in front of the kids, Kacchan.”
“Fucking fuck you, you fucking green-haired fuck!” Sei-chan growls. He looks like a yappy little terrier.
Izuku puts his hands on his hips. “Oh my god. It’s mini-you.”
“Literally mini-me,” Katsuki says in disbelief. He leans down to Sei-chan’s level. “What were you doing in our garden?”
“Diggin’ for gold; what the hell do you think?”
“Izu, tell me I wasn’t this obnoxious.”
“You were worse,” Izuku laughs. “More—ah—explosive.”
Okay, that’s fair.
“You kids hungry?” Katsuki asks.
“What’s it to you, ya wrinkled old ballsack?”
“Stop talking about balls,” Izuku scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re like, eight. It’s weird.”
“I’m pretty hungry,” the other boy admits.
“He is not; he’s lying!”
“Yeah, because stealing unripe squash is something not-hungry people do,” Katsuki says.
Sei-chan growls.
“Sei-chan… it’s been two days.”
Katsuki’s eyes go wide. “You little shits haven’t eaten in two days?”
The boys look at each other, their answer obvious in the silence.
“Yeah, no. Unacceptable. C’mon, kids, we’re making you food.” Izuku starts walking back towards the cottage, his tiny doppelganger following. "You like soba?"
"It's my favorite!" the boy says.
Sei-chan growls. “Niko, you traitor!”
Katsuki finally lets go of the brat’s wrist. “Get outta here, then. Nothing’s stopping you.”
Sei-chan looks back at the cottage as Izuku lets Niko inside. He huffs, marching his tiny legs towards the house. "That moron’s gonna get himself killed if I don’t watch out for him. I bet you’re murderers.”
Shaking his head, Katsuki picks up the gourds and heads inside. History sure does rhyme.
It takes over a week before Niko finally cracks and admits he and Sei-chan—Seikichi—escaped from the local orphanage. Seikichi screams at him and calls him a traitor, all while Niko bawls his eyes out.
Honestly, both boys are a mess of stress, anger, and anxiety, and Katsuki has no idea how he and Izuku survived that long fighting the way these kids do.
“Do the people at the orphanage mistreat you?” Katsuki asks.
Niko shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”
“Is too!” Seikichi spews. “They beat us and lock us in cages and feed us maggots and make us sleep on rusty nails!”
“Sei-chan, stop lying!”
“You’re the liar, you traitor! Gonna start calling you Traitor from now on. The name Niko is dead.”
“No.” Izuku and Katsuki’s voices cut through the room.
“We’re gonna talk about this later, Seikichi,” Katsuki says.
Seikichi snorts. “You’re not my dad. My dad’s dead.”
Everybody I’ve ever known hasn’t even been born yet, you little shit.
Katsuki doesn’t say that out loud, though.
Curled up on the futon, Izuku whispers with Katsuki, careful not to wake the boys sleeping on a pile of thick blankets on the other side of the room. “Niko says it’s not that bad, and Seikichi tells us it’s basically torture. My guess is the orphanage falls somewhere in the middle.”
“If we just show up, they’re gonna be on their best behavior,” Katsuki says.
“Maybe,” Izuku nuzzles into Katsuki’s hair absentmindedly. “But there’s some stuff you just can’t hide, you know? I’m just gonna check it out. Just to see.”
Kacchan lets out a grumble, and Izuku knows he’s won.
Turns out, the orphanage is beige and depressing, and the food absolutely sucks, but the kids aren’t mistreated. They just don’t have enough staff, enough resources.
When Izuku returns to tell Katsuki, he’s brimming with energy, pacing across the cottage, mouth running a million miles a minute. “The ladies who run it are actually really nice, but they’re so worn out, and it’s not like this town has the money to improve conditions, at least not without a central, state-funded welfare system, which we both know won’t happen for—”
“Babe. The point.”
“Right.” Izuku’s eyes dart around like he’s trying to remember where his rambling was heading. “I was thinking I’m gonna help out. Make sure they have better food, games, toys, educational materials.”
Katsuki nods. “All right. I’m game.”
Izuku’s eyebrows shoot up. “You…?”
“What?” Katsuki sneers. “I’m nice now!”
“Well, yeah, but community engagement isn’t exactly something you’re interested in.”
“I have a soft spot for those two little shitheads.”
Izuku lets out a squeal that sounds too high-pitched to come from his mouth, and his face, thinned over the years, creased slightly from the sun, sparkles with youth. In that moment, somehow, he’s eighteen again. He throws himself on Katsuki, pushing him against the wall and showering the entirety of his face in kisses.
“You’re a sap,” Katsuki laughs, squeezing Izuku’s cheeks until he looks like a fish.
“I’m your sap,” Izuku says, trying to attack Katsuki’s face with his adorably dumb fish face. “I’m the sticky, tacky maple syrup to your fluffy, flaky pancake.”
“You comin’ onto me?” Katsuki grins.
“Don’t you think if I had a food kink, you’d know after twenty-two years?”
“True.”
“I do miss maple syrup, though.”
When Izuku’s face falls, Katsuki knows it’s not about the syrup. “What’s goin’ on? Talk to me.”
Izuku heaves a sigh and turns away. He looks out the window and props his elbows against it. “You ever think about how we’ve lived here longer than we did at home?”
“You’re a chronic overthinker.”
“Kacchan, please.” It’s the serious, most mature Katsuki’s ever heard Izuku, a stark contrast to the way he looked only a minute prior. “I’m not giving up on the garden. You were right all those years ago. No matter what happens, we’ll always be heroes deep down.”
Katsuki moves to stand behind Izuku and wraps his arms around Izuku’s waist.
“Kacchan.” Izuku melts into the embrace, nuzzling Katsuki’s cheek with his nose. “I love you so much.”
“Love you too, Zuku.”
“How much?” Izuku asks. It’s an old, sickeningly sweet game they know by heart.
“So goddamn fuckin’ much.”
Izuku hums into Katsuki’s ear. “I love you so goddamn fucking much, too.”
“You want some pancakes? I think we’ve got honey in the cupboard.”
“Really?”
“Duh. Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t wanna make them.”
“Mm… You’re so good to me, Kacchan.”
***
12,493 notches.
(Thirty-four years, two months, three weeks, and one day.)
***
Izuku sets down the rake and stretches out his numb, tingling fingers. Carpal tunnel’s a bitch at fifty-one, and he seriously regrets breaking his arms over and over again all those years ago. He looks over at Kacchan, who’s finishing his part of their latest design.
“I miss waking up without half my body aching.”
Kacchan looks at him like he’s grown a second head. When he scowls, the vertical rivets in his brow turn to deep fissures. “You’ve been destroying your body since you were fifteen years old.”
“At least I haven’t given my toes frostnip five times.”
“Four times! I’ve got shitty circulation when I’m not working up a sweat. Sue me.”
“Whatever you say, Kacchan.”
“You wanna fight me?”
“That’ll go well. Two middle-aged guys. One can’t feel his hands. The other can’t feel his feet. We’ll end up in the hospital in five minutes.”
“I can feel my toes!” Kacchan spits, then mumbles, “just not when it’s cold.”
“Mhm. Sure, Kacchan.”
“I’m a spring goddamn chicken, thank you!”
“Your grays say otherwise.”
“They’re light blond from the sun!”
They glare at each other, then burst into laughter. The banter’s still fun, even if it’s never serious anymore.
Izuku squints down the path that disappears into the woods and towards the village. Two tall figures approach at a jog that radiates youth and vitality.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the problem children.” Kacchan smirks as Niko and Seikichi approach and pull them both into strong, familiar hugs. “What brings you by?”
“Like we need an excuse to visit?” says Seikichi, but there’s an air of nervousness between them. Something unsaid. Izuku’s known them for over a decade. He can just tell.
Niko and Seikichi exchange glances with shy, goading smiles, and it reminds Izuku so much of him and Kacchan’s younger selves that his heart twinges. Over the past few years, Seikichi grew to be around Izuku and Kacchan’s height, but Niko shot up like a rocket and stands half a head taller than the rest.
“We should just tell them,” Seikichi whispers all too loudly into Niko’s ear.
“Tell us what?” Izuku asks.
Niko rolls his eyes at his friend. “You wouldn’t know an inside voice if it pummeled you over the head.”
“We’re outside, jackass!”
“And still you act like I can’t hear anything!”
Izuku and Kacchan exchange knowing grins.
Kacchan clears his throat. “Tell us what’s going on. We ain’t getting any younger here.”
“That’s certainly true,” says Seikichi.
“Sei-chan!”
“What? I didn’t—”
“We’re going to Edo!” Niko blurts. He yelps, slapping a hand over his mouth.
“What?” Izuku’s face lights up, and he pulls them both into a bear hug that Niko returns and Seikichi tolerates. “Congrats! That’s amazing! Oh my god; I’m so proud of you guys!” Tears form in Izuku’s eyes, and the moment Niko notices, they both start bawling.
Seikichi folds his hands over his chest. “How have you put up with this for decades?”
Kacchan shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “It’s easy when you love the bastard.”
“I think I get it,” says Seikichi.
Izuku wipes at his cheeks, eyes snapping to Seikichi. He has to be careful here. “You get it? What d’you mean?”
Niko’s biting down so hard on his lips he looks like he’s about to burst.
“Just tell ‘em, Nik,” Seikichi says.
“N-n-no, you should.”
Izuku clasps his hands together, exchanging a meaningful look with Kacchan.
Seikichi sighs. “Fine. We’re together, I guess.”
“You guess?” Niko's eyes widen in feigned insult.
Their bickering is interrupted by Izuku, who may be the first man over fifty to actually squeal. “Oh my god. How’d it happen? Who kissed who? Tell us everything.”
“For the love of all that is unholy, do not tell us everything,” Katsuki deadpans.
Both young men turn red, and it’s Niko who manages to speak first. “W-well… It happened a few weeks ago. We’ve been dreaming of going to Edo for work for forever, obviously, but it didn’t seem realistic, you know? And Seikichi was really down on himself—you know how he gets—and I said we could do anything as long as the two of us stuck together. But he was just adamant that nothing we ever talked or hinted about would ever come true, so I just… kissed him. One thing led to another, and now we’re… uh. Here. We’re leaving for Edo in the morning.”
Izuku’s sobbing again. “That’s beautiful. It’s so much like me and Kacchan, I’m gonna—”
“Sorry about the middle-aged fangirl,” Kacchan says.
“Rude, Kacchan.”
“The… what?” Seikichi’s face scrunches in confusion. "Fangirl?"
“Old people term. Never mind.” Kacchan waves them towards the house. “C’mon in. This calls for whatever shitty celebration we can pull out of our asses in five minutes.”
They gather around the table with a bottle of sake, careful to make sure the boys don’t have too much, lest they get a late start on their journey. Plus, it’s hard to think of Niko and Seikichi as anything but kids, even if Izuku and Kacchan faced far more harrowing ordeals in their youth.
For a while, they reminisce about little snippets from their lives: the time the boys broke into their vegetable garden, the time Seikichi got mad and smashed an inkwell that stained his hands for weeks, the first time Izuku and Kacchan cooked for the kids at the orphanage.
“I’ll never forget your soba noodles,” says Niko. “They were the highlight of my week for years.”
“Seriously,” Seikichi agrees. “After that nasty rice paste those hags fed us? It was heaven.”
Kacchan cracks his knuckles with a grin. “You eat yet?”
The young men shake their heads.
Izuku places a hand on Kacchan’s shoulder. “Then how ‘bout one more round of soba for old time’s sake?”
The four know the recipe by heart, and in no time, it’s prepared, cooked, and eaten under the light of the setting sun. After recanting countless stories and talking about plans for their future, Izuku and Kacchan give both boys heartfelt goodbyes. When Izuku gifts them an old sketch of himself and Kacchan tutoring them in the orphanage, even Seikichi breaks into tears.
“I’m gonna miss those little shits,” Kacchan sighs as he closes the door and leans his back against it.
“I’m so fucking proud of them,” Izuku says.
“For going to Edo or getting together?”
“All of it. But before I forget,” Izuku holds out his hand, “pay up.”
“Haah?”
“You lost the bet.”
“The bet?”
“The bet, Kacchan. I said Niko’d be the first to confess, remember? You said, and I quote, ‘that little wuss-ass? Please, it’s gonna be Seikichi.’”
“I don’t think I put it in those terms, exactly.”
“You sure about that? Because I have no problem getting my notebook out to check. If I recall correctly, you signed your statement, so it’s legally binding.”
“I’ll legally bind your ass.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
***
18,262 notches.
(Fifty years.)
***
They’re slowing down. Katsuki knows; Izuku knows. Sometimes, when Katsuki bends down to finely rake the garden, it takes him a full minute to push past the pain in his back and stand again.
Izuku has a head full of thick, gray hair, and he has to squint hard to get the details right in his sketches.
Years ago, he might have waxed poetic about how the future would have reading glasses. Half the time, neither of them bother remembering such a thing will ever exist.
The walls of the cottage are covered in sketches of their life together, each beautiful in its uniqueness. Sometimes, Katsuki spends hours looking at them all, marveling at how they improve, how Izuku’s style changes over the years. It's easy to tell when they were made. Izuku marks the corners of the drawings with the numbers corresponding with the number of days they’d been there.
Katsuki started keeping journals somewhere along the way, inspired by Izuku’s art and notebooks filled with theories and analyses of the garden. What he writes is incredibly personal, and it’s for his eyes alone. He’d be lying, though, if he said he didn’t want someone in the future to find it.
People should know what happened to them all those years ago. People should know the life and love they built together, quirkless and against all odds.
They’re never going home. It’s something Katsuki and Izuku came to terms with long ago. But they’re still heroes. They’re here for a reason. And while they may never live to see that villain brought to justice, they can, perhaps, stop it from happening to anyone else.
They can tell their story.
***
26,000 notches.
(Seventy-one years, two months, three weeks, and three days.)
***
“Do you ever think about them?” Katsuki leans on his cane, squinting at the blurry gravel through his aging eyes, visions of their old friends’ youthful faces flashing through his fading memory.
Izuku peers through his long, gray bangs. He needs a haircut, but Katsuki’s hands are too shaky to manage it anymore. “Niko and Seikichi?”
“Our friends from before.”
Izuku hunches over the rake, his back warped from a lifetime of stooping. “I dream about them sometimes.”
***
29,103 notches.
(Seventy-nine years, eight months, three weeks, and four days.)
***
Izuku slumbers on one of the old reclining chairs they set up next to the garden years ago. Katsuki smiles at his withered, wrinkled frame. He remembers well what Izuku looked like in his youth, though his memory is aided greatly by old sketches on yellowed paper. Katsuki loves every version of Izuku: past, present, and future.
Even if their future turns to dust soon.
There are still a few moments before oblivion. What else can they do but tend the garden?
Breaths don’t come easily for Katsuki anymore. It’s a heart problem, if he had to guess. He doesn’t worry Izuku with it. There’s no point.
He needs a break, though. They haven’t been able to work through the whole day in years. The key to longevity, as the old folks say, is to keep moving. Keep laughing. Never really grow up.
“Hey, nerd.” Katsuki sits next to Izuku and squeezes his hand.
His feeble heart gives a jolt. Izuku is cold.
“Izuku.” Katsuki shakes him. Izuku’s head rolls to the side. “Izuku.”
Izuku’s eyes open. Empty. Soulless.
“IZUKU!”
Katsuki’s cries echo through space and time itself.
Katsuki can’t fathom how he does it, but his body’s always moved on its own when it comes to Izuku. He digs a grave next to the garden as deep as his old bones can muster. He wraps Izuku in a blanket, pulls him into the grave, and closes his eyes with coins. Katsuki starts at Izuku’s feet, shoveling inch by inch until only his head is left. He doesn’t know what compels him to do it, and maybe it’s wrong, but he bends down, gives Izuku’s cold, pallid lips one final kiss, and buries him away from himself—from the world—forever.
Then, he stands up. There’s still work to do. He’s still a hero.
Today’s design is almost complete. Half an hour of work at most. He’ll finish it, and then he’ll mourn.
Katsuki’s movements are practiced, mechanical. There’s no need to hurry anymore.
When he finishes the final swoop of green pebbles, he sets the rake against the chair Izuku died in. Katsuki can’t sit, not yet. If he does, he might never get up.
When it happens, Katsuki thinks it’s a trick of the light on his failing eyes. Light emanates from the puzzle, washing it the full spectrum of color: like the brighter, truer hues of the pebbles are dancing to life.
A swirling vortex appears at the center, shapes forming within it as Katsuki peers down. It’s a bustling market brimming with people in strange clothes.
The clothes we used to wear.
“Uh, sir?” a scared voice comes from behind him.
Katsuki cranes his creaking neck to look at the girl. She wears her hair strangely (a bob, his memory suggests), and her uniform looks familiar (UA, maybe).
And it’s all he can think to say.
“UA?”
“Y-yeah, that’s where I go.” She looks around. “First year, General Studies. I got attacked by this villain while I was shopping with my friends.”
Katsuki glances back at the portal.
Izuku, we did it.
It's too late for us.
But we did it.
Plan B just got upgraded to Plan A.
“You’re one lucky extra,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you know All Might?” Katsuki asks.
“He’s my teacher.”
“Go into my cottage. There’s a wooden box under the desk with a letter tied together with red string. Bring it here.”
“What?”
Katsuki rubs at his face with a knotty, liver-spotted hand. “I need you to hear what I’m about to tell you, and I need you to not lose your shit. My name is Bakugou Katsuki.”
“No way. I just saw him this morning; that’s impossib—”
“Shut up and listen to your goddamn elder. I got hit with his quirk, too. Me and Midoriya Izuku. We were snapped back to the seventeenth century, and we’ve spent the past eighty years trying to get back and stop this guy. Lucky for you, he sent you right to the exact moment when we finally solved his stupid riddle."
“The beauty of all life?” she asks.
“Voi-fucking-la,” Katsuki gestures a shaky hand at the garden. “The beauty of life in all its sparkling, gay glory.”
“Where… where’s Midoriya?”
“You just missed him.” He looses a laugh that might be a sob. “I wrote a letter to All Might because I thought if it survived and ended up in a museum someday, it'd be the easiest to get it to him since he's so goddamn famous. But this is better. So find my goddamn letter, get your happy ass through the portal, and give it to Aizawa.”
“I’m… I don’t understand.”
“This is mine and Izuku’s life’s work,” Katsuki grips the back of the chair in desperation. “He’s dead. I’m dying. You need to take the torch from me before it burns out.”
The girl runs into the cottage without another word, appearing less than a minute later with the letter in her hand. She grips it to her chest, eyes flicking between Katsuki and the portal. “So I just… just jump in?”
“If you don’t, I’m gonna push you, fall over, and probably die of a heart attack.”
“Uh… okay.” She takes tentative steps towards the garden. When she steps in, the prism lights glow around her. “Thanks, Bakugou.”
He says nothing more as she takes a breath and jumps. The portal swallows her back to modernity and collapses in on itself. The lights from the gravel flicker a few times and die.
Katsuki eases himself into Izuku’s chair and lets his tears fall, gaze fixed on the mound of dirt beside him.
Aizawa bursts into the teacher’s lounge with such force that Toshinori almost drops the tea he’s pouring.
“We have a situation.” Aizawa thrusts a thick, rolled-up piece of paper at him. “I’m assembling a team. It’s Midoriya and Bakugou. You can read while we walk.”
Toshinori unfurls the scroll as he follows Aizawa down the hall. It’s hard to read it while walking. The writing is shaky, like it was written by an old man who’d lost a significant hold on his motor skills.
Dear All Might,
By the time you read this, Izuku and I will have been dead for centuries. I’m sorry we never got to become the heroes you thought we’d be, but I hope you find comfort in knowing we lived full, good lives, and in the end, we became heroes in our own way.
I’m guessing no one ever found out what happened to us, and if they did, they weren’t able to figure out how to save us. I know you’ll wanna blame yourself. I’m sure all our teachers and classmates will. I can’t stop you from feeling that guilt, but I hope you’ll be able to relinquish some of it knowing Izuku and I found more happiness here than we ever thought possible. Eighteen-year-old shithead Bakugo Katsuki couldn’t have imagined that, but wrinkled, half-blind, ninety-seven-year-old Bakugo Katsuki? He understands a little more about life.
I can feel my heart failing, and that’s okay. I’m pretty sure Izuku’s dying, too.
I’m old, and I don’t want to live in a world without Izuku in it. We had seventy-nine years of simple, beautiful love, and it still isn’t enough. Hopefully I’ll come back in my next life as less of a dickhead than I started this one as. Maybe I’ll be the “quirkless loser” next time. A man can dream.
I won’t pretend to know how time travel works, but if this letter ever finds you, Izuku and I are going to be attacked on April eighth a year after the War. We’d gone to eat at a new soba stand in the Musutafu marketplace, but my old-ass mind couldn’t tell you which one. Izuku can’t remember, either.
It’s probably impossible to change what happened, but if this letter is somehow found during your lifetime, I want you and everyone else we care about to know we weren’t kidnapped, killed, and buried in an unmarked grave.
We were free.
We were in love.
That’s my confession. Something I could barely admit to myself before we got transported here. But Izuku and I want the world we came from to know. The world we spent precious few years of our lives in. I’m not sure why it’s so important to the two of us. It just… is.
We tried to come back—spent our whole lives searching for the beauty of all life. That was the riddle that villain gave us. Isn’t it stupid? I don't think we'll ever discover the beauty of all life. It’s a concept there’s no answer to. This is our home now, but we have a responsibility as heroes to stop this from happening to anyone else. Izuku and I have only kept going as long as we have because our love has sustained us through the pain of each passing year.
All I can do is hope this letter survives. That it’s put in a museum and passed to you so that everyone we left behind can stop this from happening again.
This is our legacy. Our love. I refuse to let it be for nothing, and I know you won’t either.
Sincerely your second-favorite ‘could’ve been the Number One Hero” pain-in-the-ass student,
Bakugou Katsuki
“I’ve seriously been craving soba.” Izuku’s mouth waters as they approach the stand. He digs through his wallet and pulls out his debit card, frowning. "Wait. Never mind, sorry. I forgot I spent the last of my money on an All Might merch mystery box yesterday."
“Here, nerd—I’ll pay,” Katsuki shoves a few notes in front of the cashier. “We’ll take two. One pork and one…” He looks at Izuku.
“Beef, please.”
The cashier takes the money and scoops their portions into thick paper bowls.
Izuku’s cheeks flush hot. “Kacchan, you didn’t have to—”
“Just be more careful with your goddamn money next time,” he sneers.
Danger sense fizzles to life in Izuku’s mind. He whips around, narrowing in on a masked man in a long black jacket.
“If you even think about trying to send my students into the past on an eighty-year-long fool’s errand, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
The masked man turns around. Aizawa’s standing behind him, hand on Monoma’s shoulder. Monoma’s eyes are wide, strained.
Ropes fly through the air, and Izuku follows them with his eyes. It’s Jeanist, perched atop the soba stand, eyes narrowed in concentration as he wraps the villain from shoulder to waist.
The villain’s head whips towards Izuku and Katsuki. “How… You figured it out? You tricky little snakes!”
Izuku exchanges a glance with Katsuki. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“No fuckin’ clue.”
“How long did it take you, huh?” the villain says. “What was the answer? I need to—”
Jeanist fashions a gag and wraps it around the villain’s mouth.
“You want us to come with?” Izuku asks. “I know we didn’t do much, but eyewitness accounts could help with sentencing.”
“No. We can take him in,” Aizawa says, shoving a hand between the villain’s shoulder blades to urge him forward. “Enjoy your soba.”
“But—”
“Midoriya, no,” Aizawa says. “Take a break, and trust me when I say you deserve it.”
Without another word, Aizawa, Jeanist, and Monoma lead the villain away, leaving behind an extremely confused Izuku and Kacchan.
“That was fuckin’ weird,” Kacchan says.
“Tell me about it.”
Before Izuku can even open his chopsticks to pick at his neglected soba, All Might runs towards them and pulls them into a hug. Izuku steadies his soba before it can stain his shirt. He doesn’t want to cut his trip out with Kacchan short because All Might is acting weird and paying no attention to the fact that they’re trying to eat.
All Might lets Izuku go in favor of freaking Kacchan out, gripping his shoulders like his life depends on it. “Young Bakugou, please don’t think of yourself as my second-favorite student. I care deeply about both you and Young Midoriya. I think you have the same shot at becoming the Number One Hero, and I am equally proud of you both.”
“Uh… thanks?” Kacchan looks confused, but not annoyed.
All Might drops his hands from Kacchan’s shoulders and heaves a sigh. “You both have more fortitude and drive than I ever did in my prime.”
“I don’t know about that.” Izuku is uncomfortable. Izuku just wants to eat his soba.
“I do. And I’ve never been more certain about your futures than I am at this moment.” All Might looks down. There’s a deep sadness in his hollow eyes. “I’ll leave you to your lunch.” He starts walking away, but only makes it a few steps before he turns around and says, “The two of you are building towards something wonderful, and I know you’ll make a great team in whatever sense of the word is right for you.”
With that, All Might turns back around and disappears into the crowd.
“This day couldn’t get any weirder,” Izuku says. “I’m starving.”
Kacchan gestures towards a bench at the edge of the square, and they sit next to each other with a few comfortable inches between them. Kacchan rips open his chopsticks. “What d’you think All Might meant by 'a great team in whatever sense of the word is right for you?'”
Izuku snaps his chopsticks apart. “I have no idea. But I’m glad he said he cared about you just as much as me. I think you needed to hear it from All Might himself.”
Kacchan picks at the noodles and lifts them towards his mouth. “He’s such a goddamn sap.”
“Aw, c'mon, Kacchan."
Kacchan slurps his noodles, sticking them into his cheek to talk. “Like you’d know. You’re a bigger sap than he is.”
Izuku rolls his eyes, slurping his own noodles relishing in the taste and texture, taking his time before he swallows the bite.
You’re more of a sap than he is.
Izuku’s eyes widen.
“Okay,” Izuku says at last, pressing a kiss to the corner of Kacchan’s mouth. “But when it’s your turn, I’m gonna pamper the shit out of you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Kacchan groans. “You’re such a goddamn sap.”
“So’re you.”
“Tch. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”
“You are, Kacchan. You just pepper the sweet things you say with more curses than I do.”
Kacchan locks eyes with Izuku. Noodles hang out of his mouth.
Izuku takes in an unsteady breath. “Did you just…”
“Remember?”
They shovel the noodles into their mouths.
"What if it takes us like… ten years to get back? D'you ever worry about that?"
"'Course I do, nerd. And if we're gonna be stuck here a while, maybe we should start living our lives… here."
“You. Are such. A nerd.”
“But I’m a cute nerd. Right?”
“Dammit, obviously. Now can I eat my food?”
“Everything you’ve done the past couple years… it matters. I can’t help thinking about it every time we’re lying together like this. How you wear your love for me on your skin.”
Fuck…”
“K-Kacchan…”
“Izuku… You’re so… oh my god, Izuku.”
“You’re such a shit; I’m gonna murder your whole family! I swear to fuck, Kacchan!”
“Youlittleshitstop!”
“So you’re still ticklish, huh? You mean I could’ve been beating you that easily all this time?”
“IzukuI’mgonnapissmypants!”
“You have no idea how satisfying this is for me right now.”
“Staaaaahp! Zuku!”
“NEVER!”
“Tell me we’ll get back.”
“We’ll get back, Kacchan.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Need you. Need you now. Forever. Fuck.”
Kacchan, you said… forever?”
“Yeah.”
“Forever.”
“It’s always been you. It’s always gonna be you. I know we’re bad at talking about this stuff, but… we both feel it. I wanna say it. It’s okay if you can’t say it back yet. Just… don’t shut me out?”
“You know I won’t. I’m not that person anymore.”
“Kacchan, I…”
“Don’t worry. I wanna say it, too.”
“Whatever happens, we’ll know what we’ve been through together. We’ll know we can keep moving forward together.”
“Kacchan…”
“Love’ll do that to you.”
“I…”
“I love you, Izuku.”
“He’s some AFO leftover; I just know it. There’s no way there’s a single quirk that lets you take away someone’s powers, transport them through time, and tether them to a three kilometer radius! He’s gotten his revenge ten-fucking-fold. So tell me, Kacchan, why the hell are we still doing this?”
“Because we’re heroes.”
“You’re a sap.”
“I’m your sap. I’m the sticky, tacky maple syrup to your fluffy, flaky pancake.”
“You ever think about how we’ve lived here longer than we did at home?”
“You’re a chronic overthinker.”
“Kacchan, please. I’m not giving up on the garden. You were right all those years ago. No matter what happens, we’ll always be heroes deep down.”
“Do you ever think about them?”
“Niko and Seikichi?”
“Our friends from before.”
“I dream about them sometimes.”
“Hey, nerd.”
“Izuku.”
“Izuku.”
“IZUKU!”
Izuku’s eyes snap open. His heart pounds furiously. Soba noodles spill from his mouth. Kacchan chokes on his food and uncaps his water bottle with shaky hands, chugging it until he stops coughing.
They stare at each other, too scared to move. Too scared to blink.
Then, Kacchan’s face falls. His eyes well with tears, and Izuku swears he’s never seen that level of devastation in another person’s expression. “You… died.”
Izuku lets out a shaky breath. “I died.”
They sit in silence for a long moment, food forgotten.
Eventually, Kacchan says, “I’ve got a question. If it’s weird for you, just say so.”
Izuku nods.
“Can I… hug you?”
Izuku nods again.
Kacchan closes the few inches between them and slowly, tentatively, wraps his arms around Izuku’s shoulders. It only takes a few seconds for it to feel natural again, and Izuku relaxes into the embrace.
“You’re warm,” Kacchan says.
“Yeah.”
“You’re alive.”
“I’m... alive.”
Izuku lets Kacchan hold him. Lets him feel the pulse in his neck, his wrist.
“It was real,” Izuku says.
“It was real.”
When they get back to UA, Izuku heads straight to his room. He needs to think. To process. To understand that he’s somehow both ninety-seven and eighteen. His body works again. He’s grateful. But now he knows what it’s like for it to slowly break down, and that terrifies him.
When he sinks into his mattress that night, it’s softer than a cloud. He tosses and turns for a long time. His body slept in this bed just the night before, but his mind spent a lifetime on a thin futon. And Izuku’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss Kacchan’s warmth beside him. There had been someone to hold in the middle of the night for decades upon decades. He’s held Kacchan in his arms for most of his life, and he hasn’t held him at all.
It’s midnight before he finally gets up, shuffles into his slippers, and makes his way down to the second floor. It should be nerve-wracking, knocking on Kacchan’s door and asking for the comfort he’s worn like a second skin.
Kacchan answers the door before Izuku can get to the third knock. He’s wearing nothing but loose drawstring pants that sit low on his waist, and his eyes are bloodshot and puffy. He lets Izuku in and closes the door behind him without a word.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Kacchan asks.
Izuku takes a seat on the middle of his bed. It’s something he would have overthought in the past, but now it’s second-nature. And Kacchan doesn’t scoff or get weird about it—he just sits next to Izuku. Lets Izuku pull him close, sighing into the comfort of his embrace.
“How the hell are we supposed to go to class tomorrow?” Kacchan asks.
Izuku doesn’t answer him at first. How are they supposed to do anything in the same way they did before?
“I guess we take it day by day.”
“Even that’s too much.”
“Hour by hour, then. Minute by minute if we have to.”
Kacchan laughs a little. “We could make a killing starting a landscaping business, I bet.”
Izuku hums contentedly into Kacchan’s chest. “We get to be heroes again.”
“We were always heroes.”
They’re silent for a while until, in the comfort of one another’s embrace, they finally start to grow drowsy. Kacchan doesn’t ask Izuku to spend the night because he doesn’t have to. They crawl under the covers together, and Izuku removes his shirt because he’s learned over the years that nothing soothes him like skin-to-skin contact with Kacchan.
With Kacchan’s head against his chest, Izuku says, “So, about tomorrow. How are we supposed to act? Around other people?”
“How d’you wanna act?”
Izuku nestles his face into Kacchan’s fine, soft hair. He smells like scorched caramel again. “It’d be hard to go back to the way things were before we got hit with that quirk. We were open about everything. In front of everybody. But no matter what you want, I’ll respect it.”
“I know you will.” Kacchan’s thumb rubs against his bicep. “But I want the same thing as you.”
“Really?”
“Don’t act like you’re actually surprised.”
“I’m not; I’m just…” Izuku laughs a little. “Imagining everybody’s reactions.”
Kacchan tenses a little, and Izuku’s both amazed and not surprised that he can now detect such minute movements from him.
“You’re nervous about that,” Izuku says.
“Maybe. Doesn’t mean I wanna keep this under wraps.”
“It was easier when nobody knew our history.”
Kacchan nods. “I just wanna act the way we did for all those years. I don’t wanna have to explain anything to anybody. Hell, it’s too much for me to even wrap my brain around; I can’t be expected to put it into words.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
Kacchan props himself up on Izuku’s chest with his forearms, lingering above him with that soft, loving, open expression. Mask off—Kacchan at his purest. His most beautiful. “You’re sure.”
“I’m positive.”
Kacchan smiles a little. “Can’t believe I ever denied to myself how much I love you.”
Izuku’s breath catches in his throat. Unfettered devotion and awe bloom in his chest. Kacchan’s told him that a billion, trillion times, but not this version of himself. Not in this lifetime. It’s as familiar as it is new. As comforting as it is overwhelming.
“Kacchan.” Izuku steels himself, nerves prickling over comfortable familiarity. “We’ve kissed thousands of times, but we’ve never kissed. Not this version of ourselves, anyway. Am I making sense?” He cringes. This is all so confusing and impossible to put into words. “I wanna kiss you like we did back then.”
Kacchan’s fingers brush down his jaw, and he moves close.
It’s like their first kiss on the shared futon all those years ago, and at the same time, it’s not. There’s nothing awkward or unpracticed about it. There’s no learning curve. Izuku knows every inch of Kacchan’s body. Knows what he likes, knows when to open his mouth to let Kacchan’s tongue dance against his own.
It’s short. It’s sweet. It’s perfect. It’s their millionth kiss, and it’s their first.
When they break apart, Kacchan rests his forehead against Izuku’s, and Izuku’s flooded with how right this moment is. Knowing they’ll have a million, trillion more moments just like this one.
Knowing he’s been blessed with not one, but two lifetimes with Kacchan.
“I’ll love you forever,” Izuku says.
The second time around, it’s a declaration and a vow.
When their alarms go off and Izuku kisses him goodbye to get ready in his own room, Katsuki takes his time preparing for the day. Showering with hot water, shampoo, conditioner… soap.
God, he missed soap.
He tries not to think about how modern amenities mean he and Izuku can finally, finally eat each other out. If he starts jacking off to that, he’s never going to make it to class on time.
His tailored uniform feels weird after years of loose-fitting clothes, but he puts it on properly, securing his belt on his waist and fumbling for a few minutes before remembering how to make a proper knot with his tie. Dress code is just a stupid, little rule, and he can’t even remember why he put so much effort into rebelling against something so inconsequential.
Even though Katsuki was up half the night, he makes it to homeroom first and takes out his notebook. It’s filled only with hard facts and figures, and he can’t help but think back to the deeply personal journals he kept in his other life. Katsuki wonders if they survived the years. Probably not.
He needs to start journaling again, maybe get a firebox to store them. He can’t bear to lose the record of his deepest desires and thoughts a second time. It’s already too much to know that his first life exists only as a ghost in his and Izuku’s memories.
Maybe that’s arrogant, because he doubts anyone but he and Izuku would care, but that doesn’t stop the thought from needling his mind.
Izuku enters second, thank god, and instead of heading to his seat behind Katsuki, he squats down in front of Katsuki’s desk, folds his arms, and lays his head down, staring up at Katsuki with wide, adoring eyes. “I’m sleepy.”
Katsuki ruffles his hair. “We gotta go to bed earlier tonight.”
“Mhm,” Izuku agrees with a yawn. “My bed?”
Katsuki scrunches his nose. “Mine’s bigger.”
“In what way? Longer, maybe, but not thicker.”
A flicker of embarrassment is usurped by the overwhelming desire of Katsuki’s memories. They’re not frail, old men with failing bodies anymore. “Oh, shit. We can fuck again.”
Izuku nods resolutely. “No more oil, Kacchan. Water-based lube. Can you imagine? And I have toy—”
“You guys all right?” Kaminari’s voice echoes from the doorway as he makes himself into the room to hover over Katsuki’s desk. Katsuki’s annoyed for the briefest moment, but then he’s overwhelmed with the feeling of wanting to jump up and squeeze Kaminari into the tightest hug he can manage.
He doesn’t, though. Kaminari’d freak out and probably accidentally fry both their brains.
“Hey, Dunceface.” There’s nothing but love in Katsuki’s voice.
“You get in trouble or something?” Kaminari asks.
“Haah?”
Kaminari gestures to Katsuki’s tie.
“Oh. No, I just decided it ain’t a big deal.”
“Midoriya,” Kaminari whispers loudly. “Blink twice if Bakugou’s been taken by a body snatcher.”
“Whoa, lookin’ snazzy, Bakugou!” Kirishima walks in next, Mina and Sero following, and wow, if his urge to wrap Kaminari in an un-Katsuki-like hug was strong, it’s twice as bad when it comes to Kirishima.
It’s overwhelming as fuck, honestly, so he just nods towards his friends and looks back at Izuku. His rock. The only thing that’s grounding him in his previously normal world.
When Todoroki, Uraraka, and Iida shuffle in, Izuku does get up and give them each a hug, yammering on excitedly. Izuku’s always been touchy-feely though. He can get away with it without raising too many eyebrows.
When Aizawa starts class, Katsuki does his best to pay attention. He gets a second chance to finish high school and become the Number One Hero. But he can’t help his mind from wandering after so many years without the structure of rote learning. Soon, he finds himself scribbling his thoughts in his notebook rather than listening to Aizawa’s words.
We figured out the beauty of all life, so shouldn’t I know what that is? It happened when Izuku… He can’t write the word. Does it have something to do with that? How can the beauty of life be reflected in d****? Unless it’s not about the d**** and I’m thinking about it wrong.
“Bakugou.”
Katsuki’s eyes snap up to Aizawa. He looks stern and tired as ever, but there’s a hint of concern etched in his face.
“Do you know the answer?” Aizawa says.
Katsuki flips his notebook over to a blank page, suddenly self-conscious. “Can’t remember what you asked.”
It’s a blatant lie, and he knows Aizawa sees through it, but for some reason, Aizawa gives him the grace of the benefit of the doubt and repeats it.
It doesn’t help. If Katsuki knew the answer, he can’t remember it.
It’s going to be a long day.
After class, Aizawa pulls Katsuki and Izuku aside before heading to his next lesson. “Come to the teachers’ lounge when you’re done for the day."
Izuku’s brow stitches. “Why?”
Aizawa leans forward at his desk and looks at them with that blank expression that infuriates Katsuki to no end. Because when you can’t tell what Aizawa’s thinking, that’s when you know there’s trouble.
“You’ve been acting strangely since the encounter with the villain yesterday.”
Well, at least he’s straightforward about it.
“But nothing even happened.” Izuku takes a step back and puts up his hands defensively, making it obvious to anyone with half a brain that something did, in fact, happen. “We were just getting soba, the villain showed up, and you guys stopped him. So we just took our soba and ate it and went back to the dorms. Just a totally normal Sunday afternoon!”
Katsuki and Aizawa roll their eyes.
“Teacher’s lounge. After school. I’m not saying it again.”
Katsuki and Izuku sit at opposite ends of the familiar green couch they spent so much time on during their conversations with All Might. They’re careful not to come too close to one another lest their ruse be discovered.
Aizawa knows something’s up, but if the truth came out, he’d probably think they had a mental break from one too many villain attacks and have them committed.
Aizawa approaches, sitting in the chair across from them and pulling a sturdy cardboard tube out of his messenger bag. When he slips out the contents, Katsuki’s heart stops. He clenches his jaw, eyeing the familiar scroll. The red piece of string tied in a delicate bow around the middle.
Aizawa stares down Katsuki with the same terrifying stoicism he displayed in the classroom. “Do you recognize this.”
“No.” Izuku blurts.
Without taking his gaze off Katsuki, Aizawa says, “Wasn’t talking to you.”
“No,” Katsuki says. The lie’s written all over his face; he can feel it. But how can he admit to something like that? Some of his teenage rage must be coming back, because he wants to snatch it from Aizawa’s hands and yell at him.
“You’re not in trouble,” Aizawa says. “We’re doing an investigation, and we’re trying to understand how his quirk—or quirks—work.”
“Multiple quirks,” Izuku mumbles. “I knew it.”
Aizawa’s gaze snaps to Izuku. “How would you know that if we apprehended him before he had a chance to do anything?”
“Research rabbit hole?” is Izuku’s feeble defense.
“There isn’t even a sliver of information about him online,” Aizawa says. “We know neither his name nor his code name. So tell me: why do you think he has multiple quirks?”
Katsuki bites his tongue. Damn this nerd for being the weak link in this interrogation.
“Lucky guess.” Izuku sounds more sure of himself now, but Katsuki has a feeling the damage is done. Aizawa knows they know something, even if he doesn’t understand the depth of it.
“You’re heroes.” Aizawa shakes the scroll in Katsuki’s direction. “We can charge him for sending another student into the past, but she returned after a few minutes. It’s a minor crime, and I can’t see him doing more than a few months.”
Katsuki’s body goes rigid. Izuku gasps.
“If he committed some bigger crime, we can hit him with more serious charges,” Aizawa continues, “but it’s going to be hard to prove because time quirks open a huge can of worms, especially when the crime we want to charge him with didn’t technically happen.”
“How did you know we remembered?” Katsuki’s surprised to hear the words come from his mouth, not Izuku’s. They’re quiet, weak words. Drenched in something sad he can’t put a name to.
“I only suspected it once I entered the classroom this morning,” Aizawa says. “If you didn’t remember writing this, there was no need to pull you into the investigation. Bakugou, you came to class in a tie. Midoriya, you were hanging off Bakugou’s desk like the strained years of your relationship were water under the bridge. Midoriya being distracted in class is par for the course.” He meets Katsuki’s eyes again. “But you… this was the first time in almost two years you didn’t even hear what I asked.”
Katsuki slouches, looking at Izuku in defeat. Fuck. He’s got them.
“What’s in the letter?” Izuku asks Katsuki, not Aizawa.
Katsuki gulps. It’s one of the few things Izuku didn’t know about. Not that he minds, but it was just… sad. The last failsafe of Katsuki’s ever-dwindling hope scrawled out with his ancient, shaking hands.
Katsuki looks down at his hands. Young and smooth on the back. Rough with hard-earned quirk calluses on his palms.
We’re young again.
“Don’t get mad,” Katsuki says.
“Never, Kacchan.” Izuku’s expression is soft, if a little pained. “We tell each other all the important stuff. I know that. But we also trust each other to have a few secrets between us.”
Aizawa’s looking at them like they just flew in from another planet and started speaking a language until now unheard by human ears, and yeah, it’s a little satisfying after the grilling they just got.
“You should read it,” Katsuki says. “Just keep in mind it was my last-ditch effort ‘cause I knew I wasn’t gonna live much longer. I thought maybe if it got preserved, it’d make it to All Might. I didn’t think I’d be having it delivered right to him. Or to other people.” He glares at Aizawa. “And I definitely didn’t think I’d ever be using it to testify.”
Aizawa hands the scroll to Katsuki, who takes off the red string and passes it to Izuku. He unrolls it as he takes in a deep breath.
Izuku’s tearing up by the first line.
“I know it’s a lot, but try not to ruin it," Aizawa says.
Izuku holds it a little farther away from his body. It reminds Katsuki of how, when he started getting older, he had to sit farther away from his sketches. Katsuki’s heart wrenches. When he’s done reading, Izuku hurls himself into Katsuki’s arms and sobs into his blazer. Katsuki holds him tight, letting silent tears stream down his cheeks, decorum and pretense be damned.
Katsuki’s pretty sure Aizawa’s going to grow another eye just so it can pop out of his head.
“Sorry,Eraser,” Izuku says when he’s collected himself. He lets go of Katsuki, but he doesn’t scoot away. “That was probably really weird from your perspective.”
Aizawa blinks. His jaw’s practically on the floor. He snaps it shut and shakes his head a few times like he’s trying to make sense of what he just witnessed. “Tell me everything you know about this man.”
By the time they finish, they’re exhausted. They grab a couple to-go containers from the cafeteria and fill them up before heading back to Izuku’s room to do their homework. Katsuki’s phone pings a few times. It’s Kirishima reminding him that their study group was supposed to get together half an hour ago. He sends a quick text explaining he’s too tired.
It’s partially true, anyway.
When they’re done, they settle onto Izuku’s bed. Izuku’s seated against his headboard scrolling his phone while Katsuki lies on his stomach. It’s nice. Familiar. Their only solace in a world that never realized it left them behind.
“Your letter got me thinking.”
Katsuki opens his eyes, looking up at Izuku’s adorable mess of freckles and curls. “It got you feeling; that’s for sure.”
Izuku rolls his eyes, but his mouth twists into a smirk. “You were hoping your letter’d survive. What if my drawings did? Or your journals?”
Hope and dread bubble in Katsuki’s stomach. He hopes beyond everything that some of Izuku’s sketches are still around, but his journals? Yeah, maybe he’d wanted people to read them eventually, but that was with the understanding that he’d be too dead to care about his heart being laid bare to the world.
“It’s usually only rich people’s shit that survives,” Katsuki says, not sure if he wants that statement to be true or not. This contrast of thoughts and feelings is too much.
“Not always, though.” Izuku’s voice is quiet. “D’you think anything’s different now from how we left it? Or did everything we create only come into being once we actually, physically made it?”
“I’m too tired for you to get all existential on my ass.”
“I’m serious, Kacchan.”
“Fine…” Katsuki rolls onto his side. “Why don’t you look up that old folktale All Might loves again. See if there are new versions of it or something.”
Izuku’s eyes light up. He taps furiously at his phone. Stops. Frowns at it.
“What?” Katsuki asks.
“Just—just a hunch.”
Izuku taps at his phone a few more times. Narrows his eyes, scrutinizing whatever he’s reading. His hands shake. “Oh my god.” He drops his phone in his lap. “Oh my god.”
Katsuki sits up on his elbows and takes the phone Izuku shoves in his face. He squints at the thumbnail of a very familiar drawing.
Katsuki and Izuku in the Garden. Pencil and Ink. Seventeenth century. Artist unknown. (Courtesy of the Musutafu Museum of Art and Culture.)
“What the fuck…” is all Katsuki can manage.
It probably breaks every etiquette rule in the book to bang on the door to your teacher’s apartment at any time, let alone past eleven at night, but Izuku can’t find it in himself to worry about that when he and Kacchan just blew this case wide open.
It’s several minutes before a yawning Shirakumo, dressed only in athletic shorts and a sleeping mask with little blue clouds pushed up to his forehead, answers the door.
“Uh,” Katsuki says.
Yeah, safe to say neither of them were expecting that.
“Baaaabe!” Shirakumo yells into the dark apartment. “Why are your problem children knocking on our door at this hour?”
It’s still weird knowing that the seemingly faceless, extremely creepy Kurogiri was hiding this loud, happy-go-lucky goofball the whole time.
“What?” comes Aizawa’s disembodied voice from somewhere inside.
“Your favorite delinquent duo! Why are they here?”
Aizawa is, thankfully, fully clothed in plaid pants and a plain white tee when he flicks on the kitchen light and stumbles to the doorway. He takes a sip from his water bottle and gives all three of them a scathing look. “For fuck’s sake, Oboro. Go back to bed or put on some clothes. You can’t be answering the door half-naked when you know full well my students have no concept of healthy boundaries.”
Shirakumo sticks out his tongue between his teeth and gives Aizawa a wink, pointing finger guns at him before disappearing into the bedroom. Izuku doesn’t miss the wobbly smile that flashes across Aizawa’s face.
When the bedroom door clicks shut, Aizawa relaxes his shoulders and rubs at his forehead. “If this isn’t new, pressing information about the case, I’m expelling both of you.”
Izuku pats his laptop bag. “Don’t worry. We’ve got it all laid out for you.”
An hour and two cups of coffee later, Izuku reaches the end of his presentation, buzzing with excitement. “To conclude, we can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that this guy trapped me and Kacchan in the past for seventy-nine years.”
“I must admit,” Aizawa says, “I’m impressed. Radio-carbon dating the ink on the Arabic numerals on your drawings because they weren’t used in Japan until the late nineteenth century was a particular stroke of genius.”
“That one was Kacchan’s idea,” Izuku says. “But don’t praise him too much. You know how fast that stuff goes to his head.”
“Shuddup.” Kacchan nudges Izuku playfully.
Izuku fakes a pout. “That hurt!”
“Need me to kiss it, ya big baby?”
“If you’re offer—”
Aizawa’s chair screeches across the floor, and he shoots to his feet. “I want a twenty-page paper from each of you on the importance of student-teacher boundaries by the end of the week!”
They both jolt back a little. Izuku feels his face heat, and when he looks at Kacchan, he looks pale. Mortified.
“Sorry,” Izuku says. “We, uh, might be having some trouble readjusting. People were way more casual about PDA back in the day.”
“Fine.” Aizawa scrubs a hand down his face. “Ten pages if you get out of my apartment in the next sixty seconds.”
It’s going to take a while for the villain to go to court. They haven’t even figured out his name yet, and he refuses to tell police how he got multiple quirks. Probably because if he admits it, having ties to AFO will mean a longer sentence.
Izuku’s hopeful, though. He and Kacchan spend hours each week building their case with Aizawa and the police. In the meantime, they’ve got enough evidence to convince the judge to hold him in Tartarus.
There’s a life sentence on the table, and it’s the only thing that assuages Izuku’s fear. He wouldn’t trade that simple life with Kacchan for the world, but he also wants to live his life here. Now.
How many people can say they’re lucky enough to have two lifetimes with the one they love most? And how did Izuku get lucky enough to have that person be Kacchan?
They get a chance to visit the museum the following Sunday. Neither of them has been there since a field trip in middle school. It’s different this time, not only because Izuku knows Kacchan’s not going to trap him in the bathroom until the museum closes and the janitor has to rescue him.
It’s a date, actually. They used the word. Date. Such a normal part of everyday life that Izuku has trouble even imagining anymore. He and Kacchan have experienced so much together, but dating? The thought of it makes Izuku feel as giddy as a teenager. Which, he supposes he is again, so he lets himself bask in it.
He’ll marry Kacchan someday, too. Endless possibilities of a second life are laid out before them. Maybe Hatsume can create rings that function as support items.
Izuku tries not to get too excited about the thought as they enter the museum, but it’s hard not to put the cart before the horse when you’ve already ridden around the track ninety-seven times.
It’s a humble museum in an older building, but meticulously well-cared-for. The second they get their tickets, Kacchan grabs a map, takes Izuku by the hand, and they dart up the stairs to the second storey’s east wing, where the Musutafu in Folklore exhibit is housed. It’s a single, spacious room with low ceilings that’s washed in soft, yellow light.
Izuku’s eyes snap to the wall opposite them.
It’s there. His birthday present to Kacchan.
Izuku is frozen in place, his body humming, overflowing with a lifetime of emotion.
“You okay?” Kacchan squeezes his hand.
“It’s… that’s it.” Izuku’s heart squeezes his throat.
“Yeah.” Kacchan’s voice is rough with awe and disbelief. “Let’s go take a look.”
Their once hurried pace becomes slow and steady as they walk hand-in-hand towards a vestige of their old lives that has, against all odds, survived through the centuries. When they reach the sketch, Izuku falls to his knees, racked with sobs.
It’s Kacchan’s. That’s Kacchan’s. I drew that—
For Kacchan.
Kacchan sits down behind him and pulls Izuku between his legs. Holding him, tucking his hair behind his ear, whispering his love through the empty room.
When he’s calmed down enough to speak, Izuku says, “I just remembered how much you missed pictures.”
Kacchan presses a kiss to Izuku’s temple. His face is wet, too.
“We had sex, like, immediately after I gave it to you.”
“Actually,” Kacchan points to a drawing a few meters down. “That’s the one that did me in.”
Izuku scrambles to his feet, dragging Kacchan along with him. Izuku laughs through his tears. “I can’t believe my semi-nude art is on display for everyone to see.”
“I wonder where the full frontals ended up.”
“Shiiiiiiit…”
“I mean, some of them were basically just porn.”
“Oh, god. What if this ends up biting me in the ass?”
“I think there actually is one of me biting you in the ass.”
“That’s big talk for someone who wrote a guide to gay sex positions.”
“...I forgot about that.”
“Well, I didn’t. You were very specific about the angles of the drawings.”
“So sue me for wanting it to be perfect!”
Izuku starts examining the displays with books. He doesn’t recognize any of his lewd drawings, but the modern writing on one of the books catches his eye. He reads the description next to it.
The story of Katsuki and Izuku written in epistolary form. One of nine surviving volumes, this one documents their lives between the ages of thirty-three and thirty-seven. A second volume is on loan with the Louvre.
“The LOUVRE?! ” Izuku exclaims. “Kacchan, you’re famous!”
Kacchan’s frozen, staring at the book. “What the fuck.”
“I know!”
“It ain’t exactly the Mona Lisa.”
“Screw the stupid Mona Lisa! Your journals are an integral part of Japanese history!”
Kacchan doesn’t seem as excited. If anything, he’s looking more horrified by the minute. “There’s a lot of rope play in that volume.”
“Yeah? And evidence for the court case! I’m sure you mentioned modern stuff in there. Radiocarbon date the ink, and BOOM. Evidence!”
“This journal?” Kacchan taps the glass. “Most of the modern evidence is stuff like, ‘when are they gonna invent silicone sex toys?’ and ‘I wish I could set up a camera so I can see what it looks like when Izuku fucks me from behind.’”
“That makes sense. We were really horny in our thirties.”
Kacchan’s ears tinge red, and yeah, Izuku’s suddenly feeling a little awkward, too. He knows Kacchan’s body as well as his own, but they’ve also never gone further than making out in bed and touching each other through their clothes.
Just like the first time around.
“This is weird,” Kacchan says.
“Understatement.”
They walk around for a while and look at the other exhibits—it’s their first date, after all—eventually circling back to the room with Izuku’s drawings and Kacchan’s journal. Izuku wishes he could reach through the glass and touch the ink Kacchan tattooed on those pages so many years ago. He takes out his phone and starts researching the history of the journals until something catches his eye.
“I was wondering why these weren’t tossed out for fraud, with you writing about silicone butt plugs and homemade porn,” Izuku says. “But they were donated from a private collection in 1791. They were in the public sphere well before silicone and cameras were ever invented.”
“That explains why they keep showing up on alien conspiracy websites.” Kacchan exits out of his browser and pockets his phone.
As they’re about to leave, Izuku’s eye catches another display: a long, thin scroll without any embellishment that caused him to miss it before. The writing is miniscule, and the paper has decayed far more than their own work.
“Did you see this?” Izuku asks.
Kacchan joins him, and they bend down to read the description.
A Townsfolk’s Tale of Katsuki and Izuku, early eighteenth century.
The earliest and most complete version of the folktale written from an outsider’s perspective. A particularly poignant excerpt reads as follows:
They were strange old men, working their lives away in that garden under the shadow of a crumbling temple, bickering about subjects as trivial as the weather and questions as grand as the meaning of life. Tethered by connections as invisible and strong as those that hold together the constellations in the sky.
They never strayed far from each other, nor the village. The adventurer scoffed, “How could you lead such mundane lives! Why not explore the world?”
Katsuki and Izuku laughed and returned to their garden.
They didn’t take wives, preferring the company of one another. The nobleman turned up his nose and said, “What legacy will you leave behind with no heir to sing your praises?”
Izuku took Katsuki’s hand and kissed him on the mouth.
They spent their evenings sprawled out on the floor of their cottage, writing and sketching their lives together. The mason said, “Paper may burn, dampen, or rot away! Why not craft something that will last through the ages?”
Katsuki flipped to the next page of his journal, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and continued writing.
When a philosopher visited their garden, he watched them, silent, for three days before he asked, “What have you learned of the beauty of all life?”
Katsuki and Izuku looked at him, exchanged a knowing glance, and continued their work.
The philosopher left, confused, never knowing the answer was right in front of him.
That evening, when they return to Kacchan’s room after gorging themselves on crepes to ease the puzzling chaos out of their young, old bones, they collapse into bed and search for each other in the dark. Fingers scan for pulses, lips venture towards stolen breaths, hips crash together, desperate to reignite the flame of stolen vitality.
It’s over. They’re dust and bone and ink stains on decaying paper.
It’s just beginning. They’re warm skin and beating hearts. They’re burgeoning ideas waiting for the pen to mark its first stroke of brilliance.
They lived.
They lived.
They live.