Chapter Text
“Yes—yes, I’m on the bus right now, Mom,” Izuku muttered, his forehead leaning against the rattling window as the countryside blurred by. His voice came out already worn down by the situation. “Are...are you sure there was no other way around it? The contract?” He already knew the answer, but part of him hoped his mother would say, Oops, forgot to tell you, turns out you can come home after all. But no, all he got was her cheerful voice on the other end, far too bright for the mood he was in.
“Just enjoy it, Izuku. It’s only two months. It’s the last thing your grandmother left you. You’re just staying in the house, that’s all.”
Easy for you to say, he thought bitterly. You’re not the one being exiled to the middle of nowhere. Outside the bus window, nothing but broken fences, abandoned sheds, rusting antenna towers, and fields with cows that stared like they were judging him passed by. The place looked like time had forgotten about it. Everything had this dry, faded tone like even color gave up and left.
“I still don’t get it. There’s... really no way around this?” he asked again, quieter this time. His grip on the phone tightened. He didn’t even know his grandmother that well. Why would she tie her will to something like this?
His mother chuckled lightly, but the static in the line was getting worse. “Come on, don’t be so dramatic. You might even like it. Remember, your childhood friend lives there too. Katsuki?”
Izuku blinked. “Mom, last time I was here I was, like, four. I don’t remember anything. I could’ve made up a ‘friend’ for all I know. For all you know.”
“Well, your grandmother said you used to ask to play with him all the time.”
“I was four! That kid was probably the only human face I saw besides you and Grandma. If he’s still here, he’s probably lost his mind living out here with nothing but goats and radio static.” He cringed as the bus passed a rotting barn, its roof sagging. An old windmill creaked sadly in the breeze, surrounded by tangled weeds and a tire swing that looked like a death trap. No WiFi. No air conditioning. No sushi bars. Just dust and... cows. He was going to die out here.
There was a crackle, and then his mom’s voice fizzled. “Don’t forge—tsshhh—take pictur—shhh—bye baby—”
“Mom? Hello?” He sat up straighter, holding the phone higher, as if that would magically boost the signal. “Mom?” Nothing. Just white noise. The call dropped. Great.
He slumped back in his seat, frowning out the window. Wasn’t it kind of insane to be sent out to a place he didn’t remember, where he didn’t know a soul, all because of some contract tied up in a will from a woman he barely knew? A place with no data and barely any electricity, probably. What if he needed to call for help? What if he got bitten by a snake? What if he lost his mind from boredom?
The bus jerked to a stop, the brakes squealing. Izuku stood slowly, tugging his overstuffed suitcase from the rack above and nearly losing his balance as the weight pulled him sideways. He huffed as he dragged it to the front of the bus, trying not to look at the dusty, peeling leather of the seats or the moth-eaten curtains hanging limp over the windows. He missed his apartment already—clean, modern, with soft sheets and central air. Hell, he missed the convenience store on his corner and the espresso machine that actually worked.
“Sorry, kid,” the driver said as Izuku stepped down. “There’s barely any WiFi out this way for your fancy gadgets.”
“Great,” Izuku muttered.
“This is your stop. You’re the only one, so I went a little farther than usual. Used to be friends with your grandma, y’know.”
Izuku nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”
“Can’t picture a city guy like you makin’ it out here,” the driver added, eyeing his suitcase. “Those shoes won’t last a week on the dirt roads. And those wheels?” He snorted. “Forget about it.”
With a grunt and a final tug, Izuku stepped off the bus. The doors hissed shut behind him, the vehicle belching out a puff as it rumbled away. The wind it left behind tugged at his curls, and then he was alone. Alone in the middle of nowhere, on a cracked road with no signs, surrounded by dry grass.
He stared at the lonely landscape, suitcase in one hand, phone in the other, with no bars. What kind of life had his grandmother lived out here? What kind of house was he walking into? And most importantly, what kind of person did it take to think that two months in this isolation was a gift?
All of this. All of this because of a contract. A clause. A single line in a will: My house will remain in the family only if my grandson stays in it for two full months. And now here he was—no reception, no escape plan, no idea what waited for him down the road.
Just him, the wind, the cattle... and maybe Katsuki. Whoever that even was anymore.
He tried everything. No loopholes. No easy outs. Just two whole months in a house he couldn’t remember, in a town that barely had cell service, if any. His mother hadn’t helped either—in fact, she was fully on board. She kept repeating how it was her childhood home, how much it meant to the family, how it should never be lost. So now, here he was: muddy, sweaty, and dragging a suitcase that weighed more than his will to live.
He huffed, breath coming out as he yanked the suitcase across a patch of thick, wet dirt that passed for a driveway. The plastic wheels were useless, jammed full of mud like they were trying to anchor him in place. His shoes, once crisp white, were now brown and slick with grime. His socks were damp. His suit was clinging to his back like a second skin.
Every step was a squelch. He didn’t even know for sure if this was the right house—it looked like it could’ve been his grandmother’s, in the vague, “this is old and falling apart” kind of way. He remembered almost nothing about the place. Maybe this was someone else’s home, and he was about to be charged with trespassing.
Grumbling, he pulled the suitcase up the wooden steps, each creaking plank threatening to give way under him. One by one. He was sweating so much his glasses fogged, slipping down his nose as he tried the door. Locked. Obviously. Of course, it was locked. He hadn’t been given a key—because why would you need a key when you’re being exiled to rural hell? He looked around, annoyed, then hesitantly lifted the rotting “WELCOME” mat with two fingers, jerking back with a panicked yelp when a spider scurried out from under it like it had been lying in wait just for him. No key under there. No spare, no hidden trick. Just mud, bugs, and disappointment.
Now what? He stood in front of the house, shoulders slumped, eyes wide, looking around like someone might pop out and offer a solution. No signal. No reception. The bus wasn’t coming back unless he walked a mile back to the actual stop. And he could do that, if only to make a statement about how completely over this situation he was. “Sorry, Mom,” he imagined himself saying later. “Tried. House locked. No key. Guess the contract’s void. Grandma’s ghost will understand.” He dragged his suitcase to the top of the steps and left it there, stomping off the porch with a huff.
There was another house nearby—if you could call five minutes of walking across open fields “nearby.” But compared to the others, which looked scattered across the land like someone had dropped them from a plane, this one was practically a next-door neighbor.
Maybe they had the key. Maybe his grandmother had left it with them. If not, he’d beg to borrow their phone and get himself out.
It started innocently—he tried to open the latch, but it was old, rusty, so he made the only logical (and stupid) choice: he climbed over it. Naturally, he caught his foot on the top bar and faceplanted into what he thought was soft grass, but was actually gravel.
Groaning, he pushed himself up, dazed, only to plant a hand on what turned out to be a rusty tin can wired to some backwoods tripwire contraption. Snap. The wire snapped, and a loud whirring noise somewhere in the distance made his soul leave his body. Suddenly—fwoosh—sprinklers went off. Not normal ones. These had pressure. City-boy-murdering pressure. A direct stream blasted him in the chest like it had been waiting years for this moment.
Soaked and disoriented, Izuku scrambled forward in a flailing panic, slipping in the wet grass as he made a run for the porch. Another misstep, another trap—this one flung some dirt (or possibly ash? who knows with country people) straight into his face. He hacked and coughed, tripping again and landing hard on his knees. He somehow made it up the steps—but the final step betrayed him. His toe caught, and he was airborne for exactly one glorious second before he slammed belly-first onto the porch like a soggy sack of regret.
He groaned into the wood, weakly reaching toward the doorbell with the last of his strength—only for the front door to slam open so hard it rattled the windows.
And there it was.
A double-barreled shotgun pointed right at his face.
Izuku screamed.
His eyes bulged in pure panic as he stared up at the man holding it—tall, dripping wet, wearing nothing but a towel and murder in his eyes. He was tan, muscular, and one stiff breeze away from flashing him. His blond hair was wet, clinging to his forehead like he’d just stepped out of a shampoo ad sponsored by violence. This guy didn’t look surprised. He looked ready, like he'd been expecting to shoot something. Coyotes. Burglars. Idiots who trip over everything in their yard. Izuku trembled where he lay, arms shooting up like antennas.
“MOVE A DAMN INCH AND I SWEAR TO GOD—”
He didn’t know if he was about to die, pee himself, or both.
“I-I’M NOT HERE TO ROB YOU!” he shouted, face still buried in his elbow as he flinched.
The stranger blinked, confused for half a second, then lowered the gun slightly. “Huh?”
“I tripped! Triggered all your—uh—things!” Izuku sputtered, sitting up just enough to flail his arms. “I’ll pay for them! I don’t even know what they cost! Maybe twenty dollars? Maybe five hundred?? I don’t know how farming works!”
The blond squinted at him, tilting his head like Izuku was a weird species he hadn’t seen in years. “A businessman?” he muttered to himself, suspicious. Then his eyes narrowed. “If you’re here to ask me to sell my land again, I swear to God—”
And the gun was rising again.
“WAIT! WAIT! I’M IZUKU MIDORIYA! MIDORIYA!” Izuku practically screamed, throwing his name like a life raft.
That hit something. The man froze.
“...Deku?” he said, suddenly softer, like the name brushed the dust off an old, forgotten shelf.
Izuku, still shaking, dared to peek through his fingers. He blinked, trying to make out the face, mentally blowing off the dust in his brain like an old cassette tape. Familiar… something about the scowl… the eyes.
“You still look like the same mossy-haired nerd from back then,” the guy said, voice low. “Just with a shit ton of freckles now.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. That voice. That nickname. That attitude.
“Kacch…an?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
The blond—Katsuki—tilted his head slightly, eyebrow raised. “Surprised you remembered.”
Izuku let out a dry, stunned laugh. “Me… me too.”
Finally, with effort, he pushed himself upright, brushing grass and mud from his soaked clothes. He glanced back at the chaos he’d left behind—tripwires, puddles, sprinklers still hissing angrily at nothing—and then back at Kacch-tsuki.
Still barefoot. Still holding a shotgun. Still damp. Still terrifying.
Maybe he should’ve stayed on the bus after all.
TBC