Chapter Text
“Deku-kun,” Uraraka waved him over, practically falling out of the chair she was in. Her stylist scowled, pushing her back into place before working on her hair again. Izuku waved, before heading over to sit next to her. They weren’t doing the same shoot, Izuku would be wearing his new line of workout clothes, and while Uraraka was in a robe, Izuku had passed her dressing room earlier, which was nothing but white dresses. She swatted his arm as he sat.
“I feel like you’ve been nothing but a stranger,” she said. Izuku’s own stylist began to try taming his curls. “Especially with Katsuki, I’d figure you’d call me for a movie night or something.”
Izuku let his head get tugged back twice before responding, “I’ve been busy. Twice as much work I suppose.”
She hit his arm again. “You work in one of the biggest agencies so don’t give me that.”
Izuku frowned, rubbing his arm. He was lucky she respected the two stylists around them, else wise he’d be floating up on the ceiling by now. As it was, he couldn’t very well tell her what his time had been filled with lately or the reason why his eyes were freshly bruised.
The stylist pulled his hair back again. Uraraka reached over and rubbed his knee. With a frown, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Izuku sighed, wishing he could slouch in his chair. “Kacchan’s just being Kacchan. I’ll get over it.”
“You’re allowed to be upset,” Uraraka said, shooting her stylist a look when she started to reach for her again to pull her back into her chair properly. “Deciding to leave without telling anyone was a real dick move.”
He wasn't surprised that Uraraka didn't know about Bakugou moving agencies. Really, the only one he suspected had any idea about it would have been Kirishima. It didn't sit with him well, regardless. To everyone else in the world, Izuku and Bakugou were the tightest heroics team out there. Nothing would break them apart, save, apparently Bakugou's ego and Izuku's unwillingness to take a firm stance on the matter; he could only lie to himself so much and say it was for the betterment of the mission and that was why he was refusing to truly fight this new development.
“How’d you know?”
Uraraka gifted her stylist amnesty, sliding back properly in her chair. The woman began working on the braids again. “I lived with you for six years. We're best friends. I can tell your ‘Katsuki disappointed me again’ face.”
“He didn’t disappoint me,” Izuku clarified, “he just wants to be the best. Apparently, I overshadow him too much.”
Uraraka snorted. “You overshadow everyone. Katsuki's been over it since high school.”
“That’s what I thought too but,” Izuku shrugged. “It’s probably better this way. I want him to succeed.”
Izuku fiddled with the hem of his shirt. Last night Bakugou had shown up at Best Jeanist’s agency, covered in soot, wearing a nasty scowl. He refused to sit down while Izuku and Ghost discussed what they had discovered. He didn’t seem that impressed, complaining that they were no closer to finding the real villain than before. The criticism stung. Though, Ghost was quick to say that it had in fact helped move the case along. While they technically didn’t know if Kurono was the real leader, they could do something about finding out who he was working with, which would narrow down their villain to a suspect or two.
Bakugou had to acknowledge that even though he had crossed his arms defiantly and looked down upon Ghost from his position. Ghost took the reaction in stride calmly turning to Izuku to discuss their next plan of action: infiltration.
Well, infiltration was probably too intense for what they were really going to be doing. To get more information, Izuku and Bakugou were going to start frequenting bars in the high-crime districts. Ghost assured them they’d have the best disguises so that no one would be able to make out their real identities. Hopefully, between drinks and women, the yakuza men they were sent to spy on would get loose lips.
“It works to our advantage that we’re not just facing Kurono’s men,” Ghost had said, “if we get close to one of the other gangs, they may reveal to us who is allied with Kurono and who is not.”
“And why the hell are we doing the sneaking when that’s literally your whole thing,” Bakugou had asked.
“We’re more likely to get a faster response if we start probing for questions, rather than hoping I will stumble upon something by following one or two people,” Ghost said, unbothered by Bakugou’s tone. “I’ll be supervising, but I don’t exactly blend into a crowd of suits and cigars.”
“So, are you doing anything special this Saturday?” Izuku dropped his sleeve, turning to Uraraka. The confusion must have been clear on his face because she frowned. Her hand opened and closed, ready to reach for him all over again, though she didn’t. Kept her sympathy in quiet words instead. “For the anniversary?”
Shit that was this weekend. Izuku’s response was immediate. A soundbite for reporters not Uraraka of all people. “Best Jeanist will hold a conference the night before the vigil.” It earned him a pointed look, so he backtracked, rectified. “There hasn’t been that much buzz surrounding it since it’s not that important of a number. It’s practically just another day.”
He even shrugged, hoping the action of nonchalance worked in his favor. It did not.
“I can’t believe you just said the day evil incarnate was eradicated from the face of the Earth as just another day,” Uraraka chided. “ And that’s not what I was talking about.”
“My statement stands,” Izuku said, “ it is just another day.”
“Deku-kun,” Uraraka said, “you know no one would judge you for still being upset, right? We all were devastated when it happened.” Uraraka bit her lip. “I just worry sometimes that you haven’t moved on from it.”
“I have.”
It was too fast. Uraraka saw right through him.
The last time Izuku saw Shouto he was waving beside an unmarked car. They were going down separate paths. Izuku towards All for One—where he would ultimately lose, again, because it was a trap, and Izuku was too dumb to realize his mistake until he was running in the rain, with Bakugou close behind—and Shouto went towards his brother, trailing his father. The rest of his family was under UA’s protection. Earlier in the day Izuku had watched them pull Shouto into the tightest hug and thanked him for being their hero.
Only a few days prior, Shouto had whispered in the way that Izuku could tell he was ashamed, saying, “I don’t think I can kill him, Midoriya.” His eyes shone as if he was scared that by telling Izuku the truth, Izuku would finally tell him he wasn’t worthy of being a hero. “I can’t be the one to kill Touya.”
And Izuku, naïve and young with the belief that everyone was worthy of being saved, and could be saved if a person just tried hard enough—if they simply kept offering them a helping hand— he had promised Shouto that he wouldn’t have to kill his brother. He and Endeavor would break through to him, and it would all be okay in the end. Shouto was a good hero. He was a good person. Izuku had complete faith in him.
The rain had fallen near torrential. It made it hard to see when they finally came across the second location. Hawks was already there, kneeling beside an unmoving mass. Endeavor was always massive, it seemed worse somehow seeing him strewn across the ground, cold and unmoving. If Hawks had been crying over his friend’s death, Izuku couldn’t tell with how soaked everyone was. He couldn’t tell because he couldn’t pay attention to the now Number One hero because he was forcing other words to come out of his constricting throat.
“Where’s Shouto-kun?”
Hawks’ devastation was worse to bear the second time.
“Hey,” Uraraka called. “I’m right here.” Izuku had missed when both the people working on them had disappeared, Uraraka ahead of him now, leaning so that she was eye level. Despite the make up and hairdo, it was still her. They were at the Hero Commissions Headquarters. Fifth floor. Three doors to the left because they were ranked pros. Izuku had survived that night. He had gone to Uraraka's room right thereafter.
“It’s okay,” she said.
It wasn’t.
It never was.
“I still wish I could’ve done more,” Izuku whispered. Uraraka had heard it all before. Had heard it clipped in painful crying nonsensical grief. She had never judged him then. She wouldn’t now. It was all Izuku could do to say, “I should have convinced Kacchan that I didn’t need his help. I had Best Jeanist and Mirko. I should have realized sooner that All for One wouldn’t have wanted to share the spotlight at the cusp of ending the world. I should have known Dabi wasn’t content with being a useless pawn.”
“Blaming yourself doesn’t make it any better,” Uraraka said, had said it before, and would probably say it again. There wasn’t much anyone could do to rectify a mistake of a past save to dwell on it. Izuku hated to dwell. She leaned back, but maintained her points of contact with him. A hand right on his leg, pinkie up. She was nothing but kind when she said,“maybe you should try reaching out to them. I know they didn’t come back after—but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind hearing from you.”
Izuku didn't need to ask her to clarify, who she was talking about. He had a letter from Fuyumi, sitting in a junk drawer that told him she was right. But it was hard to face the remaining Todoroki’s afterward as the rest of the world celebrated total victory, and the household had to bear too large of a sacrifice to get it to that point. There was a reason the family had left Japan, initially to avoid a still loose Touya, but then because it was simply easier to move on when they didn’t have to walk down the same streets that held only constant reminders.
Sometimes Izuku thought it might be better for him to leave Japan too.
“I’ll think about it,” Izuku appeased.
Uraraka smiled. The kind she used to ease wayward survivors after disasters. Izuku wasn’t sitting amidst rubble, his whole life gone, but the action was nice regardless.
She backed away from him, knowing he needed his space without him requesting it. He was relieved to know she was letting it go where others would have pestered, ripped holes in an already damaged chest. There was no point in saying how in small ways it still ate at his conscious. The many questions of how and why and when repeating on loop. How it still caught him at night when the dark was too much and there wasn’t another soul around to remind him that he had done enough. Not the best. But something.
But before Izuku could spiral further, his stylist was back, asking him curtly to follow him—always on a deadline they were—and Uraraka was calling from behind him that he better call her soon. He agreed.
He allowed himself to be distracted by white backgrounds and flashing cameras, praising his ability to smile. He put up the effort to be a hero—even if no lives would be lost or saved in between the edges of a photograph.
Izuku had to fight the urge to sneeze as the brush did another pass across his nose. His eyes were closed, and he had been told rather strictly, not to move. But it was hard not to want to fidget as brushes and cloth-covered fingers prodded his face. Ghost said the most important thing they had to do was cover up Izuku’s freckles, thus the layers of foundation, which he hoped didn’t make him look like a child clown.
“I think we’re good,” Ghost said. “You can open your eyes.”
They were in Izuku’s office. Bakugou was back at his old desk and had cussed Ghost out for even insinuating that he didn’t know how to apply his own makeup. From what Izuku could see, he was not wrong. His cheekbones were harshly raised and his eyes deeper, outlined in kohl. They were playing the part of strangers, though, like Izuku, Bakugou was slightly paler than normal, wearing a black wig where the top part was tied back. If Izuku blinked, he could almost lose himself in the illusion that Bakugou was indeed someone else.
“Tell me if I missed a spot,” Ghost said, pushing a mirror toward Izuku. “I’ll double-check your neck too.”
Izuku was wearing a black wig too, though his wig wasn’t done up. It fell straight to his shoulders. He tilted his head back and forth trying to see if there was a missing spot on the coverage of his face; but Ghost had done good work, not a freckle or scar in sight.
“How’d you learn to do this,” Izuku asked once satisfied, accepting the case of colored contacts that Ghost had pushed toward him.
“When I was younger, I stole makeup from my—mom,” Ghost said, falling into a chair, and spinning so he was facing the All Might mural. “I wasn’t that good, but in this career, it helps to have a couple disguises ready just in case. It just took some practice.”
“Anyone with two eyes can apply some foundation,” Bakugou grumbled. “It’s not hard.”
Not in a position to comment, Izuku focused on trying not to poke his eye out while putting red contacts in. They stung a little once in place, but after blinking they were only slightly irritating. When he was done, retaking himself in the mirror was an experience. He seemed older and guarded as most criminals were. He hoped the disguise paid off.
“One more time,” Ghost said, lazily swinging back in his chair, “what is the plan?”
The thing about red light districts, which might shock some people, was that Izuku didn’t generally have much of a reason to frequent them. Most crime he dealt with came his way rather than the other way around. Walking slowly down cracked sidewalks where women smiled at every corner and men offered a collection of wonders, kept in their coat pockets, was not something Izuku was used to. He had to refrain from pulling out his wallet and passing out bills as he went.
“It’s a bullshit easy plan,” Bakugou said, snapping his contact container closed. His eyes practically glowed yellow.
“Humor me then,” Ghost said.
Bakugou scoffed. “You’re splitting us up, so we don’t get caught because Deku’s already shaking, and we haven’t even left the office yet.”
“I’m not,” Izuku said, glowering. “How can we even be sure you’re not going to explode the minute someone bumps your shoulder?”
“You want to go, nerd?”
Ghost raised his hand. “We don’t have time for this. Midoriya, what's next?”
Next, was Izuku standing in front of a decrepit bar with only a crooked “Open” sign, blinking from a doorway to tell him he was in the right place. He watched two men enter, casting pale light onto a parked car, the rest overflowed into the road. Izuku took a deep breath and stepped off the curb.
“Once we get in, we are to sit at the bar and order a drink,” Izuku continued.
“You’ll have enough money for two,” Ghost interrupted, “any more than that—
“Is suspicious,” Bakugou said, “we’re not stupid. We space out the drinks and watch the idiots around us drink themselves into a stupor to forget about what shitty lives they have.”
No one looked up when Izuku opened the door for himself. The place wasn’t big. A bar along the length of the room, six tables, and a pool table pushed in the back corner. Of the seven seats at the bar, three were filled. While Izuku headed towards one of the empty chairs, he took stock of who he would have his back to.
Three men were sipping beers around the pool table in the middle of a game. A man with a dark coat sat in the furthest corner, nursing something Izuku couldn’t see, and a duo of girls sat silently drinking. One of them, with a smile sticky like caramel, caught his gaze when he passed. He didn’t miss how her eyes raked him over head to toe. Briefly, he thought maybe his disguise wasn’t that good, but all the woman did was bite her lip before turning her attention back to her friend.
Izuku made it to the bar, sitting one seat over from the end. Alone, but thankfully he wasn’t the only one. He raised his hand to catch the bartender’s attention.
“Don’t get something too strong,” Ghost reminded them. “You’re grown men. I assume you know your tolerance. However, this whole thing is useless if you can’t remember anything because you fell asleep in a ditch on the way home.”
“He’s talking to you Deku.”
As much as Izuku wanted to pretend he was in a spy thriller where the main protagonist ordered something dark on ice, he settled on a beer. Something amber that smelled sweet when the lid was popped off and cool vapor spilled out over the top. Izuku pulled the bottle closer to him, wrapping his hand around the cold base and taking one long drink before setting it down.
He picked up a peanut from a shallow bowl, which was mostly forgotten shells, and began to peel it, focusing his attention on his hands. His nails were chipped, and his ring finger had some black gunk under the nail. Momentarily, he abandoned his pursuit of peeling the nut, to dig out the crap, wiping it on the small black napkin. Cracking the peanut took only a matter of seconds before his mouth was filled with a rush of salt.
“You’re going to get bored,” Ghost said. “It’s inevitable. But you need to stick around there for at least an hour. No more than two.”
“We can pass the time by talking,” Izuku continued, “but—
A lumbering man with orange skin and biceps the size of Izuku’s head sat down beside him. He ordered a drink. A deep liquid, which he swirled around in his glass before taking it in one go. His second drink was a beer, which he poured over ice in the offered glass. He grumbled about peanuts while Izuku reminded himself to pay attention to others around him. The door had opened and closed twice. One had brought the man, the other either saw people going, or someone else was in the bar. Izuku itched his nose, angling himself so he could see behind him somewhat. The duo of girls had become a trio. Izuku grabbed another peanut, jumping when the man grabbed one too.
“You’re awfully twitchy little dude,” the man said, raising a brow. A scar bisected it, coming to a stop right before it hit his eye. Under all the makeup Izuku had a similar scar, though not nearly as close to his eye. Izuku took another drink, mostly to calm his nerves. He could do this.
“Is that going to be a problem?”
The man laughed. “And itching for a fight, too!”
Izuku grimaced around the opening of the bottle, hiding it by taking another drink. At this rate, he’d be out soon, and he was supposed to sit here for another long stretch of time.
“Not the place for it, unfortunately,” the stranger continued. “If you’re curious, that’d be Kyouko’s over the river. Lousy tap though, which is why most of the patrons end up brawling over the pool table instead of drinking.”
“I’m not looking for a fight.” Izuku said, setting his bottle down. Only a third left. He grabbed another nut.
“Nah,” the man said, “your face is too pretty for fighting.” Izuku's expression must have failed him because the man started laughing again. “Easily flustered too! Yokota! Get my new friend here another.” Then the man closed the distance between them. Close enough to see the different layers in his eyes. Izuku tried not to stiffen outwardly, but if it came to it, Ghost had said nothing about defending themselves—and Izuku would. Even if he didn’t want to fight, he wouldn’t sit and take being punched in the face. The man surprised him though, dropping his voice to say, “if you’re running from home, I’d suggest you run further. Place like this isn’t kind on the young ones.”
“I’m twenty-five,” Izuku said, teeth coming down hard on his tongue. He didn’t need to be a well-trained spy to know he wasn’t supposed to freely give out his actual age. Once again, he could curse how his face never lost its perpetual roundness that made reporters and police officers alike ask him time and time again if he was still in school, as if Izuku hadn’t been saving the nation for practically ten years at this point, and made him so defensive whenever the question was asked.
The bartender came back with two more beers, thankfully, and set them in front of them. His new friend pulled away to chug the remainder of his current one. He grabbed his new one, taking the time to fill another glass. Izuku eyed his partial bottle, refusing to grab it again. He instead played with the shells in front of him. The door opened. Izuku caught it in time to see the dark coat man leave. No one else entered.
“Care to humor an old man,” the other asked. Izuku agreed to his offer, assuming he was going to hear what the man had to say regardless if he wanted to or not. Besides, it could prove useful. Izuku could get a lead. “I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say you’re not around here looking for drugs.”
Izuku could laugh. Perhaps Ghost did too good of a job with the cover—or maybe they should have gone with a greasier look to get more people to approach him.
“And not to offend ya or anything, but you’re not exactly screaming muscle under all those clothes, which means you ain’t looking for the type of work this part of the city is known for.”
“What’s that?” Izuku bit his tongue as the man studied him. Bravely he tried. “Maybe I am looking for work.”
The man smiled. All teeth. Izuku noted one of his incisors was studded. He didn’t even know people did that in real life.
“Running guns and ammunition. You’d need a beefier quirk I’m afraid for these parts. And if you were looking for employment, you’d go to a better place in the city, not here.”
Izuku broke eye contact first. He grabbed his first beer and resisted downing it. He took a small tentative sip. If he tapped the back of his phone three times an alert went to Ghost. He had promised he would get Izuku—and Bakugou—out if they had a problem. Izuku wasn’t sure if this was a problem. He didn’t want to find out if it was one. He grabbed another nut. It was too sweet, no salt.
“If I had to guess, I’d say you’re here because of a lady.” Izuku was thankful he had already swallowed the nut. He was sure he would have choked on it if he hadn’t. The man continued. “Word of advice, don’t let her slip through your fingers, or you’ll end up like me.”
“I dunno, meeting a new friend every night could be fun,” Izuku said, playing into the charade.
“It is for a couple nights, weeks at best, but you ain’t ever going to get those eyes or that smile that smile out of your head and day by day you’ll waste away until you’re an old man buying a drink for a young guy because there’s no one else who’ll share a table with ya.”
Izuku finished his beer. He grabbed the second one without thought. “And what if I told you it wasn’t a lady?”
The man shook his head. “You got the eyes. Always searching every face to see if it’s her but being disappointed whenever it’s not. It’s the reason Kurata-san and company are going to go home with the three from the pool table over there when they spent ten minutes talking about you as soon as you walked in.”
Izuku raised his eyebrow, glancing at the women behind them. The girl from before caught his eye again before the table erupted in giggles. His face warmed, turning back toward the bar and gulping his drink down.
“Exactly,” his friend supplied. “I bet she’s beautiful. They always are. Tall right? She holds it over you a bit, but you don’t really mind because wow when she smiles it’s a gift no matter how crummy the situation is. And her eyes —the color of the ocean at the peak of summer, and,” the man nudged Izuku’s shoulder, “you have to give me something here now.”
“Red hair,” Izuku gulped more of his drink.
The man grinned. “Ah, so you have taste. Beautiful like I said. So, what are you doing in a crummy place like this instead of going back home and apologizing for whatever she thinks you’ve done wrong?”
“I would if I could,” Izuku said, mostly before he could think. The man’s arched eyebrow told him he wouldn’t get out of it by shrugging his shoulders again. The beer soured on his tongue. Really, he would need to ask Ghost for more pointers on how to talk to people. He was too honest with everything. However, according to plenty of police briefings and trial sit-ins, Izuku knew that most lies contained a kernel of truth. After all, he was only pacifying a man who spent his nights drinking alone. A stranger. It was almost too easy to say. “They’re dead.”
The man’s whole demeanor shifted, “well crap sonny, I would’ve bought you something stronger.”
Izuku shook his head. With a forced smile, he said, “can’t really handle anything stronger than this.”
He swirled the bottle. The liquid inside formed a small whirlpool before settling. A memory, long buried, fought itself to the forefront of his mind. Of beer cans, laughter, and excitement surrounding starting their second years soon. Of Shouto, declining the offered beer on the claim that it tasted bad.
“You’ve had alcohol before,” Izuku had asked between a hiccup with eyes he had known were too earnest for such a simple question, but Shouto never minded.
He said, watching the class enjoy themselves with a look stuck between amusement and horror, “only the expensive stuff at hero galas.”
Izuku’s hands had been clammy when he had shoved that white can into Shouto’s grip and said with all the certainty of a sixteen-year-old who knew nothing of what he was talking about, “this is better.”
It wasn’t, but Shouto laughing later that night with a different equally bad can had made it easier to swallow Izuku’s own drink.
Now, Izuku had a near-empty bottle and a throat too constricted to finish it.
“It’s not too bad,” Izuku said, filling the short bit of silence between them. “I should be over it by now.”
The man clapped him on the back, getting up to leave, to pee, to go and talk to someone less depressing than Izuku. Who knew?
But before he left Izuku to his own devices, he said, “Death ain’t an easy thing to get over. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to themselves. Especially, when it’s someone you love.” The man squeezed his shoulder. “I reckon that type of heartbreak isn’t something one ever truly learns to forget.”
Izuku was slow to finish the rest of his beer after that. The trio of women did leave when the pool players left. The women laughed while the men swayed. The bar dwindled between three or two other patrons. Only one table had a person by the time Izuku was willing to call it a night. He left his money and an empty bowl. He breathed through his mouth before standing.
The air outside was refreshingly cool. Izuku didn’t feel that guilty when he meandered down the streets away from the bar. The people he passed were loud for the darkness, but they paid him no mind. Izuku made it to the train without problems and boarded a car between pillars of yellow graffiti welcoming him to hell. He sat alone on a plastic bench and watched the danger of the district bleed into something familiar. He got out and searched for the stars he knew he couldn’t find in Tokyo.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Hello.”
“Anything of note?” Ghost sounded a bit breathless. Izuku pictured him running acrosss rooftops, heading towards the same place Izuku had come from in search of stopping the crime Izuku no doubt ignored between heavy steps and the need to get away.
“No,” Izuku sighed, shifting the phone, and walking again. “It was utterly useless.”
“Nothing’s truly useless,” Ghost reasoned. “I’m sure you’re just tired right now. Give it a night, and I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
The line went dead before Izuku could say goodbye. His apartment was three blocks away. Izuku got a cab to go to the agency. He stopped at the convenience store a block over and grabbed a box of pocky and some sour gummies, paying with what he saved by not having to buy that second beer.
At this time of night, the agency was quiet. Only janitors and a few heroes, switching between night patrols had any reason for being around. Not that Izuku was using the halls and entrance points that normal heroes used. No, Izuku made use of back entrances and service halls, ripping off his wig and cursing when it pulled his hair, caught on pins. He found his usual locker room mercifully empty and the shower hot and silent, allowing him to peel back the layers that Ghost had expertly crafted to keep Izuku hidden. But Izuku had to stop. He couldn’t keep, pulling and peeling, and exposing what was broken—what was lost.
The sweats he kept in his locker were large and uncomfortable. The water he drank on his way to his office was stale. The pocky was artificially sweet between his teeth as the door opened. He tossed his bag on his desk, making his way to the All Might mural and the secret keypad that was hardly a secret at all. A brief his before red lights blink to light, highlighting his notebooks. Each one was messy and imperfect. He scanned through the first three rows, searching until he got to #73. It was the only one unfinished. It was the only one that was less of an exposé on heroes, but the ramblings of a madman.
It had been a year since he last opened it. A whole year for it to sit forgotten in a locked shelf between many others. He turned the pages slowly. The first few had portions ineligible due to water stains. But the entries were frequent. He was more hopeful at that time. Insistent. Obsessive. He wanted to find him so badly. He wanted to be his hero.
Izuku’s fingers spasmed when he inevitably reached the date. His sentences were even more incoherent.
They keep telling me he is dead. But he was there. Why won’t anyone listen? I saw him! Felt him. He saved my life. His ice protected me from the blast, and I didn’t die. I should have. Why can’t they see that they’re talking to a ghost, and Shouto’s alive and breathing somewhere nearby? Completely alone and scared but strong, oh god, he’s so strong. He saved my life. He followed me into that pit of death and survived. He had to have survived. I need him. I need to save him. He can’t be—HE CAN’T BE—I saw him. I did.
Until the very last line.
Shouto’s dead. I read the police report this morning. I think, I think maybe I should be too.
Izuku choked on nothing. He heaved the notebook across the room—with its bold plans that they never had time to enact because Izuku was too slow to stop All for One, and they couldn’t risk resources looking for a runaway child. Especially, on a child once considered one of the strongest people in the country. The notebook splattered against the wall before falling to the ground.
“You promise you won’t leave again?” Shouto's voice. Shouto's scared request.
Izuku shook his head, digging his hands into his eyes, refusing to give into his legs wishing to give out too.
Izuku hadn’t wanted to make such a promise. He wanted to keep his friends and family safe. All he had was himself. He was nudged for the thought, which meant he said it out loud, embarrassing really. Shouto didn’t have to say it. Izuku could read it in his eyes. It wasn’t only Izuku anymore.
“Yes, I promise.”
But Izuku should have made the other swear to it first. He should have held out his finger and told him that it went both ways. They were a team—two of the few people who could put up with Bakugou’s temper and Endeavor’s shaky foundation of being a true hero.
“There’s no one else I trust to have my back,” Izuku had said, and it was still pitifully true.
Blindly, Izuku reached for his phone, spun on his heel, and raced out of that room. If he stayed, god if he stayed, he’d end up collapsing on the floor, unable to breathe. He was stronger than that. He raced up the stairs of the agency until he burst out onto the rooftop to meet a cloudy night, suffocating, turning to gray, losing the darkness night relished. He didn’t feel One for All thrumming, he reacted to it, jumping off the edge, letting the wind and white noise contain his thoughts before he was adjusting pulling himself through the air.
He ran and jumped through the night. Electric grief raced up his arms, leaving scorch marks where he was not careful, but he could not slow because if he slowed, he heard thunder, saw lightning, and watched the Number Two Hero grieve because they were too late.
Izuku’s feet hurt when he landed, and his calves screamed when he pushed back up. His shirt clung to his body, and his hair plastered itself to any skin it met. The moon stayed at its distance, unable to break through due to the clouds. Izuku fell to his knees, stopping because there was nowhere else for him to go.
Cemeteries were technically closed at night. If someone wanted to arrest Izuku for trespassing he’d probably let them. He squeezed his phone, wishing for flowers, knowing he’d never have the strength to go through with buying them. He wished he could. Shouto deserved something pretty at his grave.
As it was, Izuku didn’t even have a match to light a candle. Though if he had, the wind would take it, unusually cold and bitter for this time of year. He slid to his knees between the small piles of dried leaves.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
Most of the time, Shouto ran cold. His whole family did, minus his father, Shouto had said once between assignments. It was mostly unconscious, Shouto could safely run hot as well. He demonstrated it until Izuku’s tiny dorm room turned stifling with the humidity, and Izuku himself could feel sweat racing down his back. Shouto, however, had simply looked as he always did. Unbothered—not quite, the expression in his eyes was different, searching. Searching Izuku to see if he had done a good job in answering his question.
There was no one here to warm the air for Izuku now. Only his damp t-shirt and pants. He bowed his head lower to touch his forehead to the concrete. Unaware of what he was doing until he watched water drop to the ground. He could breathe, but it was hard, it was so fucking hard.
He wished he could say it. Could properly grieve. Scream. Shout until his voice was hoarse, demanding resolution that no one could give him. There was a time when he had given in to that grief, had killed a man over it. Almost lost himself. Though, still, years later, he was shaking. Broken on fallen tears, wishing, always wishing.
Remembering—
Thunder crashed as the rain fell near torrential, obscuring the shape of Hawks pounding into Endeavor's chest. Best Jeanist had time to grab Bakugou’s arm, but he was not close enough to stop Izuku from sliding forward.
“Where’s Shouto-kun?” Izuku’s voice had been wrecked. Rainwater and the wind whipped it, taking it away to be heard by the phantoms that haunted dark alleyways with no way to get home.
“I’m sorry,” Hawks had said, “I’m so sorry.” His eyes flitted across melted asphalt and bent light poles to an erect, jagged piece of ice. At the bottom, a pile of dead ends. A phone screen smashed. A tracker left beeping. The gauntlets and a vest of a hero costume left to be forgotten. Five containers that served to hold only the best first-aid equipment, empty. “We don’t know.”
That night had ended with an explosion, dampened by the rain.
A warm hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up off the ground. Izuku didn’t question it, turning into the chest, accepting of the arm that wrapped around him. Bakugou didn't attempt to hush him. He didn’t attempt to pull Izuku into standing. He was stronger than Izuku, he had been there too, and he didn’t let his grief swallow him whole. He hadn’t sought revenge for a choice neither of them made.
“Why are you here, Kacchan?”
“You didn’t meet our rendezvous and then you didn’t answer your phone.”
“I talked to Ghost.”
“I don’t care about Ghost.” Bakugou said, “even if he thinks he knows, he doesn’t. You should have asked for this week off.”
Izuku shook his head. “We don’t get the luxury of being off. I’ll be okay.”
“No one’s asking you to be.” Izuku bit his tongue, squeezing his eyes tighter. Bakugou continued on. “You’re allowed to take a break.”
“I can’t.”
If Bakugou frowned, Izuku didn’t see it, staring at the way the grass met concrete and the other stones that marked death.
“He wouldn’t want this for you.”
Izuku knew that. He knew it the moment he left UA the night after everyone got back, ready to go search for Shouto, only to be stopped by a room full of classmates, asking without words, if he was going to leave again too. The way Bakugou had already had his costume on to go out and help him. Uraraka, Iida, and countless others too. And, Izuku knew, he knew, knew, knew, that Shouto wouldn’t have wanted any of them wasting time on bringing him home when there were much more important things to be done. But they didn’t stop All for One in the coming weeks, months even, and Izuku found it too easy to ignore worried glances on the relief breath they still let out whenever he came back home, even if that relief was tinged gray, no one standing next to him.
Izuku knew that Shouto had gone, not because he was selfish or cruel as Izuku’s own parting was, but because he was scared. Frightened. The only thing Izuku had was to show him was that he didn’t need to be, that he believed him when he said that they were stronger together. A promise in and of itself. So he knew that when Shouto’s fear became too large to manage and his anxiety too great to bare alone, it showcased itself as him letting everything go. No more poisonous than that. So, yes, Bakugou was right, Shouto wouldn’t want Izuku to suffer for a choice Shouto made. It was his choice after all, who was Izuku to try and argue that he should have made another?
“I miss him,” Izuku whispered.
“I know.”
“I miss you too.”
Bakugou sighed, whatever hold he had on Izuku relaxed, which was fine, Izuku was ready to lean back, sturdy on his own. Before Bakugou could start, Izuku finished, “But, I’m not mad at you for going.”
Bakugou’s expression didn’t shift. There was a tiredness in his expression. Twin dark blue under red that matched Izuku’s. They had barely just begun, yet this case was already taking its toll on both of them. Maybe they should have asked for the week off. Risk the nation’s annihilation in order to take a much-needed break to deal with their own grief. Most of the year Izuku could claim he was fine. But fine was never much of a starting line for this.
“We have a problem, Deku,” Bakugou said. Izuku bowed his head. The scars around his hand had long since faded, most with memory, a few not. “I ain’t blaming him for it, but we need to move on.”
Izuku’s vision swam. What did it matter how permanent scars ran? He couldn’t remember a voice anymore, only had crappy recordings and crappier footage.
Bakugou continued, “we’re still treating this the same way we did when we were younger, that the threats out there are still just as bad as they were in high school, and if we slip for a just a moment, we’ll lose someone else, but we won’t. We won’t.”
Izuku blinked and then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “So, Hawks’ Agency?”
“Birdbrain’s been hounding me for years. I was tired of his shit.” Bakugou said. “It was better him than some other low life organization.”
It wasn’t lost on Izuku that save for Bakugou starting his own agency entirely, the only place he could have gone that matched his skill level was Hawks'. It wasn’t lost on him, again, that Bakugou had no real reason to actually leave Best Jeanist Agency. It wasn’t lost on him that had Izuku left first, like he was supposed, to take up All Might’s agency, or the third agency that was currently left in limbo between Best Jeanist and Hawks’ as the Hero Commission had been urging him to do for years, Bakugou wouldn’t have left Best Jeanist’s agency at all. The agency was so much more his than it had ever been Izuku’s.
“Hawks’ Agency always has good food,” Izuku said instead of dwelling on any of that for much longer.
Bakugou scoffed, “as if I’d resort to eating that crap. Probably had bird food in it or something.”
It got Izuku to smile, however faint, and admit to what Bakugou was trying to say to him, “you’re right. I know you’re right.”
In any other instance, Izuku knew Bakuogu would have jeered, would have said, damn straight, I know I’m right. He didn’t here. He didn’t do anything save for staring ahead at Shouto’s grave with as many unasked questions in his eyes as Izuku held in his own. If leaving was Bakugou’s way of moving on, Izuku wouldn’t dare to hold him back from that. He wanted to get better too. He wanted Saturday to truly be just another day in the week as he had lied to Uraraka about it being. Though what separated him from that peace and where he was now was vast, a cavern with no clear way to get across, Izuku had to believe that one day it would come. It would.
The wind caught the dried petals of flowers that lay ahead of the grave. It seemed as though Izuku could never gather the strength to come here on his own, or otherwise, other people had and did. Compared to those overgrown with love lost to time, Shouto’s was still kept clean and clear. Ready for a family who had long declared they’d never come back to Japan. He didn’t have to ask Bakugou when he came. He doubted the other would even admit to it, but he correctly knew Shouto's favorite flower.
“This isn’t me leaving Deku,” Bakugou said, “I’m not leaving you behind.”
The truth; Bakugou would still be obtainable. Hawks’ agency wasn’t all that far from Best Jeanist’s agency all things considered, and they did oftentimes work together more than they did with anyone else. Out of all the places Bakugou could have gone, this one created both separation without separation all the same. Whenever Izuku needed to, he could find Bakugou. It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t as if Bakugou had decided being a hero was not enough, and the only option he had left to try was become a vigilante as Izuku had done for his brief stint at running away. Which, of course not, if one thing had always been certain to Izuku; Bakugou was a hero. There was no running from that destiny.
“I know,” Izuku said.
“I’m promising,” Bakugou said, pinning Izuku with a stare so true and certain Izuku had no choice but to meet it. “I promise you, I won’t leave.”
Despite the sincerity in his eyes, it was a promise that had been broken before. Izuku could find faults in others’ dispositions, but he knew the real culprit was always himself. He was the one who couldn’t stabilize the foundations, which caused them to crumble with only the beginning structure in place. Bakugou, Uraraka, were the sparse few that had managed to overcome his own shortcomings. A plaguing thought he couldn’t put much pressure behind because if he began to wonder, began to think, he began to see why it would’ve been so appealing for a boy to run away without no wayward glances back at home.
Bakugou gripped Izuku’s arm, hauling him up. He didn’t let Izuku spare another glance back at the grave, or spew unneeded words when actions sufficed. He might have dropped Izuku’s arm once they cleared the cemetery, but he did not go far. His warmth was steady at his side while he steered them through the streets toward Bakugou’s home.
It was there, long after Bakugou had grumbled and then thrown a blanket at his head for insisting on sleeping on the couch, that Izuku found himself, staring up at the ceiling, unseeing. It wasn’t Bakugou’s fault. It might have just been the weather—this time of year was more memorable than all others. Truthfully, it was probably the only thing Bakugou didn’t know from the days surrounding Shouto’s disappearance. The only thing he could never quite admit to his friend. To so readily get lost in a mirage of a memory that Izuku knew was all he had left.
The trouble with memory, however, was that it was as stone face on river bottom. It eroded and changed. Sometimes bringing with it sparks of orange and tan color, other times, leaving only gray and dusty sand. At nine years and counting, then, it was no wonder that what he had left was murky and unclear. It’s only shot of longevity, his wavering strength to hold onto, refusing to let go, despite how much grief it came to cost him.
It went like this:
“What are you doing up here all alone?”
Izuku turns at the waist, too much effort, yet his shoulders relax at the sight. Shouto is there with the setting sun, though the colors of it have lost their luster. A mimicry of sunsets seen in stock photos and postcards.
It cuts, and Shouto sits, beside him now. Izuku speaks, though he cannot hear the words no more. Assumes, now, that he says what he suspects Shouto already expects. There is doubt in this Izuku, spreading through the recesses of his mind, clouding every plan he makes and stuffing his ears, so he can not know what it is that Shouto says next. Because Shouto does speak, and every time, every day since he woke up, sprinting to the other’s dorm room because the previous night couldn’t be true, it could not, not Shouto, he gets nothing.
It makes reliving the memory all the more frustrating because Izuku can’t act in it. He cannot. He cannot grab Shouto’s cheeks and force him to face him and not the setting sun, Izuku had chosen for this backdrop. He can pretend, however, to squeeze and beg and tell him that he cannot hear him. He does not know the words Shouto says. But, despite the fantasy, Shouto keeps talking. They are soft words, he knows. Shouto wouldn’t come to him with more pain when he knew Izuku was suffering—Why come at all? They are platitudes. A reason for the Izuku of that time to only listen to them halfheartedly, hearing but not really believing.
Shouto talks so much. So careful and concise. And Izuku responds, less concise, not a speck of carefulness to his words, stumbling, and tripping, and compounding, and messy, and too much, and he knows, knows, knows, that when Izuku had left him, Shouto remembered the last conversation they had. Dwelled just as Izuku but was able to move each character into precise place. So why not Izuku? How terrible of a friend he must have been to not dutifully listen to what Shouto had to say on the eve of never being able to talk to him again. Thoughts so cruel and overflowing they threatened the structure of the memory altogether. If Izuku was truly ready to move on, he would forget about it wholly. Never return to this faint place on sunset rooftops.
The reason, however bleak, is a simple one at the climax of their conversation about buried myths, Shouto turns himself. He smiles. It’s sad. Izuku unable to prove if he made it that way or not. But it’s there. Shouto's face. The clearest memory he has of it, and better than just the shape of it, it is here that Shouto’s voice returns to him. Inauthentic as the colors of the sky and how exactly Shouto’s tied laid, but true. The one certainty Izuku has left in this crappy memory.
“Izuku,” Izuku, Izuku, Izuku. Shouto’s flusters sparks. So concrete, Izuku’s surprised he cannot feel the residual heat. Shouto mutters, kept close to his chest, “I shouldn’t do this now.” It makes Izuku lean forward. No mistakes in hearing that. But instead of pressing what Shouto meant by that, Izuku waits. The world might have been potentially ending the next day—it didn’t, a con, a laugh, “Endeavor’s dead”, “Where’s”—but he’s always been patient for Shouto. Ready to stand here and wait until the other is ready to come to him on his own. So it is.
Shouto smiles again, reaches across that small space between them, and grabs Izuku's hand. He squeezes it twice as if to encourage himself further before saying, not daring to lose Izuku's eyes, " when this is done, I need to tell you something. Important.” Another spark. Lost to emerging stars. Their reflections sparkle in blue and gray. Eager. Hopeful. “I can't tell you yet, but I promise that I will.”
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, losing sight of Bakugou’s ceiling as if the effort itself would get him to lose the rest of the image when it was obvious he so desperately didn’t want to lose a piece. He feared he already had lost too much. Time was all too eager to keep grinding away at all he had left.
He wished he could be satisfied here with the knowledge that Bakugou was still his friend, would be his friend, would not go anywhere, and it was okay to listen to him. To take a break and hunker down, letting the rest of the week wash over him the harder it got. However, a week's time could be enough time. It could mean that the villains that passed him by earlier were on their way to endgame. Izuku couldn’t have that. So, he pulled himself up off of Bakugou’s couch, folded the blanket, and got up; he had worked to do.