Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku rides through town on his hand-me-down bike, reveling in the freedom of the wind whipping through his hair. He pedals by the beach, or what was once a beach. It’s more of a dump now, and it serves as the line of demarcation between the haves and the have-nots in town. Musutafu is small. There’s a handful of families that've been here for years, hoarding their wealth, building the town in their image. The Bakugos are one such family, and they are by far the oldest, and most prolific. Then there’s everyone else—which is to say, then there’s Izuku.

The Midoriya family lives in a small house on the wrong side of the tracks, and just about everything he owns was once owned by the youngest Bakugo. His clothes, his toys, his bike—all of it was Kacchan’s. His mom works tirelessly for the Bakugos. She cooks and cleans and makes sure there are always fresh flowers from the garden adorning every glittering surface of the house. On Fridays, Izuku gets to hang out at the house until his mother is dismissed for the weekend.

Izuku loves Fridays. He loves the Bakugo manor—it’s bright entry ways, the expensive furnishings, the house’s inhabitants. Kacchan is his best friend, or… he was. Izuku’s not sure what happened, but he doesn’t get to spend much time with Kacchan at school anymore. He’s not very nice, and he makes a point of calling him a charity case in front of the whole class. Fridays are different because it’s just Izuku and Kacchan. He’s nicer when his other friends aren’t around.

“Oi, Deku!” Kacchan and his friends shuffle onto the road ahead of him, blocking his way. Izuku squeezes the brake, tires skidding on the cement just in time to stop directly in front of Kacchan.

“How’s my old bike, charity case?” Kacchan sneers, his palms gripping the handles of the bike. Izuku frowns. Fridays aren’t supposed to be like this.

“It’s a great bike, Kacchan,” he mumbles, looking out at the piles of junk on the beach.

“I know it is, idiot, and I want it back.”

Izuku’s head snaps up to meet Kacchan’s crimson, disdainful gaze. His friends laugh, like Kacchan is the funniest person in the world. Kacchan can be funny, sometimes, but this doesn’t feel good or right. Izuku isn’t amused, only hurt.

“What? Kacchan—“

“Don’t call me that stupid baby nickname. Get off my bike, Deku.” Kacchan shakes the bike, and Izuku maneuvers himself off of it before Kacchan decides to push him over. He watches as Kacchan rolls the bike away, shoving it down to the beach until it lays among the rest of the forgotten things on the beach. Izuku doesn’t dare try to retrieve the bike until Kacchan and his friends are gone. Izuku rubs his face, doing his best not to let his frustration leak out of his eyes.

He makes his way down the trash pit, wading through abandoned relics—broken microwaves, mangled toys, a garbage bag full of matchless socks. Then, he hears it. Beating drums. Izuku wonders if it’s some old toy, the batteries not entirely run out. His bike is all but forgotten in the wake of this new mystery. He doesn’t stop until he finds it, expecting some keyboard with a drum setting, or something like that. What he finds is an old, wooden box. He yanks it out of the stack of debris, brushing dirt off the top until the finely carved top is visible.

“Jumanji,” he whispers, running a dirty fingertip over the J. The drum beat quickens, as if reacting to its own name, and Izuku is utterly enchanted with the mystery the box provides. He slides the top off the box, finding a board game, and little game pieces carved from ivory—an elephant, a monkey, a rhinoceros, and a crocodile.

“A game for those who seek to find a way to leave their world behind,” Izuku reads, and finds those words so incredibly poignant that his heart clenches, and new moisture wells in the corners of his eyes. Izuku would do anything to go somewhere else—somewhere Kacchan will be his friend again, like when they used to play heroes in the creek behind his house, and they built a secret base underneath an old oak tree. Izuku hasn’t been there in years.

He replaced the top on the box, rubbing the tears off his face, and shoving the game as carefully as he can into his backpack. Maybe he can still salvage this Friday, this friendship. Maybe all they need to be friends again is a new game.

Izuku abandons his bike in the grass, running up to the ornate porch at the front of the manor. He rings the bell, and it chimes faintly on the inside of the house. Before the tune peters out, his mother answers the door in her crisp black uniform, and a white apron.

“Honey, why are you covered in dirt?” His mother’s eyebrows knit in disapproval. He’d been so consumed with the idea of the game, that he’d completely forgotten the fact that he’d found it tromping through the garbage. He looks at his tennis shoes, and finds them caked in grime, a mix of mud, sand, and other unmentionable debris.

“Oh,” he says, because nothing he says would be an apt enough excuse for his appearance. Mom sighs, but her smile is fond.

“Leave your shoes and jacket on the porch. I’d rather not mop the entryway again.”

Izuku nods, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it on the porch swing. His shoes come off next, and Izuku notices the faint smell of rotten food when he kicks them under the swing. He picks up his backpack, and the drum beat persists. He peeks up at his mother, and finds it odd that she hasn’t once commented on the beating box.

“Is Kacchan here yet?”

“He just got home. I think he’s in the attic.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Mom.”

He races up the wraparound staircase, all the way to the top of the house, the drumbeat in line with his heart. The attic isn’t really an attic anymore. Kacchan’s parents converted it into something of a second room, a secret base just for him. The low-ceilinged room has a couch beneath a row of windows, and bookshelves full of comic books, DVD cases, and video game cartridges. Izuku clutches his backpack to his chest, doing his best to temper his hope. He knocks lightly on the wall, stopping just before the top of the stairs.

“Kacchan? Can I come up?”

There’s a long silence, and Izuku imagines Kacchan weighing the pros and cons of allowing him passage.

“Whatever,” he grits out, and it’s about as enthusiastic as Kacchan gets, so Izuku takes it as a win.

He walks the last few steps up to the attic, pulling the game out of his backpack. Kacchan is reading a comic book, his nose buried in the over-saturated cover in an attempt to artfully ignore Izuku’s entire existence. He seats himself on the floor, eyes on the red rug, and waits. Eventually, Kacchan cracks.

“Did you get your bike back?”

“Yes,” Izuku says, pouting again, making patterns in the rug. “I found something else, too. A game.”

As if on cue, the drum beat starts up again, and Kacchan finally looks up from his book.

“The hell is that?”

“It’s the game. It’s called Jumanji. Have you ever heard of it?” Izuku hopes Kacchan doesn’t lose interest. He really wants to play the game, and as much as he loves his mother, playing games with her just isn’t the same.

“No. Sounds stupid.”

“Oh,” Izuku says, the last of the wind going out of his sails. It was worth a try. The drums ratchet up, going faster, getting harder to ignore in the awkward silence, and then his mother calls up to him, and the drums stop so suddenly it actually makes him nervous.

“‘Zuku? Are you ready?”

No, he thinks, but it’s not like he’s welcome here. Izuku sighs, and gathers his things back into his backpack. The drums start up again, beating a slow, steady rhythm. Kacchan stares at the box, eyes narrowed, like the sound personally offends him. He grunts, and Izuku waits with bated breath.

“You can spend the night. I’ll play the stupid game.”

Izuku is so ridiculously happy when his mom kisses him goodnight, and leaves him on the porch as she heads back home.

Chapter Text

Katsuki Bakugo has a lot of regrets in his life, even at the young age of eight years old, but he can never tell if he regrets being cruel more than he regrets being kind. Deku beams up at Katsuki like he’s given him the world, and his smile has Katsuki burning with rage. Deku is poor and useless and weak. He has no friends. He shouldn’t be that happy. Katsuki has everything—two parents, a giant house, and so much shit he needed a second room to put it all in. So why is it that whenever Deku, someone who has nothing, smiles like that, Katsuki can’t find it in him to be anything but pissed?

Sometimes it feels like Deku is testing him, and when Katsuki inevitably fails, he looks down on him like Katsuki is a worm under his hand-me-down shoe.

Maybe it’s because Deku is the only person from school he’s ever allowed into this house. Maybe it’s because when his parents fight like fucking cats and dogs, Deku seems to be there for all of it. Maybe it’s because his mom is the maid, and she knows exactly how miserable his family is under the veneer of polished marble countertops and name brand clothes. Maybe it’s because, every Friday, when Deku stumbles through the doors of Katsuki’s palatial home, his mother wipes her hands on her apron and hugs him like she hasn’t seen him in a year, and Katsuki can’t even remember the last time his mom touched him.

Either way, Deku’s happiness is hardwired to make Katsuki explode, and even when he tries to fight it, when he tries to conjure up the care and affection he once had for him, it always comes out sharp-edged and cutting. That god-awful drum beat does nothing to help, so he leaves the room and heads for the kitchen, looking for a reprieve.

All the warmth goes out of the house when Deku’s mom leaves for the night. His dad walks around like he’s sleepwalking, about as tangible as a ghost roaming the halls. His mom is what his grandmother lovingly refers to as “a high-functioning drunk.” Katsuki has learned that high-functioning can easily shift to violent, so he’s learned to read the creaking floorboards and shuffling footsteps of the house. He knows how to lay low. Deku’s shuffling steps always sound safe and light, so Katsuki knows he’s dutifully following behind him.

“Your mom doesn’t prep dinner on Fridays, but we’ve got leftovers,” he gripes, pulling a soda out of the fridge. At the last second, he grabs another one, and places it on the counter for Deku. Katsuki tries to remember the last time Deku stayed overnight. His head is full of nostalgia—everything is familiar, yet so different because they’re not fucking babies anymore. His parents don’t put on a show, Deku doesn’t seem as oblivious as he used to be, and there’s no backyard secret base to escape to.

“I know. I remember,” Deku mumbles. He sits like he’s ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble, tense and coiled like a spring. Katsuki can’t fathom why he’d want to spend his time here. He can’t actually figure out why he extended the invitation in the first place. Maybe the two of them are just gluttons for punishment.

They eat leftover lasagna for dinner in silence. Occasionally, Deku will say something, or ask a question to get a conversation going. More often than not, Katsuki lets it die quickly.

“Were you reading the new Rise of All Might? Volume thirty-eight just came out.”

“Yeah. You can have it when I’m done.”

“No, it’s okay. I know you don’t like it when I take your things.”

Katsuki looks away, fighting the shame he feels curling in his gut. He doesn’t care about that. He just wants Deku to hurt sometimes because making people hurt makes Katsuki feel less alone. He changes the subject.

“Did you really find that game at the dump?”

Deku nods, suddenly smiling again, and Katsuki shakes his head. He can hear the drums again, though it’s faint.

“You’re weird,” he says, but it’s light, teasing without the edge. It’s easy to be nicer when no one is watching.

“Maybe it will be fun!”

“Yeah, I throw all my best games in the garbage,” he says sarcastically. “Get a grip, Deku. It probably blows.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” he says, and it sounds like a challenge. Deku smiles, like he still knows all the right buttons to push to get Katsuki moving. Maybe he does. The drum beat quickens, calling them back upstairs. Deku heard it too, turning his head toward the sound.

“Fine. Let’s play your trash game.”

Deku gingerly removes the top on the game, and opens up the folding sides of the board. The game looks ancient. Intricately carved, but simple in its elegance.

“What, no cards?” Katsuki grumbles.

“All the other pieces are here. Maybe we don’t need cards?”

“This is fucking stupid.” Katsuki crosses his arms, petulant and irritated, but Deku forges on, holding a small game piece in his hand.

“I’ll be the elephant. Which one do you want?”

“What if I want the elephant?”

“Kacchan,” Deku whines, pouting, and Katsuki responds with his best impression.

“Deku,” he mocks, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be the rhino. I’m going first.”

Katsuki places his game piece in one of the corners, and it snaps into place. Katsuki has to stop himself from flinching back, like it bit him. Deku does the same thing, looking a bit nervous.

“Um, roll the dice,” he says, staring at the black dome in the middle of the board. If Katsuki looks harder at it, he can see murky, green smoke within. Katsuki wonders how a game that looks so old can create an effect like that. Katsuki takes the dice and tosses them on the game board. Katsuki’s irked by the low number. Snake eyes. The murky dome clears, green words appearing. Katsuki reads them aloud.

“They fly at night. You’d better run. These winged things are not much fun,” Katsuki reads. “The hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“Maybe it’s a dud turn. I’ll go.” Deku picks up the dice, rolling them in his palm, and something smacks into the window. They both shriek, and more shadows fly into the glass, stark, black shadows against the growing night. They keep pelting the windows, chittering and screeching. Katsuki looks at Deku for some kind of explanation, but he finds him staring back at the board, the smoke in the ball shifting to spell out another riddle. Deku took his turn when he dropped the dice.

“In the jungle you must wait, until the dice read five or eight,” Deku says, mumbling the words slowly. Whatever’s outside is still banging against the windows. It reminds him of the drum beat, the sound that lured them in like a trap. Katsuki doesn’t like this game. “Is it like the jail in Monopoly? I just lose my turn?”

Katsuki stares at Deku, finds him looking strange. He looks faint, smoky, his edges blurred and soft, Katsuki doesn’t want to play this game anymore.

“Kacchan?” Deku sounds scared, his voice breathy and wet, the same way he sounds when Katsuki insults him in front of their classmates. He’s staring at his hands—his hands that are no longer hands. They’re blurring, stretching, withering away like smoke in the wind, sucked into the black ball of the worst game in existence.

“Kacchan!” Deku screeches, crying for help and all Katsuki can do is watch it happen. How is this happening? Why is this happening?

“Please, Kacchan. Help me! Please! I don’t know what’s happening.”

 It’s not happening. It can’t be happening. It’s not possible. Katsuki can’t move, and more of Deku melts away, disappearing like water sucked down a drain.

“Help me!” Deku is screaming bloody murder, and for the first time in his life, he wishes his mom would come up here. He wishes his dad would run up the stairs and do something, anything because Katsuki can’t move, and he’s trying so hard. He’s trying to scream for help the way Deku is, but Katsuki’s never asked for help in his life because no one ever comes to his rescue anyway. Can anyone hear Deku screaming over the pounding drums? Is it even drums anymore or is it Katsuki’s frantic heart, or the winged things cracking the windows as they try to come for him too? The winged things this game conjured up because it’s a curse and a nightmare and nothing will ever be the same again. The last thing Katsuki ever hears from Deku is a howling scream, begging him to roll the dice. Five or eight. Five or eight. Five or eight, and Deku is gone like he was never there at all. Maybe he wasn’t.

He couldn’t be here because they haven’t been friends in years and Katsuki hates him, and there’s no reason for him to be, right? Katsuki uses his shaking hands to snap the game shut, and the drums are there again, calling him back. Deku’s screams burn in his ears but it’s nothing compared to the drums, his heart, the beating wings. Katsuki kicks the cursed game away—out of sight, out of mind. He tries to stand on useless legs to run for help because his words still catch in his closed throat. Katsuki’s socked feet slip on the pristinely clean steps, and he tumbles down, down, down. He smacks his head, his shoulders, his back, over and over again and still nothing comes out of his mouth, but his thoughts are running rampant.

Deku is gone.

Five or eight.

Deku is gone.

Roll the dice.

Deku is gone.

I can’t do anything.

Katsuki wakes in an ugly, fluorescent room, bruised, bandaged, and broken. His parents are nowhere to be found, and he tries to remember what happened, but his mind feels like a maze of high, impenetrable walls. Usually, Katsuki would say that walls are meant to be climbed, but not today, not right now. The thought of thinking makes him want to scream. The incessant beeping on the machine beside him irks him, makes him think of things that should be forgotten. Makes him think of drums and nightmares and black, winged creatures  tumbling through shattering glass, so he rips the monitor clip off his pointer finger and tosses it across the room.

“Katsuki, we… we need to know what happened. Izuku is missing, and the longer we wait…”

Katsuki says nothing. He hasn’t said anything since he woke up in the hospital. He probably hasn’t said anything since before that, but he can’t remember much.

“Mitsuki,” his dad says, it’s nearly a hiss. His dad is so present lately and Katsuki thinks maybe he should’ve landed himself in the hospital years ago. “His doctors said not to force him.”

“The police said they need a statement as soon as possible. Inko hasn’t come to work in days—hasn’t left her house.”

Around and around it goes. Doctors, therapists, officers, his parents. It seems like the whole world is talking at him, and he has nothing to say back. Some say it’s from trauma, others say it’s from the head injury. Most seem to think he’ll be talking in no time, that his mutism is temporary, selective. They’re all idiots. Katsuki has nothing to say because nothing he says will bring Deku back.

Katsuki makes a habit of staying out of the house as much as possible. He spends his days by the creek, under that old oak tree in the ruins of their secret base because if he’s in the house he hears it. The steady, pulsing, inescapable beat that makes him want to scream and tear at his hair and claw at his eyes because if he listens he’ll remember.

Therapy helps. He starts talking again, but he won’t talk about Deku, or that night. He remembers things in fits and starts, but he keeps it all to himself. Green smoke, black wings, and the beating drums. Summer comes and goes. His parents tell anyone who will listen about the missing boy with green hair and eyes. His picture is everywhere, and Inko seems to fade away. She doesn’t come to the house for work, but his parents keep paying her, and it feels like hush money somehow. Maybe it’s because his mother looks at him with intense suspicion. He’d take drunken neglect over that look in her eye any day.

School is hell. On the first day back, someone asks him what he did to weak, defenseless Deku. The guy reassures him that his secret is safe with him because no one cared about Deku anyway. Katsuki beats the hell out of him. He can’t hardly remember doing it but he remembers sitting in the office and waiting for his mom to get him. He remembers staring at his bloody, bruised knuckles and feeling nothing because he hasn’t felt much of anything since Deku vanished in a puff of smoke.

“What did you do to him?” His mom’s voice is harsh, but even. She won’t look at him. Katsuki watches her hands tighten on the steering wheel, a white knuckle grip.

“Punched him,” he mutters.

“No. What did you do to Izuku?”

The name is like a punch in the gut every time. Doesn’t matter if it’s on the news, or in person, it always stings the same. It always makes his head buzz and the drums never stop, even when he’s nowhere near the cursed box in the cursed room of his cursed house.

“Nothing.”

“Did you hurt him? I can’t protect you from this if you don’t come clean.”

Katsuki stares at his mother and realizes that he hates her. He realizes that all this parading around and spending money on publicity for Deku is an attempt to deflect blame. She really thinks Katsuki is that much of a monster. Maybe he is a monster because he did nothing for Deku when he needed help, but his therapist told him it’s okay to be scared and confused because he’s a kid.

“He’s gone.”

He doesn’t speak to his mother again after that, not even when the cops get wind of Katsuki’s violent outburst at school, and turn their investigation toward searching for a body, and pinning down suspects. Not even when they drag the creek behind their house and defile the ruins of the secret base searching for Deku. Not even when the whole town starts calling him Killer Katsuki, and reporters start camping out on their lawn, or when people he’s never met start posting on the internet about what they think happened.

Chapter Text

“I’ll be back at three, alright?” Mr. Aizawa says, sounding bored, but stern in that parental way he’s somehow perfected. Maybe it’s because he’s a teacher, and he’s been disciplining kids with nothing but a cold stare for years.

“I thought teachers don’t work in the summer?” Eri whines. Mr. Aizawa smiles, ruffling her silver hair.

“The unlucky ones have to teach summer school. It’s only for a few hours. Emi should be home a bit before that, and we’ll order pizza. Sound good?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she says, practically beaming. Kota sulks because that’s his natural setting. The Aizawas do their best to deal with it, but more often than not he leaves him alone. Eri is the favorite, the darling, because she’s easy to appease.

“Call me if you need anything, or if you leave the house. Got it?” His dark eyes bore into Kota now, because he’s the oldest, and Eri can do no wrong, so really he’s the only one that needs to be warned.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, fucking around on his phone.

A total of fifty-three minutes goes by before Kota is so bored out his mind that Candy Crush doesn’t cut it.

“Hey, Eri. You know this town is famous?”

Eri turns around in her chair to give him an incredibly unimpressed look.

“Is this one of your Reddit conspiracies?”

“Nope. Well, I mean, it’s on there, but the only conspiracies come from speculating what happened to the guy.” Kota smirks, because he knows he’s got her hooked. She can’t resist a mystery. She waits for him to continue.

“So, like, a long time ago,” he starts, and already she’s cutting him off.

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know like twenty years, or something. Do you want to know what happened, or not?”

“If I’m going to hear the story, I want all the facts.”

“Anyway,” Kota continues, annoyed. “A long time ago a kid disappeared. Vanished out of nowhere, and they’ve never found a body, or any real evidence, despite the fact that the rich family who probably killed him spent a ton of money to make it a national, publicized case.”

“Details,” Eri says, a feral, curious look in her eyes. She pulls a spiral notebook close to her, so she can take notes. “Or send me the thread. You’re a horrible storyteller.”

“Why read a thread when we can go to the house where it happened?”

“Dad said to stay here,” she mumbles, picking at the crumpled edges of her notebook.

“Mr. Aizawa said to tell him if we leave.” Kota makes a point of clarifying their caretaker’s title. Eri has lofty dreams of adoption, but Kota has never let himself hope for anything permanent. Eri has recently started calling them Mom and Dad, but Kota stubbornly refuses to use anything other than formal titles and surnames, despite the insistence that he’s allowed to use their first names.

“Oh, yeah, so just call him and tell him we’re going to the murder house. That’ll go well.” Eri rolls her eyes.

“Suspected murder house. Like I said, no body. It’s been abandoned for years. No one will know we were there.”

“If we get in trouble, I’m throwing you under the bus,” Eri says flippantly, standing up to pull on her shoes.

“Naturally.” Kota rolls his eyes, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t excited to see the Bakugo manor, and anything is better than being cooped up in the house all day.

They ride their bikes to the long-abandoned house in the fancy, sprawling subdivision in town. The Aizawa home isn’t like the shitty cracker box houses by the beach, but it’s nothing like the over large, ostentatious houses over here, either. The manor is situated on a large plot of land at the top of a hill. Back in its heyday, it would’ve screamed I have more money than you, peasant but now it’s in major disrepair, with chipped paint, boarded up windows, and overgrown, weedy grasses. It’s comically easy to get on the property. They ditch their bikes behind a bush, and manage to find a hole in the fence left by a previous generation of sleuthing miscreants. Crumpled beer cans litter the yard, and Kota thinks this town must really be the pits if this is considered the best place to get drunk. The boarded up windows are covered in graffiti, ranging anywhere from superfluous tagging, to cartoonish penises, to murderer scrawled in thick, red paint.

“Kota,” Eri breathes, her nerves catching up to her as they crest the porch steps.

“Don’t chicken out on me now, Eri,” he says, thoroughly entranced by the place. It’s broad daylight, but the weight of decades of mystery and unanswered questions hangs over this place like a rain cloud.

Eri places a light hand over more graffiti. It’s acidic green. Izuku Midoriya and Rest in pieces and FIND HIM. Eri’s wide eyes find Kota’s and he does his best to appear unfazed.

“He was eight when he disappeared.”

“Poor kid,” she whispers, hand now ghosting over eat the rich and Killer Katsuki, written in sloppy permanent ink. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“We should be inside,” he mutters, testing the edges of the plywood window covers, looking for a way in. He’s so busy yanking on the plywood, he doesn’t even notice when Eri opens the front door.

“Kota, the lock is busted.”

“Oh. Good catch,” he says, sheepish. He nonchalantly passes through the door, and whistles lowly at the thick layer of dust on every surface. Their shoes leave smeared footprints on the dark wood floors. Aside from the occasional piece of furniture—a cloth covered couch, a desk, a splintered pile of wood that may have been a dining table—the large house is absurdly empty. The place reeks of negligence and forlorn hope, but there’s something else underneath the dust and despair—a noise. It’s almost alive, everchanging. Kota thinks he’s hearing things, but then Eri mentions it.

“Do you hear that?”

“You’re imagining things,” he mutters, picking up a smashed picture frame. The photo has been removed, and Kota desperately wishes he could’ve seen this house in the early days of Izuku Midoriya’s disappearance.

“No, I’m not! What if it’s his heartbeat? Just like The Tell Tale Heart!”

“Oh, my god. Shut up.” Kota almost snorts. She’s always got her nose shoved in a dark mystery. Poe, Lovecraft, or Shelley. This isn’t some science fiction book, though. This is real, and Kota is just as much thrilled by it as he is unnerved.

“I know you hear it too. Every time it gets louder you look up.” Eri’s voice is nothing more than an accusatory whisper. It feels wrong to speak at normal volume here, thick as the air is with secrets.

“It’s probably an animal, or something,” Kota says, and when Eri gasps he realizes it's the absolute worst thing to say to get her to drop it.

“We have to help it!” Eri seems to have completely forgotten about the fucked up aura of the house because she rushes up the decrepit stairs, ready to play at animal rescue. Her foot goes through one of the steps, and her scream has Kota’s heart dropping to the floor.

“Eri! If you fucking die, Mr. Aizawa is gonna kill me.” Kota races after her, dragging her out of the hole by her armpits.

“Swear jar,” is the only thing she says and Kota rolls his eyes so hard he might’ve just seen his brain. “Or I’ll tell Dad.”

“He’s not your dad, and I’m not your brother.”

“They’re all we’ve got,” she says, her mouth set in an obstinate frown.

Eri’s the type of kid who’ll take any kindness she can get, because her folks keeled over when she was two, and all she really remembers is the system. Kota was five. He remembers his parents, and his aunt after that. He didn’t end up in the system until he was nine, and he’s had his fair share of shitty foster families since then, but no amount of nice words, pity gifts, or the farfetched promise of adoption is going to do it for him. It doesn’t matter if the Aizawas are kind of cool and they respect his boundaries, or if Kota actually cares about Eri’s well-being—he already has a family. They just happen to be dead.

He’s about to argue with her when the incessant noise from upstairs picks up speed. It’s not a heartbeat, or a trapped animal. Kota’s not sure he wants to know what it is at this point. He just wanted to see the creepy house where Izuku Midoriya disappeared, the place he most likely died, since he’s been missing for decades without any solid leads. What the hell else is there to do in this shithole town?

“Kota, I don’t think that’s an animal.”

“Well, I can promise you it’s not the fucking Tell Tale Heart.”

“Swear jar,” she hisses, doing her best to glare him into an apology. That’s only worked one time in the five months they’ve known each other, and only because she cried.

“We can’t just ignore it,” she murmurs, listening as the sound gets louder, more complex—a drum beat on top of drum beats, an orchestra of banging instruments. She doesn’t look the least bit scared, so Kota won’t be scared either.

“Fine,” he says. “Be careful on the stairs, numbskull.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, but she seems to take him seriously enough. She moves slowly, the stairs creaking under her weight. Kota has a serious problem with a twelve year old leading the way into a potentially dangerous situation, so he yanks on her sleeve until she’s behind him on the steps.

The stairs seem to go on forever, three floors up and it still winds upward, the strange sound begging them to climb higher. Kota knows from old forums and documentaries that the attic is the last place anyone saw the missing boy. The attic is almost entirely untouched. There’s a threadbare couch and a wall of shelves. Some of the books are still there, too, dusty and bleached with age. It’s even more eerie than the rest of the house because it looks more lived in. It looks like a crime scene the authorities did their best to preserve for as long as possible, before they inevitably gave up on the boy. It looks like the place where Katsuki Bakugo did something terrible, and never had the courage to go back after the fact. As if that knowledge wasn’t enough to send a shiver down his spine, this room is alive with pounding drums.

Eri wastes no time. She hastens to the other side of the room, chasing the sound, opening an old chest in the corner of the room, and peeking in the cabinet at the base of the built-in shelves. Her lack of deference for the place astounds him. She drops to her knees to peer under the couch, sending clouds of dust into the air, the stray motes twinkling in the afternoon sun.

“I found it,” she exclaims, like she’s Indiana Jones in the fucking Temple of Doom. She sticks her skinny arms under the couch and pulls out a long, thin box. It’s no exaggeration to say that it’s the biggest let down of his life. A board game—how incredibly anti-climactic.

“Jumanji,” she reads, blowing more dust into the air when she cleans off the top of the box. The banging drums intensify further, if that’s even possible, and Kota thinks maybe finding a creepy board game in a place like this isn’t so anticlimactic after all. Kota finally moves into the room, and seats himself on the floor, coating his pants in ancient dust. Eri sets the board down and opens it.

The drums stop immediately and the following silence is deafening. There are two game pieces on the board, both of them still near the start of the bone-carved pathways of the game. The dark circle in the center reminds him of the Magic 8-ball he once received as a Christmas present. Eri tries to pry the ivory elephant off the game board, and finds it stuck. Kota picks up the dice, just for something to do. He rolls them nervously around in his cupped palm.

“Okay, so do you want the crocodile, or the monkey?” Eri let’s out a self-conscious laugh, like she’s trying to lighten the suffocating mood in the room. She pinches the other game pieces between her thumb and forefinger.

“There’s no fucking way we’re playing this game. We should… we need to get back home.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she says, comfortable admitting how creeped out she is now that Kota has given her an out. At almost exactly the same time, Eri tosses the game pieces back into the box, and Kota does the same with dice.

The pieces fly to the open corners of the board, like they’re magnetized, and the dice land with a click. Eight. They’ve already decided it’s time to clear out, but the circle in the center of the game glows a cloudy green, and the crocodile shifts along the bone squares. Words start to appear in the dome.

“What the hell,” Eri mumbles, and even at a time like this, Kota can’t help but say swear jar, in a mockery of her high, girlish voice. She punches his arm just as the words are fully formed in the inky, glass ball.

This will not be an easy mission. Monkeys slow the expedition.

“Ugh, nothing ruins a game like pithy rhymes,” Kota says distastefully. Eri looks like she might laugh, when there’s a crash below them, and it turns into a gasp instead.

“What was that?”

“Hush,” Kota hisses, listening intently. Silence persists for a few, tense moments. Maybe it’s some other kids looking for something dumb to do, or maybe someone called the cops when they saw them breaking in. Emi works at the small sheriff station in town, and the last thing Kota wants to do is have to unwillingly visit her at work. They need to go. “Come on.”

They abandon the creepy game and run down the stairs, their previous care with the rickety steps completely forgotten. They pass the third floor when a monkey flips over the bannister and lands in front of them on the stairs. Now, the monkey is maybe half as tall as Eri—not quite menacing on its own, but given the fact that it’s a monkey and it shouldn’t be here , sets them both understandably on edge.

Eri’s feet falter on the steps and she falls down, doing all she can to stop her forward momentum. The monkey observes her, grunting lightly, nostrils flaring.

“Don’t move,” Kota whispers, staring at the scene, wondering what the hell he's going to do if this stupid monkey decides to try to rip Eri’s face off. Her only response is a strangled whimper. She doesn’t move a muscle—not until four more monkeys swing over the bannister again, jumping to the crystal chandelier in the center of the room, swinging around with reckless abandon. The stray monkey abandons them to join its little friends.

“Kota, what’s happening?”

“Monkeys slow the expedition,” he mutters, incredulous. He pulls Eri up so they can continue down the stairs, somehow keeping one eye on the monkeys and another on her.

“You think this is the game?” Eri barks, looking at Kota like he sprouted another head.

“What the hell else could it be?”

“This isn’t funny!”

“No shit! We need to fucking go.”

As if a horde of monkeys isn’t stressful enough, a dirty stranger appears at the bottom of the stairs, long hair matted, and covered in filthy, leathery cloth.

“Oi!” He screeches, and for the life of him Kota can’t tell if the man is yelling at them, or the monkeys. Eri screams, her foot falling into the same hole she made earlier. Kota grips the back of her shirt, and yanks her up unkindly. She doesn’t seem to mind the rough treatment. She grips onto Kota’s arm, terror apparent in the clench of her clawing nails.

“Where’s the game?” The man asks, shouting over the hooting, cooing monkeys to be heard. “Where’s Kacchan?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Kota barks at the same time Eri says, “Enough about the creepy game!”

The man completely ignores them to pick up a few pieces of the broken dining table and starts throwing them at the monkeys, hooting and screeching at them like a fucking lunatic. The fact that the monkeys seem to be listening to him on some level only makes the scene that much more bizarre.

“Oh my god, the monkey man is going to murder us,” Eri whispers. “We’re the next Missing Midoriya. Dad is going to be so pissed.”

The crazy man halts his nonsense, a table leg dropping unceremoniously from his hands, and rolling towards Kota’s feet.

“You know me?”

Eri and Kota make twin noises of utter confusion, and the monkeys start to separate, flying to different corners of the house, shaking the bannister and slamming doors. A window breaks somewhere in the house.

“No fucking way, crazy!”

“Are you Kacchan’s kids? How old are we? No, no, wait, where is the game? We need to finish the game.”

“No games! We don’t even know you! Come on, Kota.”

“No, wait!” The crazy man starts forward, as if to grab Eri, and Kota goes ballistic. He picks up the discarded table leg like he’s Babe Ruth at home plate.

“Back the fuck off my sister, freak!”

He backs off, arms raised in surrender. His eyes are green and steady, and Kota realizes that he does recognize him.

“You said my name,” Izuku fucking Midoriya says in a slow, placating voice.

“You’re—“

“Holy shit,” Eri whispers, and neither of them can be bothered with the swear jar bit because holy shit. Kota drops the table leg in shock. Reddit is going to lose their fucking minds.

“Izuku Midoriya. And you’re Bakugos, right? Red eyes, awful potty mouths. You’re exactly like him.”

“We’re not Bakugos,” Eri says, eyebrows knit together in obvious concern for the man who clearly has no clue about a damn thing that’s happened since he disappeared. “The Bakugo family isn’t really a thing anymore.”

Izuku Midoriya looks around, seeming to notice for the first time all the dust and ruin in the cavernous, sparse home. His dirty face crumples for a moment, looking beyond devastated, but then he shakes it off.

“We don’t have time for this. We need to finish the game. Take me to the board.”

Chapter Text

The kids stare back at him, seemingly unable to form words. For the first time in years, Izuku takes stock of his appearance, covered in dirty pelts and leather hide, his hair a long mass of tangles. The last time he saw his own face in a reflected surface, he had a patchy beard. He must look insane.

“Look, you started the game. We have to finish it,” he says slowly, seriously.

“What in the actual fuck are you talking about?” the boy barks, his face twisted in confused fury. “You’ve been dicking around off the grid for, like, twenty years, and all you have to say is let’s play a game?”

Izuku’s mouth pops open. Twenty years? He knows he’s older, but he hadn’t known how long he'd been away. Surely, it hasn’t been that long. There’s no way. Panic creeps in and turns the edges of his vision black. He clutches at his chest, willing the pitter-patter of his heart to slow. He has to focus.

“I w-wasn’t dicking around. I was trapped… for twenty years. Who rolled a five or eight?”

Neither of the children answer, but the girl’s big, red eyes cut to her brother, then back to Izuku.

“Trapped?” she asks, her voice small. Izuku doesn’t have much practice with discerning human facial expressions anymore, but he thinks it might be pity or concern that draws her eyebrows low and pinched.

“In the jungle, you must wait until the dice read five or eight,” he says. He could never forget the words that appeared in the glass ball so long ago. He used to mutter it over and over again until he fell asleep like a prayer, hidden high up in the trees.

“This is crazy. You’re crazy. Eri, let’s fucking go,” the boy says. He grabs her sleeve, but the girl—Eri—puts a hand on his arm.

“He did. He rolled an eight.”

Izuku suddenly feels like his chest might collapse from the sheer amount of gratitude that washes over him. Whether they knew what would happen or not hardly matters.

“Thank you. You saved me.” He barely manages to get the words out through his constricting windpipe. His eyes are wet. The girl seems to decide something then and there, her mouth a stern line.

“We have to help him, Kota.”

“No, we don’t. We’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Oh, so now you’re following the rules?” She crosses her arms, glaring at him. Izuku feels out of place between them, witnessing the stand-off.

“Eri,” Kota says with a patronizing edge in his tone, “this guy isn’t an injured bird you found in the front yard. This is a grown-ass man who’s probably a nut case.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she whispers, her eyes flicking wildly between her brother and Izuku, the grown-ass nut case. He can’t believe this kid has no relation to Kacchan. The attitude is spot-on.

Kacchan, Izuku thinks with an ache. Where is he?

There’s too much on his mind at the moment, and he’s entirely at these kids’ mercy. The game is the only thing that matters.

“Can you take me to the game? Please?”

Kota shakes his head at Eri, but she ignores him.

“It’s at the top of the house. In the attic room.”

She makes for the stairs, and Izuku follows, but Kota puts himself in his way, watching him with suspicion. He waits until Eri is halfway up the staircase before he ascends it himself, all the while keeping his eyes on Izuku. From the corner of his eye, he sees Eri roll her eyes. Izuku understands the suspicion, so he goes slowly up the stairs, careful to keep his distance. It's sweet of him to look out for her.

Izuku can’t help but be stilled by the state of Kacchan’s house. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, and most of the furniture has been removed. He remembers all the framed photos that used to run up the wall of the staircase. There’s no trace of them now. It isn’t until they reach Kacchan’s attic room that anything looks familiar.

It’s almost entirely untouched. Izuku has the distinct feeling like he’s walked into a faded memory. The books are still there, every volume of Rise of All Might up to thirty-eight. The rug is the same, only dustier, and in the middle sits the cursed board game that ruined Izuku’s life. He can’t hear the drums anymore, but he can imagine them. He heard the drums in the jungle, beating in time with his racing, terrified heart. He will never forget them.

Izuku lets himself collapse onto the floor, giving in to the magnitude of the day. He’s been out of the jungle for maybe an hour, and all the change he’s experienced is dizzying. He wipes tears off his face. He knows what has to happen, but that doesn’t change the terror. He closes and latches the box.

“We need to keep playing… but we need to get all the players together first. We need to find Kacchan.”

Izuku looks pointedly at the ivory rhinoceros in the same place it’s been for years. Two spaces ahead. Snake eyes.

“Killer Katsuki,” Eri says, eyes wide, breathing the words like she’s reading from a sacred text.

“What?” Izuku asks, eyebrows shooting into his hairline.

“Katsuki Bakugo was the last person to see you alive. Everyone thought…”

“Well, now we know why he never made a public statement.” Kota snorts. “Everyone would think he was even more unhinged than they already suspected.”

Izuku frowns, already tired of the cryptic comments and feeling left out. He’s been out of the game for less than an hour and he’s already feeling like a shy, eight year old boy again. 

“What are you talking about?” Izuku's stomach sinks to the floorboards.

“You went missing, and the last person to see you alive never said a word about it. What do you think the police thought about that?” Kota says unkindly, and it’s the first time Izuku has thought to consider the boy mean. He can’t even begin to process the way he feels knowing Kacchan was blamed for his disappearance. He never considered what was happening in his world while he was away—he hardly had time to. Surviving the jungle took all his attention.

Still, it only reaffirms his next course of action.

“I need to find him. Now.”

“No offense, Mr. Midoriya,” Eri says, wrinkling her nose, “but you need to clean up before you do anything.”

Kota snorts again. Izuku stifles the urge to be embarrassed, but he does run a self-conscious hand across the scratchy bristles along his jaw. She has a point.

“I… I had a house here a long time ago, but…” he trails off, unsure of how to vocalize the fact that he doesn’t have the mental wherewithal to see his mother right now. It feels like a crime to even think about it, much less say it.

“You can come to our house,” Eri says immediately. “I bet Dad’s clothes will fit you.”

For once, Kota doesn’t try to admonish her, even though he looks horrified at the thought of allowing Izuku anywhere near their home, or their parents’ things. Izuku looks to Kota.

“Do you know where Kacchan is?”

“Katsuki Bakugo still lives in town. I’m sure his address is somewhere online.” He pulls something small and rectangular out of his pocket and it lights up.

“What’s that?”

Kota and Eri share a look that thoroughly patronizes Izuku.

“It’s a phone, grandpa.”

“Really?” Izuku all but gasps. He hardly remembers cell phones, but the image that word conjures is not that tiny little light up box. His mom had a cell phone that flipped up and down. He used to think it was the epitome of cool. He’s missed a lot in the last few decades.

Kota continues tapping away at his phone, but Eri stands. She stares at the closed game box with wary eyes.

“You hear the drums,” Izuku says. It isn’t a question. She nods, visibly unnerved.

“Sorry to say we can’t leave it here. Those monkeys might come back for it.”

He gathers the box and holds it protectively to his chest, even though doing so sends a shiver through him.

Kota might say Eri has a weakness for the downtrodden, but she just calls that empathy. It’s true that she’s nursed more than a few wounded baby birds or malnourished animals back to health, and she’d be lying if Izuku Midoriya didn’t remind her of a giant, sad puppy, but it’s hardly a crime to help someone in need.

She has a healthy imagination, and she loves a good supernatural mystery, but everything with this game beggars belief. And yet, she can’t say she disbelieves it. The monkeys appeared out of nowhere, just as the game foretold, and Kota did roll an eight just as Izuku appeared from thin air. And…he smells like he’s been trapped in a jungle for years.

Either way, Eri has committed to helping him and unraveling the mystery of Missing Midoriya and Killer Katsuki. They exit the Bakugo manor as discreetly as possible, but the pounding drums coming from the box clutched to Izuku’s chest makes her feel as though a spotlight is on the three of them.

“Three people and two bikes,” she says, acknowledging the problem. Kota breezes past her and claims his bike. She frowns. His bike is bigger than hers, so it would clearly suit Izuku better. Kota rolls his eyes.

“Mine has pegs. You can ride on the back of mine, and Weirdo can use yours.” She appreciates that, at the very least, he’s no longer fighting her about helping Izuku.

“My bike is too small for him.”

“Tough shit. I’m not riding your girly bike,” he mutters, eyeing the purple, floral paint job with disdain.

“Your toxic masculinity is showing,” she gripes. She’s gearing up for another argument when Izuku laughs.

“This bike is fine. I’m used to hand-me-downs,” he says cheerfully enough and picks up her bike. He sits on the seat, and his knee comes up past the handlebars, and some of his good humor goes away. “It’s not too far, right?”

“Not too far,” she promises.

Eri shoots another baleful look at Kota, before deciding not to push the issue further. She finds her footing on the pegs of Kota’s bike and grips his shoulders.

“Ready,” she says. Kota doesn’t budge.

“For the record, I’m against this.”

“Noted.”

“And I’m throwing you under the bus if Mr. Aizawa finds out.”

“Naturally,” she says airily, flicking the back of his neck for good measure. Kota swats at her, but it gets him going.

Kota has the decency to pedal slowly as Izuku falls behind, struggling with her small, pink bike. She looks back at him every once in a while, worried and fascinated all at the same time. She never expected a slow, summer day to devolve into a scene from a book. Kota was right about one thing, though: Dad will surely be upset with them if he finds out. She has a moment of cold fear when she considers being sent back to the girl’s home in the next city over. She likes the Aizawas and their warm, understated home. She likes that Emi braids her hair and always says goodnight. She likes feeling like she has a family. The idea of being sent back lugging her belongings behind her in a garbage bag is the worst-case scenario, but she pushes it away. She has to believe that the care she receives from the Aizawas is genuine. She pushes her fears away, content to annoy Kota. She flicks the back of his neck again.

“You called me your sister,” Eri murmurs, a smug smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “You big softie.”

“Shut up,” he gripes, embarrassed. Kota is surly and hard-hearted, but she knows he fears the same thing as her. He may not call Shota and Emi his parents, but he doesn’t want to go back to the care home either. She frowns, considering what it would be like to wake up every morning and not see Kota grumpily eating his cereal.

“The Aizawas can’t find out about this,” she murmurs as their mailbox comes into view down the street.

“No shit.”

“I don’t want to go back,” she blurts out. Kota’s hands tighten on the handlebars, slowly pulling the brakes. Her admission hangs over them like a storm cloud. When they come to a full stop in the Aizawas’ driveway, he glances back at her before she hops off his bike.

“You won’t. I’ll say it was my fault.”

The desire to hug him is overwhelming, and she gives in, throwing her arms around him despite his protests. She won’t allow him to do that for her, but the fact that he’d even consider it makes her feel less alone in the world.

“They won’t find out,” she decides. Her words bear the weight of an oath, a pact between siblings. Her words say, everything will be okay.

Izuku enters their home, struck by the way it exudes warmth and safety. He hasn’t felt warm or safe in so long. He yearns for his childhood home, his small bedroom and his All Might sheets. The realization of everything he lost so long ago fully hits him. The loss is debilitating. He tries to hide a sniffle, wiping his nose on the dirty pelt covering his arm. He catches a whiff of himself and nearly gags.

“Don’t touch anything,” Kota barks, sliding his feet out of his shoes in the entryway. Eri gives him a flat look of disapproval. Izuku follows Kota’s example, removing the hard sandals he fashioned out of tough leather hide. They can hardly be called shoes, and the idea of laying them beside Kota’s pristine, red sneakers and Eri’s shiny Mary-janes is laughable. He holds them self-consciously on top of the game board.

“We can probably throw those away,” Eri says gently. She moves to the kitchen and finds a garbage bag for his things. Izuku can only nod, out of place, as he tosses his shoes in the bag and follows Kota to the bathroom.

“You know how to use a shower, right?” Kota asks, tone dripping in sarcasm. He’s on his phone again, his thumbs sliding across the buttonless screen.

“Just because I look like a caveman doesn’t mean I am one,” he responds, trying his own hand at sarcasm. It’s strange to talk to people again. Kota gives a small laugh, and Izuku’s chest swells with triumph. Nailed it.

Kota shows him to the bathroom and lobs a soft pink towel at him. His triumph is short-lived when he actually sees the shower. It’s one of those strange ones that only has one knob to twist. Izuku is irrationally embarrassed when he has to ask which direction to turn it for hot water. Surprisingly, Kota doesn’t poke fun at him.

Cryptically, he mumbles, “I had to ask, too.” Then, as if catching himself, he reverts to his surly tone. “There’s a comb in the drawer. Try not to break it combing those knots out. I’ll leave some of Mr. Aizawa’s clothes by the door.”

“Mr. Aizawa?” Izuku asks. Kota leaves, closing him in the bathroom without answering.

He makes quick work of shirking off his pelts and stepping into the hot spray of water streaming from the faucet. The water stings his skin, but he also feels clean for the first time in years. Has it really been twenty years since he’s had a proper shower? He tries to be quick and efficient, but he loses to the sheer delight of standing around, enjoying the water pressure. Water sluices off his skin, and he watches dirty, brown suds hypnotically swirl down the drain. He drenches his matted curls in conditioner, and finds Kota’s warning not to snap his comb was more than just a sarcastic remark. He manages to tear apart most of the tangles with his fingers. He hadn’t realized how long his hair had gotten. He can’t remember the last time he sheared his hair off in the jungle.

He decides he’s wasted enough time and shuts the water off when he feels sufficiently clean. He feels like a whole new person, actually. He rifles through the drawers in the bathroom, trying not to disturb too much. He finds an electric razor and works on his beard. The razor leaves behind stubble, but it’s a wonder to see his face in the steamy mirror again. He opens the door and dresses in the clothes Kota left for him. The clothes are soft, black cotton—just a simple shirt and sweatpants cut at the knees. They don’t fit exactly right. The shirt is tight across his muscled chest, and the sweats hang loose on his hips, but anything is better than the rags he’s been dressing in. He almost feels… normal. He piles his old pelts up in his arms and shoves them in the bag, content to throw everything out. The smell coming off them is unbearable, now that he smells like shampoo. 

He finds them on the couch, Kota on his phone, and Eri reading a thick book that might look at home in a gothic horror library. The crackling garbage bag in his hands draws their eye to him.

“I feel much better. Thank you,” he mumbles uneasily. Their wide-eyed looks leave him feeling like a bug under a microscope.

“Missing Midoriya is hot,” Eri mumbles to her brother, giggling. “Who knew?”

Kota smacks her with a throw pillow, his face a funny shade of pink. “Shut up.”

Izuku clears his throat, uncomfortable. “I’d rather you just called me Izuku, if that’s okay.”

Eri giggles some more, and Kota refocuses on his phone.

“I found Katsuki’s Bakugo’s address. Toss your garbage clothes and we can go.”

Izuku stands up straighter with renewed urgency. The shower was necessary, but he regrets allowing himself to waste time.

“Let’s go. Do you have the board?”

Eri stands, holding up a white backpack with a floral design. “Here. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Kacchan’s address isn’t far from his mother’s house. Izuku vividly remembers riding his old bike between the squat, dilapidated houses, but they look even worse than before. They pass his old street, and Izuku looks down the road with a mixed sense of dread and longing. Does she still live there? Could she really be so close? Izuku feels like the worst son in the world as he passes by, letting the opportunity for answers go as he continues on the path, following behind Kota and Eri.

Kacchan’s house is an ugly, small thing. It's more of a shack, really. It looks forgotten by time, the shingles—once white—were a dirty grey. Piles of junk and refuse littered the patchy, dead lawn.

“Are you sure this is it?” Izuku asks with some alarm. The Kacchan he knew from childhood was fastidiously neat. The mansion he grew up in and the place he lives now is worlds apart.

“Yep. This is the one.”

Izuku eyes the recycle bin on the curb. It’s open and half full of beer and liquor bottles. Dread pools in his gut as he all but forces himself up the walkway to the faded red front door, his heart pounding with anticipation. He knocks, weakly at first, and then harder. Almost immediately, he hears a clatter on the other side of the door. Izuku’s mouth goes dry. Will Kacchan recognize him? Will he be happy to see him… or will the same antagonism he felt when they were children still persist? He desperately hopes they can find some equal footing, and be civil. Izuku missed him all these years. He never gave up hope that maybe Kacchan would save him. He’s grateful Eri and Kota hang back on the lawn, somehow knowing that he needs some space.

“What?” The voice on the other side of the door is unmistakably Kacchan’s, though it’s deeper. Something about the angry cadence is familiar to Izuku. He’s unable to say anything substantial in the wake of hearing him for the first time in years.

Just open the door, he practically begs. Izuku is overwhelmed with the need to put a face to his mature voice. The door flies open, and Izuku jumps back startled. Katsuki Bakugo stands before him, eyebrows pulled low in annoyance over bloodshot eyes. He has a bottle of beer in one hand.

“H-Hi,” Izuku says, his voice little more than a breath. Kacchan has bags under his eyes and a wrinkle between his brow, but he looks the same as he had before: handsome, strong, petulant. It’s like the opposite of seeing a ghost. “It’s… so good to see you.”

His words are meager compared to the elation coursing through Izuku. Good doesn’t even begin to describe it.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it.” Kacchan’s voice is worn, like shoes on a gravel road, and a shiver goes up Izuku’s spine at the contempt in his eyes. Izuku flounders for more words.

“I—Don’t you remember me? It’s Izuku.”

Kacchan expels an angry breath from his nose, and takes a long swig from his bottle. Izuku is transfixed by his bobbing Adam's apple and his bulging biceps. He’s lovely, and Izuku aches to bridge the divide between them. Kacchan wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

“You think this is the first time someone who looks like Izuku Midoriya has shown up on my doorstep? Get the fuck off my property.”

“It’s me, Kacchan,” he says, desperate to make him believe. With some hesitation, he utters his childhood nickname, “It's Deku.”

His eyes widen, pupils dilating like a game animal in the face of death. Then, Kacchan slams the door in his face. Izuku can’t believe it. He thought maybe so long apart might conjure up some fondness. He’s been dreaming of this day, and Kacchan can’t even be bothered to open the door all the way.

“Kacchan,” Izuku says, because he can hear him just behind the door. “Please, let me in.”

“You’re not him. Don’t fucking call me that,” he barks, his voice faint but aggressive on the other side. Izuku spares a glance at the kids who have unwittingly been dragged into the mess he and Kacchan started long ago, and wonders what they’re thinking about all this. Eri looks back at him with concern. Kota is messing with that sleek piece of plastic Izuku can’t believe is considered a phone. He speaks up, feigning disinterest.

“Tell him something only you would know, so we can get on with this.”

Eri punches his arm, tells him to have a heart. Izuku smiles at them because they’re such an unlikely pair, but they complement each other well. Izuku faces the door again, the color just a few shades off from Kacchan’s eyes. He’s at a loss for words because, as far as he knows, they never shared secrets. Kacchan always seemed to know everything about Izuku, and Izuku tried to guess, never making any progress on unraveling the enigma of Katsuki Bakugo.

“That night,” he starts, swallowing the lump in his throat. “We had leftover lasagna, and Diet Cokes. And you told me I could read Rise of All Might when you finished it.”

Izuku remembers that fondly, tears stinging his eyes. He’s far more attached to that moment than probably healthy, but there was something about it that felt kind and caring, and it’s the last good thing that happened to him. He finds that once he starts talking about that night, he can’t stop. He’s wanted to rehash this forever, to get it out, like lancing a boil, and watching the infection fester and bleed away.

“We played the game… I-I found it at the dump by the beach. I think we both wanted to be the elephant. I remember arguing about it, and you complained there were no cards, but the ball in the game started smoking after you rolled the dice. I got scared and dropped the dice when the bats hit the windows, and then—“

“Stop.” The word is somehow shaky and forceful simultaneously. Izuku can’t remember ever hearing Kacchan sound like that, but he supposes he’s missed a lot, forgotten some things.

The door opens again, just a crack this time. Izuku sees one bloodshot eye, and it’s full of sorrow and tainted memories.

“Go away, Deku.”