Chapter Text
***
Fist, meet windshield.
The semi-truck veers off the freeway. With a rippling groan, the shipping container tumbles off the flatbed, spilling its contents over the concrete overpass. The cabin goes up in flames, and Izuku ducks and rolls out of the way, shielding his face from the debris.
Heavy combat boots land next to him.
“Dude,” Kacchan coughs, waving away the dust. “That is so fucked. Do it again.”
“It was driven by a computer,” Izuku explains, before he can be blasted on the tabloids for murder. “I could see the receiver once I got close.”
The only roadblock keeping the nosy news choppers at bay is the pitch-black smoke pluming from the truck. Kacchan jerks suddenly, snatching Izuku by the wrist and pulling him behind as the engine explodes. The heat would be enough to fry off his eyebrows, if he wasn’t so used to working side by side with Dynamight.
“There goes our tip,” Kacchan huffs. He sets his hands on his kneepads to catch his breath, his face smudged with dirt and soot, worn down from the caravan of goons they tussled with along the way. Kacchan won’t admit it, but that escort was the toughest fight they’ve faced in well over a year. “Fuck, I was gonna’ pay my phone bill with that money.”
With age comes wisdom, and also credit card debt. They’re not the new kids on the block anymore, so when the world needs saving, the world calls in the experts. Not that heroes accept bribes – but the tips are nice.
Izuku gives Kacchan a once-over. The usual check for limbs, appendages, and blood. He’s favoring an arm that took shrapnel during their fight, but Kacchan has suffered worse. Unfortunately, it’s his bad arm – the one he got chromed-up after their battle with Shigaraki over a decade ago. The implants were an effort to strengthen the limb, but are an unfortunate expense to keep up. The bits of metal by his elbow are sparking, and Kacchan is clearly ignoring this.
Izuku tugs down his mask to wipe across his mouth with the back of his hand. “I kicked the container off the bridge. If Hawks was right about the pod, then the package should be safe –”
“The package is on the move,” HQ says in their ears.
“Shit,” Izuku whispers.
Kacchan presses a hand against his ear and snarls, “Seriously!?”
“Sixth street alley, behind the golden arches.”
Someone’s got the pod.
Just like that, they’re on again. Izuku hops over the barricade of the overpass and Kacchan follows right after. He races across the street, jumps a dumpster, and scales the fence; darting between apartment buildings, his mind builds a mental GPS of this section of the city. This is Izuku’s jurisdiction, his precinct, his stomping ground.
Kacchan’s quirk pops behind him. Like a gun on his hip; backup, cover, whatever the movies call it.
“Left,” HQ says. “Through the – sssszzt.”
“Ack,” Izuku hisses, yanking out his ear piece. It sizzles, fried to bits. “Kacchan, they popped our signal!”
An annoyed groan echoes over him, followed by the clatter of Kacchan’s in-ear hitting the ground. “I know, just go!”
They’re shaded by tall balconies. Like a forest canopy, the sun doesn’t reach them this far down in the concrete jungle. Poorly hung electric cables swing between apartments like vines. Izuku slides around the corner, and skids his red shoes into the gravel.
The pod is broken. Busted in two, cracked like an egg; steaming, hissing, empty, but not alone.
A figure stands beside it. Kacchan grinds to a halt behind him – too smart to stand close, too experienced to leave their backs unguarded. Izuku lifts his hands as a sign of peace, and Kacchan takes point in the mouth of the alley. Good cop, bad cop, no escape.
“Don’t fucking move,” calls Kacchan. He’s a natural at sounding threatening and authoritative, made louder by the echo of the alley.
“Hello ma’am,” Izuku starts kindly. “I think you have something of ours.”
The figure is a woman. Hunched over, skinny and fragile looking; her hair is long and dark, pooling so far off her shoulders that it tangles around her feet like spiderwebs. She has no eyes, and yet she looks into his soul.
Her smile is full of holes.
“You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”
“Sure we do.” Kacchan grunts, jabbing his thumb towards the large container pod. “That.”
Though, she isn’t entirely wrong.
The Ministry of Defense was adamant about retrieving their ‘non-disclosed, nationally protected’ stolen goods, whatever that may be. It was all; for the future of our society and innocent lives at risk and thousands of hours of research and other patriotic crap. Kacchan thought it was a bomb. Izuku hoped it was drugs, but was mostly convinced it was a bomb. He likes to give people the benefit of the doubt.
The woman turns her head left and right. She reaches for the air, and Izuku tenses instinctively, a gloved fist tight at his side, blackwhip webbing between his fingers.
“We don’t want to hurt you. Please, just give us what you took out of that pod.”
She continues to pluck at the air as if she sees something they cannot. She stares at Izuku. She stares at Kacchan. Her voice sounds like horsehair rubbing on wax.
“Such lovely strings. Perfect symmetry, red with blood and history. Such powerful strings. Oh – but broken…no. Very broken. You’re so sad…why? One is fraying, the other cut clean. What a terrible thing of beauty.”
As her rambling continues, Izuku feels the exact moment that Kacchan shares his realization. Like a cold sweat down his back.
She IS the package.
“Deku!” Kacchan shouts. Izuku is already moving.
“I’ll fix it,” the woman cries. Witchy fingers reach towards them. Black tar dripping from her mouth. “I’ll tie your strings.”
Pain cracks down the back of his skull. Izuku hits the ground hard. First his knees, then his hands, then a screaming in his ears. His own voice. Kacchan too.
They are irreparably cut from this world.
And in nothing, and in darkness, a red knot ties itself over and over and over again.
***
Izuku wakes to a pain he can’t describe.
He’s familiar with the intimacy of shattered bones. A body so damaged, so stripped of flesh, so ruined he tasted death and swallowed it. Izuku broke this body at twelve, at fourteen, at sixteen. He fell in ruin, he built himself up again, he rose in strength, he bit and fought and cried and waged every bit of war to get to the life he lives now.
No, this is a pain of the soul. Like a part of him is missing, like someone scooped out all his insides and left him empty, wallowing, hollering.
Izuku wakes up screaming.
Nurses scatter around him as he rips out the IV, smashes the EKG machine into the wall, and snaps the rail off the bed in his mad clamber for out.
The voice is so clear in his mind, a one-track thought that becomes a base instinct for survival.
Run.
“Midoriya!!”
“Someone catch him!”
Blood splatters in his wake. Izuku doesn’t care. He’s dying, Izuku is dying, he’s being boiled alive, his skin is peeling, his eyeballs will fall from his sockets, his brain is going to spill out of his ears. Help me, please, oh god help me –
Crash, shatter. An explosion rocks the hall. Staff run and scream as equipment flies out the window. Alarms blare, security rushes through the doors. Izuku runs and runs and –
Kacchan.
At the end of the hall, Kacchan stares back at him; just as wide eyed, just as terrified. Half dressed in a hospital gown, bandaged up the arm, messy and wild-looking; a spooked animal to reflect his own.
Tall, dangerous, familiar.
With a force he can’t explain, Izuku runs to him in a frenzy of mutual anguish. Like a last breath under a capsized ship, suffocating in this sea of overwhelming loneliness – they reach for each other with a morbid desperation to live.
Kacchan palms at the side of his neck and Izuku clings to his shoulder and they fucking gasp.
The pain melts. Stinging, simmering, then soothing. Kacchan’s sweaty hands slip on his skin, and the pain jolts them.
“Oh my god,” Kacchan pants. “Oh my god what the fuck, what the fuck.”
Izuku’s head is spinning. He thinks he might pass out, and the shrieking hospital alarms aren’t helping. The world is a fisheye lens, a sea of flashing lights and broken glass. They’re covered in tiny red lasers, pointed by the sights of a dozen guns.
“Okay,” Hawks says, hands in his pockets. “It’s worse than we thought.”
“What the hell was that?!” Kacchan snarls, gripping impossibly tight into Izuku’s skin. They cling aboard their lifeboat, still reeling from the agonizing emptiness that tremors through their souls. One of the lasers floats across Kacchan’s forehead. Izuku flares into a panic, multiple quirks simmering to life with the primal urge to protect, and Hawks grabs the opposing gun by the barrel to turn it away.
“Alright, chill dude, you’re not gettin’ a bonus for sniping the Wonder Duo. Do you have any idea how many toys these guys sell? You got nephews? You’re going to ruin Christmas for everybody.”
The lasers drop. The security team does not move.
“Kacchan,” Izuku whispers. “Help me, help me.”
Katsuki whips his head to look at him with pin-sized pupils. He pants to catch his breath, pulling Izuku so tight into his arms they might break bone, were he any other man.
Never has Kacchan held him like this. Not even on their collective deathbed have they clung to each other with such passion, and they’ve known each other since diapers.
Kacchan has washed puke out of Izuku’s hair in every gay bar on the north side of town. Izuku once snuck him clean pants through the bathroom window of his hookup’s apartment on the 33rd floor. They both went to the hospital twice because they got too high on a work night and thought their skin was melting (it was sweat). This is his hero partner, his lifelong best friend, and Izuku has never shivered under his chin like a fucking wet cat.
“Shit.” Kacchan starts to process their surroundings before Izuku does. “Shit, Izuku. We need to chill or – or we’ll blow the whole hospital.”
Smoke is spilling from his pores. Izuku trembles. He needs him, he needs him. He can’t breathe, if he lets go, he’ll drown.
“Hey,” Hawks says, now on the phone. “Yeah, it’s not good. Get your guys down here, grab your legal team while you’re at it. Dude, you just fucked my top players, I’m about to become very much not cool about this –”
“You lied to us!” Kacchan snarls. He rises to a knee, but the mere suggestion of separating has them both howling in pain. “You – you sick fucking –”
Hawks glances across the room, then waves under his chin; the universal sign for –
“Let's talk later. Nighty night, kids.”
***
In the quintessential void, the strings of humanity crisscross in every familiar way. Families woven together beyond blood, lovers tangled in painful knots, estranged friendships burnt under a witch’s candle. Threads woven from the soul, desperate to connect with those around them.
Like a network of veins, living and breathing to fuel a bigger purpose.
One soul loops through another. Gentle hands pull the strings, and the knot is made.
***
Izuku wakes normally.
Stretching, yawning, and strapped to the bed like a barbie still in the box.
Full stop. Izuku takes an immediate scan of his surroundings, blinking under the LED lights that apparently possess the power of the freaking sun.
Izuku’s body is belted around the waist, torso and legs, but the restraints are ordinary leather — something he could break easily if he chose to. His left arm is free. Most noticeably, he’s sharing the bed with someone else. Shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, knuckle to knuckle. Izuku flexes his fingers, and fingers flex back. At this point, it’s reflexive:
“Kacchan?”
“Here.” His voice is hoarse.
Izuku’s mouth tastes like glue, and his eyes are gritty and sensitive. How long were they under?
Izuku turns his head, squinting against the light, and sees Kacchan awake next to him. Still alive – thank every god – and less nuclear than he last remembers. It felt like they were on the brink of death.
In the harsh, post-coma haze, Kacchan looks like the boy he once was. Young and furious at the world, burdened with high expectations and too much to prove. Izuku blinks away the stars in his eyes, and sees the older, more tired Kacchan beside him. Still headstrong, but less baby fat and more emotionally stable. Somewhat.
Kacchan is glaring at a person lounging in the hospital chair. He speaks with forced patience, gritted through sharp teeth and a stone-cold expression, like it’s been rehearsed in anger management.
“I’m very unhappy with you right now. It is OK to have negative feelings. I have the right to identify and express myself freely.”
“The prime minister lied to both of us,” Hawks replies, crossing his arms. “Trust me, I’m getting my pound of flesh.”
Izuku feels the heat of Kacchan’s expression without even needing to see it. Hawks is not bothered. One leg over the armrest, a single, sickly wing slung against the wall. His full wings will never grow back, but he’s so comfortable in his skin, you’d never know he used to look any different.
Despite current circumstances, Hawks has been a great manager. First he retired after the war, then got bored, became a PI, retired again, then called them up looking for a job. Their manager at the time was putting them through PR hell, so they took the risk separating from their old agency. Not really a risk when you think about it. Hawks is adored by Japan, and with him at the helm of the trademarked Wonder Duo, they’re a political, physical, and merchandisable success. Kacchan hates the brand endorsements but loves the paycheck, and Izuku enjoys the strange missions Hawks sniffs out.
Not necessarily this one, though.
“It’s my fault,” Izuku groans. He rubs his eye with the hand not cuffed to Kacchan. That’s a thought he can’t even complete right now. “I should’ve. Read more into the case.”
“It was the national government.” Kacchan scoffs. “What were we gonna do? Say no?”
Hawks nods, “Exactly.”
“Not you,” snaps Kacchan. “Still pissed at you. Tell me what the hell is going on or you have sixty seconds to get your affairs in order.”
Hawks isn’t threatened by him. He picks at his teeth, then rolls his hand around in the air.
“Sure. Figured you should hear it from the experts instead.”
“Uh oh,” says Izuku.
Mei practically kicks down the door.
“Hey guys!!”
“NOOO!” Kacchan thrashes. “It’s that fucking bad?! Kill me! Shoot me!”
“Surprise!” Mei grabs one of the blinds, pulling down, then letting it spring to the top. “Welcome to Not a Hospital! You made such a scene, we had you transferred to the agency lab – not sure who we can and can’t trust after your little fiasco with security.”
The window reveals the main lab bustling with life; the certified HQ warehouse deep below the agency, their twenty-four-seven haven for support heroes — all fiddling with metal, chemicals and morally ambiguous gadgets. Mei beams proudly, and Izuku gives a long, wheezy sigh.
Izuku likes Mei. They’ve been allies for well over a decade, and she’s always come in clutch with new technology for his hero suit, including upgrades for Kacchan’s implants. She’s grown up with them; in skill and power, and alcoholism, probably. She’s a good drinking buddy when the world goes sideways. It’s weird that they’re mature enough to be the mentors of the new hero generation, especially when Izuku still feels like two kids in a trench-coat playing grown up.
Kacchan however, has little patience for eccentric people, so Izuku hurries this along by asking, “What did the ministry have to say for themselves?”
“Nothing,” says Hawks. “We know nothing. We took a huge pot of hush money. And then we snuck into the National Quirk Research and Development Agency and copied all their top secret data.”
“NQRDA needs a sexier name.”
“Agreed.”
“Jesus Christ how long were we out?!”
“A week,” Mei shrugs. She begins to pull down screens, unlocking a cabinet with a computer built into the wall, bringing holograms and digital graphs to life. “Some of your friends pitched in. Those flowers are from Kaminari – no, I lied, it was Uraraka. Kaminari called you a stupid boob.”
They’re nice flowers. Izuku can feel Kacchan’s pot beginning to boil, so he holds his breath and waits for the steam.
“I swear to Christ, I’m going to kill him, and beat YOU with his fucking CORPSE –” As Kacchan thrashes again, their hands separate for a fraction of a second, and that nauseating white-hot pain scalds deep into their bones, ripping a knife from the back of his skull to the small of his back. They wail in agony, then grab each other’s hands like a lifeline. “Fuck!”
“That’s why you’re sharing a bed,” Hawks gestures helpfully. “Any attempt to separate you resulted in screaming, fire, and broken equipment. A chunk of that cash is going back to the hospital, by the way.”
Izuku is beginning to piece this together. The rush of new information, the pain becalming under Kacchan’s sweaty clasp – his left arm hurts, but he doesn’t know why.
“The package was a person,” Izuku states, deadly serious. “Nobody told us that the package was a person. Everything about this mission was a shitshow from the beginning, but I don’t mess around with people, Hawks. I smashed that truck thinking no one was in there.”
Kacchan tenses next to him. Surprisingly, his presence is calming. Izuku should feel anxious, he does feel anxious, but not because of Kacchan. His skin is burning where they touch and it’s very much freaking him out.
(They’re too big for this bed; limbs too long, shoulders too wide. Two grown men squished together like hell in a handbasket).
Mei illuminates the screens.
“Meet the ‘package’, Melody Natsuhana. NQRDA calls her Matchmaker. Super, duper lockdown security in a prison nobody can pronounce the name of. She’s been the subject of their testing for years — quirk classified under the ‘bond’ category, but unlike your palm readers and love potions, their records describe her quirk as the ability to see the strings of fate.”
Kacchan thumps back in the bed, bonking his head against the metal headboard. It goes boinggggg.
“Give me a break.”
“I know, smells like bullshit, right? Data says she’s highly schizophrenic, but I think it’s a false diagnosis ‘cause it’s obvious she has an effect on the real world. See this? That’s your brain. That’s your brain meat up in there. Specifically, that’s your brain meat two months ago when I took those scans of you drunk in my basement.”
“You really need to stop doing that,” says Izuku.
“Well this?” Mei changes the screen. Hawks lights up a cigarette, like he’s heard this before. “This is your brain meat now.”
“Holy fuck,” Kacchan curses.
Izuku goes lightheaded. His eyes jump between the screens, analyzing the scans that say Midoriya and Bakugou. The before and after images are jarring. Pieces of their neural network are missing – just, gone. Dead, black areas where activity should be.
“What did she do?” Izuku whispers. Heart pounding, he struggles against the restraints. “What – are we – Hatsume, are we braindead?”
She pushes a button that releases their straps. They’re smart enough not to let go of each other’s hands, however, they struggle to sit up for a better look. Too many elbows, not enough mattress.
“No, no no. Not at all. It’s actually…like…” For once, Mei is at a loss for words. She pets her chin, fumbles with her goggles. Her crosshair eyes narrow in on them, calculating, then adjusting. “Somehow, someway, Matchmaker has combined your neural pathways. She split them – scrambled the nerves. It’s like, two trucks on the same radio frequency. The mental wound is really fresh, that’s why you’re in so much pain when separated. Left brain wants to be with the right. Your biological networks are rewiring as we speak.”
Izuku fights a wave of nausea. Kacchan gags slightly, then punches him in the arm.
“What the hell. Do I feel like I’m gonna’ barf because of you?”
Izuku looks at his own aching, unbandaged arm, then Kacchan’s healing wound.
“Oh, shit.”
“Ohhhh shit,” Hawks echoes. “That’s crazy.”
“Mei!” Kacchan snarls, searching for a weapon. “Mei, fix this!!”
She dodges the ice cup slung at her head. “The intensity should calm down over time – really, all that bloody research and those labrats still don’t know how to reverse it, bunch of useless slugs. Matchmaker got away, so once we –” she ducks again, “— we, being the metaphorical we, not including you, we find her, I’ll find a way to unscramble your nervous systems. Because I’m smarter and better than the government in every way.”
“Who’s good at coverts?” Hawks mumbles aloud. “Suneater?”
“Could call Shinsou,” Izuku offers.
Kacchan whips to look at him, wildly furious. Maybe a little hurt.
“Dude, how are you okay with this?”
“I am in every way, not okay with this,” Izuku snaps. Kacchan clenches his teeth. “But I really don’t want to experience that pain again. I’d actually go so far to say, I’d be willing to hold your sweaty hand in order to not feel that pain again.”
Kacchan rubs into his eyes and groans.
Hawks puffs through his nose, then grunts as he rises to his feet.
“In the meantime, you two should lay low. We don’t need the scientists at NQRDA thinking Matchmaker was successful in creating a bond. Apparently, they’ve been testing all kinds of people to see what strings she can tie. They’d kill to find out her quirk worked on you.”
“Cool. Awesome. I love dumb bullshit that kicks me out of a job.”
“Hush money, baby,” Hawks winks. “Certified pound-o-flesh. I’ll spin such a sweet sob story, kids on twitter will put your names all up in their bios.”
“You’re fired,” Kacchan says.
“Can you find my phone?” Izuku asks. “I need to tell my mom I won’t be around for a while.” Hawks salutes on his way out the door.
“I’ll let you two figure out your sleeping arrangements,” Mei finger guns. “Because you can’t stay here!”
The door slams with her laughter.
“No,” Kacchan starts, before Izuku even says anything. “We’re not going to your bum ass apartment.”
“See, you haven’t been over in so long you don’t even know that I got rid of the couch.”
“You could burn that place to the ground and I still wouldn’t step foot in your living room. RIP the cockcrouch, though.”
“You saw one roach,” Izuku pouts. “One.”
“I have loans for the sole reason of living bug free,” Kacchan huffs. “My place. Your stupid friends can bring your stuff.”
Izuku relents. He stares at the ceiling, and notices how un-hospital-like the tiles are. He should have realized from the smell alone. Industrial, like a warehouse. They used to hang out down here when the agency was still new and they wanted to hide from the work piling up on their desks. Nobody at UA warned them about the paperwork. Saving the country at sixteen? Easy. Filing petty expense reports so they don’t get royally screwed on their taxes? Hell, literal hell.
His hand is getting clammy. Overstimulated, Izuku works to unthread their fingers, but is careful to keep enough contact that their knuckles are touching. Kacchan’s fingers twitch, but that’s all.
“This is horrible,” Izuku whispers. Kacchan hums, agreed.
“Feels like I’ve been –”
“Kicked in the head?”
“Yeah.” Kacchan frowns. He rolls his right shoulder. “Arm doesn’t hurt as bad as it should.”
“Achy,” Izuku agrees. They both frown further. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t want to stay here. He feels itchy, like he’s overstayed his welcome. Izuku’s head pounds so bad it really does feel like his brain is doing electrical work up there.
This is great. He’s now tied to Kacchan physically, mentally, and who knows how else. He can’t go home. He can’t run away.
Oh, there’s the anxiety.
“Woah,” Kacchan blinks. “That’s definitely you. Holy – stop freaking out, you’re making me freak out.”
“Sorry,” Izuku croaks. Kacchan grips at his wrist like he can squeeze the panic from his skin, and the funny thing is, it kind of works
Kacchan sits up; all spikey blonde hair and bloodshot eyes and facial scars and natural musk. Izuku knows this man, and yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time all over again. Thanks to their newly discovered bond, Kacchan senses the new bubble of unease.
“Chill out, we’ve been through worse than this. I’m not – this isn’t your fault.”
Izuku shudders an exhale. He breathes in, then out. The world starts to open up a little.
“Okay. Okay, thanks. Sorry, I – this is a lot.”
“No shit,” Kacchan groans, agreed. "Just - fuck, one step at a time." Nausea, fear. "Stop doing that!”
"Sorry, sorry!"
They both stare at their connected hands. Kacchan’s elegant fingers against Izuku's crooked ones, looping white scars that cross from one hand to the other, like a matching set. A chill makes him shiver, and Izuku becomes keenly aware of the thin hospital-yukatas they are wearing.
Step one: Getting Dressed.
They share a look at the pile of clothes dumped on the chair.
“I’m really good at twister,” Izuku tells him. Kacchan pinches the bridge of his nose.
***
The cab ride is a cold silence chorused by rush hour traffic and bumpy potholes.
They tried separating long enough to look somewhat normal to the cab driver (yeah, normal, still in their hospital bracelets and EKG stickers) but Izuku nearly barfed out the window and Kacchan quickly beat that idea out of him.
They don’t hold hands. As Izuku foolishly reached for him, Kacchan put a swift end to that too. He grips tightly onto Izuku’s wrist during the cab ride, then through the apartment lobby and up the elevator, so they look more like a mom pulling along their unruly child and less like two lovers.
God forbid.
Izuku takes deep, settling breaths. It’s okay, it’s fine. Mei will figure something out. Hawks will ask the Endeavor agency for help. This will all be an unfortunate memory filed neatly between the Stain incident and that one horrible Hinge date.
Kacchan unlocks the door with his right hand. They cross the threshold. They stop. They stare.
Izuku checks his phone, then mumbles, “Shouto has my house key. He’ll bring my stuff in the morning.”
Kacchan successfully kicks off his boots without the use of his other hand.
“Why the fuck does Shouto have your key.”
“I don’t know Kacchan, maybe because he actually comes over?”
“Never mind, stop talking. I can’t stomach your bitchy attitude with this headache.”
Izuku scoffs, hobbling after him as he pulls further inside. “First of all, you have no right – and second, my head hurts too, that’s kind of the whole point of this –”
His back hits the wall. Kacchan pushes a firm forearm against his chest, strong enough to pin him there, but more of a suggestion than a threat. They both grew well out of high school; Kacchan a little bigger, a little taller, but not always stronger.
Izuku flares his power and Kacchan scowls with an expression so intense that Izuku shuts up.
“I’m not about to start fighting with you. Tomorrow, we fix this shit. Tonight, bed.”
His skull is pounding. He knows it’s equally terrible for Kacchan. Even touching like this, the ache feels like a raw wound, like someone skinned off the back of his skull and stitched it back on. Izuku has so many questions left unanswered. The heat of Kacchan’s forearm is a muffled comfort, his shirt a thin barrier to the byproduct of the bond. He hates it.
Why?
Why me?
Why you?
“Okay,” Izuku says.
Some of the fight leaves Kacchan’s shoulders (the rest of it lives there eternally). He leads Izuku by the forearm, and this time he follows obediently. It’s better this way – to let Kacchan feel like he has control.
The apartment smells good, like ashy incense and swiffer wipes. Kacchan’s space is clean yet eclectic, warmly decorated with mostly-new furniture. Out of all the men Izuku knows, Kacchan has the best eye for interior design. Izuku always liked the hominess of it; the framed vinyl records, signed movie posters and hero memorabilia hung perfectly straight on the walls.
Some of it is their hero memorabilia. Izuku is pretty sure he’s spent more time here than at his own place, but he still finds it touching that Kacchan collects some of their merch, as much as he bitches about it.
A wooden shadowbox displays a history of concerts, including stubs that Izuku attended with him. The way it’s charmingly arranged on the wall almost makes him wish he kept his tickets. In between the stubs are snippets of news articles describing their victories over world-threatening supervillains. One of the chopped-up articles dates all the way back to their triumph over All for One.
Their friendship has survived hell. Izuku stares at the iron grip around his forearm and prays it will survive this too.
***